Detective Inspector Alan McLeod turned to his wife, Carol, and handed her two fully-laden hot chocolates before turning back to the market stall. He heard his daughters squeal with excitement behind him and wondered how much of their faces would be covered in whipped cream by the time he turned back around.
“There’s your other two hot chocolates. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some marshmallows on yours?”
McLeod chuckled and glanced down at his protruding belly. “No thanks, I look enough like Santa already.”
As he followed Carol and the girls through the crowd, he spotted his colleague, Detective Sergeant Angela Hobson, near the metal barrier that separated the runners from the spectators. “Morning, boss, you’re not on duty for this, are you?”
He shook his head, “hundreds of Santas plus the promise of hot chocolate is one of the kids’ favourite Christmas traditions. They’ll find the sweet stall in a bit and be on a sugar high until bedtime. Sorry you got drafted in.”
“I don’t mind. That flu bug’s decimated uniform, and there are less fun ways to spend time standing in the cold.”
“True. See you later.”
He caught up with his family. Catriona had drained her drink and was smiling at him through a face full of cream. Isabel had somehow managed to get chocolate on her forehead and was fidgeting as Carol tried to wipe it off.
“Excellent, reinforcements,” Carol said with a smile. “Can you take a wet wipe to our firstborn, please?”
McLeod cleaned Catriona’s face as best he could, given that she kept turning away to watch a crowd of people in Santa suits assemble on the other side of the railing.
“What would they make of this in Glasgow, do you think?”
“They have one. I hear my nephews are regular participants.”
They shuffled closer to the barrier as more spectators crowded around them. Catriona was in front of McLeod, and he heard her gasp as she looked into the marketplace. “So many Santas!”
“It’s lovely, isn’t it? All these people raising money for charity.” There was a stage at the end of the enclosure where a DJ played cheesy Christmas tunes. McLeod wondered whether there was a collective noun for Santas and chuckled as they all started dancing to ‘I wish it could be Christmas every day’.
The music faded, and the DJ spoke into his microphone, “Are you ready?!” A few Santas cheered. “I can’t hear you. Are you ready?” That got a louder response from the crowd. “It’s time for your warm-up, so here’s our very special guest, fitness legend Jamie Grant!”
McLeod watched the cheering, singing crowd in front of him until his eyes settled on a woman who wasn’t smiling. She wore her false beard around her neck, and her face had a frozen look. She lifted her chin as if she was trying to stop herself from crying. Poor woman, McLeod thought. Christmas can be tough.
He turned towards the stage to see what a fitness legend looked like. Jamie Grant wore his Santa suit jacket open, presumably to show off his tanned, oiled pecs and the vest with his company logo. He seemed vaguely familiar, and McLeod remembered one of the constables telling him that he’d signed up for his personal training sessions before showing him a YouTube video where Grant performed an unfeasible number of pull-ups.
On the stage, the real-life Grant was lifting his knees high into the air, while shouting, “Come on, Santas, get those knees up. Unless you puke, faint or die, keep going!”
McLeod rolled his eyes and wondered whether this was anyone’s idea of motivational speaking. It appeared it was. He heard some shouts of “legend” and “we love you, Jamie” from the crowd.
The warm-up was over, and the runners were turning away from the stage and towards the start line. There was some jostling as the runners who’d positioned themselves next to the stage for the warm-up tried to get through the crowd.
❄
Jamie Grant turned and headed for the stairs at the side of the stage, satisfied with his five minutes of work. He’d already posted on Instagram and TikTok about his good work for charity, and his assistant was waiting further down the course to film a video of his run. The Santa suit was embarrassing, but what could he do? The punters loved it. He saw someone approach out of the corner of his eye. “Sorry, no photos. Maybe later.” They didn’t move, so he looked up. “I said, not now. God, what is wrong with people?”
“You tell me.” The figure moved closer.
❄
“Three, two, one, go!” The DJ called into the microphone, and the air horn blasted to start the run.
McLeod watched as a thousand Santas ran past him and out of the marketplace. As the last few disappeared, he turned to his family. “Ready for a snack?”
Then, he heard the scream.
❄
McLeod saw Hobson running towards him as he walked around the barrier towards the stage.
“It’s Jamie Grant. The paramedics are already with him, but it looks like he’s beyond saving. The race director is arranging for the volunteers to move the barriers so we don’t have a thousand people trampling over him.”
A paramedic looked up as McLeod approached. “Nothing we can do, I’m afraid. He’s got a nasty head wound.”
“Looks like blood on this side of the steps.” Hobson pointed to a red patch on the outside of the stairs. “Maybe he fell?”
“The angle’s wrong for a trip on the stairs. Did anyone see him when he left the stage?”
One of the volunteers stepped forward. “I heard him talking to someone. A woman, I think. I could only hear what he was saying, but it sounded like she wanted a photo. I think I heard shouting, but the DJ was counting down to start the race, and it was really loud, so it’s hard to tell.”
❄
Half an hour later, McLeod felt he was making some progress. There was a tent over the body, and the forensic examination had found a torn piece of Santa suit fabric on a barrier next to the stage. The final runners had finished. McLeod had seen the mood shift from festive celebration to confusion and worry. Not the pre-Christmas celebration everyone had expected. It was time for him to take to the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention, please? I’m DI McLeod. I’m sorry to have to tell you that there has been a sudden death, and we need to gather evidence to determine how it happened and why. My officers and the race coordinators will be speaking to each of you to gather your contact details, so please stay where you are until you’re released. If you believe you have any information that could help us, please talk to me or another police officer. Thank you.”
❄
Marianne Hopkinson had remained calm throughout the race, and when she confirmed her address and phone number to the police officer at the barrier. Her restraint failed when she got back into the car, still wearing her Santa suit. Adam should have been with her, spurring her on and holding her hand as they crossed the finish line. She put her face in her hands and sobbed.
❄
The marketplace was silent. A litter of empty cups, sweet wrappers and broken belts from the Santa costumes lay on the ground. McLeod read the notes and witness statements his team had gathered to see what they knew. Some witnesses said they’d seen someone dressed as Santa near Jamie Grant after the warm-up. He’d almost snorted in derision, until he realised that most of the Santas were already in front of the stage waiting to start running. The marshal had heard a female voice. A spectator had noticed someone stumbling away from the scene. They’d remembered that part of their race number was 27 as it was their husband’s birthday. A runner had been surprised to see another Santa coming up behind them, as they’d deliberately put themselves at the back. They’d noticed their lime green trainers as they passed.
Hobson emerged from a nearby coffee shop. “Good news, boss. Their CCTV shows someone running from the side of the stage. It doesn’t cover the steps, but she’s definitely come from that area. Race number 273.”
McLeod looked at the photograph Hobson had taken. It was the woman he’d seen in the crowd. The one who looked like she wanted to cry.
❄
McLeod summarised his discussion with the race director as Hobson drove them towards Marianne Hopkinson’s house. She’d been a regular member of their running club for years, along with her son Adam, until his sudden death earlier that year.
“No wonder she was struggling today. It’s the first time she’s run it without him.”
“What happened to him?”
“He had a heart attack. He was driving home after a weights session and pulled over because he didn’t feel well. His friend found him when he noticed the car and stopped to see if he’d broken down.”
“Blimey. How old was he?”
“Twenty-four.”
“That’s horrible. Also, we’re here.”
She undid her seatbelt and reached for the door handle, then realised McLeod hadn’t moved. “Are you OK, boss?”
“Aye. I don’t like it.” He felt her questioning gaze and said, “If she’s a killer…”
“She could just be a witness.”
“True, but if she did kill him, why? She’s had a terrible loss. If this is some kind of grief reaction. Ach, I don’t know. I know we need to catch the perpetrator, if there is one, but I don’t have to like it.”
Marianne opened her front door and looked out at the police officers who introduced themselves and showed their warrant cards. McLeod could see her lime green trainers behind her in the hall.
“I know why you’re here. Come in.”
❄
Marianne and McLeod sat at her kitchen table while Hobson made tea.
“I think you know that we want to talk to you because you were near the side of the stage when Jamie Grant died earlier today.”
Marianne nodded. “I’m so sorry.” She began to cry. “It’s all my fault.”
McLeod and Hobson exchanged a look as she placed two mugs of tea on the table.
“I just wanted him to understand what he’d done so it wouldn’t happen to anyone else.”
“What had he done?” McLeod asked gently.
“Do you know what happened to my son?”
McLeod nodded. “He had a heart attack.”
“He had a heart attack because of Jamie Grant.” She paused, wrapping her hands around her mug and taking a sip of tea. “I love running, and Adam started coming with me when he was just a little boy. It was the one constant in our lives, even through his teenage mood swings. We’d run and talk. After he graduated from university, he moved back here and got a job. He sometimes felt tired, but he’d rest until he felt better. I think running with me helped because it made him slow down. Then I started weight training. He said he wanted to try it too, but not at the same place as me. Too many menopausal women, and he felt out of place. So he went to Jamie Grant.
He was constantly tired and told me that even though he was doing all of this training, he didn’t seem to be getting any stronger. Jamie Grant said it was normal to feel tired when you started a new plan and that lots of runners struggled because they weren’t as strong as they thought. Then Adam started to feel sick all the time. He was living in his own flat by then, but whenever he visited for dinner, he’d struggle to eat. I said I thought something was wrong, but he dismissed it. Said he’d had a heavy session in the gym and needed time to recover. But he never took the time. He did three sessions a week, even when he was exhausted. When I asked him why he didn’t take a break, he told me Jamie would start nagging him on WhatsApp. They had a group, and he’d contact him separately too, if he hadn’t done all his sessions.
Then I got the phone call. His friend had found him in his car. The weeks after that are still a blur. His Dad only came back from London for the inquest, said he didn’t want to leave his new wife alone for too long. If my sister hadn’t moved in, I don’t know what I’d have done. She was the one who made sure I ate. She’d tuck me up in bed as if I was a tiny child. I suppose I was, really.
At the inquest, the pathologist said he’d died of heart failure and would have been having symptoms for at least a few weeks before he died. Tiredness, muscle weakness and nausea are all typical signs. Then Grant got up to give evidence. I’d told the coroner that Adam had been training with him, so they got in touch. He stood up there and smirked. Yes, Adam had said he was tired, but they all say that. You’ve got to push through the pain. Runners often overestimate what they’re capable of. Lots of people feel a bit nauseous after a hard session. He just didn’t care. He’s supposed to look after people’s health, and he doesn’t even know what the symptoms of heart failure are!” She started to sob.
McLean reached out and put his hand over hers. “I’m so sorry you lost your son.”
Marianne nodded and gradually composed herself, her eyes gleaming. “Thank you. Of course, the main reason I take my anger out on Jamie Grant is that it distracts me from blaming myself.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” McLean said.
“I was his mum. When I told him to go to the doctor, he said I worried too much, and I should stop fussing. But that was my job. I worried about him all the time, and I should have made more of a fuss. Maybe he’d have booked an appointment just to shut me up.”
“Can you tell me what happened today?”
She nodded slowly. “We always used to do the Santa Run together. When he was tiny, I’d take him in the pushchair. This year was the first time I’d done it without him. My friends were amazing. I don’t think I’d have made it to the starting line without them.
When I got there, I realised the anticipation had been worse than the actual event. Then I heard them announce the warm-up, and there he is, on stage in front of me. Jamie Grant, as smug as ever, is telling people to carry on even if they puke or die. Exactly like Adam did. I decided I wanted to talk to him, to try and make him understand what he’d done. So, I headed towards the stage, listening to all those people praising him. I felt so angry, but I knew I had to be calm. It would be easier for him to dismiss me as a hysterical woman otherwise.
Then the warm-up finished, and he came down the steps. I asked him if he remembered me. He glanced up from his phone, shook his head, and told me I couldn’t have a photo. So I asked him if he remembered Adam. Do you know what he said? ‘Is that the dead guy?’ The dead guy. That’s all he was to him. I asked him if he ever told his clients to see a doctor, and whether he understood which symptoms could be life-threatening. He shrugged. I told him that if he’d said it to Adam, he might still be alive. He told me that people blame PTs for everything these days. I swore at him then. Told him exactly what I thought of him. He just looked at me and told me to calm down. That’s when I moved closer.
There must have been something in my expression that scared him, because he started to panic. His expression changed, and he put his hands up. He told me to back off. I didn’t know what I intended to do, but he moved first. As I reached him, he pushed me. I went backwards and collided with a barrier, but he stumbled too. The next thing I knew, he was falling. I watched him hit his head on the steps and could see he was dead. As soon as it happened, I knew I should have called for help, but I panicked. I didn’t think anyone would believe it was an accident, so I ran. I’m not expecting you to believe me either.”
“Can we see the Santa suit?” McLean asked. “Or have you disposed of it?”
“It’s in the cupboard under the stairs. Blue IKEA bag.”
❄
The Christmas lights were twinkling as McLean left the police station a few hours later. He wished he could have told Marianne that he believed her, that she could stay in her kitchen and remember her lost boy. But he wouldn’t have been doing his job. She’d repeated her story under caution, for the benefit of the tape, and her Santa suit had gone to forensics for analysis. There was a missing patch at the back that appeared to match the fragment from the fence. It was out of his hands. For now, Marianne was free, and McLean would be home in time to read his daughters a bedtime story.