It was signed Hector Purselowe. “King of the get-rich-quick investment scam,” I said. “He’s set up more pyramid schemes than the pharaohs.”
Purselowe had disappeared from the offices of his company Thrifty Investment Advisers a couple of days earlier. Last night's Evening Chronicle reported that the police and Board of Trade investigators were at the firm's offices in Hangleton and going through its books.
“So now the old twister is sleeping with the fishes,” grinned Derek.
“Feasting with sharks, more like,” I said. “Big money sharks. If he's walked into the sea, I’m Lloyd Bridges. The fraud squad is on his tail. He’s scarpered. The question is: can we stop him before he leaves the country?”
***
Even before Derek and I reached the beach, I was sure Hector Purselowe hadn’t gone for a stroll under the English Channel.
Suicide by drowning was a ruse to throw the fraud squad off his tail. The idea that he’d end it all by walking into the sea was risible. Purselowe wouldn’t walk into a shower cubicle unless he thought he’d make something out of it.
We hiked along the seafront to Black Rock, where Derek had first spotted the clothes and the note. The early glow of dawn lit the sky in the east as we approached the breakwater.
Derek pointed out the neat little pile down by the water’s edge. He picked up his rod. “Don’t mind if I get a line out while the tide’s still up, do you?” he asked. “Only hope I don’t reel in old matey here.”
“There’s no danger of that.” I knelt on the shingle and examined the clothes. Purselowe must have been an optimist to believe that the boys in blue would think he’d stripped off these togs and then plunged into the briny.
For a start, the shirt and underwear smelt of soap as though they were fresh back from the laundry. The shoes weren’t scuffed as they would have been had he trudged across the shingle. And the jacket - a cheap number which looked like a reject from a second-hand shop - lacked Purselowe’s trademark show handkerchief in the breast pocket. It was obvious what he'd done. He'd carried the lot down in a bag and placed it there.
I had little doubt Purselowe was even now fleeing the country so that he could be safely reunited with the loot in his Swiss bank account. He'd probably been planning his disappearing act long before the cops appeared on his doorstep. But which route would he take? I’d hoped the clothes might provide a clue. But there were no stray ticket stubs, travel agent's bills or timetables in his pockets. Purselowe was too sharp to leave that kind of clue behind.
I rummaged among the clothes again and a small wrist watch slipped out of a trouser pocket. It was a cheap job, a Timex. Perfectly good enough to tell the time but not like the chunky Rolex Purselowe usually sported on his wrist.
I picked it up and wound it. The spring turned once and then stuck. The watch had been wound within an hour.
Derek tugged on his fishing rod and said: “I think I’ve caught something.”
“Me, too,” I said.
***
“So how did you know the old rogue was catching the early morning ferry from Newhaven?” Frank Figgis, my news editor, asked.
It was later that morning. Figgis perched on the edge of my desk in the Chronicle’s newsroom. The stub of a Woodbine stuck to his lower lip.
We were studying proofs of the front page of the Midday Special edition which had just come up from the compositors. The headline on the front page read:
TYCOON ARRESTED LEAVING THE COUNTRY
“It was the watch that gave him away,” I said. “He couldn’t resist winding it before he left. He’s a control freak. Most fraudsters are. So I knew he couldn’t be more than an hour away.
“He’d want to quit the country as soon as possible after he’d left the clothes in case someone found them more quickly than expected. As Derek did. So he’d head for the first available transport out. Which at that time of the morning was the early ferry to Dieppe.”
“So now he'll have to face the music - and all those pensioners he's cheated,” Figgis said.
I grinned. “Ironic that his watch gave him away. Now he’ll be doing time.”
The Mystery of the Phantom Santa
“You don’t need to ask me what I want for Christmas,” said Frank Figgis.
He was holding the stub of Woodbine ostentatiously between his thumb and forefinger. He eased the dog-end between his lips and took a long drag. The ash dropped off and fluttered down his waistcoat like an early snow flurry.
“An ashtray?” I suggested.
Figgis harrumphed. He stubbed the dog-end out on the edge of his desk and tossed it into his waste bin.
Figgis was news editor of the Evening Chronicle. We were sitting in his office. It was the day before Christmas Eve.
“Never mind that,” he said, brushing the ash off his waistcoat. “What I want to know is what you’ve got planned for the Christmas Eve edition.”
It was a question I dreaded every year. Traditionally, tomorrow’s paper would be full of Christmas-themed stories.
It wasn’t hard to find a seasonal yarn if you were the paper’s business reporter. She’d be telling us that tills were ringing in the town’s shops which had had their best Christmas trading ever. Just as she had last year.
And simple if you were running the woman’s page. No doubt we’d be learning about another ten exciting things we could do with left-over turkey.
But not such a breeze if, like me, your byline read Colin Crampton, crime correspondent. My Christmas staple was the reheated favourite about thieves who broke into a house and stole the kiddies’ presents from under the tree. It helped if they were orphans (the kiddies that is, not the presents).
But this year, it seemed as though they’d knocked off early for the holiday (the thieves, not the kiddies). The orphans would be getting their stockings stuffed full by Santa. I had no story.
So I looked Figgis in the eye and said: “I’m working on something. I think it could be big.”
“Yes, and this,” he reached for another Woodbine, “is a Romeo y Julieta cigar.”
***
I stomped back to the newsroom feeling like the cracker that didn’t go bang.
I was angry with myself for not lining up a seasonal story for the Christmas Eve edition. I had to find something but time was running out.
Sally Martin, who wrote for the woman’s page, bumped into me as I barged through the newsroom’s swing doors.
“You look as though you’ve just swallowed the sixpence from the Christmas pud,” she said.
“Worse,” I said.
She arched an eyebrow. “Figgis’ Christmas story?”
I nodded.
“You haven’t got one?” she said.
I nodded again.
“So you’ll be paying the Figgis’ Yuletide fine?”
“Looks like I’ve no choice,” I said.
It had been a tradition on the paper since before I joined that you either handed in a Christmas story on the twenty-fourth of December or paid Figgis a fine of one hundred Woodbines. Nobody knew when the tradition had started. But, then, nobody had been on the paper as long as Figgis. He’d probably started it himself. Anything to get more free smokes. But I was determined he wasn’t getting any from me.
Sally shrugged. “It’s happened to all of us. By the way, can you think of a tenth way to use left-over turkey? I’ve got nine already.”
“Only one,” I said. “And it involves Frank Figgis. But I’m not sure there’s a kitchen utensil for what I’ve got in mind.”
***
I crossed to my desk and slumped into my old captain’s chair. I brushed a stray strand of tinsel that had fallen from the decorations off my typewriter.
There were a couple of messages to call contacts. I recognised the names. They were time-wasters and would be angling for a Christmas drink on the strength of a feeble tip-off that wouldn’t even make a paragraph. I decided to ignore them.
Instead, I picked up the phone and d
ialled a number at Brighton police station.
The phone was answered after three rings. “Detective Inspector Ted Wilson.”
“What do you get if you cross Father Christmas with a detective?” I said.
“Santa Clues,” he said. “We had those crackers at the CID’s Christmas bash last night. Presumably you’ve not just called to tell weak jokes?”
“When you weren’t carousing, did you happen to come across any festive crime?” I said. “I’m looking for a story with a seasonal theme.”
A throaty chuckle came down the line. “Well, I’ve got good news for you. This is the quietest Christmas I’ve known since I joined this station. Looks like the criminal classes have taken on board that bit about peace and goodwill to all men.”
“Too bad,” I said. “Let me know if you hear of anything.”
“What did Cinderella say when the developers mislaid her photos?” he said.
“Some day my prints will come,” I said.
I replaced the receiver.
***
Twenty minutes later I was sitting on a bench in the Royal Pavilion gardens.
I needed time to think away from the hurly-burly of the office.
It was a crisp morning with December sun low in the sky. Frost glistened on the dome and minarets of the Royal Pavilion.
I could hear the Sally Army band in New Road playing carols. They were on In the Bleak Midwinter. Their choice matched my mood.
A young lad was kicking a football about on the grass. He dribbled past the flower bed and scored a goal between an oak tree and a sign reading “No ball games”.
I rummaged in my pocked, pulled out my notebook and flipped back through the pages. I was looking for something – anything – that I’d overlooked which I might turn into a Christmas story. There’d been no shortage of crime in Brighton in the past few weeks.
There was the capture of Big Brucie Dangerfield who’d shot a young police constable during a bank raid. He'd been tried for murder - and was now in Wormwood Scrubs awaiting the hangman's noose.
And I hadn't forgotten the Newhaven bonded warehouse heist, where thieves had made off with a haul of ten thousand Gauloises cigarettes. They'd brained the night-watchman who'd died two days later from his injuries. So now police were mounting a murder hunt.
Both great crime stories, but nothing with a Christmas theme…
Ooouf! A football cannoned into me and I dropped my notebook.
The young lad ran up. He was dressed in a thick brown jumper and short trousers. He looked about eight years old. His lips were pursed and his eyes were worried. He picked up the notebook and handed it to me.
“Sorry, mister,” he said.
I grinned. “Did I save a goal?”
“Didn’t mean to kick it this way. Can I have my ball back?” he said.
I tossed the ball in the air and caught it.
“I’ll tell you a secret if you give it to me,” he said.
I handed him the football. “I like secrets,” I said.
“I’ve seen Father Christmas,” he said.
“Coming down the chimney, was he?”
“No. He was out the back of our house. By the garages. But he had a sack and a beard.”
“And a red coat?”
“I couldn’t see the colour. But it came right down to the ground. It was dark. I was looking out of my bedroom window. My Mum says I should’ve been in bed.”
“Where is your Mum?” I looked around.
A woman wearing an old grey coat and with a scarf tied over her head was hurrying across the grass.
“Billy, come here,” she called out. “I told you not to run off.”
She came up, panting slightly. She had a pinched face with thin lips. “Sorry if he’s been annoying you,” she said. The scowl on her face said she didn’t much care whether he’d been annoying me or not.
“Not at all,” I said. “He’s been telling me that he’s seen Father Christmas.”
She grabbed Billy’s hand and shook his arm roughly. “I’ve told you not to tell tales,” she said.
She turned to me: “Ignore him. He invents things.”
“But I did see Father Christmas. Three nights in row,” Billy protested.
“For the last time, you did not see Father Christmas.” There was a harsh rasp in her voice.
“This is the time of year to indulge children’s fantasies,” I said.
She faced me and the look on her thin face was pitched somewhere between defiant and evasive. “Not those kinds of fantasies,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She tugged Billy’s arm. “Come on, we’ve got to go and buy the turkey and Brussels sprouts.”
Billy grinned a kind of lop-sided grin at me and followed his Mum.
“Do turkeys come from Turkey?” I heard him say as they moved off towards North Street.
“No.”
“Where do turkeys come from if they don’t come from Turkey?”
“The butcher’s.”
“Is the butcher in Turkey?”
They turned the corner before she answered.
I sat there thinking about the encounter. A young lad who thought he’d seen Father Christmas. A mother who knew he hadn’t. I wouldn’t normally give it a second thought.
And yet… The lad had been so insistent and the mother so determined to deny his story. Her denials had verged on the hostile. They were certainly evasive. A mum under pressure in the build-up to Christmas? Possibly. But I sensed there might be more to it than that.
I stood up and hurried after them in the direction of North Street. I spotted them crossing the road towards Hannington’s.
Billy was still firing questions and Mum was shaking her head. The lad was an inquisitive little shaver. I could see him making a good journalist one day.
I hung back among the crowd of shoppers and followed. I was wondering how long it would take before they headed for home.
***
It takes me ten minutes to do my Christmas shopping. Well, you don’t have the time to take longer at five twenty on Christmas Eve.
It took Billy’s mum two and quarter hours as she trailed around the shops. A butcher’s, half a dozen newsagents and a tobacconist, and a greengrocer’s. She didn’t have much shopping at the end of it all. A turkey and a bag of chipolata sausages from the butcher’s and the Brussels sprouts from the greengrocer’s. What she’d been buying in those other shops was anybody’s guess. But, then, she had one of those deep basket shopping bags and I couldn’t see everything she’d put in it.
After she’d finished shopping, she tugged Billy towards the railway station. For a moment, I worried that they were going to catch a train, but she turned left and headed up Gloucester Road to the West Hill part of town.
Billy and his Mum lived in a small terraced house just off Dyke Road. I watched her juggle her shopping as she fished in her handbag for a latchkey, unlock the door and push inside. I leaned on a lamppost at the other end of the street wondering what the hell I was doing.
I’d just traipsed after a middle-aged woman half way across Brighton on the strength of a hunch based on what? A feeling that I didn’t like the woman? No, there was more to it than that. The way she’d reacted to Billy’s Father Christmas story convinced me she was hiding something.
Billy mentioned that he’d seen Father Christmas in the garages at the back of the house. I waited a few moments, then made my way down the road.
An alley at the side of the terrace of houses led to a courtyard with eight garages at the back. There was a separate driveway in from the road which ran parallel with the back of the terrace. It was a miserable place, paved with oil-stained bricks and littered with rubbish – old petrol cans, rags, some broken windscreen wipers and other car parts I didn’t recognise. There was a group of greasy dustbins up by a wall.
Nobody was about. I swiftly scanned the windows overlooking the courtyard. I took a moment to identify what must be Billy’s bedroom. There wa
s no little face pressed to the window pane.
I had a quick shufty round the garages. They were all locked. There were no signs that Father Christmas had been here. No strands of fur from Santa’s robes. No skid marks from the sleigh. No reindeer droppings. Perhaps he was a phantom Father Christmas after all. A figment of Billy’s imagination. Maybe I was wasting my time.
I walked towards the driveway that led through to the road and then I saw it - half hidden by a pile of dirty newspapers. A sack. Billy had said that he’d seen Father Christmas with his sack. I moved the newspapers to one side. The sack was brown, made out of hessian. The sort a gardener might buy from a hardware store to hold new season potatoes. There were no spuds in this one. It was clean, neatly folded and unused. But it looked as though it may have been hidden for use later.
I thought about that for a moment, then replaced the old newspapers. Billy had said he’d seen Father Christmas when he should have been in bed. I reckoned a lad of that age would probably be tucked up by eight o’clock. My guess was that he climbed out after his mum had read the bed time story kissed him goodnight and spent a bit of time spying on the goings-on in the courtyard.
I decided that later in the evening I would join him.
***
It was ten past eight by the time I snuck up the alley beside the terrace.
I’d headed back to the office after my earlier visit. I’d wanted to check on who occupied the house. That meant consulting the electoral register held in the Chronicle’s newsroom. I’d discovered there was only one resident of voting age in the house – a Victoria Ann Meacher. I’d looked up the name in the Chronicle’s morgue, where all the press cuttings were kept. But there was nothing filed under that name.
I stepped cautiously into the garage courtyard, looked around for a place to hunker down out of sight. I spotted the dustbins I'd seen earlier and squeezed behind them. My shoe squelched as I trod in something soft. A smell of rotting greens overlain with curry sauce wafted up from the bins. If I had to stay for too long, I was going to find it difficult to move in decent company afterwards.
The courtyard was lit by a single lamp standard at the exit to the road. It threw a watery light across the bricked surface. The air was cold. I shivered.
Murder from the Newsdesk Page 6