Christmas Crackers

by David W Robinson

  Shaking hands with Rowena, waving to Sheila and Brenda a few tables away, Cummins ordered a cup of tea, and asked, “Any progress, Joe?”

  Over the next fifteen minutes Joe brought him up to speed on the things he and Rowena had discussed.

  “I called in on the crime scene before I came down here,” Cummins told them. “Young Baker has put out an all ports on Portman, and we’ve been in touch with the Met. Presumably they’ll be able to trace him much faster than we can. He’s obviously in the frame for this, but you always told me, Joe, don’t jump to hasty conclusions. If he’s in London, we should be able to speak to him over a video line and we’ll see what he has to say.”

  “Anything from the SOCOs?” Joe asked.

  Taking his tea from a waiter, Cummins signed for it and nodded as he poured. “The high-heeled shoe you found didn’t kill her. It couldn’t. As plots go, The Catwalk Killer is very thin. Do you know how much force you would need to penetrate skin, muscle and bone with a high heel? More than any man – or woman – could muster. According to the doctor, Ms Tremayne was stabbed in the back of the neck. That’s what killed her. The shoe was inserted into the wound after she died.”

  Rowena shuddered. “Oh, dear God. What a horrible thing to do.”

  “Someone trying to point the finger at this Danielle Doyle?” Joe asked.

  “Or John Portman’s involvement in that affair,” Cummins ventured. “Whatever it is, we won’t know any more until we can speak to him, and that’s not likely to happen for some time yet.”

  As Cummins spoke, Baker hurried into the dining room, spotted them and made his way over. “Sir, news from the Met. They’ve found Portman.”

  The chief inspector sighed. “I spoke too soon. That was bloody quick. Where was he?”

  “At his home, sir. They’re taking him to the local station and they say we can hook up in about twenty minutes.”

  ***

  Portman looked tired and haggard. He was unshaven and in contrast to the smartly dressed representative he had been the previous evening, scruffily dressed in jeans and jumper.

  Joe noticed right away that he had no legal representative with him. Cummins spotted it too.

  “You do appreciate, Mr Portman, that you’re being questioned on the murder of Arabella Tremayne and that you are entitled to have your solicitor with you.”

  “So they told me,” Portman answered, “but I didn’t kill Arabella, so I don’t feel the need of my lawyers at this moment. She was alive when I left her.”

  Cummins shrugged into the laptop’s inbuilt webcam. “As you wish, sir. May I ask what time you did leave the Headland Hotel?”

  “It would be about three thirty this morning. They should know on the desk. I checked out and paid my bill.”

  Cummins scowled at Baker. “Why hasn’t that been notified?”

  “Sorry, sir. Slipped my mind.”

  “Get out there and check it now.”

  The constable hurried out of the room, and Cummins concentrated once more on the screen. “Now, sir, before you answer the next question, I must tell you we have a pair of men’s Y-fronts which were found in the bathroom of Ms Tremayne’s suite. Do they belong to you?”

  “Yes.” Portman showed no hesitation in answering. “Look, Chief Inspector, why do you think I agreed to come along to the police station? I didn’t want my wife hearing any of this.”

  “You didn’t want your wife to know you had sex with Ms Tremayne last night?”

  “Correct.”

  “Why leave your shreddies behind, Portman?” Joe asked.

  Joe’s presence had been explained to Portman, but he still responded belligerently. “Well, it’s not because I forgot them.”

  “I didn’t say it was,” Joe retorted. “I asked why you left them.”

  Portman looked around the interview room where he was being held. He appeared ill-at-ease, slightly embarrassed. “How can I put this?”

  “We’re all adults, Mr Portman,” Cummins said. “Just tell it like it is?”

  “Arabella, she liked to play, er, games in bed. Last night, she cracked a bottle of champagne. She was on a high after winning the award. But before she popped the cork, she shook the bottle. There was champagne everywhere. My underwear – and hers – got soaked in the stuff. So did the bed linen, but I’m sure your people will tell you that. I couldn’t bring them home like that. My wife would have hit the roof. So I put clean on and left them with Arabella. She promised to have them laundered and return them the next time I saw her.” He leaned forward into the camera at his end. “Listen to me, please. I did not kill her. She was a complete cow, demanding and absolutely ruthless, and you’ve no idea the number of times I’ve thought about dropping her, but I can’t afford to. But I did not kill her. She was alive when I left her room this morning.”

  Lowering his voice so Portman could not hear, Cummins said, “This is gonna be a tough one to prove, Joe.”

  “It may come down to your scientific people, Terry.” Joe faced the camera. “Tell me about this business between Danielle Doyle and Arabella. I’m told it was over this novel, The Catwalk Killers.”

  “Where did you get that from? Rowena bloody Armitage, I’ll bet.” Portman’s scowl faded and he shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell. The Doyle woman insisted Arabella had nicked her story. I had that manuscript, not Arabella, and I can assure you that Arabella did not steal it.”

  “But you did buy the Doyle woman off?”

  “Not me. Arabella. She insisted we pay Danielle Doyle five thousand to shut her up. It was cheaper than the damage which might have been done if the story had leaked out, and trust me, Arabella knew about the press. She was a reporter with the North Coast Star before she became a successful novelist.”

  Joe’s blood ran cold. “The North Coast Star?”

  “Yes. What of it.”

  Joe turned urgently to Cummins. “Terry, let him go. I know who did it, and why, and with luck I should be able to prove it.”

  ***

  Still puzzled, Cummins followed Joe along the fourth floor corridor until they reached room 407, where Joe rapped on the wood panelling and waited.

  Donna Corley opened the door wearing her quilted topcoat.

  “Going somewhere?” Joe asked.

  “Home,” she replied. “The cops said I could go. I’ve given them a statement.”

  Joe jerked a thumb at Cummins. “Well, this cop is in charge and he wants a word with you.”

  “Why?” she demanded.

  “The murder of Arabella Tremayne is why, Donna… or should I call you Danielle Doyle?”

  She was momentarily taken aback, but recovered her composure. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do,” Joe said, and glancing past her spotted her camera and laptop bag. “And I think the evidence we need is on there. Terry?”

  Joe pushed past her followed by Cummins and Baker. Snatching up her laptop, Joe removed it from the bag and began setting up the mains adaptor.

  “Hey,” Donna protested. “Leave that alone.”

  “So you can erase the evidence?” Joe asked, plugging the adaptor into an outlet. “I don’t think so.” He switched the machine on. “Know much about digital cameras, Terry?”

  “You point and click,” Cummins replied.

  “So you do. Well, miss reporter here was busy pointing and clicking at the awards ceremony last night. Then she loaned me her camera this morning and I noticed something odd.” He tossed the camera to Cummins. “Just in case she hasn’t downloaded the latest images, switch it on.”

  While Cummins powered up the camera, Joe accessed the images folder on Donna’s laptop. Scrolling through them to the end, he pointed out two photographs of Arabella Tremayne, dead on the bed. After which were two pictures of him and then the photographs he had taken in the room.

  “Funny things, these cameras. I have one, you know. They start numbering your images at zero, zero, zero, one, and they carry on like
that until it reaches nine, nine, nine, nine, at which point they reset to zero. Now look at these images of Arabella. Numbers five, six, three, seven and five, six, three, eight. When you check the pictures I downloaded, assuming they’re still on the camera, they’re missing. The numbers jump from thirty-six to thirty-nine, which as you can see is a picture of me taken outside the room. That means these images of Arabella had been removed from the camera before missy here loaned it to me.” He stared in triumph at Donna. “Now how do you come to have two pictures of the dead woman before any of us went into that room?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on, “You work for the same newspaper Arabella worked for, and when you wrote Model Murders, you were trying to follow in her footsteps, weren’t you?”

  Donna slumped into a chair. “I was sure I’d beaten you, Joe Murray. Absolutely sure. I should have wiped all the images from the camera, but I didn’t have time.”

  “Never mind me, just tell me why? Was it Danielle Doyle’s novel?”

  Donna nodded and waved at the computer. “It’s on that machine. Arabella and John Portman stole that story from me. And I’ll repeat that in court and show them up for what they really are. Thieves! Naturally, there was no way I could prove it short of sicking the lawyers onto them, but I couldn’t afford it. I hassled them. I’m a reporter. It’s what I do. But it didn’t do me any good. All I got for my trouble was a lousy five grand. She sold over two million copies of that book. By my reckoning, she made about seven hundred and fifty thousand on it.” She glared. “It should have been mine.”

  “And that gave you the right to take her life?”

  Donna shrugged. “It was the only thing I could take that was of any value. She didn’t care about people, she didn’t care about her fans, she didn’t even care about her books and she certainly didn’t care about Portman. She just wanted the money to live her greedy life. So I took that life.” She smiled thinly. “It seemed like justice to me.”

  “I wonder if you’ll think that when the judge sends you down for life.”

  Donna laughed. “Maybe I’ll write a novel while I’m inside. All about the murder of a smartarse who thinks he’s the world’s best detective.”

  Christmas Day

  The early dusk of December was falling by the time Joe, Sheila and Brenda finished Christmas lunch and moved into the living room for The Queen’s Christmas Message on TV. Neither particularly pro nor anti-monarchy, Joe was able to coast through the fifteen-minute broadcast with a feeling of peace settling on him. It was Christmas and he was with good friends. What more could he ask for?

  Sheila’s bungalow, a veritable shrine to her life with Peter, shone that little bit more on this special day. The gentle movement of hanging decorations, a glint of tinsel, the rhythmic flashing of fairy lights, and cards from friends and well-wishers added an ambience of warmth and good cheer, dispelling the evils of the world outside. Preferable, he thought, to the cold, lonely apartment above the Lazy Luncheonette.

  The peace would not last long; Sheila had invited Lee, Cheryl and Danny over for an evening buffet. Lee’s clumsy, giant frame would be enough to disrupt the most tranquil of meditative retreats, let alone a Christmas party, and Danny was as hyper as ever.

  “Gemma will be here soon,” Sheila had reminded him when they cleared the dinner table.

  For now, Joe enjoyed the calm. When Her Majesty’s traditional festive message was over, Sheila freshened their drinks ready for the afternoon’s movie offering, and Joe felt the sleepiness of contentment overtaking him.

  Twenty minutes later, the doorbell startled him from his doze. Sheila answered it and moments later, Gemma entered, carrying a large bottle of champagne.

  “Merry Christmas everybody,” she declared. “And you, Uncle Joe.” She bent and pecked him on the cheek.

  “How are you, Gemma?” he asked.

  “Great. Full of Christmas spirit and good news. I take my inspector’s exam in March next year. This time next year, Sanford could have its own detective inspector.”

  “Oh. Sounds like it could be good news for Easter,” Brenda said.

  “I hope so.” Gemma laughed. “I see you lot were in the wars again in Whitby, weren’t you?”

  Sheila passed a glass of eggnog to Gemma. “Your Uncle Joe. And this time, they actually came looking for him to check the body.”

  “Nasty little sod, that Donna Corley,” Joe said. “Thought she could outsmart me. She’ll have to get out of bed a lot earlier.”

  “Always at Christmas, isn’t it?” Gemma commented.

  “Now you know why I don’t like this time of year,” Joe replied.

  “Oh, don’t be such a scrooge, Joe.”

  “No. I mean it. I hate Christmas.” He chuckled. “It’s murder.”

  THE END

  Thanks for reading this Sanford Third Age Collection title.

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