The Usual Santas Read online

  Copyright © 2017 by Soho Press, Inc.

  “Jane and the Midnight Clear” Copyright © 2017 by Stephanie Barron.

  “Red Christmas” Copyright © 2017 by James R. Benn.

  “Cabaret aux Assassins” Copyright © 2003 by Cara Black. First published in

  My Sherlock Holmes in 2003 (St. Martin’s Press).

  “Bo Sau (Vengeance)” Copyright © 2007 by Henry Chang. First published in Murdaland, Issue 2, 2007.

  “The Prince (of Peace)” Copyright © 2017 by Gary Corby.

  “There’s Only One Father Christmas, Right?” Copyright © 2017 by Colin Cotterill.

  “The Cuban Marquise’s Jewels” Copyright © 2017 by Teresa Dovalpage.

  “Blue Memories Start Calling” Copyright © 2009 by Tod Goldberg. First published in

  Other Resort Cities in 2007 (OV Books).

  “Chalee’s Nativity” Copyright © 2017 by Timothy Hallinan.

  “A Mother’s Curse” Copyright © 2017 by Mette Ivie Harrison.

  “The Usual Santas” Copyright © 2007 by Mick Herron. First published by Bookdealer Magazine in December 2007.

  “When the Time Came” Copyright © 2011 by Lene Kaaberbøl & Agnete Friis. English translation copyright © 2011 by Mark Kline. First published in Copenhagen Noir in 2011 (Akashic Noir).

  “Martin” Copyright © 2017 by Ed Lin.

  “PX Christmas” Copyright © 2017 by Martin Limón.

  “Supper with Miss Shivers” Copyright © 1991 by Peter Lovesey. First published in Woman’s Own as “The Christmas Present,” in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, and in Peter Lovesey’s short story collection,

  The Crime of Miss Oyster Brown.

  “Hairpin Holiday” Copyright © 2017 by Sujata Massey.

  “Queen of the Hill” Copyright © 2010 by Stuart Neville. First published in

  Requiem for the Departed in 2010 (Morrigan Books).

  “An Elderly Lady Seeks Peace at Christmastime” Copyright © 2013 by Helene Tursten. English translation copyright © 2017 by Marlaine Delargy. First published in Swedish in a collection entitled Mina Mindre Mord och Mysterier. Published in agreement with H. Samuelsson-Tursten AB, Sunne, and Leonhardt & Høier Literary Agency, Copenhagen.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The usual Santas : a collection of Soho Crime Christmas capers.

  ISBN 978-1-61695-775-9

  eISBN 978-1-61695-776-6

  1. Detective and mystery stories. 2. Christmas stories. I. Title

  PN6071.D45 U88 2017 | DDC 808.83’872—dc23 2017011873

  Endpaper illustration © 2017 Jeff Wong

  Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FOREWORD

  Peter Lovesey

  Upon the first of all Christmases, St. Luke tells us, the Angel of the Lord appeared at night to some startled shepherds in a field and informed them of the momentous event in the city of David. As if that were not enough of a shock, a multitude of the heavenly host then manifested itself praising God and declaring “on earth peace, goodwill toward men.”

  The world’s religions almost all provide occasions for expressing goodwill toward men—and women—most commonly in midwinter. The Pagan festival of Yule predated Christmas. Worldwide celebrations around the year’s end include Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Pancha Ganapati and the Chinese New Year. Families come together and there is a break from the monotony of work to indulge in ceremony, feasting and the exchange of gifts. Disbelievers like me are only too happy to join in.

  Goodwill rules.

  But not without exception.

  Crime statistics spike at this time of year. The seasonal shopping spree provides rich pickings for thieves and fraudsters. Well-stocked stores become tempting targets for stick-up men and shoplifters. Pockets are picked, shoppers mugged, cars broken into and Christmas tree plantations raided. Cyber criminals relieve the unwary of their savings. Scam emails masquerade as greetings cards. Empty homes are ransacked. Drink-fuelled assaults are common. And even when the run-up to the holiday ends and the streets become more peaceful, domestic violence increases behind locked doors. Family feuds are revived by stressed-out, not-so-merry merrymakers.

  All of this is rich material for crime writers. I believe Christmas has inspired more short stories than any other theme. From Sherlock Holmes to Jack Reacher, every crime series character of note has been involved in a festive mystery. It’s no surprise that when Soho Press invited its authors to contribute to The Usual Santas, the office on Broadway was inundated with stories.

  From its beginning in 1986, Soho has set out to publish the best of international crime fiction, so this festive collection is unlike any other in that the writers live in four different continents and have chosen to interpret the seasonal theme in the most colorful and exotic plots imaginable. You will be transported to Sweden, North Korea, Thailand, Ireland, New York City, Utah, Italy, France, Denmark and England. And you will time-travel to Cesena in the era of the Borgias, Bath when Jane Austen resided there, Paris at the close of the nineteenth century, a prison camp in the darkest days of the Korean War and Armagh during Northern Ireland’s Troubles. For readers looking for the traditional Christmas, there is snow, Santa Claus (in numbers) and the birth of a child. Those with a taste for noir will find it in the shape of cunningly plotted killing, casual murder, assassination and dismemberment. And still there is room for heart-rending suspense and hot romance between the world’s greatest consulting detective and the one he always called the woman.

  For me, one of the joys of the festive season is the opportunity to give and receive surprises. I won’t spoil yours as you turn these pages, but I’d better warn you there are shocks in plenty. Nothing will top the appearance of the heavenly host to those hapless shepherds, but there is plenty here to get your heart thumping.

  “Joy to the World”

  Various Acts of Kindness at Christmas

  An Elderly Lady Seeks Peace at Christmastime

  by Helene Tursten

  translated from the Swedish by Marlaine Delargy

  Helene Tursten was born in Göteborg, Sweden, where she now lives with her husband and daughter. She was a nurse and a dentist before she turned to writing. Her books have been translated into twenty languages and made into a critically acclaimed Swedish television series. She is the author of a mystery series set in Göteborg, Sweden, which features police detective Irene Huss, a jujitsu champion, the mother of twin teenage girls, and the wife of a chef. The Irene Huss books are fan favorites because of the way they mingle an icy cold Scandinavian noir setting with the personal life and professional concerns of a hardworking everywoman detective character. The novels include Detective Inspector Huss, Night Rounds, The Torso, The Glass Devil, The Golden Calf, The Beige Man, and The Treacherous Net. In addition to the Irene Huss series, Helene Tursten is the author of the Embla Nystrom series, which begins with Hunting Ground, forthcoming from Soho Crime, and of many short stories, including the stories about Maud, a sociopathic octogenarian, including “An Elderly Lady Seeks Peace at Christmastime.”

  The churchyard was silent and peaceful so early on the morning of Christmas Eve. Maud couldn’t help sighing loudly as she struggled along the snow-covered path. It didn’t matter, because she was all alone. At this time of day there wasn’t a living soul in sight, and she was unlikely to disturb the others. The
rubber wheels of her walker twisted sideways as it plowed through the deep snow, but eventually, after a certain amount of difficulty, she managed to park it next to the grave. She took the special grave lanterns and a box of matches out of the bag in the wheeled walker’s wire basket. Two lanterns on the family grave would have to do—one for her parents and one for her sister. Such things were expensive these days.

  Her older sister had been named Charlotte. Maud had come along eleven years after Charlotte’s birth, much to her parents’ surprise and her sister’s disgust. Being an only child had suited Charlotte perfectly; a little sister definitely wasn’t on her wish list.

  Maud thought back to the lavish parties her parents used to throw. She particularly remembered the big party they traditionally hosted on New Year’s Eve. She recalled the delicious food, the candles burning brightly in the tall candelabras, the champagne corks popping at midnight, the hum of cheerful voices, the smell of cigars and expensive perfume. And of course the beautiful dresses the ladies wore.

  Everything had come to an abrupt end when her darling father suffered a heart attack during an Odd Fellows meeting. He had collapsed in the middle of a guffaw after someone told a funny story.

  For a number of reasons, her mother had very little to laugh about after his death. It turned out that his affairs were “in a bit of a mess,” as people said. Once the family lawyer had settled all his debts, there was virtually nothing left. The large property her father had bought several years earlier had to be sold; the only thing the widow was allowed to keep was the apartment they lived in.

  Maud’s mother was fifteen years younger than her father and ought to have been able to soldier on, but it was as if all the strength simply drained out of her and was buried along with him. Two years later, she too was dead. Maud often thought that the shame of their financial and social disgrace had probably broken her mother. She herself had been eighteen when the fatal blow struck her family; she had just started college, where she was training to be a teacher of English and French.

  A year or so before their father died, Charlotte had developed what her mother referred to as “nerves.” Apparently Charlotte was “a sensitive, artistic soul.” She was thirty years old and still unmarried when the war broke out. Her hypochondria and a growing list of phobias filled her life completely. Charlotte was a trained pianist, but had never performed in public. Nor could she cope with teaching the piano at home.

  The limited amount of capital that was left after the sale of the property diminished rapidly during the war. Luckily, the sisters had inherited the apartment of the apartment from their mother and were able to live there rent-free. However, they still had to pay for electricity, water, and heating. Maud remembered how bitterly cold the apartment had been during those terrible winters. The ice that had formed on the inside of the windows was so thick they couldn’t see out. They lived in the kitchen and the bedroom next door, keeping the doors tightly closed to retain any warmth. The other rooms were left unheated.

  During the war Maud got a job as a teacher at a girls’ high school. She loved it right from the start. However, her financial situation didn’t improve a great deal, because she also had to provide for Charlotte.

  The flickering flames of the candles illuminated the worn inscription on the tall gravestone. Charlotte had died thirty-seven years ago. Only then had Maud’s own life begun. Better late than never, she thought.

  The cold nipping at her toes brought her back to the present. Her boots were warm, but the lining was getting threadbare. Perhaps she should buy herself a new pair.

  Laboriously, she began to maneuver the walker towards the path, which had not been cleared. Heavy snow had fallen overnight. When she listened carefully, she could hear a distant rumble that sounded as if it might be a tractor. A harsh scraping confirmed her suspicions; the snow plow was on its way. She congratulated herself on the fact that there was nothing wrong with her hearing. Most of her contemporaries were practically deaf. But not Maud. Which was perhaps a shame. If she had been deaf, she wouldn’t have been troubled by the Problem.

  Resolutely, she pushed all thoughts of the Problem aside and set off towards the bus stop, which was just outside the churchyard gate; she was quite out of breath by the time she got there, and had to sit down for a while on the waterproof seat of her walker. It was such a handy gadget. Not that she really needed such a thing, but it had been left behind when Herr Olsson, the civil engineer, passed away. None of his children had bothered to collect it. They probably didn’t even know that the wheeled walker, which was kept just inside the door of the building, belonged to their father. After his apartment had been cleared and sold, it was still standing there, and Maud had simply picked it up and carried it into her own apartment. Last autumn she had twisted her knee when she tripped over a rug, and had reluctantly started to use the walker when she had to go out shopping. The sidewalks were very icy at the time, and she didn’t want to risk falling again. She quickly became aware of its advantages: it provided useful support, she could sit on it and have a rest, she was now offered a seat on the bus, people held the door open for her when she went into the stores, and middle-aged female shop assistants started treating her politely and . . . well, they really were quite sweet to her. The walker was a brilliant acquisition.

  Once she was safely aboard the bus, her thoughts turned to Charlotte once more. Her sister had crept around their big, gloomy apartment like a restless soul, refusing to go out. Her mental state had deteriorated rapidly during the 1960s. There was no point in suggesting that Maud might go away, even for one day. Her sister would go even more crazy than she already was. Little Charlotte couldn’t possibly manage all on her own! Who would cook her meals and make sure she took her medication? Who would be there when the fear dug its claws into her?

  The worst thing was that it was all true. As Charlotte’s illness gradually got worse, she needed stronger and stronger medication. She spent most of her time in a befuddled torpor; she should really have gone into an institution. Whenever her doctor suggested some kind of residential care, Charlotte always came to life and said sharply, “My sister would never allow such a thing! She and I have always lived together! She looks after me!”

  Charlotte had been totally dependent on her sister for her daily care and survival. It didn’t look as if Maud would ever have the opportunity to realize her own dreams.

  At least until the evening when Maud was standing in the kitchen and suddenly felt a cold draft from the hallway. She hurried out to see what was going on, and found the front door standing open. In her confused state, Charlotte had managed to unlock the door and had wandered out into the gloom of the stairwell. Maud sensed rather than saw her sister moving past the elevator door. There was a wide landing with a long stone staircase leading down to the main door of the apartment block. By the faint light seeping out from the elevator, Maud was just able to make out Charlotte’s thin figure flitting anxiously to and fro. “Hello?” her voice echoed weakly. Slowly she moved closer to the edge of the landing. The stairs themselves were in total darkness. From Maud’s point of view, it looked as if her sister was inching towards a black hole. The long, steep stone staircase . . .

  The paralysis passed and she rushed towards the open door of the apartment. Charlotte was balancing on the top step. Maud had called out— or had she? She’d definitely tried to grab hold of her sister, hadn’t she? She remembered feeling the slippery fabric of Charlotte’s checked bathrobe against her fingertips but her sister pulled away and then . . . disappeared . . . down into the depths of the darkness.

  Three weeks later, Charlotte had passed away as a result of the severe concussion she had sustained. Maud spent every minute by her bedside. Her sister never regained consciousness.

  Over all the years that Maud had been responsible for their joint finances, she had deposited the whole of her sister’s sickness benefit in a special bank account. As time went by, i
t had grown into a tidy little sum. The day after the funeral, Maud booked her first trip. On the last day of the spring semester, she set off. She traveled by train and coach bus through Denmark, Germany and France. For the next fifteen years she spent the summer break in the same way, traveling all over the world. She had retired twenty-two years ago, and she had kept on traveling.

  The ICA Gourmet grocery store opened at nine o’clock in the morning on Christmas Eve. Maud could see the manager unlocking the door as she stepped off the bus. She plodded over through the slush. The manager waved to her.

  “Good morning! You’re bright and early!” he called out cheerfully.

  Maud smiled back at him. He was person she spoke to more than anyone else these days.

  “I thought I’d get my shopping done before all those stressed-out people start rushing around,” she said.

  “Very wise, very wise indeed,” the manager said with a chuckle as he stacked boxes of raisins into a neat pyramid.

  The little store had been there for as long as Maud could remember. To begin with it had sold only dairy products, but then it had expanded to become a minimart. Nowadays it was a gourmet grocery store, selling ready meals that could simply be heated up in the oven or microwave. They were prepared in a restaurant kitchen just a few miles away. The store also sold other delicious foods such as fine cheeses, exotic fruits, fresh bread baked on the premises, and all the other life essentials.

  Maud placed two small cartons of pickled herring rollups in the basket of her wheeled walker, followed by a larger pack of herring salad. They were soon joined by a Stilton cheese in a blue porcelain pot, a mature Gorgonzola, a piece of ripe Brie, a packet of salted crackers, an artisan loaf that was still warm, a bunch of grapes, fresh dates, a jar of fig conserve, two bottles of julmust, the traditional Christmas soft drink, a small pack of new potatoes from the Canaries, a few clementines and a box of After Eight chocolate mints. She was very pleased to find a portion of Jansson’s Temptation, a potato and onion casserole, in the ready meal section, and quickly added it to her basket. Now there was only one thing missing from her Christmas table.