The Greek Who Stole Christmas Read Online Free

there it was, signed and sealed. I still wondered why Minerva hadn’t gone straight to the police – but maybe it wouldn’t suit her being surrounded by the men in blue. I wanted to tell her that Tim would offer her about as much protection as a paper umbrella in the rain, but two hundred pounds was two hundred pounds. I watched as Jake Hammill counted out the money, and it occurred to me that the only time I’d been expecting to see the Queen that Christmas had been on her TV broadcast. But here were twenty little portraits sliding into Tim’s outstretched hand. I almost wanted to kiss her. Or him.
    We took the bus home. We could have afforded a cab but we’d already decided to blow a big chunk of the money on a three-course meal at our local Italian. I was already dreaming of a twelve-inch pizza on an eleven-inch plate. Extra cheese and pepperoni. And maybe extra pizza too. But even so, I couldn’t get Minerva out of my mind. I went over what had happened in the suite. I was still certain something was wrong.
    “If you ask me, Tim, there’s something strange about this,” I said.
    Tim looked around him. “It’s just a bus, Nick,” he said.
    “I’m not talking about the bus. I’m talking about Minerva. Those death threats! Whoever heard of a death threat inside a Christmas cracker?”
    “Yeah,” Tim nodded. “And there was no sign of a paper hat.”
    I shook my head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t making the whole thing up … the three of them. You heard what she said. All she wants to do is sell her CDs. Maybe the whole thing’s just a publicity stunt.”
    Tim shook his head. “I don’t think so, Nick. I think she’s in real danger. Don’t ask me why – I’ve just got an instinct for this sort of thing. A sixth sense.”
    “Sure,” I muttered. “It’s just a shame you missed out on the other five.”
    I looked out of the window. It had got dark a while ago and it looked as if it was going to snow. There were a few flakes dancing in the wind. As we turned a corner, I noticed a man standing on the pavement with a sandwich board. He was handing out leaflets about the end of the world. London is full of people like that. Maybe it’s the city that drives them mad or maybe they’re mad before they arrive and it’s the city that attracts them. Anyway, this man had three words in red paint across his chest:

    He seemed to catch my eye as we went past. And I found myself wondering. Was he just a harmless crank trying to sell religion to anyone who would listen?
    Or did he know something I didn’t?

REGENT STREET
    Everyone makes a fuss about the Christmas lights on Regent Street and maybe there was a time when they were actually worth travelling in to see. I remember when I was small, my mum would take me into town and the lights would flicker and flash and sparkle and people would cross the road with their necks craned, staring at them in wonderment, and they wouldn’t even complain when they were run over by the 139 bus.
    But that was then. Nowadays the lights are more or less the same as they are on any other high street at Christmas. Worse than that, they’re paid for by big business, so you don’t just get Santa, stars or whatever. You get the latest characters from a Disney movie. Or “Harry Christmas” from J.K. Rowling. Or whatever.
    Even so, turning on the lights is still a big deal. If it isn’t a member of the royal family, it’s a pop star or a Hollywood actor. All the newspapers and TV stations record the moment when the button gets pressed, and the next day you can read all about it on page one: MINERVA LIGHTS UP LONDON. And just for one day the earthquakes and the wars and the dirty politics are left to page two.
    We were driven to Regent Street in a stretch limo. The chauffeur was a tall, slim man in a grey uniform and I couldn’t help wondering if someone hadn’t stretched him too. Minerva and her husband sat on the back seat. For the first time I noticed he