A Murder for Christmas

by David W Robinson

  “On the computer?” Joe asked, unable to hide a trace of envy in his voice.

  “Not all of them, no. She could use computer drawing software, but mainly she did her own pencil sketches. I suppose it was a part of her specialisation, the Middleton Light Railway. There are drawings available on the internet, but not many, so she did her own.” Patterson shrugged. “I’m not too worried. I know for a fact that she locked the machine with a password so if the killer has stolen it, he won’t get into it.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  Patterson nodded. “Jennifer told no one that password. Not even me. She had it written down somewhere, but she never told anyone where it was, and she also insisted that no one would ever get it.”

  “Right,” Joe said, his brow creasing. Across the room, he noticed Detective Constable Barrett making his way out of the room. “Well, listen, it’s nice talking to you, Tom, but I need an infusion of nicotine. If you think of anything that may be important, will you let me know as well as the cops? On the QT?”

  “Of course.”

  With a final nod of thanks, Joe hurried across the room and out into reception.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said a constable on duty, “but have you given a statement?”

  “Yes. Over an hour ago to your boss, Dockerty. He didn’t believe me then and he won’t believe me now. Besides, I’m only going to the door for a smoke. All right?”

  The constable stood back and allowed him to rush out to the front entrance where he found Detective Constable Barrett lighting a cigarette.

  “Oh,” Joe said. “I expected to find you jumping into a car and heading home.”

  “Not yet, sir,” Barrett yawned. “No Christmas for me until everyone in the hotel has been interviewed.”

  “I hate Christmas, so it wouldn’t bother me,” Joe admitted. “Does it trouble you?”

  Barrett took a deep drag on his cigarette and nodded. “I have a wife and daughter, Mr Murray. I’d rather be home than messing about here, but…” He shrugged. “It goes with the territory.”

  A dull silence fell. The air hung with the tang of coming snow again. The temperature hovered just above freezing point and the grey skies threatened an imminent shower. Further along the broad street, Joe could see few people. A group of young men turning into a restaurant, one or two other individuals treading warily on the slippery pavements, but in the main, the residents of Leeds had elected to spend Christmas indoors.

  He flipped the cap of his Zippo and struck the wheel, putting a light to his cigarette. “I was just talking to old Tom Patterson, the Chair of the LHS. We’re all pretty cut up about this business.”

  “Murder is like that, sir,” Barrett ventured. “I may be young but I’ve done a few already, and it’s never pleasant.”

  “No, no. Course not. I’ve investigated a few myself.” Joe puffed on his cigarette. “Your boss doesn’t like me, does he?”

  “Making snide remarks about his wife didn’t exactly endear you to him.” Barrett laughed. “He’s a good man, sir. Dedicated, you know. He goes by the book because that’s the only way we can be sure of not missing anything. He won’t brook interference from anyone who is not connected to the police or directly involved with the case. Privately, he does speak highly of you, though. You’re well known, even here in Leeds.”

  “But not for my steak and kidney pies.”

  Barrett frowned and Joe elected not to explain.

  “So your boss doesn’t like interference? Even when he’s wrong?”

  Again the young detective laughed. “You say he’s wrong.”

  “About George? Yes, I believe he’s wrong, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Patterson just told me that he can’t find Jennifer Hardy’s laptop. He also hinted that you, or your boss, think she never had it with her. Patterson says different. She never goes anywhere without it, and if he says that, you should be looking for it.”

  The humour left Barrett’s features. “You think it may tell us something?”

  “Indirectly, yes,” Joe replied and took another pull on his cigarette. “See, if Jennifer had that laptop but it’s not there now, where is it? In other words, what price the killer took it? And if that’s so, did you find it in George’s room? And if you didn’t, what price George isn’t the killer? You’re a good cop, young Ike, and I’ve no doubt your boss is, too, but sometimes, you policemen run on rails so straight that you can’t see the wood for the trees.” He paused to let the mixed metaphors sink in. “People are creatures of habit, and if Jennifer Hardy took her laptop everywhere with her, then she also brought it here. George Robson is a creature of habit, too. No way would he steal a laptop because he isn’t a thief, and he’d have no use for it himself. He doesn’t need the money, so he wouldn’t be looking to sell it. If he killed her, he would have legged it hell for leather out of that room, and he wouldn’t have hung around to nick a computer he doesn’t need.” Joe shivered in the chill and took a final drag on his cigarette before crushing it out on the wall-mounted stubber. “Think about it, son.”

  He turned back into the hotel, and just as suddenly paused, turned and came back out. “One other thing, Ike. Patterson tells me the contents of Jennifer Hardy’s handbag were spilled all over the floor.”

  Barrett tutted. “That’s right, Mr Murray, they were.”

  “What’s your thinking on that?”

  The young officer shrugged. “We believe she was reaching into the bag for the eyeliner pencil and the piece of paper to draw that little sketch we found.”

  “You mean Dockerty believes that?” Joe pressed.

  “It’s a working theory, sir. No more.”

  “But if someone stole her laptop it means he was in the room long enough to see her do that and…” Joe left the suggestion hanging in the air.

  Barrett sighed. “I take your point, sir, and I’ll mention it to Chief Inspector Dockerty.”

  Joe grinned. “Good lad. You’ll make a sound detective one of these days. Was there anything unusual about the contents? Anything missing, for example?”

  “If it was missing, how would we know?” Barrett countered.

  Joe laughed this time. “I’ll tell you something, Ike. I was married for ten years of sheer hell. I hated almost every minute of it and I was glad when it was over. But even so, I got to know about the kind of junk a woman carries in her handbag. You say you’re married and yet you’re telling me you don’t?”

  “Oh, right. I see what you mean. No, there was nothing unusual. Everything was there as far as I can remember. The usual rubbish: makeup, eyeliners, even a can of hairspray.”

  “Mobile phone, diary, address book?”

  Barrett frowned. “The phone was there, certainly. The chief insisted I pick it up and check the call logs. I found that photograph on it before I bagged it up after the forensic men had finished photographing the scene. But I don’t recall seeing a diary or an address book.”

  Joe smiled. “So where did she get the piece of paper to draw her little clue on?”

  Chapter Seven

  Chief Inspector Dockerty glowered thunder at Joe. “It’s less than two hours since we last spoke and you’ve done exactly what I asked you not to do.”

  Seated in the manager’s office where he had been 90 minutes earlier, Joe maintained an air of implacable calm.

  Dockerty, his features drawn, tired, was anything but. “I do not need amateur Sherlocks shoving their bloody oar into what is, as far as I’m concerned, a simple case of shenanigans gone wrong.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Joe’s apparent acquiescence threw Dockerty. “What?”

  “I said, I couldn’t agree more,” Joe repeated. “You don’t need an amateur like me sticking his nose into an open and shut case. The trouble is, you don’t have an open and shut case. You have something more complex and you won’t admit it.”

  Dockerty heaved out a frustrated sigh. Resting his forearms on the desk, leaning his considerable weight o
n them, he demanded, “I suppose you know who killed Jennifer Hardy, do you?”

  “No. Unlike you, I don’t. Y’see, Dockerty, that’s one of the differences between us. I don’t know who killed her, but you’ve already persuaded yourself that it was George, and that’s blinding you to other possibilities. I don’t think it’s him, but my belief is based on nothing more than personal knowledge of the man, and I’m ready to admit, I could be wrong. You’re not.”

  Dockerty opened his mouth to protest, but Joe talked right over him.

  “Another difference is, I ask questions of myself, whereas you ask them of other people.”

  “In that case, you should ask yourself about the penalties for attempting to pervert the course of justice,” the Chief Inspector warned. “You asked Constable Barrett about certain matters, and knowledge of those matters may prejudice a trial.” He glared at his subordinate. “And he should have known better than to give you answers.”

  Joe dropped his pretence at calm civility and launched a full frontal attack. “I asked Ike questions that any good defence lawyer would ask. I’m simply trying to save you and the taxpayers a hell of a lot of time and money on an investigation that started on the wrong foot and is heading in the wrong direction.”

  The Chief Inspector exhaled again, louder this time, and when he spoke, his voice chewed spit. “What do I have to do to get through to you?”

  “That’s a question I could ask of you, Dockerty. As far as I’m concerned, all you have to do is tell me what I need to know,” Joe urged. “Accept my help in the spirit in which it’s offered. I’m here to help, not embarrass you.”

  “And I keep saying, I don’t need your help.”

  “And I think you do. Let’s take a simple example. Have you had the post mortem result yet?”

  “Yes. The pathologist rang his preliminary report through about twenty minutes ago, but it didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know. Jennifer Hardy died from the blow to her head.”

  “Had she had sex?”

  Dockerty nodded.

  “And was her partner George Robson?”

  “It’s too early to say,” the Chief Inspector countered.

  “Bull,” Joe retorted. “A full DNA analysis will take two to three days, but you can get enough from early samples to identify George. Was it him?”

  “Yessssss.” The word came out as a hiss.

  Joe shrugged. “There you are, y’see. George had had her. Why, then, did he kill her?”

  “We don’t know,” Dockerty responded, “because he denies everything.”

  “And it couldn’t be that he’s telling the truth?”

  “At the moment,” the Chief Inspector reminded Joe, “we have no other suspects.”

  “And I gave you three earlier today, including myself. I can also give you two more.”

  “All right,” Dockerty amended his statement, “we have no other suspects who were known to be in her room during the night.”

  “Show me the photographs of the room,” Joe demanded.

  “Give me one good reason why I should,” Dockerty countered.

  “Because she knew her killer and I know it wasn’t George. It was someone in one of the rooms on the second floor, which means it was a member of the Leodensian Historical Society, not the Sanford Third Age Club. The way her room was left may give me a clue to that person’s identity.”

  The two police officers exchanged glances. “How do you know it was someone from the second floor?” Dockerty demanded.

  Joe explained it the way he had told his two companions earlier, and concluded, “It had to be either a guest from the second floor or a member of the hotel staff. Andy Glenn would have told you of a crew member covered in blood and wine, and he didn’t or you would have hauled the suspect in, therefore it had to be a guest, and the only guests on the first and second floors are with the LHS party.”

  “This is all supposition and I’m not about to release George Robson based on your assumptions.”

  “I’m not asking you to, but a simple way to sort it out would be to ask whether any of the night staff noticed blood or wine stains on the carpets.”

  “Mr Glenn never mentioned anything, sir,” Barrett reported. “But he did tell me he’d had no reports from the night staff of anything out of the ordinary.”

  “And we can’t ask him anything further until tonight when he comes back on duty, so I still refuse to release Robson.” Dockerty smirked. “Which way are you going to go next, Murray? Are you going to plead that I’m ruining Robson’s Christmas?”

  Joe shook his head and smiled. “If I had my way, I’d strike Christmas from the calendar, so I don’t really care if you’re ruining his holiday. George might when he sues for wrongful arrest.” A study of Dockerty’s face told Joe that the Chief Inspector was not impressed. “Do us all a favour, Dockerty. Let me have a look at the photographs your people took of the crime scene.”

  Dockerty’s features screwed in a mask of fury and frustration. He reached across the desk and snatched the case file from beneath Barrett’s arms. Opening it, he pulled out a small folder of photographs and handed them over.

  They were monochrome, but Joe found the light balance strong enough to distinguish everything on them. He barely glanced at those showing Jennifer’s full body and the close ups of her head wound, putting the pictures to one side.

  “I’m not a medico,” he explained to Barrett, “and I’m not a ghoul.”

  He reached a mid shot of Jennifer’s outstretched right hand and the handbag items nearby. Two makeup brushes, a compact, a small case of eye-shadow, a few tissues, her mobile telephone, and as Barrett had said, a canister of hairspray. On the edge of the picture, its cover smeared in what Joe imagined would be either wine, blood, or an unpleasant mixture of the two, lay a copy of Missing Pennies, the white box containing its barcode, where the ISBN would normally be found, plainly visible. Just beyond the reach of her fingers was the scrap of paper upon which she had drawn her final, cryptic message.

  “Curious,” he muttered.

  “What is?” Dockerty asked.

  Joe leaned across the desk, with the photograph held so that he could point out his problem and the Chief Inspector could see.

  “The drawing is an inch, maybe less, from her fingers. She put it down and let it go as she died. No problem with that. The paper is a little scrunched up, as if she’s been holding it in a dying hand. No problem with that, either. Where’s the eyeliner pencil she drew the diagram with?”

  “A little further out,” Dockerty said, “and near her left hand.”

  “So she was a southpaw?”

  The Chief Inspector shrugged. “Is it important?”

  “It could be. I’ll check with Patterson,” Joe said. “But that’s not what I noticed. It’s the diagram itself. It’s the other way up from the way you showed it to me.”

  He pointed at the diagram and its altered orientation.

  

  “If it was like that when you found it, how come you showed it to me the other way up?”

  “It was the only way it made sense, sir,” Barrett said.

  “Was it?”

  Dockerty suddenly appeared alert to other possibilities. “Are you telling me it could make sense that way up, Murray?” Dockerty demanded.

  “Yes, but I’ll have to check my facts before I commit myself.” Joe drummed his fingers on the desk a moment. “Gimme a pen and a piece of paper, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

  Barrett handed over the implements and Joe scrawled ‘p o’ on the paper. He showed it to them.

  “P, O,” he said. “That could mean post office, couldn’t it?” Both detectives nodded. Joe flipped the paper over. “Now look at it.”

  The letters now read, ‘o d’.

  “O, D,” Joe declared. “Overdosed.”

  “Are you suggesting this was drug related?” Dockerty demanded.

  Joe let out a frustrated sigh. “No. I used those letters because it
was the only example I could come up with off the top of my head. What I’m trying to point out is that when you turn the letters p and o upside down, you get o and d, and they mean completely different things. There is no correlation between post office and overdose. So if you turn Jennifer Hardy’s last message over, it has nothing to do with sex, and something to do with a church.”

  “A church?” Barrett was surprised. “Where do you get that from?”

  Joe pointed to the photograph and the inverted stick figure on the drawing. “A circle with a cross on top is one of a number of symbols used to denote a church.” He looked from one policeman to the other. “Was she religious?”

  Dockerty shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. Patterson would know. Regardless of what that symbol means, the curved arrows still indicate sexual goings on to me.”

  “And I told you my interpretation of them earlier.” Joe sighed. “The only one who really knows isn’t going to tell us, either, because she’s dead.”

  Leaning back, he put the photograph to one side and skimmed through the rest. There were various views of the body and the room in general. A small tray of glasses, one or two still containing liquid, which Joe assumed to be spirits, Jennifer’s valise stood alongside the wardrobe, and one picture of the interior of the wardrobe, showing a few items of clothing.

  “No laptop,” Joe muttered.

  “Barrett told me you mentioned that. I still don’t see where it’s important.”

  “It’s important because it’s missing, Dockerty,” Joe responded. “Was it stolen? If so, you could be dealing with more than one crime, and you’d have to look at the hotel’s night crew. I’m sure Andy Glenn isn’t the only member of staff to have a pass key. The cleaners would need one, too.”

  “Day cleaners, perhaps,” Barrett commented. “You couldn’t have anyone wandering round the hotel during the night carrying pass keys.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying,” Joe advised him. “I meant that there must be more than one pass key. What’s the hotel policy on securing them?”

  “Pointless exercise, Murray,” Dockerty said. “The first people interviewed after Patterson, were the night team, and no one, not one person, was covered in blood or wine. You said yourself that the killer must have been soaked.” He frowned. “It’s about the only thing we’ve been able to agree on.”