A Murder for Christmas

by David W Robinson

  “Can I help you, sir?” He injected sufficient inflection into the word ‘sir’ to tell Joe that what he really meant was ‘clear off, scum’.

  “Er, no, no. That’s all right. I’m staying here, see, and I think I threw my camera into the waste bin by accident. In my room. You know. I was wondering about getting it back.”

  “I see, sir,” said the security officer, lending Joe the impression that he did not believe a word. “Well, I would recommend that you have a word in reception and ask them to get someone out to go through the bins.”

  “I did. And they were, er, uncooperative, shall we say.”

  The security man came closer to the gates. “Now listen, sunshine, it’s Christmas and I’m thinking peace and goodwill to all men, but if you don’t bugger off, I’ll call the cops.”

  “No need,” Joe said as he turned to retrace his steps. “The place is already swarming with them.”

  He trudged the pavements again, back into the hotel, kicking the snow from his trainers, and approached reception, where the same redhead he had spoken to before lunch, was on the phone.

  “Thank you,” she said into the phone, “I’ll deal with it.” She put the receiver down and gave Joe a thin smile. “Yes, Mr Murray, how can I help you?”

  “We talked before lunch about my camera in the bins. I’ve just been to the gates and your security man wouldn’t let me in.”

  “Yes, I know.” She eyed the telephone. “That was him calling to report some tramp, his description, not mine, who’d been looking for somewhere to doss. Again, his words, not mine.”

  Joe smarted at the insults. “If I was prone to spending money, I could buy and sell a dozen like him … and you.”

  “Now look, sir, we’re well aware of people who search through rubbish looking for letters and such that contain names and addresses. It’s called identity theft, and…”

  “Listen to me, lady,” Joe interrupted. “A woman was killed here last night, and I think a vital piece of evidence was thrown into those bins.”

  Alarm spread across her face. “Well, shouldn’t you tell the police?”

  “I did, but they’re like you. Too eager to close the case and hang an innocent man, so they can go home for their Christmas dinner.”

  “I’m not doing anything of the kind. I am simply…”

  “Giving me indigestion is what you’re doing,” Joe cut in again. “If that thing is left in those bins, the wagon will come for it the day after tomorrow and the real killer may get away with it. Now cut me some slack, will you? Let me get out there and check those bags.”

  “It really is most irregular,” she complained.

  “Whereas finding a murdered woman in one of your rooms is a common occurrence, is it?” Racking his brain for an argument, Joe went on, “If I have to get tough with the cops, they’ll order all that crap behind your hotel to stay where it is until every bag has been checked. In a day or two it’ll start to stink. That’s not gonna do much for the Regency’s reputation, is it? And you know what the law’s like when it comes to searches? They never tidy up after they’re done.”

  Brimming with frustration, the receptionist snatched up the telephone and after a brief, muttered conversation, slammed it down again. Leaning across the counter so she could keep her voice down, she whispered, “Go to the bar. They’ll let you out into the rear yard. But, Mr Murray, please try to keep the mess to a minimum.”

  Joe grinned. “No problem. Hey, I’m in the same business as you, and I know how important these things are.”

  Leaving reception, he hurried past the dining hall door, where the choir were now running through Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and entered the lounge bar. He was halfway to the bar when Dockerty called him over. He diverted his course and joined the Chief Inspector and Barrett by the windows where they were gathering together the multitude of statements they had taken.

  “Ike and I are leaving any time now but we’ll be back first thing tomorrow. Are you any further ahead, Mr Murray?”

  “A little,” Joe admitted, “but nothing I can put a finger on at the moment. I promised I’d keep you informed, Dockerty, and I will, but I don’t want to add more conjecture to that you’re already dreaming up against George.”

  “Yes, well, on that score I’ve had a word with my colleagues at Millgarth Street and they’ve concluded their initial interrogation of George Robson. In view of the, shall we say, thin evidence against him, I’ve decided to release him on police bail. The conditions are quite clear. He must return to the Regency and stay here until Tuesday morning, when he will be required to attend the station again. Considering you’re the man in charge of the Sanford party, I hope you’ll be willing to support us in this move.”

  The last thing Joe wanted was to be responsible for George, but if he refused, he knew Dockerty would rescind the decision, and there were questions he wanted to ask of George, so he agreed with a vigorous nod of the head. “Sure. No problem. If I have to, I’ll bring him to the station myself on Tuesday morning.”

  “Good.” Dockerty reached into his wallet and took out a business card. “It has my mobile number on it,” he said. “I’m not particularly on call, but if you turn up anything, ring me.”

  Joe tucked the card in his back pocket. “I will.”

  He retraced his steps to the bar and after a brief word with the staff, and under the puzzled eye of Dockerty and Barrett, he found himself ushered through the back door and out into the bitter cold of the rear yard where the same security officer who had shooed him from the gates, waited for him.

  Joe realised instantly that there was more to the yard than he had been able to see from the street. Aside from the two large bins, there were others stood further back, designated for recyclable materials, and a baler for cardboard. There were also additional, smaller bins, which Joe recognised instantly. Kitchen waste. And they were ranged alongside more receptacles for broken glass. Aside from those, there were stacks of galvanised beer barrels, and crates full of empty bottles racked up near the bar exit, alongside CO2 cylinders, again presumably empty.

  The security man raised his cap and scratched his forehead when Joe came out.

  “You really are staying here?”

  “Yes,” Joe replied, “and I’ll thank you not to describe me as a tramp. You can’t afford to dress as scruffily as me.”

  “Well, I didn’t know, did I? Do you know how many homeless scruffs and alkies we get trying to sneak into the yard, looking for bottles of beer with dregs left in them, or trying to find somewhere to kip for the night?”

  “I run a café in Sanford, so I can imagine,” Joe told him. “Now, you know what I’m doing?”

  “According to the desk, you’re gonna root through that lot, looking for summat.” He waved at the heap of bags surrounding the bin and Joe’s heart sank. The two large bins were overflowing with bags, and they were also stacked, three and four high, on the ground all around the bins.

  “I know what I’m looking for,” Joe explained. “I don’t need to empty any of the bags, but the one that contains the item I’m after.”

  “Your camera?”

  Joe eyed him sourly. “Yeah. Something like that. Now are you gonna stand there all day or are you gonna give me a hand?”

  He looked shocked. “Me? Not bloody likely. Sorting through bags of crap isn’t in my job description.”

  “And we wonder why the country’s in the state it’s in. Clear off and let me get on with it.”

  With an annoyed shake of the head, Joe began work on the bags. His policy was simple. Starting with the uppermost bags surrounding the bins, he picked them up and judged the weight. If a bag felt heavy, he would shake it, and if it felt like there was an individual item of considerable weight moving around inside it, he would then feel the bag, seeking the shape of a laptop computer.

  The process helped eliminate a good proportion of the bags without him having to investigate their contents further, although he had several false alarms,
one of which turned out to be nothing more sinister than a broken fan heater, the kind he kept at floor level in his flat above the Lazy Luncheonette.

  In less than thirty minutes, he had checked all the bags on the ground and was ready to climb up and start on those in the bins. Wandering further along the yard, he rolled an empty beer barrel to the bins, stood it upright and climbed on it, acutely aware of the security officer watching him through the windows of his tiny office.

  Work on the bins was harder. To begin with, the only way Joe could move the upper layers out of the way was to cast them aside, mostly to the ground, from where he would have to pick them up when he was finished. To make matters worse, the afternoon light had begun to fade as heavy cloud swept in threatening more snow, and he was less than halfway down the first bin when the early flakes began to fall. By the time he could see the bottom of that first bin, it was snowing heavily, he was freezing cold and being so short of stature, he struggled to reach the bottom layer, practically tipping himself in the bin each time he reached in.

  And it was all to no avail. Although he checked several suspect bags, the computer was not there.

  Climbing off the beer barrel, he spent another ten minutes throwing the bags back into the bin, by which time his back hurt, his icy hands were blue and he was no longer sure whether his nose was still attached to his freezing face.

  Moving the barrel over, his teeth chattering, he climbed up and began the process again.

  “It’s amazing just how much rubbish a few people can create in less than a day,” he muttered to the fading light.

  The bin emptied rapidly and he began to despair of finding the machine at all. As each bag returned nothing, he became more and more convinced that some sneak thief had entered Jennifer Hardy’s room between the night manager finding her and calling the law, and stolen the thing.

  And then, just as he was about to give up altogether, he found it. Too heavy for the ordinary detritus of a hotel room, a solid object had settled to the bottom of the bag, and when he felt it, he traced the flat, square outline of a laptop computer, and despite his discomfort, notwithstanding his freezing skin and bones, his face split into a broad grin.

  Climbing off the beer barrel, he carefully untied the knot in the neck of the bag, and peered in. It was filled with tissues, scraps of paper, till receipts, empty cigarette packets, and at the bottom, another black bag. Reaching in, Joe pulled it out, put it to one side, and fastened the larger bag back up. He spent another ten minutes throwing the bags back into the bin and then picked up his prize.

  Again, carefully picking the knot apart, he peered in. One small, netbook computer, not unlike his, and a small, ornate, hard backed notebook. Jennifer Hardy’s diary!

  He was tempted to reach in, touch it, as it if it were some religious icon and the mere laying on of hands would solve all his problems. “Fingerprints, Joe,” he muttered to himself.

  The security officer emerged from his office again. “You done here, sport?”

  Joe nodded. “I found what I was looking for,” he said.

  The other man shook his head. “All I can say is, I hope it was worth it.”

  Joe smiled wanly. “So do I.”

  ***

  With the clock registering 3:15, Joe entered through the bar and hurried out into the lobby, past the dining room where the guests were now watching the Queen’s Christmas message on large screen TVs, and made for the lifts. The cold had permeated his thick, winter clothing and he was still shivering when he let himself into his room. He was eager to get at the computer, but that was not his primary consideration. His jeans and jumper were dirty, and he had an idea he probably stunk to the high heavens, too, but he dismissed the idea of a shower. What he needed was a soak in a hot bath.

  Leaving his prize in the wardrobe, he took out clean clothing, and wondering what on earth he would do for something warm to wear on the journey home, he settled into the bath and allowed the hot water to circulate, sink into every pore and thaw him out.

  A quarter of an hour later, he climbed out and was towelling off when a knock came on the door. With an irritated cluck, he wrapped the towel around his midriff, padded across the richly carpeted room, and peered through the door viewer to see Brenda on the other side, her busty figure caricatured by the fish-eye lens.

  He opened the door.

  “There you are,” she said, pushing her way past him. She turned and chuckled. “All ready for me, too.”

  “Knock it off, Brenda,” Joe ordered. “What do you want?”

  “George is back. The cops dropped him off ten minutes ago. Apparently, you’re responsible for him.”

  “I knew they were releasing him before I raided the dustbins,” Joe admitted. “You didn’t come up here to tell me that, so what do you want?”

  Brenda tapped her foot on the floor. “It’s quarter to four, Joe. We wondered where the hell you’d got to.”

  “The computer took a bit of finding,” he told her.

  “But you have it?”

  He nodded.

  “Then get yourself dressed, and let’s get back down to the bar and enjoy ourselves. There’s entertainment on, you know.” Brenda perched on the edge of the bed. “Course, there are other ways we could enjoy…”

  “I told you once, knock it off.” Joe tightened the towel at his waist. “Do you seriously think I could party downstairs while poor George is worrying himself half to death?”

  Brenda shrugged. “George is so worried he’s sinking pints like his life depends on it. And you can’t clear his name. There’s just one constable sitting outside Jennifer Hardy’s room on the second floor. Now come on, Joe, we’re supposed to be having a friendly Christmas together and Sheila and I were worried about you.”

  Joe picked up his clothing. “Worried about me? You’re only worried in case I don’t get back to Sanford to pay your wages. Wait there while I get dressed.” He made for the bathroom.

  “That’s not true, Joe, and you know it,” he heard Brenda say through the closed door. “We think a great deal of you. In fact, I think so much of you that I’d be prepared to…”

  “If I have to tell you one more time to knock it off, I’ll be sorting out your P45 come Wednesday.” Joe pulled on his trousers and fastened them up. Slipping his shirt on, he emerged from the bathroom and dug into a drawer for clean socks. “What’s this entertainment, anyway?” he asked as he sat down to put them on, “The Sound of Music or Star Wars on the big screens?”

  “No, there’s some kind of an act on, and the whisper is Santa’s going to turn up.”

  Pressing his stockinged feet into slip-ons, he pulled on his cardigan. “I wonder what he’s bringing me?”

  “A young blonde?” Brenda cackled.

  “I prefer brunettes. Come on.”

  Sheila had secured them seats at a table shared with George, the Staines and Les Tanner, and drinks were already set out when Joe and Brenda settled in with them.

  “So how are you, George?” Alec Staines asked.

  “Shell shocked,” he replied. “I couldn’t believe she was dead, and I couldn’t believe they thought I’d done it.” He turned worried eyes on Joe. “Have you got anywhere, yet?”

  Joe shook his head. “Some progress, but nothing definite. Not yet. Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll get you off.” He swung his attention to Tanner. “Hey up, Cap’n, where’s Sylvia? Sleeping it off?”

  Tanner smiled uncharacteristically on Joe. “You’ll find out soon enough, Murray.”

  “You know, Les, whenever you smile, I’m always reminded of a lion tripping over a lame zebra.”

  Tanner smiled again and stared pointedly at Joe’s thin arms. “There isn’t enough meat on you to fill a sandwich, old man. But your wallet would be worth having.”

  The lights dimmed and a spotlight shone on the stage. An announcer’s voice boomed from the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Christmas afternoon at The Regency Hotel. Here, now, to entertain you with songs from the
shows, please welcome, Miss Vicky Orleans.”

  While Joe wondered where anyone could find such an unimaginative stage name, the 30-something dark-haired singer took the stage and over the next half hour, to pre-recorded backing music, ran through a repertoire of songs from My Fair Lady, Oklahoma, South Pacific and West Side Story, eventually coming more up to date with numbers from Cats and Phantom of the Opera.

  Outside, darkness descended, snow fell again, and the streets remained deserted, while inside the four star hotel, inured and insulated from the ravages of the elements, the crowd enjoyed themselves, filling up on drink and vibrant entertainment.

  Never a great lover of musicals, Joe switched his brain into neutral; his few thoughts centred more on the computer hidden safely in his wardrobe and George Robson chewing agitatedly at his fingernails.

  At 4:45, Vicky Orleans brought Don’t Cry for Me Argentina to a quavering end and took a breath in the warmth of applause.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “You’re very kind. Now, we have a special treat for you. A very special guest and his wife have dropped in to wish you all a merry Christmas. Please put your hands together and welcome Santa and Mrs Claus.”

  Vicky gestured towards the main entrance and in walked Santa and his wife. The room erupted into spontaneous applause at their arrival, and while Joe readily recognised Sylvia Goodson, dressed as Mrs Claus, her Santa suit exaggerating her weight problems, he could not place the white-bearded man with her.

  The absurd couple made their way to the small stage, where Sylvia took the microphone from Vicky.

  Holding up her hand for silence, she said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the Leodensian Historical Society and the Sanford Third Age Club, we’re united in tragedy today at the terrible loss of a life. But there is something else that unites us. Good fortune. We who have so much at the side of many in this world that have so little. With that in mind, Santa,” she gestured at her companion, “has had a change of plan. Usually it is his task to give out gifts to those who have earned them through good and generous behaviour throughout the year.”