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Cold Christmas

Alastair Gunn
Chapters (65)
  1. Cover
  2. PENGUIN BOOKS
  3. Dedication
  4. Prologue
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. Acknowledgements
  63. Read More
  64. Prologue
  65. THE BEGINNING

Cover

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PENGUIN BOOKS

Cold Christmas

Alastair Gunn is an experienced magazine journalist. The Advent Killer was his first novel in the series featuring DCI Antonia Hawkins, followed by My Bloody Valentine and The Keeper, which was published in April 2017.

Alastair lives in Hertfordshire with his fiancée, Anna.

Dedication

For Anna

Penguin Books

Prologue

Joel lay still.

Blindfolded.

Gagged.

Bound.

He fought the panic swirling in his gut, tried to concentrate on the soft rustles and clicks happening a few feet away, only just audible above his own ragged breaths, and the hammering sound of his pulse in his ears.

To his right the low hum started again, punctuated by the same slow whispers of clothing; the same plastic tap-tap-tap.

Then the same cracking jolt.

His heart leapt even harder this time, because the whipping scratch that followed was not only nearer than it had been before, but also a lot more intense.

Moving was dangerous; they’d all been warned about it, but his head snapped instinctively towards the noise.

Now he was properly scared.

‘Hello?’ he mumbled through the gag, breathing even harder through his nose. After a few seconds, there was a quiet shuffle.

But no reply.

He tried adjusting the material with his tongue, but once more his voice came out a muffled slur. ‘Please. What’s going on?’

Nothing.

‘Will, Colin?’ He panted, straining against his bonds. ‘Can you hear me?’

Someone shushed him, though he couldn’t tell who, as red patches started flashing across the blackness in front of his eyes. The moisture that had formed around the edges of the fabric stretched across his skin began to sting. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek into his ear.

Frantic now, Joel began flexing his brow, trying to dislodge the blindfold. But it was made of the same clingy black material as the gag, and moulded itself to his face.

He gasped through the wet gag. ‘Please stop.’

He tried to sit up, but the ropes were tight, and he slumped, his heart smashing against his ribs. Then footsteps.

Coming his way.

‘I’m sorry,’ he garbled. ‘I don’t want this.’

Whoever it was arrived beside him and crouched next to his head, their knee-joints cracking.

Perhaps the scratching sounds had been the others getting up; leaving the room. Maybe that’s why they hadn’t answered, and this would all be over soon.

‘Sorr—’ he started to repeat, as a hand was jammed over his mouth and nose, pressing his head hard against the rough carpet.

Joel bucked, unable to breathe. But another weight arrived on his forehead, pinning him down, a cracked, clammy palm grinding itself against his hot, stinging skin.

Suffocating him.

He started to thrash, trying to scream through the gag, but the pressure didn’t ease until he heard the hissing voice, right next to his ear.

‘Shut … the fuck up.’