'You'll find out on December sixteenth, won't you?'

Only twelve days until the gates opened to the general public and an old lady's dream was realized. It only seemed like yesterday that she had been sitting in Mr Mead's office learning that her batty old aunt had left her a theme park to be shared with the international man of mystery himself. That yesterday had been devoid of reindeer and horses, tiny people, and the man who called himself Santa, who knew that she liked Fuzzy Felts. That yesterday, when held up against this one full of swearing Welshmen and patient Poles, soft furry animals and a team-spirit that could have been sold for a million pounds if someone knew how to bottle it, was a much greyer, colder place.

'It's looking good, isn't it?' said Jacques. 'I see from the office diary you've managed to get the nationals interested.'

'Yes, photoshoots have been arranged for the day after tomorrow,' said Eve. 'So if you-'

'I won't be around,' said Jacques before she could go on.

'Oh.'

'You don't need me,' said Jacques. 'You've got it all covered.'

'Well, I have, of course,' agreed Eve, who didn't doubt her abilities to escort the press around the park, 'but I thought you'd want to be there too.'

'Nope,' he replied. 'I ticked the no publicity box.' He pulled all the files out of his bottom drawer and plonked them on the table. 'The permanent log-cabin office will be ready to move into in the next couple of days.'

'It's ready now,' Eve cut in. 'I'd planned to start moving over there today because Effin is itching to move this Portakabin off-site.'

Jacques nodded. 'See? You have it all up here, don't you?' and he tapped his temple with his finger.

'I like to think so,' said Eve.

'I might as well pack as much as I can into boxes and get them taken up to the new office then. Once the press see the pictures of Violet's wedding, I'd be prepared for a flurry of bookings for the chapel if I were you. You may need this.' He handed over the big black book.

'I thought you were handling the chapel,' said Eve.

'I'm taking a bit of a break,' replied Jacques. 'I know you won't mind. Ships steer much better with one captain.'

'Well they do but-'

'This is the Santa's grotto file. The architect has drawn up some tentative plans you'll need to look at as it features an extension at the side. There are more snow globes arriving before the weekend. Oh, and here is an idea about a 'snow-globe experience' in Santapark. It's a virtual ride. People will think they're being shaken and turned upside down-'

'Whoa, hang on,' put in Eve. 'How long will you be away for?'

'I don't know,' shrugged Jacques. 'Maybe I'll be a sleeping partner.'

A sleeping partner. Eve's every wish come true. Herself in sole charge of the running of Winterworld. No Jacques bloody Glace to alter and 'improve' her plans. It was just too delicious to think about. No sparring with him, no one to erect unsuitable Santa signs whilst she was fighting off adult versions of childish diseases. On paper that would be bliss. 'Well, that of course is up to you,' said Eve.

'Yes it is,' said Jacques. He looked at the Christmas tree beautifully decorated now with carefully chosen tinsel, and he smiled.

Oh yes, the office was going to be quiet at last. No one singing Christmas carols all the time, no one booming down the telephone and stomping everywhere with big boots on and taking up half the office with his enormous coats.

'You aren't going off immediately though, are you?' asked Eve, watching as he continued to empty the drawers of his desk. 'You're not leaving me to oversee the grand opening by myself?'

'You don't need me for that. You arrange events you're the best at it.'

'Well, I know I'm capable but-'

'The new office will be yours and yours alone. I'll make sure you have everything from me that you need before I go.'

'Oh okay, if that's the way you want it,' said Eve, trying to be brave. Trying to remember that this was what she had wanted from the beginning.

'I do.'

She was finally going to be the 'Captain' rather than 'missus'. No one was going to mistake her for Jacques' PA or chief tea-maker. She was going to be steering the Winterworld ship completely, utterly and fabulously solo. And yet watching Jacques begin to pack up the office, she couldn't help thinking that there was something very wrong with this picture.

Chapter 49.

Effin's men lifted the Portakabin off-site the next morning, and Eve watched it being loaded onto the back of a truck with mixed feelings. Aunt Evelyn had worked from there and Nobby Scuttle had sweated in there. The coffee machine had spat in there and Jacques Glace had sung and been noisy in there. Now he wasn't in the park because he was 'taking a break' and she was finally at the helm of Winterworld as its sole driver.

Eve felt like a newlywed as she stood outside the pristine cabin office. At best she should have been carried over the threshold, at worst there should have been a ribbon to cut. But there was just her and a door, which she opened to reveal a lovely rustic space. She wanted to dance around it. She wanted to shout 'It's mine, all mine!' and put her arms around it all.

Eve sat on her chair trying not to imagine it was a throne. A throne fit for a captain. She celebrated by having the first coffee out of the swanky new machine that wouldn't answer back or spit, just obediently pumped water through a pod. It even came complete with milk and a layer of crema on the top.

'Oh, this is the life,' said Eve, taking her diary out of her desk and checking her jobs for the day. There was a crockery order to chase, and more toys were needed in Santa's workshop, and one of the tills at the entrance kiosk wasn't working properly. It was all grist to the mill for Eve though. She picked up the phone and made the first call. She needed a PA, too. Someone who would call her 'Captain' behind her back. Eve laughed to herself. The PA would sit at Jacques' old desk; it would be a great job for a school-leaver. A nice, quiet girl, who didn't disturb her with big boots and hummed tunes and a whisper as loud as a foghorn.

By half-past eleven, Eve decided she didn't like the new coffee machine. It didn't pervade the office with a rich roast smell and it was so quiet. It was a shiny, characterless piece of metal that delivered a perfect drink that was as boring as the silence which it was apparently famous for. She couldn't hear any workmen in this corner of the park either, no Effin shrieking at his men how incompetent they were. It was all very plush and fabulous and state of the art . . . and boring. There was no Jacques annoyingly tapping his Spiderman pen on the desk as he concentrated, or his ridiculous Daily Trumpet to borrow and read the latest apology. Apparently more people bought the paper for the retractions than they did for the news. There were even Facebook pages to share them with the rest of the world.

The little Christmas tree now stood in the corner with Jacques' present underneath it. A couple of baubles must have fallen off in transit and the builders had put them back in the wrong place. Eve walked over and re-hung them, adjusting the tinsel and stabbing herself on a needle in the process. Again she picked up the envelope and wondered what it was. She was more than tempted to open it, but instead put it back. There wasn't long to wait until the 16th. She could manage to hold out until then.

Mr Mead rang just after lunch asking for Jacques.

'He's not around at the moment,' said Eve. 'Can I help?'

'No,' replied the old solicitor. 'I'm afraid you can't in this instance.'

'Can I pass on a message?'

'If you could just ask him to ring me please,' replied Mr Mead. 'If I'm not around, would he either leave a message for myself or Mrs Cawthorne.'

Eve recognized the name. She dealt with property. She had acted as solicitor when she and Jonathan bought their house. What was Jacques up to?

Eve decided to take a little drive to Outer Hoodley, and discovered a man erecting a 'For Sale' sign outside Jacques' cottage.

Chapter 50.

Eve sat in the car and hurriedly stabbed the number of the estate agent into her phone.

Eventually a young woman's voice answered. She only sounded about twelve.

'Hello Watson and . . . er, Wilson and Hughes estate agents. First day nerves, sorry about that. Tiffany speaking, how may I help you?'

'Hi,' began Eve, brightly and casually. 'You have a cottage in Outer Hoodley for sale. I haven't seen it advertised before, has it been up long?'

'Er, let me just check.' There followed a few clicky keyboard noises. 'No, it's only been on the market since yesterday.'

'Ah, that's why I haven't seen it before,' Eve forced a smile into her voice. 'Is . . . er . . . is it a definite sale? I mean the owner isn't going to pull the house off the market?'

By her own admission that sounded a bit weird.

'That's what happened to me last time,' Eve added quickly. 'You get a bit cautious.'

'Can you just bear with me?' said Tiffany. Eve had visions of her telling her co-workers that she had a right twat on the phone, and them miming at her to put the phone down and slowly back away. But Tiffany surprised her.

'It's definitely on the market. The owner's looking for a quick sale, hence the price, because he's going to live abroad.'

'Going abroad?' echoed Eve. Why, where, and when?

'Do you want to know the price?' asked Tiffany, anxiety flagging up in her voice now.

'No, thank you, it's fine, I've changed my mind,' said Eve, quickly clicking off her phone. Going abroad, the estate agent said. It was all too fast and smelt of intrigue. He was doing a runner for some reason and people didn't do runners for good reasons.

She sped back to the office, breaking the speed limit and hoping a covert camera didn't pick her up. Her head was spinning. She needed to find out once and for all what and who the mysterious Jacques Glace was. She was going to ring Mr Mead back and make him tell her everything he knew about the man, however small the detail. Then her phone rumbled in her pocket and the screen showed that it was Violet.

'Hi there, how are you?' Eve injected some fake jollity into her voice.

'Eve, my signal is pretty weak, can you hear me okay?' Violet sounded a little breathless.

'Yes, you're quite quiet but I can hear you.'

'Listen, we bought a Daily Trumpet to read on the plane but we didn't get round to it.'

'You rang me to tell me that?'

'Listen. Are you near a computer? I've just read it in the Ice Hotel bar and I've taken a picture of one of the pages. You need to view it on a big screen.'

Eve's eyebrows dipped in puzzlement. 'What is it?'

'It's urgent, that's what it is. Let me send it before I lose my signal.'

'Okay. Is everyth-' but Violet had gone. Eve waited for the text, refreshing the screen impatiently over and over again. Eventually it arrived, and Eve opened up the attachment but it was too small to read. She could only make out that it was one of the bloody Trumpet's apologies. She didn't know where this was going but she forwarded it to her email and then opened the file and zoomed in.

The Daily Trumpet would like to apologize to the family of Sharon Wilkinson for the erroneous reporting of her funeral recently.

Oh God, said Eve to herself. Of all the stories to cock up. Though why Violet had forwarded it on during her honeymoon was anyone's guess.

The commanding officer who read the eulogy was not, as reported, Lieutenant Jean Jackson, but Lieutenant Colonel Jean-Jacques Glace, holder of the Military Cross medal for gallantry and founder of the Yorkshire Fund for Disabled Soldiers . . .

Eve was reading the words but they weren't being absorbed. Jean-Jacques Glace. Where had that name cropped up before?

She googled the name. Amongst the references to Glace Bay and French language entries, she found the entries relating to the army officer Jean-Jacques Glace. The army officer who saved the lives of three of his men, shielding them from Iraqi gunmen and losing his right leg below the knee in the process. Jean-Jacques Glace, a brilliant soldier who had quickly risen through the ranks only to be invalided out of the army aged thirty-six, twenty months ago. There was a single picture when she pressed 'Images', a grainy newspaper head-and-shoulders portrait of a soldier in a helmet and 'camo' uniform. There was no mistaking those eyes though, bright and shiny and blue.

Eve caught sight of that parcel under the tree and no force in hell would have stopped her fingers pulling off the wrapping now. It contained a single sheet of paper a letter. She stared at the words, trying to absorb the enormity of what they said. Then she unlooped her bag from her chair and drove into town, fingers clamped onto the steering wheel to keep her shaking hands steady.

Chapter 51.

'I need to see Mr Mead. Urgently,' said Eve, breathlessly, because she'd had to park quite a long walk away from the solicitor's office and ran all the way from there.

'He's in a meeting,' said Barbara. 'I can get him to phone-'

'No,' said Eve adamantly. 'I have to see him. Today. I am not leaving here without speaking to him.'

Barbara shrugged. The young lady was in for a long wait then.

'Well, there's some coffee over there, but I have to warn you that he will be quite a while.'

As if it had heard mention of itself, the old coffee machine which could have been the sister of the old one in the Portakabin belched.

'I'll sit here until he can see me,' said Eve, lifting up a magazine from the table in the corner. She read it from cover to cover, read every word of another two, went to the loo twice, had five cups of coffee and was on a twelfth game of 'Word Mole' on her Blackberry, when Barbara popped her head around the door.

'He can see you for five minutes if that's enough,' she said.

'It'll be enough,' replied Eve, getting to her feet and stretching her back. And if it wasn't, well, there was no way that Mr Mead was going to get her out of his office until she was satisfied with the information given.

Eve walked into the office, not knowing if the slightly fusty smell was the building or the man himself. He looked as if he could be a user of mothballs.

'I'm sorry you've had a long wait,' he apologized, 'but without an appointment, I'm afraid-'

'It's okay, I know,' Eve cut him off. 'But I need to talk to you urgently, Mr Mead. About this for a start,' and she foraged in her bag and put Jacques' present down on his desk.

'Oh. I rather had the impression that you shouldn't have seen this yet,' said Mr Mead, his huge shaggy eyebrows hooding his eyes.

'There was a note saying not to open it until the sixteenth, but I disobeyed it.'

'Ah.'

'When certain information came to light about Jacques Glace. Or should I say Lieutenant Colonel Jean-Jacques Glace.'

'Ah,' said the old man again, his expression even more pained this time.