A Murder for Christmas

by David W Robinson

  “So you interviewed the night crew and didn’t ask whether they’d seen anyone else covered in blood and wine?”

  “We didn’t need to,” Dockerty retorted. “We’d already arrested Robson. And to answer your question, Barrett told you earlier, Glenn had had no reports of anything unusual.”

  “Straight rails, woods and trees,” Joe muttered to Dockerty’s puzzlement. “Anyway, I’m not talking about her murder. I’m talking about her missing laptop. Think about it. Glenn goes up to the room, finds her dead. He comes out of there, hurries back down to reception to call you guys. Some chancer working for the hotel is on the second floor carrying a pass key and decides to take a peek. He spots the laptop and presto, it’s his … or hers.”

  “This is assuming she had a laptop.”

  “Creature of habit,” Joe retorted. “I told Barrett about it earlier. She never went anywhere without it.”

  “It’s a low priority at the moment,” Dockerty said. “All right, all right, I’ll concede you may be right, but I have more important issues to deal with. Like nicking the killer before he strikes again.” He glared. “Or getting George Robson to confess.”

  Joe passed the photographs back and got to his feet. “You keep trying, Dockerty, and in the meantime I’ll speak to one or two people. See if I can get some sense out of them.”

  “You keep me informed, Murray.”

  Joe smiled crookedly. “Naturally.”

  ***

  Emerging from the manager’s office, going back to the lounge, he spotted his two friends in the same corner as he had left them when called to see Dockerty. Les Tanner and Sylvia Goodson, and Alec and Julia Staines had joined them and the look of anticipation on their faces when he appeared told him they were waiting for news.

  He gave them a wave and was about to cross the floor and join them, when Patterson waylaid him.

  “Is everything all right, Joe?”

  Joe nodded and indicated a nearby vacant table. “It is now,” he said as they took seats. “Dockerty is beginning to see sense and has at least agreed to let me poke around.” He took out his tobacco and cigarette papers. “I think you may be able to help me here, Tom.”

  “Anything,” Patterson agreed and gestured at Joe’s cigarette. “You can’t smoke in here…”

  “I know, I know,” Joe interrupted. “Why does everyone keep reminding me about the damned no smoking rules?”

  Patterson did not appear put out by Joe’s abrupt retort. “I was about to suggest, Joe, that we step out to the front entrance and enjoy a cigarette while we talk.”

  “Oh. I forgot you’re a smoker too.” Joe rolled his smoke quickly and slipped the tobacco tin back in his pocket. “All right. Let’s do that.”

  As they rose, Sheila made frantic motions for him to join them. Joe shook his head, held up his hand, the fingers outstretched, and mouthed ‘five minutes’ at her.

  After explaining their purpose to the constable on duty at the lounge door, they moved to the outside and shivered in the cold as they lit cigarettes.

  “Now,” Patterson said, drawing in a luxurious lungful of smoke and letting it out with a hiss, “how can I help, Joe?”

  “The cops spend too much of their time investigating the killer and not enough looking at the victim,” Joe declared. “I always prefer to look into the victim, first. Especially when I’m convinced the police are wrong, as they are now.”

  Patterson chuckled. “You’re very confident of that.”

  “It’s all about knowing people, Tom. Look at it this way. You spend your life studying historical maps, yeah? I spend my life serving people meals. Those meals and the general appearance of my customers tell me lots about them. The guy who comes into my place with a huge belly ain’t gonna be fussed for low fat spread on his sausage sandwich, and the wafer thin chicken is more likely to want a yoghurt and camomile tea than that same sausage sandwich. You understand?”

  Patterson nodded and Joe relit his cigarette.

  “So I need to know about Jennifer Hardy,” Joe went on. “Yeah, I know you’ve told me some things, but I need to know more.”

  “For example?”

  Joe blew a thin cloud of smoke into the freezing air and looked up and down the street. One or two people wearing their Sunday best could be seen, but few others. Churchgoers, Joe decided, just leaving the Christmas service, perhaps looking for a pub or restaurant that may be open.

  He swung his focus back on Patterson. “Last night, you painted a picture of this saintly academic who’d lost out on love and yet a couple of hours later, she jumped into bed with George Robson.”

  Patterson puffed on his cigarette and frowned. “Do we know that for sure?”

  “George has admitted it to the police,” Joe said with a nod. He drew on his cigarette again. “The cops have had a preliminary report from the pathologist who also confirmed that she had had sex before she died. Dockerty just told me that, and trust me, when George Robson is on the prowl, there’s only one candidate for laying her. George was telling the truth when he admitted it to the police.”

  Patterson appeared disturbed by Joe’s workmanlike candour. “I see,” he said and puffed again at his cigarette.

  “All I need to know, Tom, is what Jennifer was like in reality. Don’t worry about speaking ill of the dead or anything. I’m not about to judge her. Was she a bit, you know, easy with her favours?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Patterson appeared genuinely shocked. “I’ve known her a good number of years, Joe, and I can honestly say that she was a faithful and loving wife to her ex-husband, and the only other man with whom she’s been involved, to my knowledge at any rate, is Dennis Wright.” He took another anxious drag on his cigarette. “On the other hand, I have seen her brush off many a man in the time we’ve worked together.”

  “Rudely? Abruptly?” Joe asked. “Or did she let them down gently?”

  “I’ve seen her do both,” Patterson confessed. “She was firm yet gentle with me. But she could be curt with others, especially if they were too pushy.”

  “Like Oliver Quinton and Warren Kirkland?”

  “I didn’t see the incident,” Patterson said, “but the way you described it sounds about right.” He tutted. “I warned her about those two months ago. Especially that Quinton. Terrible little man. I’ve always found him to be completely detestable.”

  Joe agreed, but was not about to say so. “Last night was completely out of character then?” he asked. “Jumping George, I mean.”

  Patterson nodded. “I can only assume she had, er, over-imbibed. I told you, she had no head for alcohol. An excess of drink and the seasonal, party thing, coupled to your friend’s charm probably turned her head.”

  Joe frowned and stubbed his cigarette out, wondering idly to himself how he had managed to finish smoking first even though his roll-up needed frequent relighting. Dismissing the speculation as nothing more than that, he said, “I really have a problem with that, Tom.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m not doubting you,” Joe urged, “but it really gives me a headache.”

  Patterson, too, stubbed out his cigarette. “How so?”

  “Well, see, when people behave out of character, something has to spark it. If the fat slob comes into my café and orders a yoghurt and camomile tea instead of the sausage sandwich he usually has, I know that something has prompted him to do that. He coulda been reading about how unhealthy his diet was, he could have had chest pains and got scared of a heart attack, or maybe his wife was nagging him to get some blubber off. Y’see?”

  “I do,” Patterson agreed.

  “So here I am confronted with a woman who’s chaste and gives in to being chased.” Joe grinned at his witticism. It was only when Patterson did not, that he realised the gag would look better on paper. “I said chaste, y’see: C-H-A-S-T-E. Then I said … Yeah, well, never mind. The thing is, it was out of character for Jennifer to jump George last night, and something must have prompted her to
do that.”

  “I understand that.” Patterson fiddled with an expensive-looking, gold cigarette lighter. “Listen, Joe, it’s not my place to cast aspersions, but the man you really need to speak to is Dennis Wright.”

  “You think so?”

  Patterson nodded and dropped the lighter in his jacket pocket. “Jennifer and Wright had an affair, so I’m led to believe, when she was in America last year. The argument you overheard in Debenhams yesterday was something to do with that affair. I believe that she took to your friend last night in an attempt to make Wright jealous, and you suggested as much yourself, didn’t you? When you were watching them from the bar. Or at least that’s how Wright explained it to me when we were talking.”

  “Did he now?” Joe stroked his chin. “I’ll have a word with him. Thanks, Tom.” Joe racked his brain. “There is just one other thing, and I don’t know whether you’ll be able to answer me or not. Was Jennifer given to playing, er, games?”

  Patterson frowned. “Games? She used to play badminton when she was younger, but –”

  “I don’t mean those kinda games,” Joe interrupted. “I mean adult games.”

  Patterson blushed. “I’m hardly the man to ask. Dennis Wright, now, he may know, but I shouldn’t think he’d be willing to answer. Why do you ask?”

  Joe replied with a question. “How did Jennifer introduce George to you?”

  “The Director of Leisure Services for Sanford Borough Council. The police later told me he was actually a gardener for your council.”

  “That’s correct,” Joe admitted. “George claims Jennifer asked him to pose as the Director of Leisure Services. She promised him a good time if he agreed, and I know George. Anything for a laugh, anything to score another notch on his bedhead. He’d go along with it as long as it wasn’t criminal. There’s something else, too. Jennifer took a picture of him with her mobile phone, and she asked him to put on this strange pose.” Patterson’s face coloured again and Joe hurried on to reassure the man. “It was nothing, er, naughty. She made him hold a Julio Iglesias CD.”

  “Oh, yes. Detective Constable Barrett showed me the image. He was trying to confirm Mr Robson’s identity. Curious, isn’t it?”

  “Not half,” Joe agreed. “George couldn’t stand Julio Iglesias.” More seriously, he went on, “Why would she do that?”

  The other shrugged. “I really have no idea, Joe. As I said, the best man to speak to is Dennis Wright. He knew her, in that sense, far better than I.”

  They turned to enter the hotel, glad of the warmth as they strode along the rich carpets to the lounge.

  “Did you mention the laptop to the police?” Patterson asked.

  Joe nodded. “I did. They don’t think it’s too important and it may be that an opportunist thief took it.”

  “It’s important, Joe,” Patterson urged. “At least, it is to her family and colleagues. She stored most of her work on there. A man like Dennis Wright won’t take too kindly to finding his manuscript coming out under a different title by some plagiarist who got it off that computer.”

  Joe agreed. “Sure. I take your point. I’ll mention it to Dockerty when we meet again.”

  They parted company in reception. While Patterson returned to the lounge, Joe took the lift to the third floor and his room.

  In its promotional literature, which Joe had received back in September, the Regency boasted of ‘free wireless internet access in all rooms’, and in the light of Jennifer’s death, it was time, he decided, to check up on one or two people.

  Sitting at the escritoire, he booted up his netbook, and while he waited, he stared sombrely through the windows.

  The Headrow and the Town Hall were as devoid of life as Park Row had been when he stood at the entrance with Patterson. A snowplough/gritter rumbled along the road, shifting snow to the gutter and spreading a wake of rock salt across the carriageway, turning the surface from virgin white to a dirty brown as it passed. One or two people trudged the pavements heading for the city centre. Joe assumed them to be bar or restaurant workers. Who else would be plodding along at this hour on Christmas Day?

  The netbook beeped to let him know it was ready. Joe double-clicked the internet browser and to his satisfaction, the machine picked up the wireless connection, and took him to his homepage.

  He typed ‘Dr Dennis Wright’ into the search box and a second later had over forty million results.

  He picked up a Wiki entry and read through it.

  As he anticipated, it was a detailed account a Wright’s past and his career to date, his specialisation the history of coinage as far back as Ancient Greece and Turkey, which was generally accepted as the birth of currency.

  At the foot of the page, just before the references, were notes on Wright’s personal life; his two divorces, both acrimonious, and a brief note on a Florida real estate scam in which he and many other ‘investors’ had been duped out of millions of dollars. Wright’s personal losses were estimated in the region of one hundred thousand dollars.

  About to shut down the browser, Joe paused. Dennis Wright was not the only person Jennifer Hardy had argued with the previous day. He typed Warren Kirkland into the search box and waited.

  He picked up a company bio, but nothing other than Kirkland’s management skills and his hobbies amongst which were golf and coin collecting.

  Satisfied, he typed in Oliver Quinton and again waited.

  He did not expect much, and was surprised to find a Wiki page on him. He was even more surprised at what he read there. So surprised, that it caused him to laugh evilly to himself as he shut down both the browser and the computer.

  Making his way down to the lounge to rejoin his companions, Joe looked around the room. Not for the first time it struck him that they had divided into their separate camps: the Leodensian Historical Society on one side of the vast room, the Sanford Third Age Club on the other, and in the middle, close to the bar, a sort of no-man’s land, where he and Patterson had talked earlier, like opposing commanders trying to negotiate a truce. Under the windows at the far end of the room, police officers were still interviewing individuals, and closer to him, Sheila was waving urgently at him again.

  He hurried over. “What? What is it? Have you found something out?”

  “No,” she replied. “We’re sat here waiting to hear what you’ve learned.”

  “Yes, come on Joe,” said Julia Staines, “We want all the juicy details.”

  Joe fumed and insinuated himself between Sheila and Brenda. “There’s nothing to tell. The cops won’t let George go because they’re still convinced he killed her.”

  “Spotted you talking to the enemy,” Captain Tanner insisted.

  “They’re not the enemy,” Joe retorted. “They’re like us. They’ve lost one of their friends and so have we … at least we have until Dockerty sees sense and starts looking for the real killer.”

  “Oh, but Joe,” Sylvia Goodson said, “won’t you get into trouble talking to Tom Patterson? The police may think you’re colluding on your statements.”

  “Good point,” Alec Staines cheered.

  Sheila shook her head. “Joe has already been interviewed and so has Mr Patterson. I think Joe is right. These people are not our enemy.”

  Brenda scanned the room. “You could have fooled me. This is like Christmas in the Great War, when the troops ceased fire for a day.”

  “But they played football together,” Joe pointed out. “Right now, we’re not even talking to one another.”

  Chapter Eight

  The bar opened at 12 noon and people drifted slowly to it. Joe noticed that even here, there was a strict divide between the LHS and STAC members, and where they did speak, it was polite but cursory; pleasantries, not conversation.

  With Alec and Julia Staines, Tanner and Sylvia drifting off for more stimulating company amongst the STAC members, Joe secured drinks for himself, Sheila and Brenda and then told them what Tom Patterson had said to him.

  They listened
to Joe’s analysis that something had happened to change Jennifer Hardy, but while Sheila chewed her lip introspectively, Brenda was more forthright.

  “There’s no way she would do that, no matter what had happened,” she declared.

  “What do you mean?” Joe asked.

  “Listen to the voice of experience,” Brenda advised. “Sex is sacrosanct. It is the most intimate thing a man and woman can do together. This Hardy woman might have flirted with George to make Dennis Wright jealous, but no way would she have gone to bed with him unless she was that way inclined.”

  Joe snapped his head the other way, his eyebrows raised to take in Sheila’s opinion.

  “Brenda has a point,” Sheila confirmed. “Jumping into bed with George is a little extreme, and anyway, how would Dennis Wright know about it? He can’t be jealous if he doesn’t know, can he?”

  “She could have planned to tell him this morning.”

  “Even so,” Brenda interjected, “she didn’t have to actually do it. If she wanted to make Dennis Wright jealous, all she had to do was what she did. Flirt with George last night, and then tell Wright they’d done it this morning. She didn’t really have to go through with it. Wright could have lost his temper, threatened George or whatever, George would have denied it, but that wouldn’t wash with a jealous man.”

  “Or woman,” Sheila pointed out.

  “Or woman,” Brenda agreed. “Wright would still believe they had. So, if George really had her last night, then it’s because she was the kind of woman who lets her knickers down. Obviously, we’re assuming that they did actually do it, that George isn’t lying about it to beef up his reputation.”

  Joe gawped. “Beef up his reputation? He’s been charged with murder, for crying out loud. Who’s he trying to impress? Lucrezia Borgia?”

  “So we assume that George did the business with her?” Brenda said.

  “Joe told us that the police have DNA,” Sheila reminded her. “It may be too early for a perfect match, but it will be enough to say yes or no.”