Red Christmas

by Reginald Hill

  Now she turned.

  ‘It’s called crumpet in my part of the world. No, I don’t think so. Crumpet is notoriously bad for the figure.’

  Your part of the world. And what part is that, Arabella Allen? thought Boswell, bringing back to his mind the single sheet of photostat foolscap he had been perusing for the last half-hour.

  SUBJECT: Arabella Allen: b. February 1st, 1945.

  That seemed about right.

  Father—Michael Allen, milkman, of 120, Forest Road, Selby, Yorks. Deceased.

  Mother—Eunice Allen. Deceased.

  An orphan. Always convenient, that. There was no doubt whatsoever that Mike Allen the Selby milkman had lived and loved and been popular and doubtless done at least some of the extraordinary things milkmen are alleged to do. And his wife Eunice doubtless sat at home wondering who he was doing them with. But she’d had her daughter to look after. For a while.

  Subject’s parents died in motor accident, November 1952.

  Subject brought up by her uncle, Samuel Allen, plumber and fitter, of 70A, Ashburton Grove, Leeds 6, until 1955 when he emigrated to South Africa. Subject taken into care by local authority.

  Sad that. Left all alone in the world while selfish uncle went off to make his fortune. Which apparently he had done.

  1958 Samuel Allen sends for subject to join him in Johannesburg where he had built up a substantial plumbing business.

  Three years. Quick work. Perhaps all that cheap labour helped. Though did they let black fitters handle fitments in which white men, or worse, women, might bathe, or wash, or defecate?

  1961 South Africa leaves the Commonwealth. Samuel Allen surrenders his British passport. Subject retains hers and returns to England. Undertakes course of secretarial training at a London business school. Financed by her uncle until she finishes the course and starts to work.

  Nice guy. Easing off his conscience for those years he left her by herself. Important years. But not as important as the next three years in South Africa.

  Boswell recalled the photographs in the file. Two of them were old. One was a blow-up from a larger picture of a group of young girls in school uniform. The other showed the same girl staring like a stoat-tranced rabbit into the camera. Obviously a passport picture.

  The others were new, large, glossy. Clearly Arabella. Arabella striding happily out of the door of the large office block in which she worked. Arabella feeding the ducks in St. James’s Park. Arabella entering the front door of her apartment block, her head half turned as if somehow she had momentarily become aware of the well-hidden cameraman distantly sighting his telescopic lens.

  The gap hadn’t bothered him before. There had been a careful check, of course. But there had seemed no reason of any kind for doubting that this pale, serious, rather bucktoothed girl was the same as this radiant, smiling, confident young woman. Not that there was any reason now. But since meeting her the image of successful career girl on holiday had become blurred at the edges.

  His mind turned to the file again.

  First job, secretary to a minor executive of Cerberus Chemicals Corporation. Her talents rapidly spotted, Rapid rise to the General Manager’s office. No evidence of extramural duties—promotion seemed based purely on merit. 1968 Subject made Personal Assistant to the International Director. Many trips abroad. Subject spends any long holiday she takes in South Africa with her uncle. Last year on receipt of news of Samuel Allen’s death in sailing accident subject quit her job with CCC and returned to South Africa for an extended stay to sort out his affairs. Returned to UK via overland route, driving herself, and camping in the bush. Long periods of no contact. Arrived UK July.

  That should explain her acquaintance with shotguns. Only a fool would drive alone through the heart of Africa without a gun. And she did not strike him as a fool.

  Nor, he thought, watching her efficiently extract a teapot from the midst of the gossiping women, did she strike him as a girl who would be content to do nothing but live in comfort on a rich uncle’s legacy. Which, according to her file, was what she had been doing since her return, despite substantial and flattering offers from her former employers at CCC.

  He sighed deeply. This wąs always the trouble. Reports seemed deep, all-inclusive, well researched, but so often they were done at a distance and when you met the subject they began to look threadbare. At this stage in the game, Christmas Eve with only two days to go, it had hardly seemed worth requesting additional probes. But he had done it none the less. It was an old rule known as ‘covering yourself’. Not even the oldest, most moth-eaten Fellows of St. Sepulchre’s failed to observe this rule. It would be nice to get back, for all that. At least there the violence was all cerebral and the only real weapons were words.

  Someone plucked at his sleeve. It was Joe, grotesque in his tights and short jacket.

  ‘Nothing wrong upstairs, Joe?’ he asked, worried.

  ‘No. I’ve just been relieved. The afternoon coach has just arrived and I was wanted for the local colour bit.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So there’s someone on it as oughtn’t to be. He says his name’s Sawyer. He sounds like a Yank.’

  ‘Jesus Christ! What the hell were Alf and Dave thinking of!’

  Boswell’s further expressions of annoyance were brought to a halt by the entrance of Wardle and the newcomers.

  ‘Room at the fire there! Room at the fire for wayworn travellers! You’re just in time for muffins and tea. Mind you, at Dingley Dell you’re always in time for something! Joe, my boy, off you trot and fetch more muffins and lots of butter. Quick as you can, and don’t be stopping to eat any on the way!’

  It took a very keen auditor to detect the undercurrent of concern in Wardle’s stream of joviality. Boswell had no difficulty at all.

  He moved over to join the newcomers.

  ‘Here’s our Mr. Boswell, our resident expert. He keeps us all right, watches that we don’t drop too many anachronisms. This is Mrs. Hislop. Mrs. Hislop’s uncle, Mr. Bloodworth’s here too, but he felt the strain of the journey a bit and has gone up to bed. And this is Mr. Sawyer.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr. Boswell. That’s a crazy rig you’re wearing. Do we all get to wear something like that?’

  ‘You’ll find a suit will be placed in your wardrobe in time for the ball tonight,’ said Wardle. ‘Mr. Sawyer’s a friend of Mr. Bennett, who unfortunately wasn’t able to come.’

  ‘And I was more than happy to take up his reservation. Boy, I just know I’m going to enjoy myself here!’

  Sawyer’s face split in a broad infectious grin and his eyes sparkled as he glanced around the room. He caught Arabella’s eye and winked appreciatively at her. She scanned him critically for a moment, then, still deadpan, winked back.

  Boswell was surprised to find himself annoyed.

  ‘Tell me, Mr. Sawyer,’ he said, ‘Which variety are you, the American or English?’

  ‘You’ve lost me, Mr. Boswell.’

  ‘Well, Mark Twain or Dickens? Tom or Bob? We have to be sure of our literary antecedents here.’

  Oh, I’m with you! Well, you might say both, really. I’m Bob, sure enough, which fits me into the Pickwick picture if I recall rightly. But my full name is Robert E. Lee Sawyer which puts me splash down in the Mississippi.’

  ‘I see,’ said Boswell, fighting to control the waves of antipathy he felt surging inside him. ‘Like a Colossus, you straddle two worlds.’

  ‘Mr. Boswell,’ said Sawyer coldly, though his smile lost none of its charm, ‘I generally straddle just whoever and whatever it takes my fancy to straddle. And at the moment I feel like straddling this fire and toasting myself a dozen of those little muffins. Excuse me.’

  He turned away to the fire, helped himself to the muffin on the end of a fork held by a badly bleached matron, bit into it, smacked his lips, took the fork, kissed her hand and began toasting on his own account.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Wardle.

  ‘He’s being che
cked?’ .

  ‘Too true. But it’ll take time. It is Christmas Eve. God, he’s too blatant not to be true!’

  ‘It’s a technique. But if he’s used it before, he’ll be known.’

  ‘What about Bennett? He was OK, wasn’t he?’

  Boswell shrugged.

  ‘They’re all OK till you find out different. But he’s our only lead, anyway. That’s where they’ll start. By the way, how’s Frau Cow?’

  ‘Fine. I got word in to Himmelstor. He just grunted, it seems.’

  ‘That figures. She really is his wife, which is more than you can say for most of the rest.’

  Wardle shrugged in his turn.

  ‘In the national interest… dulce et decorum est…’

  ‘Yes? My Latin doesn’t have the verb you want!’

  Wardle grunted.

  ‘I’d better go and be jolly. Oh God, here comes old man Bloodworth. Why couldn’t the silly old sod go to sleep for an hour? We can do without a heart attack just now. Oh, Mrs. Hislop, here’s your uncle. Mr. Bloodworth, sir! Come you in and join us. Be welcome! Tea and muffins at your service!’

  ‘Muffins! Never touch the things. Give me heartburn. Where’s my niece? I don’t like being left by myself in a strange place!’

  Boswell looked sympathetically at Mrs. Hislop. He brought her file to mind. She was a widow and her uncle had been living with her for about eighteen months since his retirement. Boswell suspected the previous Christmas had been such a disaster that she had resolved to try an hotel this year. He wished them both luck.

  She moved towards the old man, who leaned breathlessly on his stick in the doorway, and Boswell could now see down to the fire. Sawyer was still there, being very much at his ease among the ladies.

  Beside him was Arabella, who turned her face away as Boswell looked. But not before Boswell got a clear view of her.

  Not even the baking heat and the ruddy glow from the dancing flames could conceal the fact that she was as pale as death. As though she had looked into the shifting patterns of the fire and seen some strange hieroglyphs from another world.

  5

  Wery desperate ch’racter, your wash-up. He attempted to rescue the prisoners and assaulted the officers; so we took him into custody …

  MR. GRUMMER

  All over the country people were preparing to enjoy themselves on Christmas Eve. This was the night of the full house. Pubs, ballrooms, private parties—all would be packed as man, the lonely animal, went on one of his recurring ‘togetherness’ sprees. Even vicars, priests, ministers and pastors, generally the first to suffer when the alternatives of pleasure and promiscuity are placed before their flocks, were expecting the seating capacities of their churches, chapels, temples and tin huts to be strained.

  But there were those who had to work, Christmas Eve or no. Many would be working at just those places where their fellows were enjoying themselves. They might even enjoy their work.

  But some worked alone.

  The man searching Bennett’s flat had been on his way to a party when the instructions came. At least he had been on his way to pick up the girl he was taking with him to the party.

  He had planned to call on her early, wanting to start the night the way he was certain it would end.

  Then the phone had rung.

  He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to find anything important or not. If he found something connecting Bennett and Sawyer it might make everybody happy and get him to the party on time. On the other hand it might just land him with a follow-up job.

  Whereas if he found nothing … he was just as likely to be sent somewhere else till he found something.

  But nothing was just what he was finding at the moment.

  He sat down and lit a cigarette, something he would never normally dream of doing on a job. Tonight was different. Usually he took a pride in his work. But tonight he resented it. Bennett, he was increasingly certain, had gone off somewhere else quite happily. Probably a bird turning up out of the blue, ready and willing for a bit of wassail. The Dingley Dell reservation had been condescendingly flung to Robert E. Lee Sawyer. Mad for pseudo-culture like all these bastard Americans. It all fitted.

  But he had to keep on looking.

  ‘Bennett, Bennett,’ he moaned softly as he stood up. ‘You lucky sod. I wish I was in your shoes right now!’

  One by one he began to remove the books from the bookshelf.

  Peter Bennett’s left shoe was at that moment bobbing in the shallows of the Thames Estuary just off Southend. But it would have been difficult for the reluctant searcher of his flat to be in it, as it was still occupied by a foot.

  ‘Algie,’ said Mary Swinburne, poking petulantly at a wisp of hair which would not stay in place.

  ‘Yes, my love,’ replied Algernon Swinburne with the affectionate complacency of one who knows that his knighthood is safely stowed in the New Year Honours list.

  ‘It sounds a bit old-fashioned Woman’s Mag-ish, but I am rather worried about Stephen.’

  ‘My dear, if you’re going to worry about the boy when he’s here with us, what will you do when, as for ninety-five per cent of the time nowadays, he is not?’

  His wife gave up the curl and admired instead the very becoming Victorian evening gown she wore.

  ‘This dress was my grandmother’s,’ she said.

  ‘You tell everyone that in case they think it was your mother’s,’ said Swinburne, debating internally whether to enjoy the one cigar a day his doctor allowed him here at his ease or wait till he went below, where he might be interrupted.

  ‘I saw him come in with that French thing.’

  ‘Hard to believe as it seems, my love, she really is Leclerc’s wife.’

  Mary Swinburne snorted her disbelief, didn’t quite get it right, and snorted again.

  ‘I doubt if it makes much difference!’

  ‘Stephen is nearly twenty,’ said her husband patiently. ‘He has long since discovered self-abuse does not grow hair on his hands. He may or may not have discovered that partner-sex does not grow hair on his chest. Madame Leclerc may well be a necessary step in his education.’

  Mary Swinburne turned from the mirror to look at her husband.

  ‘You know, Algie,’ she said, ‘I have a great respect for your intelligence. You’ve gone far and I don’t delude myself that I have played any significant role in your progress.’

  He made a deprecating little noise which she cut off by continuing.

  ‘Apart from the psychological boost my enthusiastic reception of your advances must have given you. Perhaps that’s been the trouble. You see the problems of the young purely in terms of sex. Is it good? Is it bad? Is it experienced? Is it naif? But I assure you, when I say I’m worried about Stephen, I am not talking about sex. He thinks as well as feels. He’s got a social conscience, what you would call “politics”. I had a talk with him when he was unpacking. He still talks to me, though he feels precious little loyalty towards you or your job. But fortunately I do, so listen to what I say. And put that cigar away. You’ll want it later.’

  ‘What are you worried about, my dear?’

  By the time she had finished telling him, the room was blue with cigar smoke.

  ‘How was your afternoon?’ asked Leclerc.

  ‘Interesting. And yours?’

  ‘Cautious.’

  He stepped back from the mirror in front of which he had been adjusting his white neck-stock.

  ‘Do I have to wear this absurd costume? These tights. They are disgusting.’

  Suzie touched her own beautiful bare shoulders complacently.

  ‘Nonsense. They show you to advantage. You have a fine leg.’

  ‘The leg I do not mind. The boy, how was he?’

  ‘Cautious. Surprisingly so.’

  ‘Pah!’ said Leclerc with elegant scorn. ‘Swinging Britain is just another Anglican myth. The English achieve nothing. They merely take in the world with their deceits.’

  Suzie looked at him q
uizzically.

  ‘I wonder, Jules, if you are the right man for this job.’

  ‘Not the right. The only one. You think the boy knows?’

  ‘Oh yes. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Good. Work on him tonight. At the moment he is a danger. Once we have him in the open he becomes a weapon.’

  ‘He’s not a fool.’

  ‘Nor are you, my dear. He thinks you are my mistress?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good. Enjoy yourself, my dear.’

  ‘You also, Jules. But in those tights, not too much, eh?’

  ‘You are well enough for this, Liebchen?’

  ‘Why should I not be? A little water! They do not have winters here, they have early springs. At home the ice would be a metre, two perhaps.’

  ‘We are not so young now,’ said Himmelstor. ‘This uniform it becomes me, yes?’

  ‘Yes. You look good, Udo. The old-fashioned clothes, they suit you.’

  ‘Some of them. Well, today has been hard for both of us. The difference is that your cold water was English, mine was French.’

  He wheezed mightily at his joke and filled his cigar case with huge black cigars.

  ‘Always the French. Why are they so distrustful?’

  ‘Help me with this sword. They are a race who thrive on distrust. They invite betrayal because they enjoy it. They get more pleasure in bed if they imagine the woman’s husband is hiding underneath.’

  He bit off the end of a cigar and moved the butt of tobacco appreciatively around his mouth for a moment.

  ‘Historically,’ he concluded, ‘it has often been our national duty to see that our neighbours are not disappointed.’

  He spat the cigar butt expertly into a waste-paper basket.

  ‘But tonight we enjoy ourselves. Like at home. It is good that we go into the past. For the English too once knew how to enjoy themselves before they forgot they also are Germans.’

  Robert E. Lee Sawyer lay on his bed and puffed smoke-rings at the ceiling. He hadn’t yet started changing into his ball costume. He looked at it again and laughed. He was very happy. He thrived on expertise, he adored touches of subtlety.

  For instance, they hadn’t just bothered to search his grip, they had unpacked it for him. Real service! All his papers (which were unequivocally in order) were ranged neatly on the dressing table, and there was a polite note saying some of his clothes had become rather creased in the journey and had been removed for pressing.