Deadly Christmas by Rachel McLean, book 7 in the Zoe Finch series - Chapter 1

At Christmas time, Brummies could be split into two groups.

The first contained those people who loved the Frankfurt Christmas market.

They adored the cheesiness of it all. The little wooden cabins. The abundance of lebkuchen. Gluhwein on tap twenty-four hours a day, and the fact that for six brief weeks of the year the currywurst replaced the Balti as Birmingham's traditional dish.

On the other hand, there were people like Wendy.

Wendy hated the Christmas market.

To be fair, it was Wendy's job to clean up every morning. So it wasn't really surprising that she looked forward to the day the German stall holders packed up their lorries and headed back across the Channel.

Today was a particularly bad one. It was getting closer to Christmas and, as happened every year, the crowds had built up over time. Saturday nights were always the worst, too, and if the amount of puke Wendy was pressure washing off the pavements was anything to go by, about fifty thousand glasses of gluhwein and a hundred thousand steins of fizzy German beer had been drunk. Worse, there were a few currywursts still identifiable.

She closed her eyes and wished she could close her nostrils with them as she blitzed away the tenth pavement pizza of the morning. It was only 6am and already she was counting down the days until Christmas Eve.

Her colleague Manjit was across the street doing the same thing. The two of them did this four days a week, working their way along New Street, winkling out the remains of last night's festivities before any commuters or shoppers were around to see what had happened.

Yes, Wendy hated the Frankfurt Christmas market.

They reached the top of New Street and paused for a breather, as they always did. The steps leading up to the famous fountain, the floozie in the jacuzzi as she was affectionately known, were a popular spot for people to hang out on in the summer, eating packed lunches or drinking coffees from the New Street Gregg’s. Wendy and Manjit liked to pause here and catch their breath.

Images from the pavements Wendy had worked her way through from the Bullring kept flashing in front of her mind. She shook her head to clear them away.

“Rough today, isn't it?” muttered Manjit.

“You can say that again.”

Wendy’s stomach felt heavy. She never ate breakfast before these shifts, knowing she'd struggle to keep it down. In fact, she couldn’t even face lunch till about three in the afternoon, and by that time she was usually ready for bed.

“All downhill from here,” Manjit said. “Gets easier after Sunday.”

“You reckon? I think it gets worse every day from now on.” Wendy leaned back on the steps, stretching out the muscles of her neck.

Manjit shrugged. “At least they give us overtime for a Sunday morning.”

Wendy yawned. Working for the council did have some perks. It was a solid job with holiday, sick leave and a pension, if she made it that far. And in return for working on a Sunday morning, she got triple time. This way, she could give her kids a decent Christmas.

She heaved herself up from the steps, glad her waterproof uniform kept out the damp from the ground. She stretched her arms above her head. “Sooner we get on with it, sooner it's done.”

Manjit nodded her head, her expression blank. “What now?”

“Victoria Square,” Wendy replied.

Manjit grimaced. Victoria Square was beer-and-gluhwein central. It was lined with bars, as well as alcoves for people to stand in while they drank. At each end of the space was a sign: This is a restricted alcohol area. Wendy wondered if the person who’d installed those signs had any sense of irony.

“Which side first?”

“Town Hall,” Manjit replied, glancing towards the Council House and grimacing.

So today they were leaving the worst till last. Wendy trudged over to the spot that Manjit indicated and started to clean. She tried to get herself into an absent zone when she was doing this, her mind miles away, singing Christmas songs in her head. When the Christmas songs became too much, she switched to Duran Duran, her favourite local lads, even if they were a bit old school.

“Shit.”

Wendy looked up. She frowned at Manjit, who was round the side of one of the cabins that served as stalls. “You OK? What you stepped in?”

“It's not that.” Manjit beckoned furiously. “Get over here.”

Wendy frowned. “D’you want me to bring my machine?”

“Leave it. Come over here, Wendy, please.” Manjit sounded scared. Wendy had never heard her friend speak with this urgency.

“What's up?” Wendy hurried over to Manjit, whose face had paled. “What have you found?” As Wendy approached, Manjit pointed towards the ground. She waggled her hand and looked at Wendy, and then back at the ground.

“Where did he come from?” Manjit asked.

Wendy looked down. A man was slumped on the ground, tucked around the back of the cabin. He was dressed in a shabby coat, holes at the elbows and cuffs and a thick layer of dirt. His jeans were frayed at the ankles and worn thin at the knees. If Wendy's nose hadn't already checked out in preparation for work today, she was confident he'd smell pretty bad.

She poked him gently with her toe. They wore steel-capped boots so she knew she had to be careful.

“He’s not moving,” Manjit said.

“No.” Wendy nudged him again. Oh shit. Was she going to have to bend down? Slap his face to wake him up. She shivered.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened. Normally it was drunk stag dos, the revellers intending to get back to a hotel but falling asleep in one of the drinking booths. And she’d found plenty of rough sleepers stretched across the benches in Pigeon Park.

Wendy looked away and drew in a breath. Bending down, she put a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle jiggle.

“Is he…?” asked Manjit.

“I don't know.” Wendy knelt on the floor next to the man. His head was twisted to one side, his face pointing towards Chamberlain Square behind him. She put her hand on his chin and gave it a pinch. No response.

“This is all we need,” she breathed.

She looked up at Manjit, who was blinking. Manjit was ten years younger than she was, no kids, more… delicate. Don’t faint, mate.

Manjit muttered under her breath. A prayer, maybe. “Dead, isn't he?”

Wendy stood up. She slapped her hands together, trying to erase the smell that was already sticking to her.

“Dead as my great granny,” she replied.