A Murder for Christmas

by David W Robinson

  The cover of the book showed two old pennies, the obverse engraved with the head of George V, and on the reverse, the traditional figure of Britannia, holding her shield and trident.

  The poster also carried a head and shoulder image of the author and Joe recognised him immediately. “Hey, that’s the guy who was arguing on the table behind us in Debenhams.”

  Brenda nodded. “I’ll bet Sheila recognised him, too, and that’s why she’s gone in the shop. She’ll be buying a copy of his book.”

  “Why? Just cos she’s seen him in a café?”

  Brenda laughed. “You’re forgetting, Joe, he’s a member of the Leodensian wossnames. He’ll be staying at the Regency. Sheila will probably look for him in the bar and get him to sign her book.”

  Joe harrumphed. “She never buys copies of my books.”

  “Mainly because she was involved in the cases. Besides, you don’t sell them. You keep them on the shelf at the Lazy Luncheonette. You’re even funny about customers reading them.”

  “I do sell them.” Joe argued. “As e-books.”

  “And one day, when you’re dead, some publisher will come along and pay Lee a fortune for the rights. You should be putting them out there, proper, Joe. They’re good reading.”

  Sheila came out of the shop and ended the debate.

  “Missing Pennies?” Brenda asked.

  “Yes. I thought I’d ask Dr Wright to sign it at the hotel.”

  Brenda gave Joe a superior smile as they walked on.

  “You do realise he was with that harridan sat behind Joe in Debenhams?” Sheila asked.

  “We were just talking about it,” Joe told her as they turned into a fierce north-westerly wind whipping along The Headrow. “Imagine that, huh? He flies all the way from America into a bloody snowstorm and gets pinned down by a virago. Not his lucky day, is it?”

  Joe pulled his cap lower over his forehead, Sheila and Brenda turned their faces to the side, away from the driven snow.

  “The way the weather’s going on, we’ll be lucky to get home on Tuesday.”

  “Don’t say that, Brenda,” Joe pleaded. “I feel bad enough leaving the Lazy Luncheonette today without worrying about getting back to open up on Wednesday.”

  They neared the Regency and across the road, the dome of the town hall was almost lost to the increasing blizzard.

  They stood waiting for the lights to change at the top of Park Row so they could cross, and Joe’s attention was caught by a refuse vehicle emerging from the narrow entrance alongside the hotel.

  “You’re fascinated with rubbish, Joe,” Brenda commented.

  “Just thinking how criminal it is,” he told her. “We throw hundreds and thousands of tons of garbage away every year, and some of it is still good, you know.” The vehicle drew away from the hotel, down towards City Square. “How much serviceable gear is crushed up in the back of that truck right now? And when it comes to food … oh. Don’t get me started.”

  “It has to be disposed of, Joe,” Sheila argued as they crossed the street. “Once it reaches its sell-by date, it’s useless.”

  “But it isn’t,” he protested. “That sell-by date is usually weeks, sometimes months before the stuff will really begin to go off. I tell you, it’s criminal.”

  “Shut up moaning and let’s get in,” Brenda urged and hurried up the brief steps into the grand entrance of the Regency.

  Despite its name, it was one of the city’s newest hotels, but for all that it looked like an office block from the outside, no expense had been spared on the interior. Pink marble abounded on the reception counter and the tops of occasional tables. Styled chairs, Regency, naturally, stood around the area, the gold braiding contrasting sharply with the scarlet upholstery. Potted plants, everything from rubber plants to aspidistra, grew in an orderly fashion in various ornamental planters, and even the frame around the menu of the Regency Grill boasted aesthetically pleasing scrolls in gold leaf.

  Dressed in a smart, pale blue uniform jacket, completely at odds with her shock of red hair, the receptionist appeared at her most imperious when the three companions approached.

  “Good afternoon, sir, madam, madam.”

  “Rooms three-oh-two and three-oh-six, please,” Sheila asked.

  The clerk handed over their electronic keys with a welcoming smile but Joe noticed a hint of snootiness in her eyes when he took his key. “Cold out there,” Joe complained.

  “It’s the north-easterly winds, sir,” replied the clerk.

  “Yeah? I would have sworn it was the snow.”

  Leaving the receptionist flummoxed, Joe followed his friends to the lift.

  “Dinner at seven thirty,” Joe reminded them when they stepped into the car.

  “Shall we meet at seven and have a drink first?” Sheila suggested.

  Brenda agreed and Joe nodded. A minute later, they parted company on the third floor, Joe letting himself into room 306, the women disappearing into 302.

  Ensconced in his room with the lights on, Joe made himself a cup of tea, and then sat at the escritoire beneath the window, staring out into the late afternoon gloom. It was just after four and already the street lamps lit the way along The Headrow, the gay profusion of colour from the town hall Christmas tree and lights adding to the seasonal feel. It did nothing to cheer him up. He could see the driving snow highlighted in the lamps, the white sheen whipping across the streets, and already blurring the lines of the traffic lanes.

  He hated this time of year, he hated this weather. Snow, low temperatures and early sunset kept people indoors – people and their wallets. Snow made it almost impossible to keep the tiled floor of the Lazy Luncheonette clean and ice-free. Low temperatures meant turning up the heating to keep the customers warm, and the short days meant keeping the lights on all day. This time of year, it was expense after expense after expense.

  People milled in the streets. Long queues formed at bus stops and taxi ranks. The city was going into that lull between the shops closing and the commencement of genuine revelry. In an hour or two, those pavements would be packed with drinkers crawling from pub to pub and even the snow would not keep them in. Across The Headrow, a clutch of young men and women were snowballing each other. Joe could not hear their laughter but he sensed it and the thought annoyed him. They were enjoying life in a way that he never had, not even when he was their age. To him life meant work and earning; it was all it had ever meant.

  Reaching into his bags, Joe took out his netbook computer, set it on the escritoire and switched it on. While waiting for it to boot up, he plugged the mains extension into a wall socket and took some slight pleasure from the thought of using the Regency’s electricity to charge up the netbook’s batteries.

  Joe considered the small but powerful computer one of his best friends. Even at school, getting on for half a century ago, he had loved to write, but these days the scrawl that passed for his handwriting was illegible to most people, and often to himself. The word processing software on this machine was a godsend. It permitted him to keep notes, diaries, journals, and accounts of his cases in a form that was not only legible but printable, too. The range of small books on the shelves of the Lazy Luncheonette, all of them true tales of his past investigations, would not have been possible without the computer or an investment he would not have been prepared to make. Thanks to modern technology, he could produce quality copies cheaply, and give his customers something to read while they enjoyed their food.

  Opening up the software, typing in ‘24/12 – Leeds’ as a heading, he reflected that computers were the only thing about him that could be described as modern. Every other aspect of his life was lodged firmly back in the 1970s.

  He spent an hour on an account of the afternoon, from leaving the Regency, through the nightmare of shopping in the city centre, to lunch and the vicious woman behind them, to picking up the wrapping paper and the cards and Sheila buying a copy of Missing Pennies before the snow arrived in force. At 5:30, he shut the netbook
down, tucked it back in its case, and locked the whole lot in the wardrobe. He spent another thirty minutes wrapping the gifts he had bought in Leeds, then took a shower and promised himself a nap before dinner.

  “Christmas,” he said to the ornate ceiling as he lay on the bed. “Humbug.”

  Scrooge had chickened out in the end, he thought as his eyes closed and he drifted into sleep. “The silly old sod fell for the supposed magic.”

  It was not a mistake Joe Murray would ever make.

  Chapter Three

  While Joe waited for his drinks at the bar, a short, tubby man came alongside him. Dressed in a dark pinstripe and a pale blue shirt open at the collar, his greasy hair was slicked back from his forehead, and his piggy eyes stared out from beneath fat lids. His expression was mean and determined, his cheeks flushed with hypertension, arms spread slightly away from his chest as if they were packed with muscle. Patent leather shoes shone with the gleam of either high polish or synthetic gloss, Joe did not know which.

  He rattled his glass on the bar. “Hey. How about some service here?”

  The barman, working alone and busy tallying up Joe’s bill and change, glanced across. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Mr Quinton.”

  “I’m a regular here, you know. I expect better than this.”

  Joe took his change and checked it. With an apologetic smile at Joe, the barman moved along to attend to the offensive newcomer.

  “Red wine. And fill the bloody glass up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Joe could resist the temptation no longer. “You wanna learn to chill out, pal,” he said. “You’ll live longer.”

  The tubby one glowered. “Is that a threat?”

  “No. An observation,” Joe replied. “Your blood pressure’s already sky high, and getting yourself worked up over waiting an extra minute or two won’t help.”

  The other glared at him and was about to say something when the beard from Debenhams arrived at the bar. Ignoring Joe, he addressed the greasy-haired one. “Shooting your mouth off again, Quinton?”

  “Sod off, Kirkland.”

  “I could say the same to you,” Kirkland retorted. “You won’t get it, so why don’t you just get on a bus and go back to your little hovel in, where is it, Rotherham?”

  Joe had been about to return to his table, but he paused to watch the argument develop. Even from these early skirmishes, it was clear that the two men had no love for each other. Kirkland had made Rotherham sound like an insult, and the blaze in Quinton’s eyes said it had been taken as one.

  “You wanna play hardball, Kirkland, and you’ll end up mashed. I can buy you out twice over.”

  “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

  The barman interrupted proceedings and Joe returned to his companions.

  “Trouble at t’ mill?” Brenda asked taking a glass of Campari from him.

  Joe settled into a seat between them. “Noisy little joker at the bar,” Joe replied. “Had a pop at the barman, then me, and now he’s arguing with some suit with a beard.

  “That noisy little joker is Oliver Quinton,” Sheila said. “And the suit with the beard is Warren Kirkland.”

  Joe took a swallow of his bitter and savoured the bite on his tongue. “Can’t get quality ale like that anywhere south of Wakefield,” he declared. Putting down his glass, he asked, “Who is Oliver Quinton and who is Warren Kirkland?”

  “Quinton is a self-made millionaire from Sheffield,” Sheila said. “Bit of a wheeler dealer, so they say. Kirkland is a management consultant. Comes from Northampton. They’re both coin collectors.”

  “Coin collectors?” Joe asked. “Here, this weekend, with Dennis Wright in town promoting his book on missing coppers? Didn’t I always say there’s no such thing as coincidence? How do you know all this?”

  “I told you earlier, I read a lot.” Sheila giggled at Joe’s irritation. “They featured in one of the Sunday tabloids a few months back. Some argument over rare coins. And I think you’re right, Joe. With one of the world’s leading authorities on coins staying here, I don’t think their presence is a coincidence.”

  “I know the greaseball is an arrogant little swine,” Brenda said. “I bumped into him coming out of the lift when we first got here this morning, and he had the cheek to tell me to watch where I was going.”

  “Judging by the way he spoke to the barman, that sounds about right,” Joe commented.

  Brenda took another gulp of Campari. “One thing’s for sure, if he starts with me again, he’ll end up head down in the fish tank.”

  “Best place for him, too,” Joe agreed.

  Taking another sip, smacking her lips in anticipation, Brenda said, “The food here is supposed to be the very best. I’m hoping so.”

  “You’re a slave to your appetites,” Joe complained.

  “Better that than a slave to money,” Brenda countered, and huddled up to Joe. “What say you forget all about the price of a pork pie for the evening? We can boogie the night away in the disco, then boogie some more back at your place.”

  Joe’s scowl told her everything. “If that’s the mood you’re in, Brenda, why don’t you go chat up George Robson?”

  “Too late,” Sheila said with a gaze that directed their eyes across the lounge. “Our Romeo looks like he’s already set up for the evening.”

  Across the vast lounge, George sat at a table with Jennifer Hardy, the pair exchanging a laugh.

  “He was never one to waste time.” Brenda’s observation carried the conviction of insider knowledge.

  Joe frowned again. “I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

  The two women queried with raised eyebrows and Joe tutted.

  “Don’t you people ever take notice of what’s going on around you? That’s the woman who jammed her chair into my back in Debenhams, and then slagged Brenda off.”

  Sheila studied the couple more intently. “You know, I do believe you’re right.”

  ***

  “She’s obsessive,” Dennis Wright said. “Obsessed with me. And look at her now. Flaunting herself with that guy. Why? To make me jealous?”

  He gestured to the dance floor where Jennifer was glued to a male companion, the pair moving slowly to Matt Monro’s Walk Away.

  Turning his back on them, Wright faced the bar, picked up his glass and sipped at the whiskey sour with approval. “Not often you can find a European barman who can get the balance of bourbon, lemon juice and sugar just right.” He turned to his right and rested his left elbow on the bar. “Enough of my woes, how are you, Tom?”

  Patterson, who throughout dinner and afterwards, had been watching Jennifer with the bulky, handsome man, one of the Sanford Third Age Club people, dragged his attention back and smiled up at Wright. “Oh as usual, Dennis,” he said. “Old maps and charts. Nothing spectacular, but it pays the bills and keeps me out of trouble.” He sipped at his scotch. “I’m not in your league.”

  Wright’s laughed dripped with scorn. “My league? Come off it, Tom. American hype from a true blue Englishman doesn’t wash. Anyway, right now, my league is brokesville. Or very near.”

  “Sorry, Dennis. I don’t follow you.”

  “No, I’m sorry, Tom. I’m just having a good old Yorkshire moan. You’d think thirty years of living in the USA would have knocked it out of me, but it’s still there, buried way down and it comes to the surface now and again.”

  Patterson was completely lost by the debate and elected for silence. He had no doubt that Wright would make his meaning apparent.

  “Money, Tom, money,” Wright went on. “We all pretend to hate it, but we can’t get ahead without it. That’s particularly true in America.”

  The fog created by the eclectic discussion cleared slightly. “I think I understand. Expensive divorce?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. Just a little. Then I got involved in a real estate deal on the Keys: Florida. I dropped a packet on that.”

  Patterson had read of the incident, but it seemed diplomati
c to project sympathetic ignorance. “Oh dear. I am sorry.”

  “I’ll survive,” Wright responded. “I may be down but I’m not out. Not yet. When I get the History Chair at Alabama…” He laughed. “If I get the History Chair at Alabama, I’ll pick up again.”

  Wright gazed absently across the dance floor again. Patterson followed the longing eyes to Jennifer Hardy, now apparently welded to the man with whom she danced, her body pressed close to him, her lips near to his ear.

  “She doesn’t understand,” Wright said. “She can’t see the big picture because she doesn’t have the 3-D glasses.”

  “Jennifer?” When Wright nodded, Patterson went on, “I spoke to her earlier. She was very upset at your, er, rejection. Very angry.”

  “She’ll get over it.”

  “She made veiled threats, Dennis. I don’t know what hold she has over you, but it sounded to me as if she were threatening to make it public.”

  Wright laughed and looked down on his chairman. “Hot air, Tom, hot air. She won’t say a word to anyone about anything.”

  ***

  “You’re the chair of the Sanford Third Age Club?” Patterson asked. “I fulfil the same function for the Leodensian Historical Society.”

  Joe sipped at a half of bitter. “Yeah? But yours is just a mob of old fuddy-duddies, ain’t it?”

  Patterson laughed, his 60-something face creasing into a sea of wrinkles from his bald forehead down to his several chins. “I may be an old fuddy-duddy, Joe, but may I remind you that it was you who asked the DJ to play a good dash of 70s music. My crowd would have been quite happy with Westlife and The Spice Girls.”

  Seated at the bar with Patterson, Joe took a look around the ballroom. The dance floor was packed with members of both societies, jiggling around to Slade and Merry Xmas Everybody. A bit obvious, Joe thought, and he felt sure that the DJ, a 35-year old local man by the unlikely name of Nate Immacyoulate, would follow up with Greg Lake’s I Believe in Father Christmas and then Johnny Mathis singing When a Child Is Born. Later on, he would no doubt find room for Paul McCartney’s Mull of Kintyre, and Joe could guarantee Wizzard’s I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday putting in an appearance before midnight.