A Cotswold Christmas Mystery

had the usual Christmas cards. Nobody ever sends us parcels.’ Not strictly true, he silently corrected himself. Digby routinely ordered books and other things online, which various delivery services brought to the door.
‘It’s his present to Mama, you see,’ Bronya explained. ‘A very valuable piece of jewellery. The parcel was supposed to be registered and sent by special delivery, but somehow it hasn’t arrived.’
From one moment to the next, Ant understood that there had never been anything mellow or benign about the sisters’ approach, here in the street. They had been playing with him, pretending to be friendly before leaping into accusations. Both pairs of eyes narrowed and each woman stepped a little closer to him. The fact of their Russian origins felt significant in a much more threatening way. They were going to stab him with a deadly toxin or carry him off to a prison somewhere in order to beat him senseless. The clichés crowded his mind, born of James Bond stories and decades-old paranoia. And yet, it was real. There was malice vivid on both faces.
‘What are you accusing me of?’ he asked, much too loudly. A woman passing by gave him a worried look. ‘Leave me alone. I’ve got work to do.’
‘We’re not keeping you, are we?’ said Bronya with appalling sweetness. ‘Carry on, why don’t you? Deliver your tree and go home to your Gypsy parents. They’ll be worrying about you, little boy.’
It was horrible. The ‘Gypsy’ was meant as an insult that carried special resonance for a Russian. The ‘little boy’ was even more insulting, since he was pretty sure both women were marginally younger than he was. They were referring to the fact that he still lived at home, barely a fully functioning adult as a result. He was happy to be a Gypsy, but he did not want to be thought of as immature or childish.
He pulled away and went to the back of the van. But before he could lift out the large tree, he got a surprise phone call. Letting go of the heavy trunk, he extracted the phone from his jacket pocket.
‘It’s me,’ breathed his mother. ‘I’m phoning to say I’m really all right, but I don’t think I’m going to be home for Christmas.’ He could hear an unfamiliar hint of emotion in her voice. He gazed unseeingly at the street around him, the Russian girls walking arrogantly away from him.
‘For God’s sake! What’s happened? Can’t I come and get you from wherever you are?’
‘No, love. Don’t do that. It’s all horribly complicated. He’s dead, you see. Ant – do you hear me? He’s dead and I won’t be able to come home.’
Ant was balancing a large tree half in and half out of his van. People were tutting loudly at the obstruction he was causing. The narrow pavement was unsuited to such manoeuvres, and with the phone in one hand, he was further impeded. A woman pushed at him impatiently. When he tried to lift the tree out of her way, it brushed the top of her head and caught in her hair. His van was also causing trouble, its back doors open. ‘What?’ he called down the phone. ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’ He grimaced apologetically at the woman and a handful of others who were finding him a nuisance.
His mother’s voice was growing faint. ‘The battery’s going and I haven’t got the charger. Ant, I think there’s going to be trouble. I’m in Win—’ and her voice disappeared, partly thanks to a loud horn honking in the street, but mainly because his mother’s mobile was dying. Helplessly, he shook his phone and called her name. Then he pocketed his device, shouldered the tree and marched along the pavement. Then he turned left into the front door of the Campden House Hotel and dumped the tree. He was detained for a further three minutes, while the manager came out of his office to shake his hand and present him with a ready-wrapped package. ‘We were expecting you,’ he said. ‘This is for all your work this year – it’s for your mum as well.’ He went on with a formal little speech that Ant barely had the patience to hear.
‘Gosh, thanks,’ Ant panted, when he finished. ‘Have a good Christmas. Sorry! I can’t stop any longer – I’m parked on the pavement.’ And he ran back to his van.
He called his mother back, in desperation, but her phone remained unresponsive.
Win? Where was Win? Winchcombe, probably. But there was also Winchester or Windermere or Windsor. And Winchmore Hill in North London was a place, as well. In a fit of hysteria, he even considered Winnipeg as a possibility.
Then, with pounding heart and clammy palms, he called his father.

Chapter Five
Ant abandoned his plan to sell his remaining trees in a lay-by, and went home to talk to Digby. The words his mother had spoken on the phone echoed and whirled around his head, making less sense with every passing minute. He needed Digby to explain them to him.
‘Should I call the police?’ he wondered, having described the bizarre conversation.
‘Don’t be so bloody daft. I don’t see what’s so alarming in what she said, anyway.’ Digby was alternately impatient and reflective, taking a long time to respond to his son’s evident panic and confusion. ‘Listen – she said she was all right, didn’t she? Why would the police take any interest in it, if you did call them? She’s a grown woman, perfectly capable of looking after herself.’
‘Have you been listening to me at all?’ Ant shouted. ‘She said somebody’s dead, and she’s scared to come home. Who’s dead? What did she mean? Has she done something terrible? Run someone over and not stopped? Or what? Dad – you have to take this seriously. There’s something really weird going on.’
‘I’ll grant you that,’ said Digby, still infuriatingly calm. ‘But it sounds to me as if she’s working it out in her own way. We’ll just