Who is Secret Santa? with Sara Lund from The Killing
At first, I thought Secret Santa was a waste of everyone’s time and I wanted nothing to do with it.
The first items in the bag were a bottle of Batiste dry shampoo and a pack of intimate wipes. Of course it’s customary to give toiletries to ladies at Christmas, but these smellies were a miracle of science. Shampoo you can use without even getting in a shower! Now I can do all my personal grooming in the office toilets or the boot of my car. Funny, yesterday my partner Borch said he was just “popping out to Superdrug”. When I asked him what he’d bought, he pretended to be on the phone to his wife.
The next was a little matching sweater set for my gun and torch. I have always wanted a jumper for my piece – I hate the way it gets so cold when it’s down the back of my pants during our Danish winter nights. It was strange because I’d found a book called Knitting for Dummies in Borch’s glove compartment the other day, but when I asked him about it, he screamed “Why don’t you just leave me alone?”
I decided to take my search to Reprographics, five floors below ground level. It was deserted and in total darkness, I heard the faint sound of water dripping. There was a light switch but I felt like using my torch. Suddenly a figure lurched past, I clocked him on the head and he dropped to the ground. But it was only old Hans from the mailroom. He said he had something important to say, something he’d been holding back for too long. “I know who it is… ” he whispered.
“Who what is?” I was confused.
“I saw him buying it” he said.
“Saw who? Buying what?”
He leaned in close and murmured “The one you seek is…” My phone rang. Dammit. It was my son. “Hold on”, I said, “I’ve got to take this…” I brushed my son off fast, but when I looked back up, old Hans was gone. What had he wanted to tell me?
Wait, is that the fading in of familiar ambient electro? It must be time for my montage. I see Borch at home, nervously hiding receipts from his wife. I see Hans from the mailroom being mown down by a black campaign car, I can’t make out the plates or the driver. I see myself at home. The doorbell rings. Clutching my woolly pistol I open the door to see Anthony Stewart Head. He has an empty jar of Nescafe and a tear in his eye. What could he possibly want? And is he in league with Dr Praesenterer?