Christmas Crackers

by David W Robinson

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Joe waved irritably at the photographs. “Look at her injuries. She’s been battered about the head. She’s laid on her right side, but there’s extensive bruising to the back of her neck that stretches right across her shoulders. If she was killed where she lay, you couldn’t cause that kind of damage. If she was killed on, say, the floor, or sitting up in a chair, do we assume the killer decided to lay her on her right side? My eye and aunt fanny. Remember, he’s in her cabin. He has no idea when or whether Dexter or Mathers may come back. He’s just killed her, he’s hyped up and he needs to get out of there fast, so he wouldn’t prat about putting her to bed. He’d leave her where she was. Taking all this into consideration, it’s unlikely that she was killed in the cabin. Looking at her injuries, my guess is she was sat up when she was struck, probably in her wheelchair, and the lack of space in these cabins points to her having died somewhere else, and again my guess would be the disabled toilets in the terminal. Those are private, not public, and they’re large enough to get a good swing at her. From there, Cherie would be on the boat quick enough to prevent the onset of rigor mortis. That, in turn, points the finger at Valerie Mathers, who probably took her in there, killed her, and then brought her out, wrapped up and looking as if she was asleep.” Joe glowered at Osterijk. “I don’t care about the photograph, Dexter has. They can be faked, and for all we know, they could have made this same trip last week and had the picture taken then, and came on board again this week and engineered the whole thing to coincide with the clock in the photo.”

  Hagen was astounded. “But how will you prove it?”

  “We won’t,” Joe declared. “That’s the clever thing about it. By the time we get to Hull, Cherie will have been dead, what? Thirteen hours? It would be impossible for any pathologist to give you an accurate time of death. If it had happened in a hotel, a local pathologist would have told you she died a few hours before they claim, but you don’t even have a doctor on board; just a nurse. You could get onto your booking office once you get to Hull, and have them check when the Dexters last sailed on this ferry, but that wouldn’t be conclusive.” Joe drummed irritable fingers on the desk. “This is one of the most ham-fisted and amateur setups I’ve ever seen, but unless we can make them crack, no one will ever convict them.”

  Breaking into the silence which followed Joe’s conclusion, Ton addressed Hagen. “Excuse me, sir. While we were out on the smoke deck, Mr Murray suggested that the real killer would have thrown his disguise into the sea.”

  “Which is the real reason he was running to the back of the boat,” Joe agreed.

  “We have a strong easterly behind us,” Ton went on. “Suppose the disguise didn’t make it over the side. Suppose the wind blew it back onto the stern.”

  “Yes? What of it?” Hagen asked.

  “I was thinking, sir, could it have landed on the hazchem deck?”

  Hagen and Osterijk both looked doubtful.

  “It’s a long shot,” Osterijk admitted.

  “You have people who can check it out?” Joe asked.

  The First Officer nodded. “I’ll get onto the car deck crew, tell them to get out there and check everywhere.”

  “Tell them, they must wear gloves of some description,” Joe ordered. “And if they find anything, it needs bagging up. Preferably in a clean bag, if they have one.”

  While Osterijk crossed to the telephone, Hagen asked, “What do you do if we have nothing, Mr Murray?”

  “Put some pressure on them,” Joe admitted. “I want to see this photograph. You never know your luck in a big city… or on a big ship.”

  Osterijk returned. “Mr Chang is organising his people now, sir.”

  “Chinese?” Joe asked.

  Hagen nodded. “They’re better motivated than European workers.”

  Joe grunted. “You mean they’re cheaper.”

  ***

  After calling first to Joe’s cabin on Deck 10, where he collected his netbook and associated leads, it was turned midnight when they finally sat with Dexter and Valerie in a small cabin on Deck 8, amidships. It was similar to Joe’s but without the porthole, making it feel even smaller. Joe wondered idly how the pair coped. He felt cramped in his cabin; with two people, it would be practically claustrophobic.

  Dexter went straight on the attack when Hagen explained the situation. “It seems to me that you’ve got your man right here, Captain.” He pointed an accusing finger at Joe. “He was playing Darth Vader last night.”

  “No. I can prove where I was at the time,” Joe argued. “What we can’t prove, Dexter, is where you were when your wife was murdered.”

  “They know where I was. In the bar. I even have a photograph to prove it.”

  “And I’ll want to see that photograph,” Joe declared. “But I said when your wife was murdered, not when people saw this Darth Vader running for it.”

  “She was murdered sometime just after nine,” Valerie pointed out. “It seems obvious that Vader killed her and was running for it.”

  “We’re not sure about that, Ms Mathers,” Hagen said. “Mr Murray is very experienced in this kind of incident, and he doubts that Mrs Dexter was murdered at that time.”

  “I know for a fact she wasn’t,” Joe said. “You said to me last night, Dexter, that you were visiting Rotterdam today.”

  “That’s right.” Dexter’s belligerence showed through. “Does it matter?”

  “It might. How late back were you for the ship?”

  “We weren’t late,” Valerie said. “In fact we were one of the first back, and one of the first on the boat.”

  “Convenient. Could I see this photograph?”

  Valerie reached up to her bag on the upper bunk, rummaged through it and came out with a Fuji compact camera. She passed it to Joe.

  “Captain, you’re a witness here,” Joe said, plugging in his netbook and switching it on. “I’m going to take a copy of this image, and drop it onto my computer, but I won’t tamper with it.”

  It took several minutes for the machine to power up and the image to copy to the hard drive. When Joe was done, he passed the camera back and, perching on the edge of the bunk, studied the photograph.

  It showed Valerie and Dexter in the show bar, and behind them was the large wall clock, its lurid pink readout showing 21:17. They were dressed exactly as they were right now, Dexter wearing a denim jacket over a dark shirt, Valerie a beige top with capped sleeves. As he pored over the photograph, a smile spread across Joe’s face.

  “When was this picture taken?”

  “A few hours ago,” Valerie said. “Just after quarter past nine. You can see the clock in the background.”

  “And who took it?”

  Dexter shrugged. “I don’t know. We just asked someone passing if they’d take it for us. Can’t remember who it was. Don’t think I’d recognise them, either.”

  “That’s because you’re lying, Dexter.”

  He half rose, but Ton stayed him.

  Joe could not keep the note of triumphant scorn from his voice. “I said to Captain Hagen that this is one of the most amateur setups I’ve ever come across, and it won’t take the cops in Hull long to check on the last time you were on this ship. This photograph was taken then. So when was that? Last week? Last month?”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Dexter snapped. “That picture was taken at a quarter past nine.”

  “Impossible. Your wife was dead before quarter past nine and you know it.”

  In better control of herself than her brother-in-law, Valerie said, “She was killed at quarter past nine.”

  “Then how come Cherie Dexter is in this picture?”

  A stunned silence fell over the cabin.

  “Y’see,” Joe said. “Amateurs. The pair of you. One of the things I noticed about Cherie last night was her BCG scar. I have one, too. I mentioned it to you, Dexter. Like me, she was brought up in a house with a history of TB, and she’
d been vaccinated against it. It leaves a very distinctive scar. Looks like a little bullseye on your upper arm.” For the benefit of Hagen and Osterijk, he pointed it out on the photograph. “But you and she were separated at birth, Valerie, and you had no contact with anyone who’d had TB, so you were never vaccinated against it.” He grabbed Valerie’s left arm and held it up for the captain’s inspection. “The woman in this picture has the scar, therefore the woman in this picture is Cherie, not you, and since Cherie was already dead at nine fifteen last night, I can only conclude that this picture was taken earlier. It’s either been manipulated to make it look as if you were in the bar last night, or it was when you were aboard this ship on some other occasion.”

  Dexter scowled. “Very clever, smartarse, but prove it. And even if it’s true, it doesn’t make me or Valerie a killer.”

  There was knock on the door. Osterijk opened it, spent a few minutes talking with someone on the other side, then accepted a large, clear, polythene bag, before coming back into the cabin. He handed it to Joe, who examined it.

  “One Darth Vader mask,” he declared, holding it up. “Found on the hazardous chemicals deck under one of the lorries. When you threw it away, Dexter, the following wind blew it back onto the ship. When the Hull police test this, it doesn’t matter how careful you were, there’ll be some trace of you on it.” He examined it more closely, smoothing out the polythene so he could read the label inside the plastic mask. “Supplied by Party People, Hoogstraat, Rotterdam.”

  “It’s not mine. I’ve never—”

  Crestfallen, Valerie interrupted Dexter. “Give it up, Allan. We made a complete mess of it.” She glowered at Joe. “Do you know how bad my sister made life for him?” She indicated Dexter. “Do you know how bad she made life for me?”

  “No, but I bet you’re going to tell me.”

  “Even when she was fully fit, she was a vicious cow,” Dexter said. “Always sniping, always snapping and biting, always looking for fault and finding it. Val turned up two years back and she was as different as she looks the same.”

  “I’d spent a year or more looking for my long-lost sister,” Valerie said, “but when I found her, I wished I hadn’t. Instead, I wish I’d met Allan before she did.”

  “So you two were having an affair?” Joe said.

  Val nodded. “And, of course, Cherie found out. That was the argument the night she fell down the stairs.”

  “It was an accident, I promise you,” Dexter said. “She was half drunk, she tried to hit me with a wine bottle, I pushed her, and she fell. It left her in that wheelchair for life. But then she became even worse. Valerie moved in with us, and Cherie just made our life hell. We couldn’t leave. She threatened to tell the police her version of what happened that night if we did.”

  “So you decided to kill her instead?”

  “We came on this boat a fortnight ago,” Valerie admitted. “That’s when the picture was taken, and by the way, I took it, not some stranger. When we got back home, Allan and I realised we could use it to our advantage. While we were having lunch in Rotterdam, yesterday, I fed her a couple of her strong painkillers. Nothing that would arouse any suspicion in an autopsy. Those, plus the hours we were out shopping left her feeling sleepy. We got a taxi from the centre of Rotterdam to Europort and we were one of the first back. She was asleep. I took her to the disabled toilet in the terminal, and hit her twice. Once on the back of the neck, once on the side of her head, then wrapped her up to cover the damage, and make it look as if she was only sleeping. I swear to you that she knew nothing about it. No pain. She just nodded off and never woke up.” An arrogance came to her eyes and tone. “No one questioned us when we boarded. Why would they? They knew she was trapped in that wheelchair. So simple, so easy to get away with.”

  “But why try to blame Mr Murray?” Hagen asked.

  Joe answered before either of them could speak. “Without another suspect, the police would have looked more closely at them, and they did such a poor job that somewhere along the line they’d have been nicked. And it was just my luck that I happened to have a distinctive costume for the fancy dress. One they could duplicate, and one which would clearly point a finger at me. How many Santas were there at the party last night? Hundreds? If they’d chosen a Santa outfit, it would have left the cops with so many suspects they’d have simply looked at these two again. It had to be a disguise that would stand out, and that meant me. But it was hard lines on them that they chose me. The best detective in Yorkshire.” He studied the two miserable figures. “No remorse, huh?”

  “Wrong, Murray,” Dexter said. “All right, so we planned it all, all right, so it was wrong of us, and we’ll go down for it, but don’t think we wanted to do it. We were desperate.”

  Joe stood up. “You’re getting confused between desperate and callous. Desperate people usually divorce. They don’t draw up plans to murder those who are making them desperate. They’re all yours, Captain.”

  Hagen nodded. “Ton, you will make sure that Mr Dexter and Ms Mathers are handed over to the British police when we get to Hull.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Joe and Hagen stepped out of the cabin and made their way towards the staircase.

  “What a sorry state of affairs,” Hagen said.

  “A bad lot,” Joe agreed, “but don’t pity them. They’ll get life, but they’ll be free in ten years and they have their whole life together after that.” He sighed. “So, you’ll be able to tell this Superintendent Talbot, in Hull, that the case is solved. You did get to speak to him?”

  Hagen laughed. “Yes we did. Eventually. He told us that on no account were we to let you investigate this crime.”

  Joe laughed. “He was probably worried that I’d nick his Christmas bonus.”

  The Headland Hotel

  “It’s time for the final award of the evening, The North Coast Crime Writers’ Association Novel of the Year,” Rowena announced. “To present it I’d like to introduce to you a very special man. He’s not an author, he’s not a police officer, but he’s solved so many murders that he could literally be called the sleuth of the year. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr Joe Murray.”

  To a round of applause, Joe appeared carrying a gold book statuette and an envelope. Placing the award on the lectern, he flipped open the envelope and removed the card.

  “I charge extra for speeches and your boss wouldn’t cough up, so it won’t be long and boring,” he quipped as he read the information on the card. “You know, I’ve been fooling around solving crimes for years. I don’t do it professionally. It’s more a hobby, but that hobby has saved more than one innocent person going to prison, and helped put away some pretty serious killers. But I couldn’t do what you guys do, and I take my hat off to you for your spirit of invention.” He grinned. “That’s enough speechifying. It’s all your association could afford.”

  He waited for a ragged laugh to die down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the award for the Novel of the Year goes to Arabella Tremayne, for her novel Blindside.”

  To more applause and some cheering, Arabella climbed onto the platform, accepted the award from Joe and while he stood to one side, wondering how she could switch from pure, arrogant acid to sweet and humble, she began her acceptance speech.

  “It’s an odd year when she doesn’t win it,” Rowena muttered in Joe’s ears.

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” he replied. “Brenda has read a few of her novels and says they’re very good. Gritty, realistic. You know.”

  Rowena sighed. “They should be. She was a big time crime reporter for one of the national dailies before she turned to fiction.” She applauded Arabella’s unctuous thanks to her readers and the Association. “If only we could all be as lucky as her.”

  The Awards Ceremony Murder

  A loud, insistent thumping on the door woke Joe. Opening bleary eyes, he checked his watch and read 7:30am. Through the curtains, the first light of a short December day barely showed.
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br />   “All right, all right. I’m coming,” he grumbled while the hammering continued. “They don’t serve breakfast until nine, you know.”

  Rolling from his bed, he picked up his dark blue towelling robe, and made his way groggily to the door.

  It had been late when he finally got to bed the previous night. After the last award had been presented and the closing speeches made, they had moved next door to the Abbey Bar where a disco ran until the early hours.

  Circulating between dances, Joe found many of the guests amiable and chatty, but Arabella Tremayne was the exception. She kept herself apart and aloof, sipping on cocktails, speaking only to her agent and one or two people, dismissing others with a disdainful eye.

  Donna Corley, who having attached herself to Joe, Sheila and Brenda during the day, stayed with them for the final hours, came away downhearted after a brief conversation with the novelist.

  “I asked if I could have an interview and she told me where to go. She only does interviews with the nationals, TV and radio these days.”

  “Never mind, Donna,” Sheila had encouraged her. “Your book on our exploits is sure to be a bestseller.”

  “And then you can refuse interviews to provincial journalists, can’t you?” Brenda echoed.

  Joe left them just after midnight. “We have a long drive home after breakfast and I need me beauty sleep. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  And now someone was hammering on the door at least an hour too early.

  He snapped back the lock and yanked the door open. “Now listen, Brenda… Oh. Rowena. It’s you.”

  She stood the other side of the door, hair tied back, her face agitated. “Joe. Please. We need your help. It’s Arabella. We think she’s dead.”

  Joe tightened the belt of his robe. “What do you mean you think she’s dead? Don’t you know?”

  “Well, it’s difficult. Could you come please?”

  With a tut, he ducked back into the room, put on carpet slippers and then followed her out, and along the corridor, where a small crowd had gathered at the door of suite 401. Stood back from the crowd was a chambermaid crying, and a male cleaner trying to comfort her.