The Ghoul of Christmas Past

you armed, sir?’
‘What? No,’ Michael huffed a breath out through his nose, frustrated that they were refusing to listen.
Not taking his word for it, the cop patted him down anyway, tapping down his coat and then his trousers, stopping at his left hip pocket. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, tapping a hard lump.
With a sigh, Michael said, ‘A pocketknife.’
‘Gaz, he’s carrying a knife,’ the cop advised his partner.
Both cops eyed him critically. Surely, they could see he wasn’t a criminal. He was smartly dressed and in his late sixties for goodness sake. They gripped his arms though, one either side to frog march him the long way around the shrubs to get back to the front of the house where two more cops were waiting. At the far end of the drive were two squad cars, their roof lights lazily spinning.
Getting closer, he realised he recognised one of them, a short, black woman he’d seen with Tempest and Amanda a few times. Fixing what he hoped was an innocent smile to his face, Michael said, ‘Hello.’
Constable Patience Woods had just a few hours of her shift left and she had a full two days off. She was going to enjoy them and was thinking about nothing else at all. She was going to eat and drink and be merry. However, rather than having a quiet relaxing day before Christmas, it had been surprisingly busy with various silly calls, including this one where the owner of a huge house reported a strange man lurking outside his house. The owner was hiding inside with his wife and children.
It pleased her greatly when Gaz and Marco radioed to say they’d found him because she eaten too many mince pies for lunch and wasn’t feeling up to chasing anyone right now. But when they reappeared, they had a retirement age gentleman with them, and as he came closer, he smiled at her and spoke.
It took a second, but she realised she knew him. ‘Mr Michaels?’
‘Hello,’ Michael repeated, racking his brain to remember the lady’s name.
‘You know this man, Patience?’ Gaz asked.
That was it: Patience. ‘I’ve been trying to tell them they have the wrong man, Patience. They don’t seem to want to listen,’ Michael lamented.
‘He was carrying a knife,’ Gaz held up a clear plastic bag with a small, red Swiss army knife inside.
‘It’s just a tool,’ Michael told them for the third time.
The front door to the house opened, the sound drawing their eyes. A man in his forties with short-cut blonde hair and Scandinavian features appeared in the gap with two small children peering around his legs. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked, nodding his head toward Michael Michaels.
‘Are you the owner of the house, sir?’ asked Patience, hoping they could clear this up quickly and get back into their nice warm squad cars. She had a salted caramel hot chocolate in hers and it was going to go cold if they didn’t hurry up.
The man spoke to his children, ushering them back inside and closing the door behind him as he made his way outside. He had on one of those garish Christmas jumpers; the sort of garment that one’s wife buys and thus one had to wear until the holiday season is over and it can be accidentally lost in the dustbin forever. Tucking his hands under his armpits and hugging himself against the cold, he replied, ‘Yes. I’m Richard Glaagard. I’m the one who called you. Who is this man?’
Beating the cops to it, Michael said, ‘I’m Michael Michaels. I’m investigating what might have happened to Ronald Norton. He is a business partner of yours, I believe. I have reason to believe he was taken by someone and came here to warn you. Approaching your house, I spotted a large man lurking in the bushes. He saw me and ran. I gave chase but he got away.’
It was the most complete report the police had heard from him thus far and it caused several questions to emerge in rapid fire. Chief among which came from Patience, who said, ‘You called us about a prowler. Is this the man you saw?’
Richard Glaagard shook his head. ‘No, the man I saw was much taller and he was wearing a top hat.’
‘That’s who I saw,’ confirmed Michael.
‘He was carrying a knife,’ pointed out Gaz once more, unable to let his one point go.
Patience frowned at him. ‘That’s hardly a knife, Gaz. Its blade is clearly less than two and a half inches, so it doesn’t count. Take the cuffs off and let him have it back.’
Smiling gamely, Michael waggled his eyebrows when he caught Patience’s eye. ‘There’s a footprint around the side of the house. It’s twice the size of mine.’
Feeling sad about her hot chocolate, Patience said, ‘I guess we had better take a look.’

A New Plan. Saturday, December 24th 1502hrs
The man calling himself Mr Dickens was once again wearing his fancy frock coat though the Charles Dickens mask came off as soon as he started the engine. At the wheel of a silver van and driving along the esplanade toward Rochester bridge he had to fight hard to control his rage. He had a tiny window to grab his last three victims and one had just slipped through his fingers. Richard Glaagard was one of those he wanted most. Glaagard had been vocal in damning the plans for expansion at the theme park. Unlike Jason Pendergrass, who always had something better to do, Richard came to the shareholder meetings, but where this ought to have been a positive opportunity for interaction, Mr Dickens found that Richard Glaagard just wanted to stamp on his proposals and make it impossible for the park to advance.
His plans had been pure brilliance; no one would ever convince him otherwise. They entrusted him with taking the theme park forward but