While Brenda spoke, Gemma checked the size on Sally’s coat and went through the pockets.
“This coat is mine,” Sally shouted.
“Size ten,” Gemma said, “and if it’s yours, Ms Hoban, how do you explain these?” she held up a set of car keys. “Given to Diana by a man who is probably her boyfriend, to stop him driving home after he’d been drinking.”
Sally opened her mouth to protest, but Gemma pressed on.
“Before you say anything, Sally, I must warn you that we will find Diana’s boyfriend and we will get him to identify these keys. We’ll even try them in his car.”
Sally’s face fell. “She was going to shop me to the police. I had to stop her.”
“Why didn’t you take the drugs with you?” Brenda asked. “Why leave them in the pockets?”
“How could I?” Sally cried. “With her dead, I knew the cops would search everyone. So I left them on her. Better she gets the blame than me. I could have got ten years for it.”
Brenda smiled grimly. “Well you don’t have to worry about that, now, do you? You can cheer yourself up with the thought of a life sentence instead.”
The Headland Hotel
“Wow. So you’re a sleuth, too?”
Joe heard Donna’s over-enthusiastic tones as he stepped into the St Hilda Suite.
“Joe put his finger on it when I rang him.” He heard Brenda reply. “What can the victim tell you? Well, in this case, the victim told me there was something wrong with her coat, but I didn’t know it until I saw the killer wearing the other coat, and from there it was simple.”
Following the sound of their voices, Joe recalled Donna’s amazement at his conclusion of the tale in the Lazy Luncheonette. He had the feeling that she was not as impressed as her gaping eyes and gasping tones suggested. It was an act designed to get more stories from him, but business at in the café had saved that day.
In the intervening three months she had emailed him on a number of occasions, the last time less than a week previously when she sent him a draft version of the case for his approval, and assuring him that her (unnamed) publisher was waiting for more tales.
He found Sheila, Brenda and Donna on a side table, enjoying tea and scones. Donna beamed in delight when he approached, and rose to peck his cheek.
“It’s wonderful to see you again,” she cried, “and I am so looking forward to the awards dinner tonight, and seeing you present the Novel of the Year award.”
“So much for secrecy,” Joe said, taking a seat between his two friends and opposite Donna.
“Oh, I don’t know who’s won, but everybody knows you’re the guest of honour. You’re even on the publicity material. Look.” She reached down into her bag and pulled out a local newspaper which, as promised, advertised the awards, and had a picture of him dressed in a dinner suit.
“Cheeky sods,” he complained. “That’s been manipulated. I’ve never worn a penguin suit in my life.”
“Until tonight,” Sheila reminded him.
“Don’t remind me.”
“Brenda was just telling me about a murder at the bank. It’s back to you, now, Joe. There must be more Christmas tales you can give me. We only have a few hours and I need at least two or three more cases from you.”
“Donna, I don’t know—”
“Why not tell her about that business in Santa’s Grotto, the year before last,” Sheila interrupted. “You were really sharp to catch that one, Joe.”
He gave Sheila the evil eye as Donna switched on her recorder again.
Helping himself to tea, he sighed. “As Sheila said, it was two years ago. I don’t have children, so I took young Danny, my great-nephew, to see Santa in The Gallery.”
“As in the Gallery shopping centre in Sanford?” Donna asked.
Congratulating her on her knowledge of his hometown, Joe nodded and went into his tale.
Santa’s Slaying
“Uncle Joe, how will Santa know if I’ve been good?” Danny asked.
With a few days to Christmas, Sanford’s Gallery Shopping Mall was crowded and the big High Street names were enjoying bumper sales. In the central plaza, a large queue – hundreds of excited children and hundreds of frustrated or bored parents – waited to see Santa.
It was Wednesday afternoon, three days before Christmas Eve, and Joe had left Lee, Sheila and Brenda to clean up at the Lazy Luncheonette, while he drove Lee’s wife, Cheryl, and their four-year-old son, Danny, to town.
“I promised the kid last month I’d take him to see Santa,” he had told his crew, “and today is the last chance.”
The moment he arrived, and saw the queues, Joe wished he had never spoken. The grotto, a large, free-standing cabin, the outside of which had been dressed up to look like an overgrown igloo, was the focus of attention. Made to look like an icy scene from the North Pole, surrounded by a plastic picket fence, its entrance followed a short yellow-brick path, which twisted and turned past model elves, reindeer, plastic fir trees, and wooden toys, into the grotto.
The centre had spared no expense setting up the tableau, but Joe noticed some of the businesses supplying the raw materials had not missed the opportunity for advertising. Toys supplied by Sanford Toy Stores. Sanford Dec’s for all your Christmas needs. Herbertson’s Garden Centre All Year Round Supplies
Once through the grotto, children and parents left via the rear exit, emerging in sight of Mullion’s takeaway, and Joe was not slow to notice that most people made straight for it.
Paying the £5 admission fee, which ensured Danny would get a ‘gift’ from Santa, they had been in the queue for an hour and were getting closer to the front when Cheryl insisted she would have to visit the ladies and she had calls to make at other shops.
“If I don’t get a move on, we’ll be here all day, Joe.”
“You go. I’ll look after Danny,” Joe had agreed.
It was to be a wait of another half hour. The queue shuffled gradually forward, Joe watched as Santa’s elves, all of them shapely women in their twenties according to Joe’s estimation, emerged occasionally, disappeared into a back area of the mall, to re-emerge minutes later, calling at Mullion’s Take A Break to collect a cuppa.
“It’s for Santa,” Joe explained when Danny asked. “He needs his brews, just like the rest of us.”
The boy’s excitement grew as they passed through the gate and onto the yellow brick road. At length they entered the grotto, still following the yellow brick road, the narrow passage lined with tableaux: the baby Jesus in the manger, Santa organising his reindeer at the North Pole, the elves making toys in their workshop, and Danny marvelled at each individual scene. Jingle Bells, We Wish You a Merry Christmas and Silent Night chimed over and over again until it began to grate on Joe’s nerves.
Soon they neared the front of the queue where each child (or children) and parent(s) were ushered through individually to see Santa.
Even more excited, and becoming a little nervous, Danny leaned round the woman ahead of him to take his first peek at Father Christmas seated on his bright green throne, perching a child on his knee and chatting with him, before reaching into his sack for a gift. The flash of a camera told Joe there was another money-making opportunity in the offing for the organisers and off to his right, above the tableaux was a small sign: Rick Barnes, Photographer. Weddings and babies a speciality.
It was when the child and parent ahead of them made their way into the brightly lit inner sanctum that Danny asked how Santa would know if he had been good.
“Well, Danny, he’s a clever man. He watches over all boys and girls all year round, and he can see whether or not you’ve been good. You don’t have to worry. You’re a good lad.”
“I get naughty sometimes,” Danny observed. “Mum gets really narky with me.”
“Narky?” Joe smiled at the anachronistic dialect coming from such a young mouth.
“Yeah. Y’know. Ratty.”
Joe laughed. “I shouldn’t worry about it, lad. We’re
all naughty now and then, but Santa knows you don’t really mean it.”
One of the four elves slipped the chain and invited Joe and Danny to enter.
Joe silently applauded the shopping mall for the effort they had put in. The place was decked out like a cave, with more tableaux arranged around the walls; the shepherds arriving at the stable, the three wise men following the star of Bethlehem. A Christmas cartoon played on a small TV screen and Danny’s eyes sparkled at the scenes around him. To the right, and behind them as they entered, was Rick, the photographer, his camera set and aimed at Santa. Two elves stood either side of the old man, both attractive young women, but showing a fair bit more leg than Joe thought seemly. As they approached Father Christmas, the fourth elf came in through the far exit, carrying another cup of tea or coffee for Santa. He took it from her, swallowed a healthy swig, and put the cup down, slightly behind himself where it would not be knocked over.
Even behind his white, stick-on beard, it was obvious that he was an old man. The cap of his red suit barely covered a balding, wrinkled forehead and his hands were lumpy, bumpy, battered from, Joe assumed, a combination of hard work and arthritis. Joe would not be surprised to learn that he had been a miner in the days when Sanford relied on the colliery.
He reached out both hands to Danny, who approached shyly, but allowed himself to be picked up and sat on the old man’s knee.
“You want a photograph, sir?” Rick Barnes asked.
Joe nodded, handed over a fiver and stood back, out of line of the lens. “Look at the camera and smile, Danny.”
The boy did so, but Joe noticed that there was a lack of enthusiasm about the smile. It was a mystery. Danny was a pleasant boy who usually got on with everyone.
The photographer snapped, the camera flashed, and the photographer glowered at the brunette elf who had moved behind Santa. “Ruth, can you get out of the shot, please.” Rick smiled obsequiously at Joe. “I’m always having to tell them. I know Santa needs his brew, but they will get in the way of the shot.”
Ruth blushed and hurriedly moved back to her position on Santa’s right while the photographer bent to his eyepiece and took another picture.
“You’re Danny, are you?” Santa asked, and Danny nodded. “And have you been a good boy, Danny?” Again, the boy nodded. “And what would you like for Chris…Christmas?”
Joe puzzled over the stammer, but before he could come to any conclusions, Danny, at last, opened up.
“A computer. Not a big one like my dad has, but a little one where I can play games and do drawings and stuff.”
“A computer,” Joe muttered to one of the elves. “When I was a kid, it was a tin of toffees and some toy soldiers.”
“Times have moved on, sir.”
“Not necessarily for the cheaper,” Joe grumbled.
Always eager to spoil the boy, Joe had already bought a simple laptop which Danny’s young hands would find easy to use.
“Well, you have to be a good boy bet… between now and Christmas, Danny, and we’ll see if we can get a computer. For n… now, here’s a little gift.” Santa reached into his sack and pulled out a wrapped present.
“Say thank you to Santa, Danny,” Joe said.
Danny muttered his thanks, took his gift and climbed off Santa’s knee. He came back to Joe, and Ruth, the elf who had been caught on camera, showed them to the exit, as the next parent and son came in.
“Your photograph will be ready in about ten minutes, sir,” Ruth told him.
Joe eyed her young, shapely figure. “Personally, I think the picture probably looked better with you in it.” He frowned. “Ten minutes? I thought these things usually took an hour or two. I mean, I know it’s digital, but even so, I didn’t expect it that quick.”
Ruth gave him an ingratiating smile. “I take over from Rick for about half an hour every couple of hours while he goes to the rest room to process the work. He’s due off any time now, and since yours is one of the last to be taken, it’ll be one of the first to be processed.” She ushered him towards the exit.
Joe looked down to his great nephew. “You all right, now, Danny?”
The boy nodded and looked up, his eyes worried.
“Something wrong, lad?”
Danny pulled on Joe’s hand and Joe bent to listen. The child’s voice was barely a whisper. “Santa stinks, Uncle Joe.”
Joe scored his nephew a point for observation. Keeping his voice as low as the boy’s, he said, “He’s an old man, Danny. All old men smell.”
“Yeah, but he stinks like me dad when he’s been to the pub.”
That explained the stammering as far as Joe was concerned. The old fool was taking a nip with his tea. Joe made up his mind to speak to the centre manager. If children of Danny’s age were noticing the smell of alcohol on Santa, it was time to draw it to the attention of a higher authority.
“It’s all the sherry little boys and girls leave out for him on Christmas Eve.”
“But it’s not Christmas Eve until Saturday.”
“He’s practising, Danny.”
“He’s drunk,” Danny said.
Joe could not fault the argument and led Danny towards the exit. “Let’s see if your mum’s finished…”
A scream from behind caused Joe to trail off. He whirled, expecting to see some kid terrified out of his mind at the sight of Santa, but instead found the old man on the floor clutching at his throat, his breathing coming in short, hard gasps, one of his elves standing over him, her hand clasped to her mouth, the mother pulling her son back, the other elves and the photographer standing uselessly by.
Joe handed Danny to one of the elves. “If you’re not going to do anything else, look after him for me.” He hurried to Santa, crouched, and opened the old man’s tunic at the neck. “Come on, pal. Calm down. Take deep breaths. Come on. You can do it.”
Trembling, the blonde elf who had screamed struggled to hold back her tears. “What’s up? Is he having a heart attack?”
“It looks like it.” Joe pressed his ear to the man’s chest. “Hell fire, he reeks of booze.” He looked up at the elf. “What’s your name?”
“Laura. Laura Waterson.”
“Do we know who he is?”
“Barry Chiversleigh.”
“Old enough to be one of my members but I’ve never heard of him,” Joe muttered. “Barry, come on, Barry. I’m Joe. Try to calm down.” He fished out his mobile phone and waved at the mother and son waiting to see Santa. “All right, Laura. Get these people and my nephew out of here, and get the centre manager down here. I’ll bell the ambulance.”
She flapped uselessly. “Is he dying? What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to stay nice and calm and do as I just said,” Joe told her. “Now do it.”
She backed off and left him to it. He checked Santa’s breathing again, then dialled 999 on his mobile.
“Ambulance,” he barked. “We have an emergency in Santa’s Grotto in the Gallery. I think Santa is having a heart attack… My name? Joe Murray… No, I’m a customer. I’m waiting for the centre manager to turn up… Right. Paramedics, double quick. Thanks.”
Cutting the connection, Joe checked again on the old man, and satisfied that he was still breathing, if only just, ensured that the two elves were escorting the children out, then dialled Cheryl. “Listen, chicken, we have an emergency at the grotto. I’ve sent Danny out with one of Santa’s helpers. You need to get down here and collect him at Mullion’s. I’ll have to hang about for the ambulance.”
He cut the connection again, and put his ear to Santa’s chest. The breathing was more of a groan, and Joe could hardly hear a heartbeat.
Joe shrugged off his jacket and mentally prepared himself for the unpleasant task of mouth to mouth and possible CPR. The old man reeked so badly of alcohol, it was enough to make Joe’s head spin. He gently peeled away the false beard and discarded it.
Chiversleigh’s eyes opened part way, tears sparkled in them and he tried to spea
k.
“I can’t hear you, pal. Just take it easy. The paramedics will be here in a minute.”
Chiversleigh gripped Joe’s arm weakly, and whispered again. With an irritated tut, Joe took a deep breath, then immersed himself in the invisible cloud of alcoholic fumes to listen.
“Ask.”
“Ask? Ask who? Ask them what?”
At that moment, Geoff Devers, the centre manager, rushed into the room, followed by a couple of assistants, one of whom, a designated first aider, took over from Joe.
Devers, a forty-year-old, well known to most people, including Joe, looked his usual smart self in his Gallery uniform, a maroon blazer and dark trousers, highly polished shoes and tie depicting a colliery wheelhouse. But his face was lined with concern, and his thin moustache twitched nervously.
“Thank God you’re here, Joe. At least you can keep your cool. That woman is still carrying on out there.” Devers gestured back the way he had come. “And the elves are as much use as chocolate teapots.”
“The woman is probably spooling up for a lawsuit,” Joe said. “Listen, Geoff, it’s not up to me to tell you how to run your business, but this old boy stinks to the high heavens. He’s smashed out of his brains. Even my nephew complained, and he’s only four.”
Devers nodded grimly. “Yes. I know about Barry.”
“And you didn’t take him to task?”
“Of course I did. But it’s four days to Christmas. Where the hell am I supposed to get a replacement at this time? Come on, Joe, you know the score with Father Christmas. We always hire a couple of pensioners. That mate of yours, Cyril Peck, covers the morning shift, and Barry comes on at two. They were the only blokes I could find in this town to take the job on, and I didn’t want anyone younger. Kids these days are getting wise.”
“Yet, you knew he was a boozer?”
Christmas Crackers Page 8
