The Party Season

by SJI Holliday

Genres: Holiday books; Mystery; Suspense

Synopsis

The festive season is in full swing - parties, mistletoe and Christmas crackers abound. In a hotel bar, a woman approaches you. Her party dress glitters with sequins. What you don't know is that your life is now in her hands - and now that you've met, there's only one thing that will determine whether you live or die. Are you a good person? Are you really? . . .

Release date: October 26, 2023

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

1

The Party Girl

It’s always terrifying to walk into a room full of strangers.

Not your average room, either. The hotel lobby is probably bigger than my flat. High ceilings and ornate cornices, pillars and arches. The flooring would probably be worth a year’s salary, even if it is looking a little scuffed in that way where over-shining it only makes the wear and tear more noticeable. The red velvet chairs look new though. People are milling around, criss-crossing between the various bars and suites and the toilets. The smokers bring a steady stream of cold air via the revolving doors. Classical music is being piped in through the speakers, at just the right level to blend the various chatter and clatter together. The mood is frenzied but jovial. The black and white uniformed staff look harassed but the adrenaline buzz will keep them all going through what must be one of their busiest nights of the year.

There’s a giant digital-poster screen with all the names of the function suites and which parties are in them, so I take a few moments to compose myself and read down through the list.

Amsterdam: eXperiential eVents

Paris: Hobbs & Parker Consultancy

Berlin and Vienna: Woodham NHS Trust

Rome: The Flat Flowers Company

Stockholm: Barlow & Wolfenstone LLB

European Capitals are a bit old school when it comes to naming of rooms, I think, but it’s in keeping with this hotel, which for all its lobby pomp, is no longer the place to see and be seen. It’s such an eclectic mix of companies, I can only imagine what each of these rooms are like. I arrived just before nine, so I know I’m going to be playing catch-up with most of these people who have probably been here for at least two hours, and more than likely started out in the pub before that.

A couple of hairsprayed and immaculately dressed women clip clop past me on towering heels, a blend of their cloying perfumes trailing in their wake. I don’t like strong perfume. I’ve worn Anaïs Anaïs since my mum bought me my first bottle for Christmas when I was thirteen. I made it last as long as I could, but I’ve had to buy my own bottle every Christmas since. I smile at them as they pass, but they don’t notice me. They don’t know me. Why should they care? I wait for a moment for the screen to flip to the next page again, where there is a schematic map of the location of the rooms.

This screen, and the velvet chairs, look like an attempt to keep this stuffy old place current. They need that Christmas party business. They don’t want to lose it all to the fancy new hotel on the waterfront.

I take a deep breath and follow the directions to Stockholm. A place I’ve never been and am unlikely to visit. Not on my salary. Not that I’d have the time, even if I could afford it.

It’s one of the bigger suites, according to the diagram, and thankfully the bar runs along the left side of the room, away from the white-clothed tables. I hate when you have to walk past everyone to get to where you want to be. I mean, even if no one is paying attention, it still feels like all eyes are on you, doesn’t it?

I’m impressed by the classiness of this space. One of the more expensive suites, I imagine. But an LLB is a law firm, right? They can afford it. Those guys have an hourly rate that would make you weep. They work long hours too. High pressure. Male dominated. Lots of time away from their families.

My kind of people. For tonight, at least.

I have to hoist my dress up a little to climb onto the bar stool with any level of grace. I hook a stiletto heel over the chrome bar near the bottom and shimmy over into the middle of the seat. Then I fix my dress back down over my thighs, and place my blood-red clutch bag on the bar. It wouldn’t usually be my kind of thing, but in these sorts of places you have to make an effort to fit in. The dress is from a charity shop, but the label says it’s from Whistles. Smoky grey with a shimmering fleck. Slinky but classy. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar and give my hair a little floof. It’s blonde and wavy tonight, and the pair of diamond hairclips sparkle under the spotlights. A quick glance at the other women in attendance, and I think I’ve hit the right vibe.

There are a few excited revellers further down the bar, and the barman is making them cocktails. He’s shaking and twizzling, and picking glazed, dried fruits out of a jar, but he’s spotted me and he gives me a little eyebrow raise and a nod to let me know that he’ll be serving me next. I smile back politely, and swivel around just enough to take another look at the room. The guests. It looks like this party started early, as most of the plates have been cleared and people are in relaxed mode, chatting, laughing.

As if on cue, the music goes up and the lights go down. A disco ball spins a kaleidoscope of colours around the walls. It’s a holly jolly Christmas. People are having fun.

I’m pleased for them. I am. But I’m not really a mixer. I prefer my own company, mostly. Or maybe just one or two others around me. Plus my cat, Claypole. He’s always around. My constant companion. Even if he’s not technically alive.

The barman comes over, white cloth tossed casually over one shoulder of his neat black shirt. He’s appraising me, but trying not to give himself away. He’s working. He’s professional. But I can always tell when I’ve piqued someone’s interest.

‘What can I get for you?’

Strong jaw. Clear blue eyes. He’s really quite a catch.

‘Kir Royale, please. And a glass of still water with ice. Tap is fine.’

He places a small chrome dish of pretzels and chilli puffs in front of me, and lays down a square paper mat with the name of the hotel embossed in gold.

I’m watching him pour the Crème de Cassis into a chrome measuring cup when I sense, rather than feel, a presence to the other side of me.

One… two… three…

I swivel around slowly.

‘Evening,’ he says. His grin reveals very white teeth. Natural though, not veneers.

I smile in a way that I’m certain could be described as demure, having practised it many times in the mirror. It’s important to get this part just right. The barman returns with my drinks. He places the champagne flute and the tumbler of water on another two of his posh paper mats.

‘Thank you,’ I say, after a beat. I am not sure if I will have to pay or not. You assume these things have a free bar, but there have been some I’ve been to where it’s run out by eight. Smaller companies usually. Or cheapskates.

My new companion orders himself a large gin and tonic, telling the barman to choose whatever he recommends. I’d do the same if I were ordering a G&T. There is a ridiculous variety these days.

The man beside me either reads my mind, or decides this is a decent conversation opener, and dives straight in. ‘Far too many choices, right? What type of gin? What flavour of tonic? Do I want lemon or cucumber? I mean…’ He shrugs theatrically.

‘Or orange,’ I say, nodding towards the drink that the barman has placed down on a space somewhere in between the two of us, not quite sure if we are together or not.

‘Tanqueray Sevilla,’ the barman says, ‘and a Mediterranean tonic. Imagine yourself on a sunny Spanish beach.’ He winks at me, then strides off to serve someone else.

The man looks uncertain for a moment, and I run through what I imagine he is thinking. He wonders if perhaps there is something between me and the barman. Maybe he should take his drink and go back to his table? Or should he plough on, now that he’s here – getting one drink? He hasn’t even offered me one, but I suppose the timing didn’t quite work. Plus, he’s not paying. Unless he’s the CEO. But I don’t think so. He’s slightly too nervous for that.

I watch his throat as he takes a long swig of his drink. He places the fishbowl back down on the bar. It’s mostly just ice now. I notice then that his eyes are slightly glazed.

Too drunk?

Perhaps he is not the one. I’ll give it a bit longer and see.

‘Andrew Morrison,’ he says. He offers a hand, and I shake it. He has a good grip. Firm but not trying to prove anything by crushing any bones. He stands a little straighter. Re-focussed. ‘Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around…’

I take a sip of my water, look him in the eye. ‘To be quite honest, Andrew, I don’t work here. I just walked in off the street in search of a free bar.’ I wait a moment, revelling in the dead air. Then I blink.

He throws his head back and guffaws. ‘Very good. You almost had me there.’

‘I’m Meryl Cassidy. I’m on a temp contract… and before you say it, yes, like Meryl Streep. My mum was a massive fan of The Bridges of Madison County.’

‘Oh, what a great film. An absolute classic. Incredible actress. Or do we say actor now, for all of them? I’m never quite sure…’ He moves in closer to me. ‘I love old movies, actually. So many incredible, feisty females to choose from.’

Up close, he smells a little less fragrant. A little less appealing. I want to back away, but I hold myself firm. I need to show an interest. He’s not bad looking, although maybe a bit older than I’d normally go for. I should be surprised at how quickly he’s attempting to move things along, but then, I suspect he has been out all afternoon. He’s clearly a man with a plan. Most of them are, when it comes down to it.

I glance at my untouched champagne cocktail and consider knocking it back, then making my excuses to leave. When I look back at Andrew, his face is mostly fixed on my cleavage. He flips his head back up quickly and gives me a wide grin.

He lays a hand on my wrist.

‘You know, Meryl Cassidy… I have a very nice room here for the night. Deluxe, in fact. Fully stocked mini bar. Incredible roll-top bath. Far too big for one person.’ He pauses, licks his lips. ‘It’d be a shame not to make full use of the room… It’s nearly Christmas, isn’t it? Don’t you think you deserve a little luxury? I’m sure you’ve been very nice this year.’ He strokes his thumb over my hand. ‘Or perhaps you’ve been very, very naughty?’

I smile in a way that I hope confirms my acceptance of his proposal. Then I pick up my bag and slide myself off the stool. Funny, isn’t it? How quickly they drop the small talk and resort to their blatant pick-up chat. I’m sure he’s not a bad man. He’s just conforming to his own stereotype.

It’s almost a shame that I have to kill him.

2

Becky

It’s a frosty Friday morning in December and DS Becky Greene is the first in the office. She’s got a mountain of paperwork to sort from her last few cases, and with Woodham CID under the spotlight for cuts, they can’t afford to fall behind.

More importantly, for today at least, she also has to decide on the best joke for the Christmas Dip – a ridiculous idea thought up by her friend and colleague, DC Joe Dickson, who would probably have been promoted by now if he spent more time on work and less time messing around. There is a separate sweepstake going around under the desks, on whether their boss, DI Eddie Carmine, would actually contribute a joke, or just continue to rack up debt against the charity swear box.

She scans through another list of terrible jokes that would barely make it into a cheap box of crackers, then her eyes lock on an actual gem.

What happens if you eat Christmas decorations?

… you get tinsel-itis.

‘That is genius,’ she mutters to herself, mouth half-full of the festive fruit and nut protein bar she’d picked up from the counter when she’d paid for her petrol. Two for a pound and so far it tasted like the crumbs at the bottom of Santa’s sack. She’s trying not to choke, washing it down with a swig of water, when the door flies open and Miriam bustles in, mostly obscured by a huge cardboard box. She drops it next to her desk in the corner, and turns to Becky, hands on hips.

‘Wait until you see what I’ve got in here.’

Becky rolls her eyes, then tosses the rest of the protein bar in the bin. This was her attempt at being healthy – trying to avoid the temptations of a sausage and egg McMuffin, or the van outside that does the best bacon rolls she’s ever tasted. It was inevitable that her plan would be foiled, because now that Miriam is here, she’s going to feel under pressure to nip out and get something for them both.

‘Please don’t say it’s another tree…’ Becky walks over to Miriam and holds on to the box as the other woman stabs at the taped edges with a pair of scissors.

‘Nope. Even better!’ Miriam unplugs her earphones from her ears and the tinny sound of ‘Stay Another Day’, East 17’s sad non-Christmas but definitely a Christmas song leaks out before she pulls her phone out of her bag and switches the music off.

Becky glances around the room. They’ve got a 6ft tree in one corner, decorated with hundreds of multi-coloured baubles, a big gold star on top. Tinsel is draped around every single monitor, red and green bows are stuck to the back of all the chairs, and there is a failed attempt at stick-on snowflakes on the windows, where the boss had put his foot down and told Miriam to take them off.

Miriam is one of the longest serving civilian staff at the station. She’s a big fan of kitschy, seasonal decorations, home-baking, and making sure she knows everything about everything. The latter skill comes in very handy at times, so it’s definitely best to keep her on side.

‘Ta da!’

Becky turns her attention back to the box as Miriam wrestles the last piece of tape off, and folds back the flaps, just in time for the giant inflatable snowman to pop out like a jack-in-the-box.

‘Isn’t he the best? They’re on BOGOF in Tesco so I took one home and brought the other one in here. It’s perfect, isn’t it? What do you think?’ She puts her hands around its neck and pulls the snowman out of the box. It wobbles a bit before righting itself and fixing Becky with its dead, black eyes.

‘It’s—’

‘Oh my god, that is amazing!’ The door swings open again, bringing in DC Joe Dickson. He grins at them both before yanking open his coat with a flourish, revealing a navy blue jumper with a flashing Christmas tree on the front. ‘Almost as cool as this little number,’ he says, giving Becky a wink. He smells like a cinnamon swirl.

Becky’s mouth drops open. ‘That. Is. Something,’ she says. ‘I really hope you didn’t get me one this year.’

Joe sticks out his bottom lip. ‘I wanted to, but you were so ungrateful last time…’

Miriam is tying a scarf around the snowman’s neck. ‘Where should I put him? Next to the tree, or—’

Becky raises her eyebrows.

‘Eddie’s office?’ Miriam suggests, innocently.

‘Oh, I think he’ll love it.’ Joe hangs his coat on one of the hooks by the door, then picks up the snowman and carries it across the open-plan space to DI Carmine’s office in the far corner.

Becky feels a bit mean. Eddie hates Christmas. It was bad enough already, for reasons that he’s never fully disclosed, but six years ago they’d had a serial killer running rings around them, adding his own particular brand of festivities. The Photographer case had been the first that she and Eddie had worked on together, and the intensity of that had cemented them as a team pretty quickly. But no one really liked to remember it, which is why no one in their right mind would dare bring an advent calendar into the office.

But the snowman is just a bit of fun, and she’ll take the flak if he kicks off.

A flurry of other officers has started to drift into the office now, and she’s missed her chance to nip out for a breakfast roll for just her and Miriam. There’s no way she’s going now, or she’ll end up having to get stuff for everyone. She fishes the protein bar back out of her bin and takes a nibble.

‘Wow,’ Joe says, plonking himself down on the seat next to her desk and snatching the bar from her hand. ‘You’re in before anyone else and you’re eating weird health food. From the bin.’ He wrinkles his nose. ‘Who are you and what have you done with Becky?’

She grabs the snack back from him and throws it on her desk. ‘Come on, let’s go for coffees.’ Becky heads off out of the room, knowing Joe will follow her. They started around the same time and they hit it off immediately, an easy banter between them that made him feel like a brother rather than a colleague. She hasn’t spent much time with him recently though, mainly because since she got promoted, he’s distanced himself from her a bit. It’s something they need to talk about at some point, but both of them clearly feel awkward about it.

She’s heading towards the kitchen area, but he grabs her elbow and hooks his arm under hers, leading her towards the stairs.

‘I need a Chestnut Praline Latte.’

Becky glances at her watch. It’s 8:45 a.m. How did that happen? She got in at seven, and she’s barely got half of anything done. She really needs to sign off on the Stephenson case and get it off her desk. After that, she has three more sets of notes to go through, and then she’s clear…until something else comes in, of course. Nothing too big though, she hopes. They could all do with a break.

‘I’m not sure we’ve got time to nip out before the boss gets in…’

‘It’s nearly Christmas, Becks. Let your hair down.’

Becky battles with this in her head as they make their way down the stairs, finally convincing herself to relent. They’re on their way out of the station entrance when she spots someone she’d rather not see climbing out of his shiny black Merc. DCI William Wilde – the Big Boss – closely followed by his partner, or admin assistant or whatever he really is because no one is entirely sure, DI Jonty Davis.

Joe spots them too and stops walking. ‘Uh oh. Harness the mules. Wild Bill, incoming.’

They take a step back inside. Not the best time to be nipping out. Not now. Wild Bill is a stickler for timekeeping, and if he’s here before nine a.m., it can only mean one thing: something big enough and ugly enough to warrant him coming here from his cushy office with the river views and the posh coffee machine.

So much for getting that paperwork finished.

The blue sky has gone, leaving a heavy canopy of grey, and a layer of melting sleet covers the cars. Becky hugs her arms around herself, trying to keep warm. She takes another step back, stopping at the perfect place where the heating blasts out from the vents just inside the glass doors.

The pair of them watch as another car shoots into the car park, slotting itself into the remaining empty space. The car door slams and a familiar figure marches across the tarmac towards the entrance. His face is not in its happy place.

‘I’m kind of regretting sticking Mr Frosty in the boss’s office now,’ Joe mutters.

DI Eddie Carmine is right in front of them. He’s flustered, his breath coming out in icy puffs, his hair sticking up in clumps. Suited, but shirt un-ironed. Becky had told him to get one of those steamer things but he hadn’t listened. He wasn’t meant to be in this early today. He’s clearly been summoned by a phone call.

‘Get upstairs, you two,’ he says, pushing himself through the narrow gap between them. ‘I’ve a feeling the DCI’s about to ruin everyone’s Christmas…’

Becky steals a glance at Joe as DCI Wilde starts walking towards them. He raises a hand in greeting.

Behind them, Eddie mutters, ‘Fuck.’

Joe nudges her with his elbow as he turns around to address him. ‘Charity swear box is active again this year, boss. Dogs for the blind.’ He holds out a hand.

Becky bites her lip and tries not to laugh. ‘Morning, boss,’ she says. But Eddie has already legged it up the stairs.

3

Harry

Most people don’t really get what Harry does at work every day, so it’s easier just to tell them that he works in an office. It’s technically true. But it’s the type of office that’s the interesting part – to him, anyway. He’s a Document Control Manager at a small biotechnology firm. It was set up by two brothers – science grads who wanted to make a difference. Twenty-five years on, and they’ve expanded from a workforce of two, to almost eight hundred, becoming one of the area’s largest employers. Harry’s been there since he graduated six years ago. To say it’s his whole life isn’t really an exaggeration. Especially since he met Heather.

Heather and Harry. It just sort of works. They were friends for almost two years before it turned into something more, six months ago. She hadn’t gone to the Christmas party the year she started, and Harry had almost got himself entangled with Lorraine from the IT Helpdesk – she’d been quite insistent that she wanted to ‘provide a good service’, which had been a cheesy almost winning line, until something stopped him. Heather had only started two weeks before, and he barely knew her, but already he had a hunch that there might be something there worth waiting for.

Turns out he was right.

Besides, Lorraine didn’t mind. Her line worked effortlessly on Harry’s workmate, Luke, and they’d dated for over a year – until she’d decided it was time for an upgrade. Matthew in Finance, no less. They’re still going strong, he thinks, although he’s not one hundred per cent sure that Luke has given up on her y. . .