The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  Here is Christmas night again. Christmas Eve I spent with my friends. We ate dinner down in Chinatown. It was a noisy evening there, the streets teeming with revelers. Tonight, it is silent. I’ve thought about phoning Mother, even considered giving Angela a call. Not fond of Mother’s new husband, and knowing Angela to be a chore, I have decided against communication. Were Bob Coconut here, I might light a candle for old times’ sake. There is a cathedral around the corner, where I could snag one. I miss my ghost; he’d have made a decent brother, despite how our mother would have raised him, smothering him with a flood of feeling, drinking his love like a vampire. Yes, I miss my Christmas brother. He would have been a felicity in my olding life. He’d have been able to tell me why I’m all alone.

  Outside the window, snow is making a feeble attempt to fall. The streetlights that form halos of its transient passage are cheery. A whole world tries its best to rise to the dignity and joy of the occasion. I wish the world happiness, and everyone in it peace. I do. I’ll always regret what happened to Butter. We were uninnocent, but the very isolation that in some ways damned us has also acted as our benefactor and protector. I suppose I’m grateful no one has ever found out how it happened, or will.

  BLUE CHRISTMAS

  Peter Robinson

  DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR BANKS works in a fictional town in Yorkshire, where Peter Robinson was born and lived until he moved to Canada in 1974. The cop who appears in virtually all of the author’s books is tough enough to do his job but, as in the present story, has a giant heart, helping to make his adventures among the most popular crime fiction being written today, with regular appearances on the bestseller lists in Canada, the United States, and Great Britain, numerous awards on both sides of the Atlantic, and frequent recognition among the notable books of the year by various publications. “Blue Christmas” was first published as a chapbook limited to three hundred fifty-five copies (Norfolk, VA, Crippen & Landru, 2005).

  Blue Christmas

  PETER ROBINSON

  A THREE-DAY HOLIDAY. BANKS SAT down at the breakfast table and made some notes on a lined pad. If he was doomed to spend Christmas alone this year, he was going to do it in style. For Christmas Eve, Alastair Sim’s Scrooge, the black and white version, of course. For Christmas Day, Love, Actually. Mostly it was a load of crap, no doubt about that, but it was worth the silliness for Bill Nighy’s Billy Mack, and Keira Knightley was always worth watching. For Boxing Day, David Copperfield, the one with the Harry Potter actor in it, because it had helped him through a nasty hangover one Boxing Day a few years ago, and thus are traditions born.

  Music was more problematic. Bach’s Christmas Oratorio and Handel’s Messiah, naturally. Both were on his iPod and could be played through his main sound system. But some years ago, he had made a Christmas compilation tape of all his favourite songs, from Bing’s “White Christmas” to Elvis’s “Santa Claus Is Back in Town” and “Blue Christmas,” The Pretenders’ “2000 Miles” and Roland Kirk’s “We Free Kings.” Unfortunately, that had gone up in flames along with the rest of his music collection. Which meant a quick trip to HMV in Eastvale that afternoon to pick up a few seasonal CDs so he could make a playlist. He had to go to Marks and Spencer, anyway, for his turkey dinner, so he might as well drop in at HMV while he was in the Swainsdale Centre. As for wine, he still had a more than decent selection from his brother’s cellar—including some fine Amarone, Chianti Classico, Clarets, and Burgundies—which would certainly get him through the next three days without any pain. Luckily, he had bought and given out all his Christmas presents earlier—what few there were: money for Tracy, a Fairport Convention box-set for Brian, chocolates and magazine subscriptions for his parents, and a silver and jet bracelet for Annie Cabbot.

  Banks put his writing pad aside and reached for his coffee mug. Beside it sat a pristine copy of Kate Atkinson’s Behind the Scenes at the Museum, which he fully intended to read over the holidays. There should be plenty of peace and quiet. Brian was with his band in Europe and wouldn’t be able to get up to Gratly until late on Boxing Day. Tracy was spending Christmas with her mother Sandra, stepdad Sean, and baby Sinead, and Annie was heading home to the artists’ colony in St. Ives, where they would all no doubt be having a good weep over The Junky’s Christmas, which, Annie had told him, was a Christmas staple among her father’s crowd. He had seen it once, himself, and he had to admit that it wasn’t bad, but it hadn’t become a tradition with him.

  All in all, then, this Christmas was beginning to feel like something to be got through with liberal doses of wine and music. Even the weather was refusing to cooperate. The white Christmas that everyone had been hoping for since a tentative sprinkle of snow in late November had not materialized, though the optimists at the meteorological centre were keeping their options open. At the moment, though, it was uniformly grey and wet in Yorkshire. The only good thing that could be said for it was that it wasn’t cold. Far from it. Down south people were sitting outside at Soho cafes and playing golf in the suburbs. Banks wondered if he should have gone away, taken a holiday. Paris. Rome. Madrid. A stranger in a strange city. Even London would have been better than this. Maybe he could still catch a last-minute flight.

  But he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. He sipped some strong coffee and told himself not to be so maudlin. Christmas was a notoriously dangerous time of year. It was when people got depressed and gave in to their deepest fears, when all their failures, regrets, and disappointments came back to haunt them. Was he going to let himself give in to that, become a statistic?

  He decided to go into town now and get his last-minute shopping over with before it got really busy. Just before he left, though, his phone rang. Banks picked up the receiver.

  “Sir? It’s DC Jackman.”

  “Yes, Winsome. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m really sorry to disturb you at home, sir, but we’ve got a bit of a problem.”

  “What is it?” Banks asked. Despite having to spend Christmas alone, he had been looking forward to a few days away from the Western Area Headquarters, if only to relax and unwind after a particularly difficult year. But perhaps that wasn’t to be.

  “Missing person, sir.”

  “Can’t someone else handle it?”

  “It needs someone senior, sir, and DI Cabbot’s already on her way to Cornwall.”

  “Who’s missing?”

  “A woman by the name of Brenda Mercer. Forty-two years old.”

  “How long?”

  “Overnight.”

  “Any reason to think there’s been foul play?”

  “Not really.”

  “Who reported her missing?”

  “The husband.”

  “Why did he leave it until this morning?”

  “He didn’t. He reported it at 6 p.m. yesterday evening. We’ve been looking into it. But you know how it is with missing persons, sir, unless it’s a kid. It was very early days. Usually they turn up, or you find a simple explanation quickly enough.”

  “But not in this case?”

  “No, sir. Not a sign. The husband’s getting frantic. Difficult. Demanding to see someone higher up. And he’s got the daughter and her husband in tow now. They’re not making life any easier. I’ve only just managed to get rid of them by promising I’d get someone in authority to come and talk to them.”

  “All right,” Banks said, with a sigh. “Hang on. I’ll be right in.”

  Major Crimes and CID personnel were thin on the ground at Western Area Headquarters that Christmas Eve, and DC Winsome Jackman was one who had drawn the short straw. She didn’t mind, though. She couldn’t afford to visit her parents in Jamaica, and she had politely passed up a Christmas dinner invitation from a fellow member of the potholing club, who had been pursuing her for some time now, so she had no real plans for the holidays. She hadn’t expected it to be particularly busy in Major Crimes. Most Christmas incidents were domestic and, as such, they were dealt with by the officers on patrol. Even crimina
ls, it seemed, took a bit of time off for turkey and Christmas pud. But a missing person case could turn nasty very quickly, especially if it was a woman.

  While she was waiting for Banks, Winsome went through the paperwork again. There wasn’t much other than the husband’s report and statement, but that gave her the basics.

  When David Mercer got home from work on 23rd December at around 6 p.m., he was surprised to find his wife not home. Surprised because she was always home and always had his dinner waiting for him. He worked in the administration offices of the Swainsdale Shopping Centre, and his hours were regular. A neighbour had seen Mrs. Mercer walking down the street where she lived on the Leaview Estate at about a quarter past four that afternoon. She was alone and was wearing a beige overcoat and carrying a scuffed brown leather bag, the kind with a shoulder-strap. She was heading in the direction of the main road, and the neighbour assumed she was going to catch a bus. She knew that Mrs. Mercer didn’t drive. She said hello, but said that Mrs. Mercer hadn’t seemed to hear her, had seemed a bit “lost in her own world.”

  Police had questioned the bus-drivers on the route, but none of them recalled seeing anyone matching the description. Uniformed officers also questioned taxi drivers and got the same response. All Mrs. Mercer’s relatives had been contacted, and none had any idea where she was. Winsome was beginning to think it was possible, then, that someone had picked Mrs. Mercer up on the main road, possibly by arrangement, and that she didn’t want to be found. The alternative, that she had been somehow abducted, didn’t bear thinking about, at least not until all other possible avenues had been exhausted.

  Winsome had not been especially impressed by David Mercer—he was the sort of pushy, aggressive alpha white male she had seen far too much of over the past few years, puffed up with self-importance, acting as if everyone else were a mere lackey to meet his demands, especially if she happened to be black and female. But she tried not to let personal impressions interfere with her reasoning. Even so, there was something about Mercer’s tone, something that didn’t quite ring true. She made a note to mention it to Banks.

  The house was a modern Georgian-style semi with a bay window, stone cladding, and neatly kept garden, and when Banks rang the doorbell, Winsome beside him, David Mercer opened it so quickly he might have been standing right behind it. He led Banks and Winsome into a cluttered but clean front room, where a young woman sat on the sofa wringing her hands, and a whippet-thin man in an expensive, out-of-date suit paced the floor. A tall Christmas tree stood in one corner, covered with ornaments and lights. On the floor were a number of brightly wrapped presents and one ornament, a tiny pair of ice skates, which seemed to have fallen off the tree. The radio was playing Christmas music faintly in the background. Fa-la-la-la-lah.

  “Have you heard anything?” David Mercer asked.

  “Nothing yet,” Banks answered. “But, if I may, I’d like to ask you a few more questions.”

  “We’ve already told everything to her,” he said, gesturing in Winsome’s direction.

  “I know,” said Banks. “And DC Jackman has discussed it with me. But I still have a few questions.”

  “Don’t you think you should be out there on the streets searching for her,” said the whippet-thin man, who was also turning prematurely bald.

  Banks turned to face him slowly. “And you are?”

  He puffed out what little chest he had. “Claude Mainwaring, Solicitor.” He pronounced it “Mannering,” like the Arthur Lowe character on Dad’s Army. “I’m David’s son-in-law.”

  “Well, Mr. Mainwaring,” said Banks, “it’s not normally my job, as a detective chief inspector, to get out on the streets looking for people. In fact, it’s not even my job to pay house calls asking questions, but as it’s nearly Christmas, and as Mr. Mercer here is worried about his wife, I thought I might bend the rules just a little. And believe me, there are already more than enough people out there trying to find Mrs. Mercer.”

  Mainwaring grunted as if he were unsatisfied with the answer, then he sat down next to his wife. Banks turned to David Mercer, who finally bade him and Winsome to sit, too. “Mr. Mercer,” Banks asked, thinking of the doubts that Winsome had voiced on their way over, “can you think of anywhere your wife might have gone?”

  “Nowhere,” said Mercer. “That’s why I called you lot.”

  “Was there any reason why your wife might have gone away?”

  “None at all,” said Mercer, just a beat too quickly for Banks’s liking.

  “She wasn’t unhappy about anything?”

  “Not that I know of, no.”

  “Everything was fine between the two of you?”

  “Now, look here!” Mainwaring got to his feet.

  “Sit down and be quiet, Mr. Mainwaring,” Banks said as gently as he could. “You’re not in court now, and you’re not helping. I’ll get to you later.” He turned back to Mercer and ignored the slighted solicitor. “Had you noticed any difference in her behaviour before she left, any changes of mood or anything?”

  “No,” said Mercer. “Like I said, everything was quite normal. May I ask what you’re getting at?”

  “I’m not getting at anything,” Banks said. “These are all questions that have to be asked in cases such as these.”

  “Cases such as these?”

  “Missing persons.”

  “Oh God,” cried the daughter. “I can’t believe it. Mother a missing person.”

  She used the same tone as she might have used to say “homeless person,” Banks thought, as if she were somehow embarrassed by her mother’s going missing. He quickly chided himself for being so uncharitable. It was Christmas, after all, and no matter how self-important and self-obsessed these people seemed to be, they were worried about Brenda Mercer. He could only do his best to help them. He just wished they would stop getting in his way.

  “Has she ever done anything like this before?” Banks asked.

  “Never,” said David Mercer. “Brenda is one of the most stable and reliable people you could ever wish to meet.”

  “Does she have any close friends?”

  “The family means everything to her.”

  “Might she have met someone? Someone she could confide in?”

  Mercer seemed puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean. Met? Confide? What would Brenda have to confide? And if she did, why would she confide in someone else rather than in me? No, it doesn’t make sense.”

  “People do, you know, sometimes. A girlfriend, perhaps?”

  “Not Brenda.”

  This was going nowhere fast, Banks thought, seeing what Winsome had meant. “Do you have any theories about where she might have gone?”

  “Something’s happened to her. Someone’s abducted her, obviously. I can’t see any other explanation.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It stands to reason, doesn’t it? She’d never do anything so irresponsible and selfish as to mess up all our Christmas plans and cause us so much fuss and worry.”

  “But these things, abductions and the like, are much rarer than you imagine,” said Banks. “In most cases, missing persons are found healthy and safe.”

  Mainwaring snorted in the background. “And the longer you take to find her, the less likely she is to be healthy and safe,” he said.

  Banks ignored him and carried on talking to David Mercer. “Did you and your wife have any arguments recently?” he asked.

  “Arguments? No, not really.”

  “Not really?”

  “I mean nothing significant, nothing that would cause her to do something like this. We had our minor disagreements from time to time, of course, just like any married couple.”

  “But nothing that might upset her, make her want to disappear.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Do you know if she has any male friends?” Banks knew he was treading on dangerous ground now, but he had to ask.

  “If you’re insinuating that she’s run off with someo
ne,” Mercer said, “then you’re barking up the wrong tree. Brenda would never do that to me. Or to Janet,” he added, glancing over at the daughter. “Besides, she’s …”

  “She’s what?”

  “I was simply going to say that Brenda’s not exactly a Playboy centrefold, if you catch my drift. Not the sort of woman men would chase after or fantasize about.”

  Nice one, Banks thought. He had never expected his wife Sandra to run off with another man, either—and not because he didn’t think she was attractive to men—but she had done. No sense in labouring the point, though. If anything like that had happened, the Mercers would be the last people to admit it, assuming that they even knew themselves. But if Brenda had no close friends or relatives, then there was no-one else he could question who might be able to tell him more about her. All in all, it was beginning to seem like a tougher job than he had imagined.

  “We’ll keep you posted,” he said, then he and Winsome headed back to the station.

  Unfortunately, most people were far too absorbed in their Christmas plans—meals, family visits, last-minute shopping, church events, and what have you—to pay as much attention to local news stories as they did the rest of the year, and even that wasn’t much. As Banks and Winsome whiled away the afternoon at Western Area Headquarters, uniformed police officers went from house to house asking questions and searched the wintry Dales landscape in an ever-widening circle, but nothing came to light.

  Banks remembered, just before the shops closed, that he had things to buy, so he dashed over to the Swainsdale Centre. Of course, by closing time on Christmas Eve it was bedlam, and everyone was impatient and bad-tempered. He queued fifteen minutes to pay for his turkey dinner because he would have had nothing else to eat otherwise, but just one glance at the crowds in HMV made him decide to forgo the Christmas music for this year, relying on what he had already, and what he could catch on the radio.

  By six o’clock he was back at home, and the men and women on duty at the police station had strict instructions to ring him if anything concerning Brenda Mercer came up.