A Murder for Christmas

by David W Robinson

  “Complete tommyrot,” Patterson complained.

  “Is it?” Joe closed Sheila’s copy of the book and slid it across the table to Barrett. “Ike, check the ISBN in the barcode of Sheila’s book on the back cover, and compare it to the one on your copy.”

  Barrett read the 13-digit code and then turned his evidence bag over as instructed. “A barcode,” he said to Dockerty, “but no ISBN.”

  “This is absurd,” Patterson protested. “How could anyone afford the expense of having a single book published? The cost would be astronomical. And all for what? Sacrificing the reputation of a fellow academic? The whole thing is absurd.”

  Joe retorted, “It would be enough to sow the seeds of suspicion in the minds of the police and Wright would be charged with murder. Even if he were acquitted, there would always be those who suspected him. His professorship would be scotched, his reputation called into question. It would be enough to kick him back down the ladder a few rungs. And as for the cost of printing a book, have you ever heard of POD? Print on demand?”

  “There are plenty of suppliers online,” Barrett confirmed.

  Joe nodded. “I could get that book printed for less than a hundred pounds. I publish my own books, but I only ever have one copy of them done; I don’t attach an ISBN to them because they’re not for sale.”

  Patterson drew in his breath. “Everything I’ve heard could apply with equal force to Dr Wright.”

  Dockerty raised his eyebrows at Joe. “He has a point.”

  “No he doesn’t,” Joe disagreed, “The barcode on that fake copy is the printer’s code only, but it will identify the printer, and when you and young Ike track it you’ll find the printers and even if Tom gave Wright’s name and address as the buyer, they’ll have a credit card number that will bring you back to Leeds … Leeds, West Yorkshire, not Leeds, Alabama.” Joe took a breath. “But you won’t need to go to those extremes. You see, Tom made one final and fatal error.” He made one more foray into his carrier bag and came out with the tissue he had rescued from the bins. “Like an idiot, I threw this away this morning, and you almost got away with it, Tom. When you put the computer and diary in the waste bin in your room, you forgot you’d already thrown this in.”

  “A simple tissue,” Patterson objected.

  “Yeah. I thought that, too,” Joe said. “It was stuck to the diary in the bag where I found the computer. I peeled it off and dropped it in my bin, but it missed and stuck to my shoe. Then, at breakfast this morning, Brenda complained about a napkin sticking like glue to her sleeve, and I realised I’d have to go through bags of rubbish again to find it.” He passed it to Barrett. “Check it and you’ll find it smells of some kind of solvent.”

  “What about it?” Barrett asked.

  Joe called up the street photo again, and turning the computer so that Dockerty could see it, pointed to the Santa. “Like Quinton, Tom followed Wright and Jennifer round Leeds. Unlike Quinton, Tom did it disguised as Santa, and his motive had nothing to do with pennies. It was pure jealousy. No one would notice another Santa in a town full of them on Christmas Eve, but when he got back to the Regency, Saturday afternoon, he had to remove the beard.” He gestured at the tissue. “He used a solvent to get the glue off, but some of the glue stayed on the tissue and that’s what stuck it to Jennifer’s diary and my shoe. It’s also why Tom’s face appeared so blotchy when I commented on it in the bar. What I thought was a boozer’s blush was a skin reaction to either the glue or the solvent.” He eyed Dockerty. “If you get your imaging boys on the photograph and get them to remove the beard, you’ll find Tom’s face under it.” He smiled at Patterson.”

  Patterson shrugged “So I used tissues and solvent yesterday afternoon after Mrs Goodson and I made our charity collection. There’s nothing odd about that.”

  Joe shook his head. “You’re losing the plot again, Tom. I just told you, I salvaged that tissue along with the computer and diary from the bins yesterday afternoon. They were in a smaller bag, the kind that comes from the room. To get to the large bins outside, they had to have been disposed of on Saturday night or early Sunday morning, a good twelve hours before you came to the bar dressed as Santa. That can’t be the tissue you used yesterday evening.” Joe stared in satisfaction. “Now how are you going to explain that?”

  Patterson straightened his shoulders and sat upright, his face filled with defiance. “I am saying nothing until I’ve spoken to my solicitor.”

  Dockerty nodded to Barrett. “Caution him and take him in for questioning.” While Barrett went into the official caution, the Chief Inspector concentrated on Joe. “I suppose I should say thank you. Without your, er, interference, we’d have been chasing shadows for months and we may have sent the wrong man to prison.”

  “So what about George?”

  Dockerty looked at his watch. “All I can do, Mr Robson, is apologise. We made a mistake, but like all such errors, it was with the intention of clearing up a serious crime.”

  George smiled charitably. “I suppose I should let it go. The next time you’re in Sanford, drop by the Lazy Luncheonette and you can buy me one of Joe’s full English breakfasts.”

  ***

  Joe set a brandy in front of Sheila and a glass of soda water before Brenda.

  “How’s George?” Brenda asked with a burp.

  “Still a bit miffed,” Joe replied, settling in beside the women with a half of bitter. “He missed out on Christmas lunch here, and thanks to you getting drunk, he missed out on scoring again last night. He was thinking of suing the police for wrongful arrest.” He grinned at Brenda. “I don’t know what he’s going to do about you.”

  “Difficult,” Sheila said with pursed lips. She blushed. “I mean the police arresting him, not him and Brenda …” She trailed off and coughed to cover a deeper blush. “Their suspicions were well-founded; at least until they learned that he and Jennifer had already, er, you know.”

  “Had their oats,” Brenda said, smacking her lips. She grinned and in a voice filled with glee, said, “Wait while tonight. I’ll persuade him not to sue me.”

  Keen to change the subject, Sheila asked, “How on earth did you twig it all, Joe?”

  “I suspected Tom from the moment he started pushing me to look for the computer, and when he said he didn’t know Quinton’s name, and then he did, but I couldn’t work out what his motive would be. Whatever it was, I knew I wouldn’t find it on the computer. And then I remembered the way I behaved on Saturday night.”

  “With Jennifer, you mean?” Sheila asked.

  “Not just Jennifer. Everyone. I was mean, moody, outright miserable.”

  “In other words, perfectly normal,” Brenda suggested.

  Joe grimaced. “All right, all right. So I’m a miserable old git. But why? You all figure it’s because I’m so tight with money I need to be working all the time, and even I use that as an excuse, but it’s not the truth.”

  “So what is?” Brenda demanded.

  “Jealousy,” he replied. “Naked envy. I’d love to be like you, like everyone. Let go, enjoy myself, enjoy Christmas, but I can’t. You people can, and I envy that. And when I remembered how I snapped at you on Saturday night, that’s when I realised just how potent jealousy can be. Powerful enough to commit murder? I think so. How many women in the past – and men – have been murdered by ex-lovers, husbands, wives? Hundreds, maybe thousands. The moment it hit me, I had Tom’s motive. All I had to do then was prove it. The computer and Sheila’s copy of Wright’s book was almost enough, and the tissue was the clincher.”

  “Amazing,” Sheila gasped.

  Joe basked in her praise. “Yeah. I thought it was pretty clever, too.”

  “I didn’t mean your deductions, Joe. I meant I’m amazed at your depth of self-knowledge.”

  Both women laughed and Joe allowed them a wrinkled grin. “All right, so you got me. But if I hadn’t been on the ball, George could have finished up in court, and after he was acquitted, Dennis Wright would
have been next, while the real killer got away with it.”

  “A sad and lonely man,” Sheila sighed.

  “Who? Joe or Tom Patterson?” Brenda asked. She grinned. “Only teasing, Joe. I know you’re sad, but as long as you have us two for company, you’ll never be lonely.”

  “And that poor woman,” Brenda clucked.

  “Who? Jennifer Hardy? An obsessive,” Joe pronounced. “A high class, well-educated tramp and a crook to boot.”

  Brenda wagged a finger at him. “Never speak ill of the dead, Joe, or you’ll end up never knowing how much fun you can have with me.”

  “I’d rather stay as I am, thanks.” Joe nodded towards the door where Dennis Wright had just entered. “Here’s another lonely man, and he prefers it that way, too.”

  Nodding greetings to one or two people he knew, Wright made his way to the trio. In his right hand, he carried a hardcover book. He greeted them with a smile.

  “Sheila, Brenda, Joe. I owe you so much.”

  “We were just saying so,” Joe said. “We’ll send you a bill.” He grinned to show he was only joking.

  “If it hadn’t been for you, I would have a hard time proving my innocence, especially after the way Patterson doctored Jennifer’s computer.” His tanned features darkened. “I can’t believe how cracked he must have been.”

  “I think he was seriously unstable, Dr Wright,” Sheila observed.

  “Please, call me Dennis. And I agree. Patterson was unhinged. Sheila, your copy of Missing Pennies got sort of chewed up and dog-eared after all the handling. And you’d had it less than forty-eight hours. Let me make it up to you.” He handed over the hardcover. “A first edition from last year. Signed, of course.”

  Sheila took the book and opened it at the copyright page, and read. For Sheila, Brenda and Joe with grateful thanks for all your help. It was signed with a flourish, Dr Dennis Wright.

  Blushing, Sheila said, “Joe did all the hard work.”

  “I always do,” Joe riposted.

  “Joe also said he may be an anorak but not to the extent of reading up on coins. I didn’t see the point in giving it to him, but you bought a copy on Saturday so I thought you should have it.” Wright beamed on them. “You can always share it between the three of you.”

  Joe shook his head and took to his tobacco tin. “I’d need a new anorak.”

  Wright laughed, then eyed the tobacco tin. “I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in here, Joe.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just rolling it up.” He spread tobacco across the paper. “There is one thing you can tell us.”

  “Go on,” Wright invited.

  “Where is the Middleton Penny?”

  Wright shrugged. “The truth is, no one knows. The church was undergoing renovation round about 1970 when it disappeared. It could be that the builder spotted it, put it in his pocket, then handed it over for his bus fare. All we know is it disappeared, and it’s never been seen, nor heard of since.”

  “So Quinton and Kirkland are chasing shadows?” Brenda asked.

  “If it keeps them happy, let them chase,” Wright said.

  On a more practical note, Sheila asked, “What about the funeral arrangements for Jennifer?”

  “She has children,” Wright told them. “They’ll handle the matter. I have, however, arranged a memorial service for her, here in Leeds next Saturday. New Year’s Eve. I’d be honoured to see you three there.”

  “Not a chance,” Joe said. “Don’t be offended, but I left my café on Christmas Eve. I can’t leave it on New Year’s Eve, too.”

  “Ignore him, Dennis,” Brenda said. “He’ll be there. Won’t he, Sheila?”

  Sheila fixed her beady eye on her employer. “You can count on it.”

  Joe puffed out his breath. “You know something, Dennis. All of a sudden I understand why you prefer your new found bachelorhood.”

  THE END

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