The Greek Who Stole Christmas Read Online Free Page B

me…” Tim muttered.
    “No, Tim!” I began.
    But it was too late. Tim charged forward and grabbed hold of the man, then spun him around and threw him onto the bonnet of the limousine.
    “That’s far enough!” Tim exclaimed.
    “I… I… I…” The man was too shocked to speak.
    “What do you want with Minerva?” Tim demanded.
    “I’m the Mayor of London!” the man exclaimed.
    Tim looked suspicious. He was still pinning him down. “If you’re the Mayor of London, where’s your red cloak and pointy hat?”
    “I’m not that sort of mayor,” the man growled. “I think you’ve been watching too many pantomimes.”
    “Oh no I haven’t!” Tim replied.
    By now, two policemen had appeared and had pulled Tim away, helping the Mayor to his feet. Because it
was
the Mayor, of course. I’d recognized him instantly – his bald head, his brightly coloured cheeks and his entirely colourless moustache. Jake Hammill had seen what had happened. He hurried over and placed himself between the Mayor and Tim.
    “I’m so sorry!” he said. “We’ve hired private security and I guess he was a little jumpy.”
    “It’s an outrage,” the Mayor exclaimed. He had a whiny voice.
    “Come and meet Minerva, Mr Mayor. She’s been longing to say hello.”
    The thought of shaking Minerva’s hand – or indeed any part of her – must have cheered the Mayor up because he seemed to have forgotten that he had just been attacked by Tim. Hammill took him over to his client, who was still posing for the cameras. “Minerva … this is the Mayor!” he said.
    “How lovely to meet you, Mr Mayor!” Minerva sounded so genuine, I almost believed her myself. She kissed him on the cheek and night became day again as the photographers captured the moment for the morning’s headlines. “Where do we go to turn on the lights?” she asked.
    “This way…” The Mayor had gone red.
    We made our way to a raised platform that had been constructed at the side of the road. There must have been four or five hundred people all around us, many of them waving autograph books and flashing cameras of their own. A Salvation Army band was playing carols. They finished “Away in a Manger” and began a version of “Silent Night” that was anything but.
    Minerva climbed the stairs and I couldn’t stop myself thinking of gallows and public hangings. I remembered the warning inside the cracker. Was someone really about to have a crack at her? I tried to think where I would hide myself if I were a sniper. I looked up at the rooftops. It was hard to see anything in the darkness but there didn’t seem to be anyone there. How about an open window? All the windows in the street were closed. Then perhaps in the crowd…
    By now Minerva had reached the top of the stairs. Was she being brave or stupid? Or was it just that she refused to take any of this seriously?
    Jake Hammill was certainly looking nervous. So was Harold Chase. He was standing to one side, his hands in his pockets, pulling his black cashmere coat around him like he was trying to hide in it. His eyes were darting left and right. Even if nobody took a shot at his wife, I’d have said a major heart attack was a strong possibility. He didn’t look like he’d last the night.
    So there we all were on the platform: Minerva and the Mayor at the front, the rest of us grouped behind. There was a single red button, mounted on a wooden block, and a microphone. Minerva stepped forward. The crowd fell silent. The Salvation Army players came to the end of a verse and stopped – unfortunately not all at the same time.
    “Ladies and gentlemen!” It was the Mayor speaking. His voice whined the full length of Regent Street and it wasn’t just the fault of the microphone. “I’d like to welcome you all here and I hope you’ve all remembered to pay the congestion charge! We’ve had some great stars turn on the lights in Regent Street. But this year, if you ask me, we’ve got the biggest star of all.