The second was that he could hear somebody else breathing. He reviewed the events of the previous evening to see if there were any clues. For instance, had he been so drunk that he hadn’t noticed Charlie Smith’s dog following him home from the Queen of Scots and getting into bed with him? It wasn’t impossible. He vaguely recalled that it had been somebody’s birthday, and....

‘You’re going to have to be Santa Claus,’ said a horribly familiar voice.

Jock McLean reached out and switched on the bedside lamp, an innovation Jemima and Dave had installed for him a couple of months back when he had caught the flu and had been in bed for five days. Up until then he had managed perfectly well without it, preferring to get up in the freezing cold and stumble across to the light switch by the door, catching his shins every time on the drawer that didn’t close properly.

‘What are you doing here?’ he said to Amaryllis, who was standing by his bed staring down at him. ‘It’s the middle of the night.’

‘Santa Claus is dead,’ she said.

‘He can’t be!’

‘He isn’t really,’ she admitted. ‘He got a special deal on flights to New York, so he and his wife are on their way to the airport. You’ll have to do it.’

‘There must be somebody else... Dave? Christopher? You?’

She shook her head, causing her dark red hair to spike out round her head like the crown of thorns on one of those all-too-graphic crucifixes that were sometimes displayed in churches in order to intimidate people.

‘I’ve got to be an elf,’ she said mournfully.

Jock heaved himself up to rest on his elbows. ‘An elf? I thought elves were meant to be incredibly beautiful with long blonde hair and an aura of other-worldly serenity based on their innate self-knowledge of immortality.’

‘I don’t know where you got that idea,’ said Amaryllis, sitting down with a thud on the end of the bed. ‘There’s a nice red cloak and a big beard. No-one will know it’s you.’

‘Hey! How did you get into my house anyway?’

‘That would be telling.’

‘Why have you got to be an elf?’ said Jock.

‘We’re one down,’ she said. ‘There’s no time to find anyone else.’

Jock rubbed his eyes. ‘Are you sure I’m not dreaming this?’

‘How should I know?’

‘Why didn’t you ask Christopher to be Santa Claus?’

‘I tried him first,’ said Amaryllis. ‘Hurry up, it’s past seven o’clock. We’ve got to go down to the Queen of Scots for a rehearsal.’

‘Seven o’clock in the morning? So you couldn’t talk Christopher round?’

‘He claims to be too busy.’

Ha! Too busy hiding in his office trying to ignore the rest of the world, said Jock scornfully to himself as he searched for a clean shirt and struggled into his trousers. He had banished Amaryllis from the room before doing any of this, of course. She didn’t need to know what was in his chest of drawers.

She had tea and toast waiting by the time he got downstairs.

‘You’re quite domesticated really, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘You’d better hurry up. She doesn’t like people to be late.’

Jock had lost the will to question her about who was in charge. He knew Amaryllis was completely ruthless and would get him to the rehearsal even if he staged a dramatic collapse on the way and she had to drag him there by the feet.

‘What are we going to rehearse?’ he asked plaintively once they were walking down to the Queen of Scots. ‘Have I got to say anything?’

‘You can manage ho ho ho, surely,’ she said.

They passed the newsagents. The owner, a grumpy man who looked like a pit bull terrier, only larger and uglier, stood outside, staring up and down the street as if waiting for a first glimpse of Santa Claus, his sleigh, elves and reindeer. Well, he’d had one now, thought Jock, smiling to himself at this small joke. He had a strong feeling he was going to regret agreeing to this. Not that he had actually agreed. It was more a case of giving in for the sake of peace. Appeasement. He would need all the private jokes he could think of to get through it.

There were huskies.

‘Don’t pat any of them unless you’re prepared to pat them all,’ said the man who appeared to be in charge of the pack. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’

In Jock’s opinion it was asking for trouble to go around with a pack of huskies in the first place. ‘I thought there would be reindeer,’ he grumbled to Amaryllis. ‘Have I got to get on that thing?’ He indicated the flimsy-looking sledge that trailed along behind the huskies.

‘Of course not!’ She laughed for such a long time that he was sure she was faking it. ‘You’ve got to be a trained husky racer to get on that. You’ll be on the tram.’

‘That’s all right then – did you say tram?’

‘There it is!’ Amaryllis pointed out the large hulking shape that lurked to one side of the pub. They approached it with caution. It was an old-fashioned double-decker tram which had seen better days. Jock could remember only too well what it had been like to ride on the top deck of trams like that. The seating tended to be Spartan, and you had to hang on for dear life whenever it negotiated a corner.

‘How did that get there?’ said Jock. He knew he hadn’t been all that alert when he left the Queen of Scots the night before, but he didn’t think he could have missed seeing the tram, which appeared to be decorated for Christmas with flashing lights and sparkly stuff.

‘They brought it on a lorry in the night. It’s from a tram museum.’

‘There aren’t any rails for it to run on,’ said Jock uneasily.

‘It’s not going anywhere,’ she said. ‘It’ll just be parked there for the duration. You’ll be nice and cosy inside.’

‘Hmph! That’s a matter of opinion.’

‘They wanted to turn on the sound as well,’ said Charlie Smith gloomily, coming up behind them with his dog. The huskies all started barking at once.

‘You keep that mongrel away from my huskies!’ shouted the husky man.

‘Don’t you worry,’ said Charlie. ‘He wouldn’t touch them with a bargepole.’

‘Or the North Pole!’ yelled Amaryllis.

‘Oh, ha ha,’ retorted the man.

‘Ha ha to you with knobs on,’ said Amaryllis.

They returned to the matter in hand.

‘It plays Christmas carols,’ said Charlie. ‘Not that you can really call them carols.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Jock. ‘Mushy songs about Santa Claus.’

‘Musical marshmallows,’ agreed Charlie.

‘I don’t know what you’re both so grumpy about,’ said Amaryllis, although surely to goodness she was used to them being grumpy. They were Scotsmen, after all, and it was so early in the morning that it was still dark. ‘I’m the one that has to dress up in green leggings.’

‘Do you have false ears too?’ said Jock.

‘No, they’re all my own.’

The question was, why was Amaryllis so chirpy? Either she had already assassinated somebody today, or...

‘Morning, all,’ said Giancarlo Petrelli suddenly. ‘Coffee?’

He was balancing several paper cups, which he began to hand round.

‘Are you still running that coffee kiosk in the old beach shelter?’ said Jock, accepting one of the cups. He watched Amaryllis gazing at Giancarlo, and sighed. It was about time the boy got himself a girl-friend of his own age, instead of going around encouraging middle-aged women who should know better.

‘Not for much longer,’ said Giancarlo. ‘But my mum thinks we might get quite a bit of custom once this Christmas thing starts up. So we’re going to give it a try.’

He turned away and started walking back towards the kiosk.

‘Who’s this woman we’re waiting for anyway?’ said Jock to Amaryllis. ‘Why didn’t Christopher take it on?’

Amaryllis laughed. ‘No way. He’s got something important going on in the Cultural Centre. A historical thing. There’s a proper historian coming up from London for it. There are going to be events.’

‘Events, eh?’ said Jock. ‘As if we hadn’t had enough events round here lately.’

‘But they’ve got nothing to do with all the Christmas stuff. That’s being organised by somebody from the Council,’ said Amaryllis. ‘She’s called the Community Engagement Advisor. She tries to stir people up to take part in things.’

‘Did she have anything to do with the Healthy Eating fiasco?’ said Jock.

‘No. That was Mr Hargreaves. He’s gone now. He said he’d got a snazzy new job in HR in Cumbernauld, but everyone thinks he’s been fired.’

‘You’re surprisingly well-informed about what the Council people are up to,’ said Charlie.

She gave him a look, and took a sip of her coffee before replying. ‘I’m keeping an eye on them.’

‘In what way? In your professional capacity?’ said Charlie.

‘I don’t have a professional capacity any more... I might as well tell you, I suppose. I’m thinking of standing.’

‘Standing?’ said Jock, feeling stupid. ‘Standing where?’

‘For the Council. There’ll be a bye-election soon. I want to do my bit as a concerned local citizen.’

Jock, who had just taken a huge gulp of coffee, spluttered slightly.

‘Ah,’ said Charlie, making a quicker recovery than Jock. ‘Poacher turned gamekeeper, eh?’

‘I’ve never poached anything in my life!’ said Amaryllis.

A nondescript silver-grey car drew up near the tram, and a nondescript woman got out.

‘That’s her,’ said Amaryllis.

‘Morning, everybody!’ called the woman, sounding to Jock McLean’s cynical ears like a Sunday school teacher desperately trying to convince a group of children it would be cool to sing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ and then play with a very small quantity of sand. ‘Are we ready to rehearse?’

Somebody growled. It was either the husky man or one of his dogs.

‘I’d better get on,’ said Charlie Smith.

‘What, you mean you’re not going to play Rudolph and guide the sleigh?’ said Jock.

Charlie made a gesture he must have learned during his years in the police force and trudged off in the direction of the harbour.

‘His nose isn’t all that red,’ said Amaryllis, staring after him.

The nondescript woman came over to them. Jock realised the reason she looked so nondescript was because she was wearing a long shapeless sludge green coat, a sludge green scarf, a sludge green hat and wellies that looked as if they were sludge brown in the flickering light from the nearest street lamp but were quite possibly sludge green.

‘Great news!’ she said, looking at Jock.

‘What’s that?’ said Jock, baffled.

‘That you’re available to take over, of course. I don’t know what Mr McAndrew was thinking of, jetting off like that. Some people just have no community spirit.... But it’s good to have you on board. I’m Elizabeth French.’

Jock avoided shaking hands with her by taking his pipe out of his coat pocket. He didn’t usually smoke this early in the day, but in his experience the mere sight of a pipe was enough to deter most people from coming too close.

‘Well, better get going, then!’ she added, taking a step back. ‘The costumes are in the tram.’ She stared critically at Jock. ‘We’re going to have to pad you out a bit. Mr McAndrew’s a well-built man.’

Jock almost wanted to apologise for not having eaten himself into the appropriate shape for a performance as Santa Claus. However, he knew instinctively that the Community Engagement Advisor was immune to sarcasm. She would never have taken the job if she hadn’t been.

‘When does it happen?’ he said, making conversation as they got closer to the tram.

‘When does what happen?’ said Elizabeth French.

‘I think he means when does it start?’ said Amaryllis. ‘It’s this week,’ she added, to Jock.

‘What day?’ he said. ‘I might be busy.’

‘Oh, it’s every day from this coming Thursday until Christmas Eve,’ said Elizabeth French airily. ‘Two o’clock to eight, except Sundays. The launch is this afternoon.’

‘Two in the afternoon? Eight at night?’ Jock was hoping he had misunderstood what he was expected to do. ‘But I don’t have to be there all the time, do I? Not every day?’

His words were lost in the clattering Amaryllis caused by falling over as she boarded the tram. He knew she had done it on purpose to try and kill the conversation.

‘It wouldn’t be much of a festive attraction without Santa Claus, now would it?’ said the Community Engagement Advisor. Her tone had gone from ebullient and overbearing to wistful and forlorn. ‘And you’ll have Sundays off.’

Jock swore to himself, using expressions he had learned from his former pupils but which he had never expected to use, not even in the comfort of his own mind. Standing up to a bully was one thing, but disappointing a worn middle-aged woman dressed all in sludge green who was only trying to do an impossible job was something quite different. Not to mention that she had set herself above most public servants, in his opinion, by turning up so early in the morning.

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