Free Ruth's First Christmas Tree by Elly Griffiths Page B

suddenly wonders if anyone will buy her a present. Her parents, born-again Christians, sent her a card informing her that, in lieu of gifts, they have purchased a donkey for the Sudan in her name. Her brother occasionally obliges with the latest Rebus book, but there’s been nothing from him in the post. Will Max get her something?
    Nelson looks anxious to be off but Michelle seems to feel something of the Dickensy spirit.
    ‘Why don’t we have a cup of tea?’ she says. ‘Or something stronger. It is Christmas after all.’
    ‘I’d love to,’ says Ruth, ‘but I’ve got to pick up a Christmas tree.’
    ‘Oh, we always have an artificial tree,’ says Michelle, ‘that way you don’t get pine needles everywhere.’
     
    But when Ruth returns to the parking lot, there is no sign of Leaf, the caravan or any Christmas trees. There is only a police car containing a man eating a burger. Ruth taps on the car’s window.
    ‘Clough!’
    The man, DS Dave Clough, swallows the last of his bun and gets out of the car. He’s dressed in jeans and a sheepskin jacket and looks rather like a successful football manager. A curly haired dog is sitting in the passenger seat.
    ‘Ruth. What brings you here?’
    ‘I’ve come to collect my Christmas tree.’
    Clough laughs. ‘Been buying from Leaf, have you? Let me guess who pointed you in his direction.’
    Bloody Cathbad. It’s only four-thirty but it’s pitch-black and the snow is drifting around the deserted lot. Where is Ruth going to find her perfect Christmas tree now?
    ‘What happened to Leaf?’ she asked.
    ‘He was selling without a licence,’ says Clough. ‘Got a tip-off that we were on our way and did a runner. Trees, girlfriend, mood music and all.’
    ‘What about my tree?’ says Ruth. ‘I’d already paid him.’
    Clough smiles pityingly. ‘He’ll be halfway to Glastonbury by now.’
    Ruth sighs. She has to pick Kate up at five. Where is she going to find a tree between here and the childminder’s house? She asks Clough.
    ‘Try the garden centre. They’ve got some nice ones there. Trace and I can’t risk a tree this year, what with Chummy there.’
    He indicates the dog, who is grinning out of the half-open car window. ‘He chewed up our new leather sofa last week. Trace wasn’t best pleased.’
     
    Ruth drives home through the slanting snow feeling resentful about Cathbad, Christmas and druids everywhere. Ruth lives on a beautiful but lonely stretch of coastline known as the Saltmarsh. There are three cottages in the row but two are currently empty; one is a holiday home only occupied for a couple of weeks a year, the other belongs to an Indigenous Australian called Bob Woonunga, who is currently stretched out on a beach in North Stradbroke Island. But as Ruth approaches, the security light flares into life, almost shockingly bright, and Ruth sees a figure silhouetted against her front gate. The figure, looming out of the swirling snow, looks sinister in the extreme, cloaked and hooded like the grim reaper, but Ruth finds herself smiling in mingled exasperation and pleasure. Cathbad.
    As soon as she has parked, Cathbad appears at the car window, smiling at Kate, who is sitting in her baby-seat next to a rather scruffy-looking Christmas tree.
    ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you,’ says Ruth.
    ‘Interesting phrase,’ says Cathbad, brushing snow off his hood. ‘A bit like “bone of contention”. Why is it always bones, I wonder.’
    At another time, Ruth, whose expertise is bones, would be happy to discuss this point, but now all she can think about is her perfect Christmas disappearing on the back of a caravan together with Leaf and Raindrop.
    ‘Your druid friend disappeared with my tree,’ she says.
    ‘But you’ve got a tree,’ says Cathbad, pulling faces at Kate.
    ‘Tree! Tree!’ shouts Kate.
    ‘This is a second-best tree from the garden centre,’ says Ruth. ‘My first tree was special. Apparently the goddess of the forest had