It was troubling to think that so much thought and effort must have gone into it. The sender had either killed a bird or found a dead one, then stuffed it into the box with the card, before leaving it on the doorstep. It was strange, reckless, shocking and sinister. It couldn’t be ignored.

James had already called it in and had taken photos of the partridge and the handwritten message, which he’d sent to his superior. A patrol car was due to arrive at any minute to pick the bagged parcel up and take it to the forensic lab so it could be analysed for prints, DNA and any other trace evidence that might offer a clue as to who was responsible.

The house to the left was empty, as usual, because the owners lived in Manchester and stayed there only occasionally. The property to the right was occupied by retired couple Roy and Jennifer Gray. James had just returned from asking them if they’d seen any cars parked out front this evening or noticed anyone carrying a parcel. But they hadn’t because they’d been too busy watching television.

If this had been London or any other major city there’d be a good chance that CCTV cameras could be used to help solve the mystery. But there weren’t any in Kirkby Abbey, which was not at all unusual for such a small village.

The questions were piling up inside James’s head as he sat at the breakfast bar with his hands wrapped round a mug of steaming coffee.

How long had the parcel been lying on the doorstep? Was it put there soon after Annie left the house to go and help out with the school nativity play? If so, was it possible that she’d seen the person who’d left it?

He checked his watch again and wondered when his wife would arrive home. The play must surely have finished by now, but he supposed it was possible she was still helping to clean up or that she had gone for a drink with some of the other school staff at one of the pubs in the village.

He reached for his phone and brought up the photo of the message in the card.

Here’s a Christmas gift for you, detective Walker. It’s a little early, I know, but I just couldn’t wait. My very own take on the twelve days of Christmas, complete with a dead partridge. Twelve days. Twelve murders. Twelve victims. And they all deserve what’s coming to them.

His boss, Detective Chief Inspector Jeff Tanner, had asked James if he could think of anyone who might have embarked on a cruel mission to ruin his Christmas.

‘It would have to be someone with a twisted fucking mind and a serious grudge against you,’ Tanner had said.

There was one person who fit that description, of course.

Andrew Sullivan.

Annie arrived home just as the patrol officer was placing the bin bag containing the parcel in the boot of his marked BMW.