The Ghoul of Christmas Past

that he wasn’t intimidated by the guard’s presence. Never once even looking the guard’s way, Michael said, ‘Someone has been in the cabinets and I think you know about it.’ Making such a bold statement gave away that he had seen the small marks on the shelves where the books had been recently moved, but it also meant he got to see what the curator’s eyes would do when he accused him.
They widened in shocked panic. Like an eyeball gasp, it was uncontrollable and unmistakable.
Michael stepped back again. ‘Thought so.’ The professor was guilty of something. The question was not only what was it, but how could he be caught? Tempest might have the answers. Deciding he was done with the museum, Michael started toward the exit, going around the two men to get there. Over his shoulder, he called, ‘Merry Christmas, Gentlemen.’
No one came after him or tried to stop him leaving, which was a relief because Michael had no idea what he had just been witness to. There was something going on, but he only knew that because he could see the facts failed to align and the professor acted guilty when he challenged him. Walking to the door, he made himself go slowly, but felt like running because the curator could be a serial killer and trying to cover his tracks for all Michael knew.
What Michael didn’t see, once he was outside and moving away, was the curator slipping out behind him. The tall thin man was instantly cold because he’d left his coat behind – there wasn’t time to fetch it from his office, this was far too urgent. He ran to his car, going away from Michael Michaels, and holding his phone to his ear as he went.
The second his call connected he started talking. ‘Someone knows.’
Anyone listening would then have heard a pause while he listened to the person at the other end.
‘I don’t know. Some older gentleman called Michael Michaels.’
A pause.
‘No, he’s not police.’
A pause.
‘What do you mean, don’t panic? I’m telling you they know. This is your fault. You’re going to have to give it all back. I need to cover this up before someone else comes snooping. Maybe next time it will be the police.’
A pause during which Professor Loughborough plipped his car open and got in, transferring the phone from one hand to the other while he listened to the annoyingly calm voice at the other end.
‘Listen, I’m coming to you. You can threaten me with blackmail all you want. I know you are up to something too. You give me back the things I let you have, and we’ll call it even.’
The professor stabbed the button to end the call without waiting for a response and put his car in gear. He was a damned fool for being greedy in the first place, but he was a clever man, and he could figure a way out of his current situation. If that idiot Whittaker hadn’t overreacted and called the police, there wouldn’t be a problem now, but all was not lost.
He just needed to act fast and take control.

Preparing. Saturday, December 24th 1250hrs
‘Is everything in place?’
The two men hearing the question could not tell which it was aimed at, and neither wanted to answer because the man asking it did not deal well with bad news. Everything was very much not yet in place. That had been a deliberate strategy on their part, but one which was now making them both feel very nervous. They looked at each other, both telling the other with their eyes to get on and speak.
When no answer returned in the two seconds following his question, their boss turned around to look at them. The men were dressed much like construction workers everywhere in hardwearing clothes streaked and stained with grime and fluids that would never wash out. They both wore bright yellow vests and hard hats though there was no one employed here to insist they follow health and safety guidelines.
They were not incompetent, far from it. The man scrutinising them hired them himself specifically for their skills, but they acted as though they were afraid to deliver bad news. It made him angry or would have if he allowed anger to ever cloud his judgement.
They knew him as Mr Dickens though neither believed it was his real name. What he called himself wasn’t important because he was paying them double what they usually got, and they were between contracts anyway. The job had to be finished today, just in time for Christmas, so all things considered, they had been over the moon when the opportunity landed in their laps a week ago.
The men were new hires, taken on specifically to perform one important role and both were well-trained in their field. They were keen and pulling out all the stops because he had promised them a fat Christmas bonus if they got the work done.
‘You have news which you do not wish to deliver?’ the boss guessed, narrowing his eyes at the man on the left.
Now on the spot, Blake felt pressured to answer. ‘We are nearly ready,’ he lied.
The man calling himself Mr Dickens had the kind of education that would scare most academics and his skills as a business leader had been honed by years running different firms as he scaled the corporate ladder. He was a man going places, a man with a grand plan. However, his plan recently ran into an unexpected hitch and he was really rather angry about it. Angry enough to kill, one might say.
‘Tell me,’ the boss demanded, ‘in very precise terms, what is yet to be done.’
Blake gulped; there was no way to avoid telling him the truth now. ‘The job really needs more than just the two of us. We are nearly there but rigging