Christmas Crackers

by David W Robinson

  Waverley grunted.

  “Dennis won’t be far dessous me, Sheila.”

  She laughed. “Dessous, Frank, means below, not behind.”

  While Knighton laughed, Waverley scowled. “Not looking forward to calling it a day. The little woman,” he went on when Sheila raised an inquiring eyebrow. “We’ll be under each other’s feet twenty-four-seven and I don’t know that it will be good for either of us.”

  “Not a problem I have,” Frank chuckled. “Mi esposa izquierda me, years ago.”

  Sheila chuckled again. “Sorry, Frank, I wasn’t laughing at your marital breakdown. It’s just that I don’t think Spanish use izquierda to mean left in that sense.”

  He smiled. “Oh well. As long as you know what I mean.”

  The meal progressed. Osborne kept a keen eye on his staff as they served the different courses, and made a great show of pouring champagne in equal measures for the guests so that they could toast the Queen and law and order. While Sheila chatted amiably with Waverley, Knighton got into a debate with Superintendent Susan Lambert, a fifty something brunette sat opposite Sheila, on the need for Professional Standards.

  It was while Frank was arguing passionately for the rooting out of shady and crooked officers, that another female, Chief Inspector Eileen Tompkins, tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “A word, if you please.”

  Knighton grunted as she walked off towards the Christmas tree at the far end of the room. “Shouldn’t that be a word if you please, sir?” He stood up and weaving slightly, followed Tompkins.

  “She looks irritated,” Sheila observed.

  “Frank knew what he was letting himself in for, Sheila,” Waverley said. “Joining Professional Standards is a tough move for any officer. It brings them into conflict not so much with villains, but with our own rotten eggs, and it doesn’t encourage popularity.”

  “I recall Peter telling me that it’s a very lucky officer who can get through his career without having accusations levelled at him. Even he was the victim of—”

  “YOU’RE A BLOODY LIAR, KNIGHTON.”

  Eileen Tompkins’ shout cut Sheila off and the whole room faced the pair by the windows. Knighton had backed off a pace, his features alarmed, and Tompkins was livid.

  “I’ll thank you to address me as sir,” Knighton responded weakly.

  “Sir? SIR? You don’t deserve that kind of respect, you creep.” Tompkins moved towards him and other officers leapt from their seats to prevent a fight breaking out.

  “That’s enough,” Waverley ordered, getting up and striding towards the melee. As he did so, he knocked Knighton’s champagne glass over. Muttering a soft curse, he continued to the far end of the table, while Sheila set the glass upright.

  “Eileen, you are out of order,” Waverley barked.

  “Sir, I—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. There is a time and place for us to air our grievances, and the senior officers’ dinner is not it.” He turned to Superintendent Lambert. “Susan, why don’t you take Mrs Tompkins out and calm her down? And Frank, why don’t you sit yourself down again?”

  While Lambert led the angry woman out, other officers returned to their seats, and there was a babble of conversation. Sheila needed no second guesses as to the topic, and the numerous glances coming towards Knighton confirmed her suspicion.

  His hand shaking, Knighton sat down, picked up his empty glass and stared glumly into it. “Bugger. I seem to be out of bubbly.”

  “My fault, Frank. Here. Let me refill you.” Waverley reached to the centre of the table and, after mopping the sweat from his brow, took out the bottle of champagne.

  “No problem, Dennis. I can manage.”

  Knighton took the bottle from him and poured himself a fresh drink.

  “Are you all right?”

  “You get used to it in Professional Standards,” Knighton confirmed passing the near-empty bottle back to Waverley, who leaned across and placed it back in the ice bucket. “La femme fashet.”

  “La femme fâché, indeed,” Sheila responded more accurately. “What on earth was it all about?”

  “Lost her husband about a year ago, and now it seems he wasn’t quite the upright and honest bobby we all thought he was.”

  “He was a police officer?”

  “Hmm.” Waverley nodded. “Inspector. Traffic. Based in Leeds. Worked with me some years ago in CID, but decided he preferred motorway maniacs to the homicidal variety.”

  “And he was, er, crooked?”

  “Not for me to say,” Knighton declared, “but he is under investigation. Not my fault if his widow can’t deal with that.” He wolfed down the champagne. “Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, dear lady, I must go water my horse. Shan’t be long.” Suppressing a belch, he got up and staggered to the door, where he held onto the frame a moment before leaving the room.

  “I do hope he’s all right,” Sheila said.

  “He’ll be fine,” Waverley confirmed. “He’s more drunk than upset.”

  “Yes, but at his time of life, Dennis, he doesn’t need that kind of upset. And if the poor man is only doing his job…” She trailed off.

  “What was it you said about Peter having been accused of something? It’s the kind of thing you learn to handle, Sheila.”

  “Well, I didn’t actually finish what I was saying, but yes, that was exactly how Peter handled it. Of course, the accusations were nonsense. They came from a burglar.”

  “Trying to mitigate his offences? There you are then, y’see. We’re all wide open to it, and there are those members of the public only too ready to jump at the chance to badmouth us.”

  Waverley began to drone on, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s on his argument for greater leniency while maintaining a watching brief on police standards, until his arguments became an incoherent ramble.

  Tompkins and Lambert re-appeared in the doorway, the Superintendent smiling weakly.

  Tompkins still angry but in better control of herself, addressed Waverley. “Sir, I—”

  “HELP. SOMEONE HELP!”

  The cry came from outside the room. Lambert, still nearest the door, turned, looked out onto the landing and rushed out of the room. Tompkins and Waverley followed and the remaining officers were quick to see what the fuss was about.

  By the time Sheila reached the landing, a few seconds behind everyone else, there was a small crowd round the collapsed figure of Frank Knighton.

  Head cradled in Lambert’s hands, Knighton stretched out an arm, a weak, shaking finger pointing over Waverley’s shoulder at the staircase. “Ee... eeth… izquierda.” And with that, he slumped.

  Lambert pressed a finger to his neck, then looked up. “I’m sorry, sir, he’s gone.” She frowned. “Eeth-ki-hair-da? What does that mean?”

  “Left,” Waverley said. “It’s Spanish for left.” He looked over his shoulder, then back at the assembled crowd. “He’s telling us whoever did this left via those stairs.” A new sense of urgency overcame him. “Two of you, up there now.” He swivelled his head to catch Osborne, the manager. “No one comes up here or leaves without our permission, and that includes your staff. And someone, for God’s sake, get onto the nearest station. We need the SOCOs out here and a mortuary van.”

  Men and women scurried hither and thither to carry out his orders. Stepping away from the body, Waverley and Sheila returned to the dining room.

  The Chief Superintendent took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his brow. “I’m sorry, Sheila. This is going to hold you back a little while. I can’t let you leave until we have a formal statement.”

  “Not to worry, Dennis. I had no grand plans for this evening, and of course, I’m happy to do whatever I can to bring poor Frank’s killer to justice.”

  “Of course, we’re assuming there was a killer.”

  Sheila frowned. “He pointed over your shoulder, Dennis, and as you said, he appeared to be indicating that someone had left by them. You said so yourself.”


  “I was a little hyped. Spur of the moment. Besides, we have to make sure. But he was close to death, rambling. We don’t know that’s what he meant. We don’t know anything yet.”

  DCI Lambert returned to the room. “Everything’s organised, sir. It shouldn’t take too long to catch the bugger. He can’t have got far.”

  Waverley nodded his satisfaction. “Get that manager in here. Osborne. I may as well start the investigation now.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but because we’re present, it needs an independent investigating officer. Someone who wasn’t here.”

  “Yes, and they’ll send a bloody detective sergeant along from Sanford. We need someone with experience, man.”

  “It’ll probably be Gemma Craddock,” Sheila said. “She’s Joe Murray’s niece, and she’s not long been made up to sergeant. About a year at best.”

  “There you are, then.” Waverley directed his triumphant declaration at Lambert. “Now get the manager in here.”

  The superintendent yielded to the older man’s insistence, and left the dining room, to return a minute later with Osborne.

  “Can you tell us exactly what happened?” Waverley demanded.

  “I’m not sure what took place, sir. The gentleman went into the toilets, and came out a few minutes later. He looked white-faced and in some distress. Then he collapsed. That’s when I shouted for help.”

  The old superintendent shrugged. “We’ll have to wait for the lads to come down from searching the upper floor for whoever it was, then.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Osborne said, “but there’s no way out up there, and in any case no one has come onto this floor at all.”

  “You mean as far as you’re aware no one—”

  “No, sir, I mean no one at all. I’ve been on duty all afternoon, and the only people on this floor are my staff and the members of your party, and my staff are all accounted for. None of them went up to the top floor.”

  Waverley harrumphed. “Yes, well, we’ll see about that when the area has been searched. Is there anything else you can tell us?”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Osborne was dismissed, and as the various officers returned to the floor, they reported to Lambert. At length, the superintendent sat alongside Waverley.

  “Osborne was right, sir. They can’t find anyone on the floor above.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, I suppose Frank could have been confused and pointed in the wrong direction. He was on the point of dying, after all. Have the local station been informed?”

  “Scientific Support and mortuary van on their way, sir, and a Detective Sergeant Craddock is coming from the local station. She’s informed Wakefield, and they’re detailing a Superintendent to come over. It’ll take him about half an hour or maybe longer to get here.”

  “All right. Post two people at all exits. No one comes in or goes out until the investigating team get here.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Lambert wandered off to carry out the instructions. Sheila smiled thinly. “I think you’re clutching at straws, Dennis.”

  He appeared momentarily surprised. “I’m sorry?”

  “You don’t want to believe that one of your own could be capable of murder.”

  “Good lord, the thought never crossed my mind.”

  “Well it should have,” she interrupted. “Remember what Frank said? He was working in Professional Standards and he’s on a secret case that could blow the West Yorkshire police apart. Suppose that the officer or officers he was investigating got wind of it? I know he said it was very hush-hush, but even the best kept secrets have a way of getting out, don’t they?” Sheila gestured around the room. “Suppose the officer concerned is here, today. Do you think he’d stop at committing murder to save his own skin?”

  “Yes, well, as I said earlier, we don’t actually know it was murder, do we? I mean he could have had a heart attack, couldn’t he?”

  Sheila reached across, picked up Knighton’s glass and sniffed cautiously at it. She passed it to Waverley.

  “Burnt almonds,” she said. “Cyanide poisoning.”

  Waverley, too, sniffed at the glass. “Oh, my God. But how the hell did anyone get hold of enough cyanide to kill a man?”

  “There are other uses for cyanide than poisoning, Dennis. Medically, it’s used to lower blood pressure quickly, and it can be used for certain blood tests for diabetics. Most of your people have access to a forensics laboratory, and quite recently, I should think. I don’t imagine it would be too difficult to steal it, and if the laboratory was conscious of its prestige, the theft could conceivably be kept quiet. They may have notified only a few, very senior officers.”

  “Yes, yes. You’re right.”

  “Is there any way of knowing what Frank was working on, or who he was investigating?”

  “Professional Standards will know. Or they should do if he kept his reports up to date, but this is Frank Knighton we’re talking about. Administration was never his strong suit.”

  “Then how on earth did he make superintendent?” Sheila asked.

  “Good detective. Despite all the, er, kidology, and the garbled use of foreign languages, Frank was a determined so-and-so. Stuck with an investigation to the bitter end, and when he got the suspect in his sights, he wouldn’t let go.” Waverley sighed. “I was sorry to see him taken off CID and shifted into Professional Standards.” He leaned back, head turned to the open door, and called out, “Lambert.” When nothing happened after a moment, he stood up. “Where is that bloody woman?” He took two strides to the door and Lambert entered, followed by Gemma Craddock. “There you are. What the hell are you messing about at?”

  “Sorry, sir, but this is Detective Sergeant Craddock of the local station. I was just giving her the overview.”

  “Things have moved on a little. Get everyone in this room, sharp. Everyone except Osborne, that is.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lambert left again.

  “Right, you, Craddock, sit down, and I’ll tell you exactly what I want done.”

  “With respect, sir, you are a witness to the crime, if it is a crime, and as such, you can’t dictate the course of the initial investigation.”

  Waverley’s ageing features turned crimson. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that, young lady, or you’ll find yourself back on the beat.”

  Gemma sighed. “Sir, I am acting on the orders of Superintendent Horsfield. He’s on his way over from Wakefield. He’ll be here in about half an hour. He was most insistent that no one in this room be permitted to lead the investigation.”

  “Now look here—”

  “I think, Dennis, you’re being unreasonable,” Sheila interrupted. “Gemma is carrying out her superior’s orders, and you’re senior enough to know that she’s working to regulation. You were here, you were a witness. Any investigative line you take may be coloured by that.” She beamed on the young sergeant. “Hello, Gemma. How are you?”

  “I was fine, Mrs Riley, until I got the call here.” Appearing strained and uncomfortable, Gemma addressed Waverley. “Obviously, sir, I bow to your greater experience. I’m happy to listen to your deductions, and I’d welcome any pointers you can give me in conducting the interviews, but I’m acting as bagman – woman – to Superintendent Horsfield. Here to take statements, and nothing more.”

  Waverley was barely mollified. “Very well. The first thing you should know is that I’ve ascertained the cause of death. Cyanide poisoning.”

  Unwilling to stir trouble any further, Sheila allowed Waverley to take credit for the discovery. She picked up Knighton’s glass, passed it to Gemma. “It already has my fingerprints on it, and those of Chief Superintendent Waverley, but the odour is quite distinctive.”

  Gemma sniffed it and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I see. So the question is when and how was it administered.”

  “In this room by one of our own.” Waverley glared. “And I was just about to get them in here for questioning when you arrived and
tried telling me how to carry out the investigation.”

  To Sheila’s amusement, in the face of Waverley’s increasing irritation, Gemma showed all the fire and determination of her uncle.

  “I’ve apologised for that, sir, and short of getting down on my knees and begging forgiveness I don’t know what else I can do.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. “If we’re going to assume that someone in this room poisoned Superintendent Knighton, do we have any suspects?”

  “Eileen Tompkins is top of my list,” Waverley insisted. “She and Frank had a bit of a set to a little while ago. And we know that Frank was working on a secret, high level inquiry.”

  “Into Inspector Tompkins?” Gemma asked.

  “We don’t yet know,” Waverley replied. “Professional Standards will brief us on that.”

  “Would it help, Gemma, if we knew where everyone was sitting?” Sheila asked.

  Gemma looked to Waverley for guidance and he gave the briefest of nods. “Not sure I can remember, though.”

  “I think I can, Dennis.” Sheila reached into her bag and came out with a ballpoint and a small notebook. She passed them Waverley. “Would you like to write the names down as I call them out?”

  He nodded and, with a grunt, took the notebook in his right hand and held the pen, poised above it to write. “Go on.”

  Sheila smiled. “I don’t think there’s any need to. I’ve seen enough.” As Waverley had done earlier, Sheila leaned back and called through the open door. “Superintendent Lambert, would you come in, please?” When Lambert appeared, Sheila went on, “It may be better if you kept everyone outside for the moment, but you need to be in this room to hear what I have to say.”

  Gemma and Lambert both frowned, Waverley looked confused. Lambert stepped out briefly, and then re-entered the room, closing the door behind her.

  “We don’t need to look any further for Frank Knighton’s killer,” Sheila declared. “It was you, Dennis, and Frank told us so.”

  “I… what on earth… Sheila, I… I really don’t know what to say.”

  “I would suggest you try the truth. What really happened out there? Mr Osborne said Frank went into the toilets and came out again shortly after, staggering, white-faced, struggling to breathe. Classic symptoms of cyanide poisoning. He was all right when he left us, but he drank off half a glass of champagne before he went to the toilets, and we know the poison was in that glass. It was put there during or just after the argument between Frank and Eileen Tompkins. After you so cleverly knocked the glass over, and I reset it, or perhaps when you offered to pour more champagne for him. The poison’s hidden in the handkerchief you’ve been using all afternoon.”