A Bullet for Father Christmas

by Cora Buhlert

  A Bullet for Father Christmas

  by Cora Buhlert

  Bremen, Germany

  Copyright © 2014 by Cora Buhlert

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photos © John De Boer and m4tik

  Cover design by Cora Buhlert

  Pegasus Pulp Publications

  Mittelstraße 12

  28816 Stuhr

  Germany

  www.pegasus-pulp.com

  A Bullet for Father Christmas

  Detective Inspector Helen Shepherd wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or relieved when her cell phone rang, calling her away from the pre-Christmas shopping rush.

  By the time she reached the crime scene, she had settled on annoyed, at least partly spurred on by an unseasonal downpour that had drenched her to the skin.

  “Afternoon, boss,” PC Walker greeted her, an entirely too cheerful grin on his freckled face. He held up a paper cup. “I got you some latte. With cinnamon.”

  “Thank you, Constable.” Helen took the cup, though truth to be told, she preferred her coffee plain, black and definitely without cinnamon. Honestly who in their right mind would pour cinnamon into coffee anyway?

  “Oh, you’re going to love this one, boss,” PC Walker said, his face so full of jolly good cheer as if he was planning to give Father Christmas a run for his money, “Dr. Rajiv says he’s never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s two days to Christmas, I’m wet and cold and on top of all that I’m supposed to get a Dancing Groot toy for my niece, whatever the hell that may be…”

  “It’s a tree,” PC Walker volunteered, “A dancing tree. From the movie, you know?”

  Helen glared at him and he shut up.

  “…and now I’m being dragged away from the vital quest to procure that Dancing whatever toy. So no, I’m very definitely not loving this case.”

  Helen scowled at the building. “Wilkinson & Smythe, Fine Jewellers,” the discreet gilded letters above the door read, “Established 1753”.

  She ducked under police tape and stepped into the shop. The interior was as posh as the exterior suggested, all mahogany and chandeliers and a thick fluffy carpet that was currently marred by the body of Father Christmas lying on his back, blood staining his beard and the fur trimming of his suit, dead eyes staring up at the stuccoed ceiling.

  “All right, this is… different.”

  “See, I told you you’d love this,” PC Walker said, until a glare from Helen quieted him.

  “He’s not the real deal, in case you’re wondering.” Dr. Rajiv pulled a thermometer from Father Christmas’ liver. “The beard is fake for starters.”

  “Do we know who he was?” Helen asked.

  “Kris Kringle…” PC Walker exclaimed. Helen glared at him.

  “Uhm, sorry, boss,” PC Walker excused himself, “Actually we don’t know who Father Christmas here was, since he wasn’t carrying any ID. It’s probably not required at the North Pole.”

  Helen sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

  “So what happened here?” she asked, “And how on Earth did Father Christmas end up dead on the floor of a posh jewellery store?”

  “Well, this particular Father Christmas was clearly naughty rather than nice…” PC Walker began and this time, Helen didn’t even find the energy to glare at him for the inappropriate pun, “…cause he tried to rob the store together with an accomplice and was shot for his trouble.”

  “I thought Father Christmas was supposed to deliver presents, not steal them,” Dr. Rajiv piped in, clearly inspired by PC Walker’s irreverence.

  Helen ignored him. “I see. And the accomplice?”

  “Fled through the chimney, would you believe it?”

  Helen glared at PC Walker who nodded eagerly. “No, boss, that’s really what happened. Three witnesses confirm that the accomplice escaped through the fireplace.”

  Helen cast a glance at the fireplace. It was a big and ornate thing of red veined marble, the sort of fireplace you’d expect to find in Downton Abbey and not in a jewellery store in Central London, no matter how posh. Certainly big enough for a man to climb through, provided he had the right equipment. Plus, the fireplace looked rather clean, as if it hadn’t been used for decades, so Father Christmas and his accomplice might even have escaped without looking as if they’d fallen down a coal chute afterwards.

  Only that Father Christmas hadn’t escaped. Instead, he was lying dead on the floor, his blood seeping into the expensive carpet.

  “So who shot Father Christmas then?”

  “The accomplice,” PC Walker said, “He shot Father Christmas and escaped through the chimney with the loot, all in front of the eyes of three terrified witnesses. Apparently, he had not yet grasped that sharing is the spirit of the season.”

  Helen decided to let that last bit irreverence go. “Do we have a description?”

  PC Walker pretended to consult his notes. “He looked like — I quote — Father Christmas,” he stammered.

  “For the accomplice,” Helen snapped, “I can see what this one looks like, thank you very much.”

  PC Walker blushed. “Ahem… the accomplice looked like Father Christmas as well,” he corrected.

  “So let me get this right? Two men, both dressed as Father Christmas, storm into the shop, threaten the staff, grab the goods, then one shoots the other and escapes through the fireplace.”

  PC Walker nodded. “That’s more or less it.”

  Helen sighed under her breath. Christmas season. It was supposed to be a time of peace, love and understanding and all that jazz, but instead it just brought out the crazy in many people. Such as the brilliant idea to rob a jewellery shop dressed as Father Christmas.

  “So the robbers come in…” She looked around the shop. “How?”

  “Front door,” PC Walker said, “Just walked in according to the witnesses.”

  “They threaten the staff with a gun, steal…” Helen looked at the display cases, now shattered and half empty. Even the jewellery the robbers had left behind was a lot shinier and pricier than anything Helen could afford. “…a really nice selection of bling…”

  “The owner is preparing a list,” PC Walker said helpfully.

  “…and then one shoots the other. Why? Was there a disagreement? Did they argue?”

  PC Walker shook his head. “Not according to the witnesses. They all say the Santas barely spoke at all.”

  “So why shoot your accomplice?”

  “Greed,” PC Walker suggested, “It’s a common enough motive.”

  “But why here, in front of witnesses and on a busy street where the shot might easily have been heard? Why not wait until you’re somewhere quiet?”

  “Beats me,” PC Walker said.

  “What about this Father Christmas?” Helen pointed at the body on the floor. “Was he armed as well or just the accomplice?”

  “He was armed…” PC Walker held up an evidence bag holding a black handgun. “…with this.”

  “If he had a gun, then why didn’t he use it to defend himself against the accomplice?” Helen wondered, “Why just stand there and wait to be shot?”

  “He couldn’t,” PC Walker replied, still holding the evidence bag with the weapon, “It’s a toy gun.” He smirked. “Looks like Father Christmas snagged it from his stash of presents.”

  Helen shot a stern look at PC Walker. “Constable, I’d appreciate it if you would refrain from making any inappropriate jokes or puns in the future,” she said, “So what about the CCTV recordings?”

  “There are none,” PC Walker said, colouring ever so slightly.

  “So the Santas disabled the CCTV cameras, too?”

  PC Walker shook his he
ad. “No, the store doesn’t have CCTV. They — I quote — believe it would infringe on the privacy of their customers.”

  “Yes, because it would be so tragic to infringe on the privacy of tax dodgers, arms dealers and billionaires.” Dr. Rajiv rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Inspector, but I couldn’t help myself.”

  “It’s all right,” Helen said, if only because she shared the good doctor’s opinion regarding the customers of Wilkinson & Smythe, Fine Jewellers.

  PC Walker pouted. “Why does he get to make inappropriate remarks and I don’t?”

  “Because he’s got a doctorate and you don’t,” Helen said, “And now see to it that we get the CCTV recordings from all the cameras in the neighbourhood, if this shop doesn’t have any. Someone must’ve caught those Santas on video.”

  PC Walker gave her a mock salute. “On it, boss. Uhm, what are you going to do now?”

  “Now I’m going to talk to the witnesses,” Helen said.

  The three witnesses were cooped up in a small office behind the jewellery shop, crowding around a desk and sipping tea some thoughtful soul had provided for them.

  William A. Smythe, fiftyish, distinguished looking, salt and pepper hair, was the owner and manager of Wilkinson & Smythe, Fine Jewellers. Helen idly wondered what had happened to the second owner, Wilkinson, and made a mental note to check.

  The two shop assistants were Sarah Green, a petite blonde of about thirty, and Devi Patel, an equally petite Asian woman in her late twenties. Except for their skin and hair colouring, both women might have been twins. They wore the same elegant dark blue suits, the same understated make-up and their hair was pulled back into the same tight bun. All in all, they were the sort of blithely superior shop assistants who always made Helen feel like a shoplifter.

  “I realise how upsetting this whole situation must be for you, Mr. Smythe, Ms. Green, Ms. Patel,” Helen began, putting on her best compassionate cop face, “But there are still some questions we need answered.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Smythe said, dabbing at his face with a crisp white cloth handkerchief, “We’ll do anything we can to help.”

  Sarah Green and Devi Patel nodded in agreement.

  “Could you repeat once again for me what happened? And start from the beginning, please.”

  “It was exactly four o’clock,” Smythe began.

  “Exactly? How can you be so sure?”

  “The antique clock in the shop,” Sarah Green said, “It strikes every hour.”

  “And it struck four times,” Devi Patel added, “That was maybe a minute or so before it happened.”

  “And there were no customers in the shop?”

  The three witnesses all shook their heads in unison. “Just us,” William Smythe said.

  “Isn’t it unusual for the shop to be entirely empty?”

  William Smythe and the two sales assistants exchanged glances.

  “Not very unusual,” Devi Patel finally said, “We’re a destination retailer. We don’t get a lot of walk-in traffic.”

  “A ‘destination retailer’?” Helen repeated, “Does this mean people who come here usually know what they want?”

  “Not necessarily,” William Smythe said, “But most of our customers already know about us and they know that both our products and our services are of the highest quality.”

  “We’re not H.H. Samuel,” Sarah Green added, “We’re a high end shop for high end customers.”

  And quite arrogant about it, too, Helen thought.

  “So you’d say that most customers who come into your shop already know about you. Does this include the robbers?”

  “You mean…” Sarah Green’s eyes went wide with shock.

  “…that the robbers might have been customers?” Devi Patel pressed a well manicured hand to her mouth.

  “No,” William Smythe declared, “Our valued customers would never do such a thing.”

  “What about someone who wasn’t a customer or at least not your usual customer?” Helen asked, “Did anybody come into the store recently who didn’t quite fit in? Someone who seemed unduly interested in your offerings, but didn’t buy anything?”

  Once again, the three of them exchanged glances.

  “There was such a person…” William Smythe finally began.

  Devi Patel nodded and continued, “He came into the shop, supposedly to buy an engagement ring for his girlfriend…”

  “It was obvious that he wasn’t… well, he wasn’t our usual class of customer,” Sarah Green said, “Worn jeans, beat-up leather jacket, cheap watch, cheap shoes.”

  “I showed him a couple of our more… affordable engagement rings,” Devi Patel said, “But he wanted to see the whole selection.”

  “And then he didn’t buy anything,” Sarah Green added with a sniff of disdain.

  “When was this?” Helen wanted to know.

  “Last week,” William Smythe said. “Maybe Wednesday or…”

  “Thursday,” Devi Patel exclaimed, “It was Thursday.”

  Five days ago then. Maybe the man with the cheap shoes and the cheap watch had really been just some poor slob who had the misfortune to accidentally wander into the poshest and snootiest jewellery store in all of London while looking to buy an engagement ring for his girl. Or maybe he had been staking the place out.

  “Could you describe this person?”

  “As I said, worn jeans, beaten up leather jacket, cheap watch, cheap shoes, no brand name items at all,” Sarah Green said.

  “Actually, I was thinking of physical characteristics like age, hair colour, skin colour and so on?”

  “He was white,” Devi Patel said, “In his twenties, maybe thirties. A bit skinny. Bad skin. His hair was sort of blond, a sandy kind of colour.”

  Helen nodded at PC Walker to write the description down. “I see. Do you think you would recognise this man, if you saw him again?”

  After some hesitation, they all nodded.

  “You mean… you mean that was the robber?” William Smythe stammered.

  “It’s certainly possible, which is why we would like to identify that individual.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Devi Patel exclaimed with a shudder, “And to think I showed him engagement rings.”

  Helen waved to PC Walker. “Constable, once Dr. Rajiv is finished with the preliminary examination, could I get a photo of Father Christmas sans beard and wig, so I can show it the witnesses?”

  PC Walker nodded. “On it, boss.”

  Helen turned back to the three witnesses. “All right, let’s continue. You said it was four o’clock when the robbers came in. How?”

  “Through the front door,” William Smythe said. The two women nodded.

  “At first I thought it was carol singers or something,” Sarah Green said hesitantly, “You know, people who dress up in seasonal costumes and collect money for charity. But then…” She broke off shuddering.

  “Then he pulled a gun and said, ‘Gimme the bling.’ He said ‘bling’, like some rapper,” Devi Patel finished.

  “He?” Helen repeated, “So did only one of the robbers pull a gun and speak?”

  “No. No, of course not,” William Smythe replied hastily.

  “They both had guns,” Sarah Green agreed.

  “But only one spoke,” Devi Patel added, “The other one said nothing.”

  “Which one? The one who’s dead or the other one?”

  “The dead one…” Devi Patel stammered, “I… I think.”

  “They both looked alike…” William Smythe said, “…and — well — they had guns.”

  “I couldn’t tell them apart at all,” Sarah Green added.

  “The one who spoke, did he have a notable accent, a speech impediment, anything like that?”

  “Lower class,” Sarah Green said, not even trying to hide the condescension in her voice, “Very definitely lower class.”

  “He used rapper words,” Devi Patel added.

  “He sounded somehow… Northern,” William Smy
the said.

  Helen suppressed a sigh. So one of the robbers had been a Northern guy who sounded lower class according to Sarah Green, in whose ears probably everybody except the Queen and the Prime Minister sounded lower class. Yeah, that narrowed it down.

  “So what happened then?” she asked.

  “They… they opened their bags and gestured at us with their guns. One smashed our display cases with a hammer. And then they made us put our merchandise into their bags,” William Smythe said.

  “Only the best and priciest merchandise, too,” Sarah Green added.

  “They didn’t want the cheap products”, Devi Patel said, while Helen idly wondered what would count as cheap at Wilkinson & Smythe, Fine Jewellers. She had the distinct feeling that even the cheap products would still exceed her monthly salary.

  “Did they say anything else?” she asked.

  All three shook their heads in unison.

  “So what happened next?”

  “One turned his gun on the other and shot him,” William Smythe said, while his two assistants nodded.

  “Was there an argument between the robbers or anything?” Helen wanted to know.

  Devi Patel shook her head. “It all happened so fast, it was like a blur.”

  “There was no warning at all,” Sarah Green added, “One simply shot the other.”

  “The shot was so loud, my ears are still ringing,” Devi Patel said.

  “The ringing will pass,” Helen said automatically to the shaken Devi, “So what happened after the one robber shot the other?”

  “We all dove for cover behind the counters,” William Smythe said, “So we didn’t see much.”

  The two women nodded.

  “Understandable,” Helen said, “But you still saw the robber escape through the fireplace?”

  “Well, ‘see’ is maybe not the correct word,” Sarah Green said hesitantly.

  “It was more like we heard him,” Devi Patel added, “We were still crouching behind the counter, Sarah and I huddled together, and Mr. Smythe behind the other counter. We thought he was going to shoot us, too — the robber, not Mr. Smythe…”

  “Obviously,” Helen said dryly.

  “And then we heard this weird scratching sound…” Sarah Green continued, “…as if there were birds in the chimney. We had birds in the chimney once, you know? One got into the store and we had to call animal protection services to catch it.”