Copyright © 2023 J R Bolaky

Cover design by Spiffing Covers Ltd

All rights reserved

Published by Radiant Leaf Publishing

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7395576-0-7

eBook ISBN: 978-1-7395576-1-4

Hardback ISBN: 978-1-7395576-2-1

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any

electronic or mechanical means including information storage and

retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author.

The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts

in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are

used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Debbie,

Your unwavering belief in me fuelled my journey. Though you’re gone, your faith remains my guiding light. This book is a tribute to your enduring spirit and love.

Forever in my heart.

Prologue

Snow fell over the city of London, and the sleigh fell with it.

It whipped back and forth in the sky. The reindeer brayed in panic, their reins loose and flapping. Sleigh bells tore loose and plinged on one of the parapets of the Norman Tower, whitewashed to stand out as a beacon of power for miles around in times gone by, before being scooped up by the black-winged shadow of a raven.

The grizzled figure at the front of the sleigh swung his fist into thin air. There was a sound like a meat hammer on a steak, and then, where there had been no one, there was a shadow.

The shadow fell back. “Lucky swing,” it said in a voice that personified evil, a voice that would send a chill to your very bones and make you want to start throwing punches or run for your life.

“I don’t believe in luck,” the old man said showing no fear; he had chosen to throw punches. Snow spun between them.

Then the shadow figure was beside him. It held a knife.

He barely turned the first slash aside. It caught in his red wool coat, slicing through to the white undershirt beneath. Then the shadow was on his other side, jabbing. The old man vanished and reappeared on the far side of his sleigh. He held up shaking fists.

“I thought you believed in everything,” the shadow figure said. Snow hissed and crackled as it touched his skin. The scent of smoke filled the sleigh.

“Kindness, goodness, miracles—” the grizzled man stopped, for the shadow had moved again, too fast to be seen. It struck, disappeared, and struck again. The grizzled man tried to respond in kind, but his every move was half a second too slow, more defensive than offensive. He took a hit to the stomach, then the jaw. His cheek cracked against his teeth, and he tasted blood.

Bent over and gasping, he thrust out a hand. It glowed but the light was flickering and weak. The shadow figure uttered a laugh that pierced the howling wind around them.

The sleigh lurched, and the grizzled man was flung to the side. His reindeer screamed as they tore around the top of the Shard.

“Bloody modern architecture,” he said. The thought that King Charles had been right all along about the destruction of the London skyline flashed across his mind. Then the shadow figure was beside him again.

The stone knife sank deep into his chest, piercing the wool coat, the undershirt, the skin, the lung. He gasped. Snowflakes dusted his coat, melting in the spread of deep, deep red.

The shadow pulled him in and held him in an embrace like a brother until the last of his breath steamed in the air. The reindeer screamed and broke apart in a pattering of bones and magic.

“Miracle your way out of this,” the shadow said, and disappeared. Then there was nothing but the snow and the echo of manic laughter on the wind as the sleigh tumbled down.

Chapter One

Arthur Stowe’s mobile rang before he was two pints deep. Which, by his own rules, meant that he had to pick up.

“This is Stowe,” he said, trying to sound less sulky and more professional. It was his night off, but Commander Montague had given him more than his fair share of grace. He pushed a thick fringe of reddish sandy hair back from his forehead and leaned on the bar.

Arthur could barely hear Montague over the sound of a group of lads at the other end of the bar. “I need you down at St. Paul’s.”

Arthur stared hard at his half-finished Guinness. If he concentrated hard enough, perhaps it would disappear from the glass and reappear in his body, making him too intoxicated to come in. “St. Paul’s Cathedral? Now?”

“Did I stutter?”

“St. Paul’s isn’t our jurisdiction, sir.” Arthur fumbled a coaster off the edge of the bar. “I’m a bit confused—”

“Snell has asked for you personally.”

That explained things. “I’m on my way, sir.” Stowe ended the call and rubbed at the red-gold stubble on his chin. Snell would tell him he was poorly representing the Met, but Arthur had been offduty and he didn’t have time to shave twice a day. He didn’t even have time to sit with a pint.

He’d paid good money for that pint. He glared at it as he pulled on his navy double-breasted wool coat and dark leather gloves. “I guess you can finish it,” he told the barman.

The barman was a giant of a man named Lew, with more tattoos than teeth and a lack of love for the Met. “A Guinness? You must be joking,” he laughed as he took it away.

Arthur checked reflexively that his dad’s trusty wooden truncheon was still in the inside pocket of his coat. That truncheon had seen a lot of action with his dad in the 1960s when a police officer commanded respect on the streets of London and was not feared and despised like they are today. Although it was not police issue anymore, he always felt better knowing it was there and he felt his dad was with him in some way; his passing had been a blow to him and wished he were around now to talk to. Arthur set off.

The Blue Whale wasn’t far from Lewisham Station. Arthur stalked along the pavement, all but invisible to the few other pedestrians on their way to parties. With his thin nose and chin and cheeks, he resembled a scarecrow that had somehow come to life and regretted it. His figure concealed a muscled runner’s frame, good for catching crooks but not so good at keeping them down.

Arthur wandered through to the platform and rubbed at his temple while he waited for the train. A busker played Joy to the World on his violin, and Arthur moved down the track. He wasn’t interested in soppy carols that inspired a feeling of nostalgia and hope that only came once a year. What about the rest of the year? he thought. He just wanted the chance to be alone and miserable on Christmas.

Maybe this was a good thing, he told himself. Maybe Snell wanted him to come because he’d found a lead. Arthur doubted it. The only thing Snell ever seemed to be able to find was someone else to blame for his problems.

He squeezed into a tube car with a whole platform of revellers. It was the twenty-third of December, uni was out, and students were getting in one last party before going home to Mum and Dad. The lads wore fine coats and felt reindeer antlers on their heads. The girls were in high skirts and higher spirits. The train car stank of perfume and sweat. Arthur tried not to look at them wistfully. They had so much life ahead of them. And most of it was downhill from here.

The girl in front of him had her phone out. She nudged the boy next to her and tilted the screen. “Look at this.” Arthur caught the start of a TikTok. A girl stood in front of a ditch, holding up a dirty cardigan. A caption read: #savethekidslondon NEW EVIDENCE??

Arthur turned away.

The ‘Save the Children’ initiative was Arthur Stowe’s worst ever case, and currently his entire reason for being. Over thirty children had been abducted straight from their beds. Sometimes their parents had even been awake in the next room. The case was a top priority and high profile—which meant that every political figure and every superior in the London Metropolitan Police Force was up his arse, all the time. It meant that every kid who watched Sherlock went trekking through crime scenes on social media. And it meant that if Arthur solved the case, his career was made. Secretly he wished he had a Sherlock Holmes in his pocket to solve all this in a heartbeat. And he could be Watson just watching it all unfold.

Of course, if he didn’t solve the case, he’d lose his job. Again.

Arthur and half of London spilled out of the train carriage twenty minutes later. Someone down the line started a rousing rendition of All I want for Christmas, and a fellow Scrooge’s, “Shut it!” did nothing to swell the tide of off-key song. Bells jingled from silly little hats and laughter pealed up the escalators and out into the night. Girls screamed as the snowstorm assaulted their bare legs and shoulders. As Arthur headed up to the road, he kept his head down against the stinging wind, half wishing he had a hat. He slid through a crowd of shoppers, barely avoiding assault by a multitude of shopping bags as late-night panic buyers staggered for home under the weight of half a dozen bags each carrying the promise of commercial happiness on the morning of Christmas Day.

London was full of garlands and baubles and light and noise. Every pub was done up in festive fairy lights and showcased menus offering Christmas morsels and drinks and, it seemed, had their speakers retro-fitted to play music as loudly as possible so that the revellers in the street had to shout to be heard.

Bloody Christmas bloody cheer, thought Arthur. It was giving him a headache. He set off for the cathedral.

His phone buzzed with a barrage of texts that hadn’t come through underground. Two missed calls from the Commander, with a Hope you’re on your way detective. A text from Detective Inspector Izzy Blair, his partner: call me asap pls. And a text from Missy.

David fell on his skateboard, think his arms broken. Taking him to A&E.

Arthur’s fingers hovered over the reply. Oh dear. Hope he’s all right. Feel better soon. Sorry. All shit responses, coming from a shit father.

He’d left them for a reason. He was saving up money to move them all here. He’d make up for it soon. The usual slate of excuses ran through his head. And, as usual, he knew better than to think next year would be better than this one. He put the phone in his coat pocket. David didn’t need his meaningless words. Missy was there for him, and she was more comfort than Arthur could ever be.

Blue and red flashed over the white marble of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The shrieks of partygoers chasing each other through the snow faded as Arthur rounded a corner and approached. Police tape stretched across the edge of Cannon Street, guarded by a Met officer who stood with his arms crossed against the cold. Arthur recognized the pencil moustache and wrinkled nose and heaved a sigh. Of all the blokes on duty tonight, it had to be Charles Waylan.

Maybe if he waited until Waylan was distracted, he could slip under the cordon without having to talk to him. Arthur phoned Izzy and leaned against the wall of an Information Centre, nervously tapping the top of his truncheon lying in his pocket.

She picked up on the first ring. “We found something,” she said.

Arthur’s stomach jolted. “What was it?”

“Some—some clothing. Shorts and a T-Shirt. They match the description of one of the missing boys.” Her voice started to wobble. “Geordie Jones.”

“I remember.” Arthur remembered all the kids. He remembered Geordie’s mother, too, silent and crying as he interviewed her at the station over a year ago.

“They found it in the Thames… Arthur, we’re going to have to call his mother.”

Izzy had lucked into the campaign, if you could call it luck. She was a new recruit, young and eager and ready to make a difference. But two years with almost no leads had started to wear on her. Now she sounded closer to broken than ever.

“Look, I’m just down at St. Paul’s,” he found himself saying. “Snell’s asking for me, so I’ll come in after that. I’ll talk to

Geordie’s family.”

“You would?” She sounded too grateful.

“Yeah. Go home and chill with Netflix, or whatever it is the kids do these days.”

Izzy chuckled, though she still sounded a little watery. “Don’t ever use that phrase, Art.”

“Don’t ever call me Art, Izzy.” He hated being called Art. He hung up and dropped his smile. Why had he offered to make his night even worse?

Because Izzy Blair still had optimism. She still thought there was some good in this world. Why break a woman before her time?

No one had come to provide Waylan with a convenient distraction. Arthur steeled himself and stepped away from the shadows. Then he stopped, staring up.

The dome of the cathedral looked like a cracked egg. Before he could make sense of this, a shout was aimed at him.

“Oi. You can move along, please.”

Waylan obviously didn’t recognise Arthur in his plain clothes and the snow was causing a distortion in his line of sight. Arthur trotted across the street, holding out his badge and trying not to slip on the slick road. “Evening, Charles.”

Waylan’s face fell even further as he realized who was speaking. “Arthur. What’re you doing here?” He sniffed, then leaned back. “You supposed to be on the clock?”

Arthur ground his teeth together. “Was my night off,” he managed casually. “But I got called in special.” “Should’ve called in sick,” Waylan said.

I’ll give you something to be sick about, Arthur thought, but before he could think of something to say without costing himself his badge, another familiar—if no less unwelcome—voice raised a greeting.

“There you are! Been waiting for a good forty minutes, my chum. I told Montague he needs to focus on punctuality in the force.

Where’s your car?”

The man who said this said it all while striding toward Waylan and Arthur, holding an umbrella against the snow, and without pausing for breath or reply. Antonius Snell was tall, with the good looks of a classic Oxford boy. His dark hair came together in a widow’s peak above his smooth brow and small, sharp nose. His dark eyes glittered with anticipation. He stuck out a gloved hand and Waylan shook it, mumbling something about the honour. Snell was still talking, in a strangely hypnotic and smoky voice, the sort of voice you couldn’t help but listen to. “I got the call and I had to come see for myself. It looks promising, Art.”

“Arthur,” Arthur said, not expecting Snell to pay attention.

He didn’t. “The timing couldn’t be better. Terrence has been up my arse about the campaign. With the energy crisis and the opposition’s school budget obsession, we need a win. My job’s on the line, mate. Which means your job’s on the line. And good Lord, what’s that on your face? When d‘you last shave?”

Arthur eyed Snell’s pinstripe suit as he mumbled something about having shaved this morning. That suit probably cost more than a month’s rent. If Snell lost his job, chances were he’d be reshuffled into some other government position. If Arthur lost his job, he’d be out on the street.

He loathed most politicians, but Snell was a special item. Antonius Snell, the face of the Save the Children campaign, loved the way he looked on camera far more than he loved any kids. He was the kind of man to get into Arthur’s face and demand the kids back by the end of the year, no excuses, as though Arthur had them hidden in a cupboard under the stairs. And if they did find the kids, alive and well, what would happen then? Snell would pat himself on the back, give each of them a hug, then turn around and slash school funding the very next day. Last year he’d even promised a Christmas care package to every under-funded school in Britain. Hard times, he’d said before the flashing cameras. Britain’s most vulnerable. Everyone deserves a little Christmas cheer.

Naturally, that care package never materialised.

Presentgate was a short-lived scandal. There was always something else—an affair come to light, embezzlement of funds, the Prime Minister saying something stupid on television. Most people forgot. But not Arthur. Arthur watched his neighbours go without heat last Christmas, and the best he could offer their kids was a couple of extra blankets. He knew the oldest lied about his foot size so that his mother didn’t have to buy new shoes. And Antonius Snell wore patent leather shoes and a Rolex watch and said he didn’t know where to find the money for Britain’s most vulnerable children.

Snell slapped him on the back, and he came back to now. “I really have a good feeling about this one. It’s going to make you, my friend.”

“So, what is this lead?” Arthur said.

Antonius Snell smiled, and there was an unsettling fire in his eyes. “A body,” he said.

Snell led him up the marble stairs and between the columns at the front of St. Paul’s. At the door stood another uniform and Snell’s assistant, Carl Kuiper. Kuiper was a good head shorter than Snell himself and looked like a half-finished watercolour of a man. Everything about him looked washed out, from his dull blond hair to the limp way he held out his gloved hand for a shake. He was sweating despite the cold.

“Minister Gemmel rang,” he began.

“Tell her to piss off,” Snell laughed. He sounded like a braying donkey.

Kuiper opened the door to St. Paul’s and Snell breezed through. Kuiper and Arthur took a moment to exchange resigned looks. Arthur hated most politicians, but at least Kuiper knew he was working for an idiot. Kuiper half bowed. “After you, Detective Inspector.”

Arthur had never been in St. Paul’s before. It was one of those things that tourists do, and Londoners don’t. He tried not to gape as he walked up the long nave, but his eyes were drawn to the ornate columns, the vivid ceilings, the glittering gold chandeliers. No doubt they’d been turned on for the investigation. The click of his boots echoed as he crossed the checkerboard floor, passing among the marble columns like an ant in the grass. Soft red velvet adorned the pulpit and garlands dotted with Christmas stars marked the start of the choir. A fir tree twice Arthur’s height glowed and glittered with red and gold baubles.

A policewoman stood in front of the transept. As Arthur approached, she came forward to block his way. “Sorry, sir, not sure how you got in here. But this is a police investigation.”

Arthur showed her his badge. “I’ve been asked to look at the body.”

She examined the badge with pursed lips. “We’ve already got detectives on site. So, thank you for your offer to assist, Detective Inspector Stowe, but it won’t be necessary. We’d like to keep this within jurisdiction.”

“He’s with me,” Snell said, leaning over Arthur’s shoulder to smile his oily politician’s smile. “It’s vitally important that this man has the chance to inspect the body. It’s part of an ongoing campaign I run: ‘Save the Children’.”

The policewoman turned those pursed lips on Snell. Finally, she stepped back and waved them through. “Don’t touch anything. And please let the officers do their work.”

“Thank you so much, Chief Inspector.” Snell pumped her hand and strode forward.

Arthur nodded to her as he followed, though resentment coursed through him. What world did he live in when Antonius Snell had to vouch for him to other officers of the London Met?

The body lay on its back in front of the pulpit, boots turned out to either side. One arm was thrown out to the side, while the other rested on his prodigious belly. He was—Father Christmas, thought Arthur, and then he thought, No, stupid, but the man did look like he belonged in a Coca-Cola commercial from the fifties. His trousers and coat were spot-on in colour and cut, trimmed with white fur. His leather boots were scuffed but looked to be of good quality. His lined face spoke of a hard life, and his unkempt beard said homeless more than Father Christmas.

There was a dark spread over his coat.

“Already bag the weapon?” he said. The nearest detective gave him a dirty look. “No,” she said, as though his very presence was a criticism of her ability.

So perhaps whoever had killed him had kept the knife. The homeless Father Christmas, as Arthur was starting to think of him, was dusted with plaster as fine as snowflakes. Larger chunks lay over the floor in a scattered radius. Arthur looked up at the gaping ceiling and the blackness beyond it. Around them, several officers worked and conferred in low voices. They were placing a little tag next to something that looked like bone. Human or animal, Arthur couldn’t tell.

Arthur stared at the body for a long time. Then he turned to Kuiper. “All right. Why am I here?” Kuiper raised one eyebrow. His eyes were so pale it was hard to tell their colour. “You brought me out here to investigate the murder of a homeless Father Christmas? I thought he said this had something to do with the campaign.”

“Oh, but it does.” Snell picked at a bit of lint on his jacket.

“This man is almost certainly connected to the disappearances.” “How, exactly?” Arthur said.

“He’s been wanted in connection with other child-crime cases,” Snell said.

“Who is he?”

“Just get his information, Stowe.” Snell sounded bored. Arthur pressed his mouth together before he said something he’d regret and exchanged another sympathetic look with Kuiper.

Arthur checked with the Chief Inspector. The man had been discovered around seven o’clock when a caretaker had heard a crash. So far, the police had found little. No identification on the man, no evidence of a struggle. “It’s like he just… fell from the ceiling,” she said.

Arthur looked up again. The richly painted figures on the dome seemed to stare at the gaping hole. Flecks of gold gilt were scattered over the choir and halfway down the nave. “No man falls from that height and looks like that,” he said.

“Can’t argue. But he didn’t get stabbed and then walk in here, either. No blood trail and the doors were locked.”

Arthur went back to the body. They must be missing something.

He crouched next to it, thinking. Looking at the dark stain on the suit and looking at the man’s face. That was the thing about bodies: the old man didn’t look like he’d died falling from a great height or bleeding out from a stab wound. He looked… he looked like he’d fallen asleep, and never woken up. Maybe after one too many bottles of the bad stuff. A shiver crawled down Arthur’s spine. For a moment, he saw himself in the corpse’s face. And truth be told, it only made him need a drink more.

Then he frowned. Something glittered amongst the plaster. He shifted a piece. Perhaps it was gold paint? No, it wasn’t paint at all. The man was surrounded by long shards of something… glass? “What is this?”

The nearest officer leaned over to look. “Building materials,” he said. “Insulation or something.”

“I don’t think so,” Arthur said as the officer slouched off.

Snell peered as well, though he made sure to stay well away from the body. “Focus on identifying him, not irrelevant items,” he said.

Arthur dug in his pocket until he found a handkerchief. Pretending to be interested in a mole by the dead man’s ear, he waited until he was reasonably certain nobody was watching, then picked up a few shards of the glasslike stuff. Whatever it was, it was sharp—the edge sliced his finger, and he hissed as blood beaded up. He wrapped the shards carefully before replacing the handkerchief in his pocket.

“All right, time’s up.” The Chief Inspector was there. “Undertakers are here.”

Arthur stood up and stepped back as an elderly gentleman and his young assistant came up the transept with a stretcher. “Maybe the post-mortem will reveal something,” he said to Snell.

“Perhaps,” said Snell. His eyes glittered.

They watched the undertakers struggle to get the body onto the stretcher— “He is heavier than I expected” he heard the assistant say —and strap it down, then cover it over, with Arthur, Kuiper and Snell following them as they took the body out and put it in the hearse. Watching them slide the body into the secret space below where the coffin normally was carried on the day of the funeral made Arthur raise his eyebrows, he had never seen that before.

“Where’s your funeral ambulance lads?” asked Arthur.

The older funeral director replied for them, “It’s been a very busy few weeks with the cold, more than normal, very sad, all our vehicles are out tonight. We had to use the hearse this time, not our go-to under normal circumstances.”

The undertakers resumed securing the body in the hearse respectfully and turned away.

“I’m serious,” Arthur said finally as the hearse rumbled to life and drove away. “How’s a homeless man so important to this investigation?”

“He simply is,” Snell replied. “And if you want to keep your job, you’ll take this tip seriously, Stowe. Think of the kids.”

For a moment he let himself imagine. If he broke this case, he wouldn’t just keep his job. The solving of a case of this magnitude would come with accolades and promotions and, more importantly, this would allow him to repair his reputation and lose that feeling of guilt over letting down his poor Dad, who would roll over in his grave if he knew how far his only son had fallen.

But the real world didn’t work like that. And whenever anyone said Think of the kids, they always meant, Think of me. Snell, Missy, Missy’s father… “I always think of the kids,” he muttered.

They walked away from the cathedral. “Did you drive? I can have Kuiper drop you off somewhere,” Snell said.

The day Arthur Stowe took a favour from Antonius Snell was the day he’d hand in his badge. “I’ll take the bus,” he said. “Gives me time to think.”

Snell’s nose wrinkled slightly at the word bus. “Suit yourself.” He stuck out his hand, and Arthur shook it against his will.

Then he frowned, looking past Snell, back at the cathedral. “What the hell is that?”

He’d seen the broken dome when he’d walked up. But he hadn’t seen the… thing sticking out of it. It was bulky and oblong, with a back end that curved up and two strips like runners attached to the bottom.

“What?” Snell said. Arthur pointed. Snell’s eyebrows raised in surprise, but he wasn’t looking at the dome. He was looking at Arthur.

“Oh,” he said at last. “That. Old Cessna. Flying illegally, probably. Saw them all the time in my Oxford days, even flew one. Horridly uncomfortable.”

If that was a Cessna, Arthur would resign, right now. “Think that’s how he got into the cathedral?” he asked sarcastically.

But Snell only clapped him on the back again. “Good instinct. See, Stowe, this is why I wanted you. Keep thinking, eh? And keep me updated.” He tapped his temple, then turned and strode off.

“And get a shave!” he called over his shoulder.

Kuiper shook his head and nodded to Arthur before following.

So, Antonius Snell wanted Arthur to believe that some unidentified homeless man had gotten his hands on a Cessna that clearly wasn’t a Cessna, crashed it into St. Paul’s, and fell to the floor without sustaining any of the usual fall injuries.

“Politicians,” he said to no one in particular. They were always playing some kind of long game. Snell probably wanted answers. Maybe he was grasping at straws, as desperate as Arthur and Izzy were to find something. His job was on the line, after all.

Think of the kids. Arthur put Snell out of his mind and headed for a bus.