Christmas Crackers

by David W Robinson

  Sheila turned on him, her face scarlet with anger. “I’ll thank you, Chief Inspector, to check your facts. I work for Joe, and we are friends, but I am not his girlfriend.”

  “There you go, Stell. Kicked between the legs already. You couldn’t get rid of us fast enough yesterday, so what is it.”

  “I got rid of you before Tyke Productions rang and told us about Norman Parrish.”

  Joe frowned. “Norman Parrish? What about him?”

  “He’s dead, Murray. Knifed. Just like Victor Helmsley and Lewis Murray.”

  It took a few minutes for the implications to sink in. When they did, Joe rolled a cigarette and led Stell outside to the pavement, where, ignoring the freezing rain, Joe puffed on the cigarette and waved back at his café. “You remember what you told me about the shoplifters and muggers yesterday? Well pretty soon, I’ll have a shop full of customers. What do you expect me to do? Throw them all out so I can come with you can give a statement?”

  “I expect you to co-operate, Murray.”

  “I tried to co-operate but you didn’t want to know. When Sheila and I left Parrish he was fine and we went to Helmsley’s place after that. When we left you we came straight back to Sanford. If you want a statement, Stell, you bloody well wait until the café’s closed at half past two, and then we’ll come along and give you a statement.”

  Stell fumed. “Everywhere you and your family turn up, someone else shows up… dead. Now I want an account of your movements after you left Kirkgate yesterday.”

  “And I just gave it to you. Your man drove us back to the riverside, where we got into my car and drove home. We didn’t even stop to take a leak on the way back. We got back here about four to help Brenda and the others clean down.” Joe dragged irritably on his cigarette. “Have you asked Toni Fitzpatrick about her whereabouts yesterday?”

  “Any reason why I should? She has no connection with Norman Parrish. You have.”

  “From years ago.” Joe heaved out a groan of pure frustration. “It’d do more good, if you stopped trying to pin it on me and told me what happened.”

  The chief inspector drew in an equally impatient breath. “After you visited him yesterday, he went home, but he left some productions notes behind. There’s nothing strange about that as far as we can ascertain. He tended to be a bit haphazard with the background business. One of the gophers was detailed to call at Parrish’s house on the way home to drop them off. The gopher in question got there, got no answer so she peeked through the letterbox. Parrish was dead on the hall carpet with a knife in his neck, just like Lew Murray and Vic Helmsley. The gopher called her studio and they rang us.”

  “And you thought of me and Sheila? You’re off your rocker.”

  “The manner of the killing prompted me to think of Helmsley and Lew Murray,” Stell retorted, “but when we questioned the studio staff yesterday and learned that you had been there to see him, then we thought about you. Further inquiries, specifically with Detective Sergeant Craddock, your niece, led us to believe that you’ve known Parrish for years and you didn’t like each other. You bullied him.”

  “Yeah, when I was a kid,” Joe returned. “We used to beat him up in the schoolyard. That was forty odd years ago. We’ve all grown up a bit since then.”

  Stell sighed again. “Why did you go to see Parrish?”

  “To prove my nephew innocent and get him out of your clutches… well, the Sanford police’s clutches.”

  “Parrish knew your nephew was innocent, did he?”

  “No, but he knew all about Vic Helmsley and the late Arthur Murray’s will.” Joe smiled craftily. “Or should we say the late Arthur Murphy?”

  Stell nodded. “That’s something else we need to talk about. Lew Murray’s real name; Lewis Murphy.” He narrowed determined eyes on Joe. “You’d better tell me everything you know.”

  Joe stubbed out his cigarette. “Let’s go back into the café and get a cuppa.”

  ***

  Over the next half hour, Joe and Sheila took it in turns to relate everything they had learned. By the time they were through, Stell was considerably calmer.

  “You could be in danger, Uncle Joe,” Gemma said. “Whoever is knocking these people off is very clever and very dangerous. He or she could come for you.”

  Having left the serving to Sheila and Brenda, Joe responded, “Never mind me, what about Lee? You’re still holding him for Vic Helmsley’s murder and it should be obvious even to you that he didn’t do it.”

  “That’ll be up to my boss,” Gemma admitted, sheepishly.

  Stell came across more forcefully. “If it was on my patch, he’d stay put. There’s no concrete evidence that all three murders are linked other than the manner of the killing. Your nephew shouldn’t be freed until another suspect is found and charged.”

  Joe stared the chief inspector out. “And suppose I can prove that the alleged witness is lying?”

  “Doesn’t make a bit of difference,” Stell said with a shake of the head. “Witnesses say your nephew entered the hotel and announced himself, his prints are all over the knife, so he remains a suspect. End of debate.”

  “Gar,” Joe snarled. “You just have a downer on him cos he’s my nephew.”

  A lull in business saw Sheila join them. “Was there anything unusual about Norman’s death?” she asked.

  “I’d say a steak knife in the neck was pretty much out of the ordinary, Mrs Riley,” Stell replied.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Sheila said, tartly. “Your forensic people should have come up with something that tells you Joe and I were nowhere near his home. In fact, we don’t even know where he lives.”

  “There is plenty of forensic, Mrs Riley,” Gemma said, “but none that leads us anywhere significant.”

  “Did you know Parrish wore a wig?” Stell asked.

  Joe drank his tea. “Is it important?”

  Stell shrugged. “Don’t think so. They found a dark thread clinging to his jumper which doesn’t match the material it was made of, and when we checked his bedroom, we found three different wigs on the dresser. He must have been trying one of them on before he answered the door to his killer.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” Joe said with a shrug. “He was always vain… Oh, my god. That’s it.”

  His abrupt declaration startled everyone.

  “What?” Gemma asked. “What’s it?”

  Joe checked his watch. “Almost eleven o’clock. Stell, it’ll take me half an hour to get a relief crew in here. Get Toni Fitzpatrick to your place and I’ll join you there at, say, midday.”

  “What? Why?”

  Removing his whites, Joe made for the kitchen. “Just do it, man.”

  ***

  It was almost half past twelve when Joe, Sheila and Gemma met Stell and Toni Fitzpatrick in the chief inspector’s office.

  “This had better be worth it, Murray,” Stell warned.

  “Is solving the murders worth it, Stell?” Joe did not wait for an answer but pressed straight on. “I’ve always insisted that there are only three real motives for murder: Money, sex and fear of exposure, which usually mean sex or money lurking in the background. The main motive in this case is money. Or at least that’s why Lew Murphy was killed. Helmsley and Parrish were murdered to prevent them talking to you and exposing their killer. All three killings were committed by the same person and the underlying reason was to ensure that Lew would not inherit his father’s fortune, leaving the field clear for one of Arthur Murphy’s illegitimate children to inherit.”

  Stell’s face was as sceptical as Gemma’s was worried. “I hope you’re going to be able to prove that, Murray.”

  “I think so,” Joe replied. “The key to this whole business lies in Arthur Murphy himself. Self-made man, worth millions, but as a person he’s a total loss. He never cared anything for anyone in his whole life. He treated his first wife like dog dirt, which was why she left him. She knew he’d been fooling around with other women and
that there was at least one child born the wrong side of the blanket. So she walked out, brought her son back home to England when the kid was barely a month old. That kid was Lewis Murphy.”

  Joe took out his tobacco tin and began to roll a cigarette. “Let’s move on thirty years. Old man Murphy is dying. He has a will leaving everything to his only son. He doesn’t know who the kid is or where he is, except that he’s somewhere in England. He’s in a sick bed, can barely speak, and only has the strength to scrawl out a note for one of the nurses to give to his secretary. ‘Find my boy, Lee Murphy.’”

  “Hang on, Uncle Joe,” Gemma interrupted. “The kid was Lew Murphy.” She pointed at his cigarette. “And you can’t smoke that in here.”

  “I know, I know,” Joe retorted. “And don’t be in such a hurry. I’m getting there, aren’t I?” He put the tobacco tin away and dropped the cigarette into his shirt pocket. “The nurse can’t believe her luck. He’s given her the note to pass to the secretary. She made the change from Lew to Lee, and passed it onto the secretary. The secretary rings Murphy’s British lawyers and they appoint a mob of private eyes to track down Lee Murphy. How many Lee Murphys are there in England? Hundreds? Thousands? Those investigators could be looking for months.”

  Joe scanned his audience making sure he had their attention. “In the meantime, the old man dies and the nurse realises a slight flaw in the plan. Suppose the ex-Mrs Murphy told the boy who he was, who his father was and all about the fortune he’s gonna come into one day. Worse than that, suppose one of the private eyes actually rumbles it all and starts looking for Lew Murphy instead of Lee Murphy. She’s been hasty and it’s time to cover her tracks. She has to fly to England, and murder Lew Murphy. But she’s done her homework. She knows where to find him, but she doesn’t know how many private eyes have been put on the job, so she rings one man, Vic Helmsley and tips him off.”

  Once again Joe checked his audience for a reaction. When he did not register one, he went on, “She needs a patsy. Someone to take the fall. Now, Australia is a rugby loving country and she knows of an Arthur Murray based in Melbourne, who has a rugby playing son. My brother. A few discreet inquiries and she learns all about my nephew who used to play for the Sanford Bulls. A little work on the internet and shazam! She has Lee tagged, including his place of work, the Lazy Luncheonette. She lands in England and makes her way to Sanford. Then it’s a quick call to Helmsley telling them she has information on the whereabouts of Lee Murray, who’s due a fortune from an Aussie will. She’s happy to meet the private eye at the Sanford Park Hotel, where she’ll give him the information in exchange for a cut of the proceeds. Helmsley turns up, but before he gets there, she calls at the Lazy Luncheonette just to verify that Lee still works there.”

  “Are you sure of this, Joe?” Sheila asked.

  “Positive. She asked you if my books were for sale and she asked to speak to Lee but I gave you short shrift.”

  Sheila tutted. “That young woman was brunette.”

  “I know,” Joe agreed. “She wasn’t interested in the books. Instead, she watched the exchange between Lee, Vic Helmsley and me. When Helmsley left, she wasn’t far behind him and she turned up at his hotel room where she stabbed him. Lee arrived at three and found Helmsley dead. Like an idiot, my nephew handled the knife, which was how his dabs came to be all over it.”

  “So you say,” Stell snapped, “but you still can’t prove it.”

  “Wrong again, Stell. You’re the one who has no proof. The only thing you can prove is that Lee turned up at Helmsley’s room and touched the knife. You can’t prove that he put it there, and you still have to explain how your anonymous witness saw the crime take place. The only way your witness could know is if she was in the room and if she was, then she put the knife in Helmsley’s neck.”

  “But why bother framing Lee, Uncle Joe?”

  “Simple. She needed to divert attention away from Vic Helmsley’s inquiry. At least until she had killed Lew Murphy. See, if you had no suspect for Helmsley’s murder, what would you have done? You’d have begun looking into his current assignment, and the whole tale would burst wide open. But you had Lee, the big gormless sod with the reputation for being tough as old leather on the rugby field.” Joe smiled. “Trouble is, the nurse didn’t do her homework well enough or she would have known that Lee doesn’t have the brains or the temperament to murder anyone and he has an uncle who’s the best detective in Yorkshire.”

  Stell sneered at Joe’s hubris. “Just get on with it, Murray. You still haven’t proved any of this.”

  “I’ll get there,” Joe assured him and scanned the assembled people. Satisfied, he went on, “Having got rid of Helmsley and stolen his keys, she then lured Lew Murphy to Leeds and suggested he meet her in ‘her office’. Only, of course, it wasn’t her office, it was Vic Helmsley’s office.”

  “And Murphy wasn’t suspicious?” Stell demanded. “A woman calls and when he gets there, it’s a man’s address.”

  Joe shook his head. “How did you make Chief Inspector? Check the window at Helmsley’s place. It says ‘V. Helmsley Private Investigations’. V. Helmsley, not Victor Helmsley. Even then the V isn’t all that plain. It could be a man or a woman. Lew Murray turns up, nursie greets him, guides him to a chair and probably offers to make him a cup of tea. While his back is to her, she sinks a knife into his neck and walks out of the office, locking the door behind her. But she ran into me.” He turned his head to the right. “Didn’t you, Toni?”

  “Her?” Stell’s face was dumbfounded.

  Toni’s face coloured. “Nonsense. Lewis’ father was Australian. I’m British.”

  “No he was British and you’re Australian,” Joe disagreed. Before she could protest further, he explained, “Meeting me on the landing prompted a hurried change of plan. While I checked Helmsley’s office and Lew Murphy, Sheila took Toni out and she was sick in the river. A nice opportunity to get rid of the knife and the keys to Helmsley’s office. Lew Murray is now dead. So is Victor Helmsley. But there’s a problem and it’s called Sheila Riley and Joe Murray who’ve called the police. No sweat. She can brazen that out, but while she’s with us, she learns that both we and Vic Helmsley had been to see Norman Parrish and he knew some of the background. Parrish knew that the heir’s real name was Murphy not Murray. Parrish wouldn’t tell us that bit. I think he was angling for a payout, even though he denied it. And if he had told us, I might have got there sooner and saved his life. But he had to die, too. Wearing her brunette wig, she killed him and I’ve no doubt that Sheila and Brenda and I would be on her shopping list before she went back to Australia, and possibly even my brother Arthur, when she got there.”

  The look of shock on Toni’s face convinced everyone, but not Joe Murray. “I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken, Mr Murray.”

  Joe shook his head. “No. I’m right. And you can drop the phoney English accent. I saw through that the morning you came to the Lazy Luncheonette and the minute you came out of Helmsley’s office.”

  All eyes turned on her.

  Stell’s suspicions had now transferred themselves from Joe to Toni. “Carry on, Murray.”

  “We have to ask ourselves what Vic Helmsley was playing at when he came to Sanford,” Joe pressed on. “He knew that Lee Murray, my nephew, was not the heir because Parrish had told him. Gemma and you have both told me that Helmsley was as hooky as they come. He smelled a con and he was ready to turn it back on her. To do that, he needed to suss out the lay of the land, and he came to the Lazy Luncheonette to see Lee. I was too pushy for his liking, so he came the heavy hand and insisted on seeing Lee alone, at his hotel. Then he left, and little miss muppet here followed him back to his hotel. Once in his room, Helmsley warns her she’s rumbled. She’s convincingly shocked, and asks for a drink to steady her nerves. While his back’s turned, she knifes him.”

  “Utter nonsense,” Toni snapped.

  “Right on the mark, you mean,” Joe argued. “Two things led me to you. The accent a
nd the hair colouring.” Again, he took in the rest of his small audience. “As Sheila said, when Toni first turned up at the Lazy Luncheonette, checking on Lee, she was a brunette. When we met her outside Helmsley’s office she was as she is now, a blonde, and I figure that’s her natural colour. While we sat in my car, Sheila picked a dark thread from Toni’s shirt and played hell with me for not cleaning the car often enough. This morning, you came to see us, Stell, and you said Norman Parrish wore a wig. You’d found a dark thread from it on his pyjamas. I don’t wanna tell you your job, but search little miss goody two shoes’ room and find her wigs – if she still has them. Compare the threads. You’ll find the one on Norman’s pyjamas is from her wig, not his.”

  A look of alarm spread across Toni’s face.

  “Then there’s the way she speaks,” Joe pressed on. “She asked Sheila about my books when she came to the Lazy Luncheonette, but I was earwigging and when I said we were too busy, she said, and I quote, ‘no worries, I’ll call back this arvo’. No worries is a curious expression. Although it’s gaining acceptance here in Great Britain, most English people would still say, ‘no problem’ not ‘no worries’. But even when you let that pass, no English person would use a term like ‘this arvo’. They’d say, ‘this afternoon’ or ‘artnoon’ or something like that. The only other time I’ve heard it was when I spoke to my brother on the phone. It’s a common expression in Australia, and it let me know that her cultured English accent was false.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Toni protested.

  “Is it?” Joe demanded. “You told us all that you were an old friend of Lew Murray’s from university. Am I right?”

  “And so I am,” she insisted. “Or at least I was until he was stabbed to death.”

  “Then how come you refer to him as Lew Murray and not by his real name, Lew Murphy?”

  Toni’s mouth fell open and Joe pressed home his advantage.

  “You forgot about your own homework, missy. You’re the one who dreamt this story up. You’re the one who invented Lee Murray. If you really had been a friend from way back when, you’d have referred to him by his real name.” Joe sat back, satisfied. “Now do you want to tell us how it all came about?”