Christmas Crackers

by David W Robinson

“Fine place. As good as Amsterdam, if anyone wants my opinion.”

  “Only without the Red Light district, eh?”

  Dexter laughed again, and then looked Joe up and down. “Hey. Neat costume. Put it together yourself, did you?”

  “Some of it. I borrowed the cape, and I bought the mask in Blackpool years ago.” Joe fingered the multi-coloured breastplate. “I made this out of old mosaic tiles from the bathroom, and borrowed the boots from my niece’s husband. They’re his riding boots.” Joe dragged on his cigarette a final time and stubbed it out. “Yes, and my feet are bloody killing me in them. Nice meeting you, Allan. See y’around.”

  ***

  “What was that street called again?” Joe asked.

  “Which street?” Sheila asked.

  “The main drag from the station in Amsterdam?”

  “Damrak,” Brenda replied.

  “Right on the button,” Joe declared. “I feel like I’ve been pulled through a damn rack.”

  They were in the queue to board the Sprite for the return journey after a day’s shopping in the Dutch capital. The bus driver had dropped them outside Centraal Station just after 10:30 and collected them again at 5:30. In between, they had trawled their way up Damrak to Dam Square, where a traditional European Christmas market had been set up outside the monolithic front of the Koninklijk Paleis.

  While they wandered round the market, Joe took plenty of pictures on his compact camera, capturing the women at various stalls, in front of the multiple arches of the palace entrance, and standing by the National Monument on the other side of the square, a tall, concrete pillar (which Brenda described as phallic) decked with various stone figures, and dedicated to peace.

  Later, laden with purchases of clothing, foods, handcrafted wooden trinkets, and in Sheila’s case, a few items of Delft china, they had called into Bijenkorf, Amsterdam’s answer to Harrods, where Joe had been appalled at the prices.

  “Two hundred and thirty euros for a bottle of scent? That’s about two hundred pounds.”

  “Yes? And?” Brenda demanded.

  “I’ve bought cars for less than that.”

  “No point taking you to the Red Light District, Joe,” Brenda had quipped as she paid for the perfume with her credit card. “You’d be so busy negotiating a price, you’d get no action.”

  “Remember the Museum of Sex?” Joe had asked. “It was on Damrak, near the bottom end. Have you considered applying for a position as an exhibit, Brenda?”

  The back and forth badinage went on for most of the afternoon, with Sheila acting as referee when it threatened to get out of hand.

  After lunch at a steakhouse opposite the waterbus jetties at the lower end of Damrak, they had returned to the market for the final few hours of their stay, before boarding the coach for the one hundred kilometre journey back to Rotterdam and Europort.

  The combination of a late night and drink on the North Sea crossing, and several hours wandering round Amsterdam took its toll on Joe, and he found himself dozing through much of the journey back to Rotterdam. Once back aboard the ship and in his cabin towards the stern on Deck 10, he threw off his coat, flopped onto the bunk, and with the distant, hypnotic thrum of the ship’s engines as a lullaby, he was asleep in minutes.

  He joined Brenda and Sheila and in the main dining hall just after nine, and enjoyed a cold meat salad, followed by an excellent lemon meringue pie. Throughout the meal, the women reminisced on the party the previous night, and the day’s shopping and how much they were looking forward to Christmas.

  “No fancy dress tonight,” Joe had commented. “At least I won’t have to wear those sodding riding boots again.”

  At ten o’clock with the restaurant ready for closing, they prepared to move next door to the show bar when Joe found his way barred by a huge security officer.

  “Is it Mr Murray?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Ton DeGroot, sir. I’m head of security. The captain would like to see you on the bridge.”

  Joe frowned, Brenda smiled.

  “Ooh, Joe, invited to the captain’s table and you’ve only been on board one night. Better get your penguin suit on.”

  The security man did not smile. “No, madam, there is no captain’s table.”

  “She was joking,” Joe said. “So what does he want?”

  “I was not told, sir. I was simply asked to escort you to the bridge.”

  Joe shrugged. “I’ll catch you two later in the bar. Lead on, son.”

  ***

  Joe was not sure what he expected of the bridge. He knew it would be nothing like those he had seen in old war movies, but as it turned out, the room bore no resemblance to anything in his imagination. Two levels up from the entertainments deck, he found computer screens flickering here and there, control consoles were lit up and monitored by crewmen, and there were others who looked out through the panoramic windows, but could see nothing outside but the black of night. The size of the helm surprised him. For all that the Sprite weighed almost 60,000 tons, she was guided by a wheel not much larger than the steering wheel on his car.

  The bridge looked barren and functional and where the other decks had been alive with yuletide spirit, this control centre had nothing. People sat here and there, apparently bored or perhaps simply disinterested, and in the centre, close to a couple of swivel seats, two men stood talking.

  One of them turned to greet Joe. His sleeves bore the four gold bands, and ‘executive curl’ of a ship’s master. A tall, portly man about Joe’s age, he was dressed in a navy blue blazer and a crisp, white shirt cleaved in half by the shipping line’s official tie. He had lines of concern on his brow. “Mr Murray, I’m Pauel Hagen, Captain of the North Sea Sprite. This is my first officer, Karel Ostenrijk.”

  He gestured to the younger, slimmer, fair-haired man on his left. Joe noticed that neither of them offered to shake hands.

  “I’m sorry to disturb your evening, sir, but may I ask, at last night’s fancy dress party, were you dressed as Darth Vader?”

  Joe felt natural caution creeping over him. This was not the time to gush. “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  Hagen’s wizened features fell a little. “Oh dear. This is difficult.”

  “Look, Captain, if there’s some problem why not just get it said? I’m sure we can sort it out.”

  Hagen cleared his throat. “Do you know Mrs Cherie Dexter?”

  “Never heard of her… oh, wait. You mean the woman in the wheelchair. I won’t say I know her, but I was talking to her husband on the smoke deck last night. I met her in the bar, but only for a minute or so.”

  “And you had an argument with her,” Osterijk said.

  “Well, we crossed swords, certainly. Look, what is this all about?”

  Captain Hagen took the lead. “At nine forty this evening, Mrs Dexter was found dead in her cabin. She has a large bruise at the back of her neck. Inquiries reveal that at about nine fifteen, a man dressed as Darth Vader was seen hurrying along the corridor of Deck 10, towards the rear of the ship. Your cabin is at the rear of the ship. We’ve checked our security videos from the show bar last night, and we can find only one person dressed as Darth Vader. You, sir.”

  Joe snorted. “So, obviously, I killed her. What bloody nonsense.”

  “That is not for me to say, sir. I am a ship’s master, not a police officer. We are about forty miles out of Rotterdam. I contacted the Dutch police. They said because it happened outside territorial waters, we can continue our journey and leave it to the British police. That way we inconvenience our passengers as little as possible. I then spoke to Detective Superintendent Talbot of Hull police, and he instructed me to place you under arrest until we get there, when you will be taken in for questioning. My ship, however, is a ferry, not a frigate. I have no brig. As the ship’s master, I am the law, of course, and I would be within my rights to confine you to your cabin, but it would be better for me if you can guarantee your co-operation, and then you can come and go as you ple
ase. Until we reach Hull, that is, when I must hand you over to the police.”

  “My co-operation?” Sensing the huge bulk of Ton DeGroot right behind him, Joe suppressed his anger. “I’ll do better than that, Captain. I’ll find the killer for you.”

  Both officers were surprised. “You are a policeman?” Osterijk asked.

  “No, a private investigator, er, of sorts,” Joe replied. “I can prove where I was at nine fifteen this evening. I was with my two friends, Mrs Riley and Mrs Jump, having dinner. All you have to do is ask them. Whoever was running round as Darth Vader, it wasn’t me and I didn’t kill this woman, either. I don’t even know her and aside from that half minute when we exchanged a few harsh words, we’ve never even spoken. You’re telling me that I’m the only one on board with a Vader costume. I say to you, that that is only as far as you know. Anyone could have one stowed away in their luggage. Now do me a favour. Get onto this Superintendent Talbot, tell him to contact Detective Chief Inspector Terry Cummins of the North Yorkshire police.” Osterijk began to write quickly as Joe went on. “Terry is based in York, and he’ll vouch for me. In the meantime, let me start investigating. How long before we dock in Hull?”

  Hagen checked the clock. “We’re due there at seven fifteen tomorrow morning, so that’s about eight and a half hours.”

  “I can wrap this up by then, Captain. If I can’t, then Talbot can take me in for questioning, but whoever killed this woman must still be on the boat. If Talbot arrests me, he’ll give the real killer time to get away and we can’t afford that. Let me investigate.”

  The two officers backed off, deep in discussion. Joe dragged out his tobacco tin and rolled a cigarette.

  “You can’t smoke that in here, sir,” said the security officer.

  “I’m hoping your boss is gonna let me go to the blunt end for a smoke before he claps me in irons.”

  Ton frowned as if he did not understand the joke. Joe was about to explain it when Hagen and Osterijk returned.

  “Very well, Mr Murray,” the captain said. “Karel will speak to Mr Talbot. In the meantime, you say you are an experienced investigator, so I will permit you to look into the incident. However, I must insist that Ton accompanies you at all times.” He gestured at the bulky security officer.

  Joe nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “Where would you like to start?”

  “Has your doctor seen the body?”

  “We have no doctor. Ours is a short journey, sir, and we’re not obliged to have medical professionals on board, so we have only a senior nurse, and she has seen the body. She has assured us the woman is dead, but she cannot, officially, pronounce her as such. You understand?”

  “I understand, all right. Could I see the body?”

  Osterijk looked doubtful as he addressed his master. “The police have ordered us to close the cabin and keep it locked, sir.”

  “They usually do,” Joe said, “but I always operate on the principle that the victim can tell you more about the killer than you might think. I don’t want to touch her, I don’t want to disturb her, I just want to see her. If you’re not willing to let me do that, do you have photographs?”

  There was another hurried conversation before the two men faced Joe again. “Our nurse took pictures from many angles. We can have the camera brought up here and pictures downloaded onto our computer,” Hagen said. “I must warn you, sir, they are not pleasant.”

  “Murders rarely are. Look, this is going to take time. Why don’t I nip to the smoke deck and get a quick cough and spit while you’re getting those for me. And when I’ve checked the pictures, I’ll need to speak to Allan Dexter, the dead woman’s husband.”

  “We’ve already spoken to him, Mr Murray,” Osterijk complained. “He and his sister-in-law were in the show bar at the time you were seen running away.”

  Joe tutted. “You’ve obviously made your mind up that it’s me, haven’t you, son? You’re gonna look awfully silly when I prove otherwise. And anyway, you won’t have asked Dexter the same questions as I will. I’ll go get that smoke.”

  “Of course. Ton, please go with Mr Murray.”

  Dwarfed by the huge security man, Joe led the way back down to the entertainment deck, and along to the stern, out into the wild night, where he struggled to light his cigarette.

  “So, Ton,” he said, “you don’t smoke?”

  “I’m on duty, sir. I can’t.”

  Joe shrugged. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

  Ton smiled and took out a pack of Marlboro, after shielding his lighter inside his day-glo, yellow jacket, and finally getting the cigarette going, he blew out a cloud of smoke with a satisfied hiss.

  The wind came almost straight at them from the rear of the ship, causing Joe to shiver. “Tell me something, Ton, why are those lorries parked there?” He gestured down at the half dozen or so trucks, mainly tankers, on the lowest deck.

  “Hazardous cargo, sir.” Ton puffed on his cigarette and indicated the warning labels on the side of the tankers and containers. “Flammables, toxins, gases. They can’t go on the car deck inside in case there’s some kind of problem during the crossing.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose.” Joe’s brow knitted. “Why did the killer come this way?”

  “Sir?”

  “Where was Dexter’s cabin?”

  “Suite nine-seven-four. At the front of the ship and one deck down.”

  “And yet he ran all this way. Why?”

  Ton chuckled. “According to Mr Osterijk, it was you and you were making your way back to your cabin.”

  Joe grunted and dragged on his cigarette again. “Let me tell you something, sunshine. If it had been me, this is the last direction I’d have taken. No, there was some reason he came this way. And he made sure he was seen by several people. So why come this…” The light dawned in Joe’s mind. “Of course. The open deck. Is there anywhere else on the boat that’s open?”

  Ton gestured upwards. “The sun deck, but not at this time of year. It’s strictly a summer place.”

  “Then that’s it. He came here so he could get rid of the Vader mask. Possibly the black jumper too. He chucked them both over the side.”

  “In that case, sir, it’s somewhere out there.” Ton gestured at the night and the open sea.

  Joe looked down at the trucks again. “I suppose so. Come on. We’d better get back to the sharp end.”

  When they arrived on the bridge, Captain Hagen and First Officer Osterijk were studying the images on a computer monitor. Hagen vacated the seat and allowed Joe to take over.

  “You say your nurse took the pictures?” Joe asked, looking at the thumbnail view of a set of sixteen images.

  “Correct,” Osterijk replied.

  “She should be a police photographer. She’s done a damn good job here. She’s covered all angles.” Joe opened the first image.

  As Hagen had promised, they were not pretty.

  Cherie Dexter lay on her right side on the bed. Her mouth was open, her lips and skin ashen. There was a large bruise to the left hand side of her head where she had been struck.

  Joe moved to the next image which had been taken from behind Cherie. He frowned at the sight of another large bruise extending across the back of her neck towards the right shoulder.

  “Had rigor mortis set in?” he asked.

  “No. It was too early.”

  “That tells us nothing, then.” Joe ran through the rest of the images. They showed nothing new, so he concentrated on the first two again.

  At length, he said, “I tell you now, this isn’t right. Has the murder weapon been found?”

  Osterijk shook his head. “No. Do you know where it is?”

  “You’re beginning to get on my wick, lad?” Joe warned “Who raised the alarm?”

  “Alarm?” They looked blankly at him.

  “Who found her?” Joe translated.

  “Oh. Her husband. He and his sister-in-law were in the show bar. Mrs Dexter had been tired
and unwell when she came aboard, so they put her to bed, went for dinner and few drinks. At nine thirty-five, he went to check on her, and found her dead.”

  “And yet he was in the show bar at the time this Darth Vader character was seen running away?” Joe asked.

  “He has photographic proof,” Osterijk declared.

  “Convenient.” Joe pushed the mouse away and turned the swivel seat to face the officers. “I know who killed her, but it’s gonna be hell to prove. Tell me, did anyone speak to Mrs Dexter when she came on board?”

  “No. I checked with our reception staff. Mr Dexter said again that his wife was very tired, and sleeping.”

  “So Dexter and the twin sister took her straight to their suite?”

  “That is correct.”

  “That confirms it for me, but we still don’t have proof.”

  Clearly angry, Osterijk berated Joe. “Mr Murray, if you’re trying to suggest that Mr Dexter killed his own wife, and then tried to impersonate you, you’re wrong.”

  “Am I? Then tell me again who found her dead?”

  “Mr Dexter. He went to his cabin to check on her at nine forty. You were seen running towards the stern half an hour previously. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in, so we assume she was killed at about that same time.”

  “You’re assuming a lot, Osterijk.”

  “Nevertheless. We know where Mr Dexter and his sister-in-law were at nine fifteen.”

  “So you said. Tell me about this photograph?”

  Osterijk took a deep breath. “Mr Dexter asked someone to take a photograph of himself and Ms Mathers, his sister-in-law, in the show bar. He showed us that image on his camera. You can see the clock in the background and it shows seventeen minutes past nine. The reports of you running to the rear of the ship came in at nine fourteen, sixteen and eighteen. Mr Dexter cannot have been in two places at one time.”

  “No,” Joe admitted, “but he could have been on the boat more than once.” He turned his attention to Hagen. “I tell you now, Dexter or the sister, Mathers, killed Cherie, and she was dead when she came on the boat. She was probably killed in the toilets in the terminal before they boarded. If the heat was left on in the cabin it would slow down the onset of rigor mortis.”