A Very Murderous Christmas

by Cecily Gayford

  ‘This is Rita Patel who does our accounts.’ Fulbright beamed at a tiny woman perched on a stool, then moved towards a plump man in a brightly checked V-neck sweater who was sitting at a desk with a fountain pen and ink all over his fingers. ‘And this is Mr Thompson. He is a very important part of our operation. Mr Thompson writes our jokes.’

  ‘Delighted!’ Mr Thompson exclaimed.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Fletcher. I wonder if you have a joke for him?’

  Mr Thompson laid down his pen. ‘Who hides in a bakery at Christmas?’ he asked, and before Fletcher could answer, replied, ‘A mince spy. What’s white and goes up? A confused snowflake. What bird is out of breath? A puffin. What’s the fastest thing on a river …?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Thompson!’ The two of them hurried on. ‘A brilliant mind,’ Fulbright confided. ‘He’s been with us for twenty years. He once worked with Ben Elton. And here’s the complete range …’

  The crackers lay stacked out in front of them. There were traditional crackers, modern crackers, luxury crackers, themed crackers – all stamped with the Camberwell logo and snuggling together in packets of twelve. Two youths in loose-fitting brown coats, barely out of their teens, were arranging the boxes. Like everyone else in the factory, they seemed absurdly pleased to be here.

  ‘This is Walter. And this is Jomo. When I started here, they would have been called apprentices. Now I have to call them interns. But it’s the same principle. We like to support local youth … no zero-hour contracts or anything like that! I’d like to think that these two have a bright future. Jomo is already an accomplished plastic holly engineer and we’ve got Walter working on seasonal mottoes. Have you seen enough, Detective Inspector? Shall we go upstairs?’

  Thirty minutes later, after a homely woman had served them tea and chocolate digestive biscuits, the two men were sitting in a comfortable office, facing each other across a leather-topped desk. Fulbright owned a laptop computer, Fletcher noticed. But he kept it closed, almost as if he was ashamed of it.

  ‘I have to say, I’m a little surprised you’ve come here,’ Fulbright said. ‘I hope you don’t think that anybody at Camberwell Crackers would have had anything to do with Mr Osborne’s death.’

  ‘Not at all, sir. It’s simply police procedure. We have to talk to everybody who met Mr Osborne in the weeks before he died.’

  ‘Well, as I told you, he certainly did come here.’

  ‘He was a shareholder, I understand.’

  ‘Yes. In fact, he had acquired a majority shareholding in the company.’

  ‘Fifty-one per cent.’

  ‘Fifty-five, I believe.’

  ‘Did Mr Osborne have any plans for Camberwell Crackers?’

  ‘Absolutely. He was very helpful. He wanted us to consider investing in new plant and he had some interesting suggestions about our range.’

  ‘What sort of ideas?’

  ‘Oh – bigger crackers. Firework crackers … although I had to explain to him that indoor fireworks are no longer viable because of EU regulations. Luxury crackers! That was an interesting thought. Crackers with gold or silver bangles inside them. Of course, this was only a preliminary meeting but I must say, I was quite excited by his vision. He was a man who clearly didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about but at the same time he was most definitely prepared to learn. He wanted to know everything about the business. We arranged to meet again in the New Year and I was extremely sorry to hear of his demise.’ Fulbright paused, touching a discreet finger to his chin. ‘Do you have any suspects?’

  ‘Not as yet, sir.’

  Fletcher wished he could answer differently. It had been almost a month since the murder now and already they were sniggering at the office and one or two very hurtful messages had been chalked up on the incidents board. He had done everything by the book. He had interviewed Osborne’s two ex-wives, his various sons, the business partners, the new girlfriend, the servants and the neighbours and there was at least one thing that he had quickly learned. They all, in varying degrees, disliked the dead man. It was actually quite remarkable how many of them might have wanted to kill him. In fact, Arthur Fulbright was the only person he’d met who had anything good to say about him.

  And yet the whole lot of them had alibis. None of them could have committed the crime and, with mounting frustration, Fletcher had been forced to eliminate each one of them from his enquiries. Worse still, even if they had been unable to account for their whereabouts, there was something about the nature of the crime, the way it had been committed that didn’t seem to fit any of them.

  He glanced down at the almost empty page of his notebook, vaguely trying to remember what he had been taught at police training school. He had no idea what to ask next. ‘You are aware that Mr Osborne had a reputation as an asset-stripper,’ he said, at length.

  ‘I’m quite surprised to hear it.’ The factory owner took a bite of his digestive biscuit. His teeth left a perfect half-circle, like an eclipse. ‘Maybe he would have revealed himself in due course. But as I’ve said, he seemed completely enthusiastic. Camberwell Crackers are a very well-known brand and he made it quite clear that he was delighted to have acquired us as part of his business portfolio.’

  ‘Delighted?’

  ‘That was what he said.’

  * * *

  Arthur Fulbright was lying.

  It hadn’t been like that at all.

  A month before, Harvey Osborne had arrived at the factory in his chauffeur-driven, midnight blue, Mercedes S-Class saloon and had marched in as if he owned the place which, he had quickly made clear, he did. In his sports jacket, Tattersall shirt and flat cap, he looked more like a country squire than a businessman. Tilda, on the reception, had got things off to a bad start by asking him if he was applying for a job in the factory canteen. Osborne, who had been educated at Eton, had smiled at her with eyes that announced her death sentence. He had simply told her to call the manager.

  Tilda had telephoned the office and Arthur Fulbright had come down to the reception area, just as he had for Detective Inspector Fletcher. He made a habit of never sending his secretary. He thought it was discourteous. But from the moment of their meeting, everything had been difficult. Osborne was about twenty years younger than the factory manager but success in business and wealth had given him a natural superiority. He had grey skin, close-cropped hair and exceptionally hard eyes. He did not offer to shake hands. In fact, he was wearing leather gloves which he never removed.

  ‘You’re Fulbright? Let’s get on with it, shall we? You know who I am?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘OK. Let’s take a quick look round and then we can get down to brass tacks.’

  Osborne had shown no enthusiasm as he was shown around the factory and had refused to greet anyone on first-name or indeed on any-name terms. He hadn’t even tried to smile at Mr Thompson’s jokes and had surveyed the product lines with ill-concealed disdain. Once they had reached the privacy of Fulbright’s office, he had come straight to the point.

  ‘I’m shutting you down.’

  Mr Fulbright had blinked and laid his biscuit – this time a Jammie Dodger – back on its plate. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘This business doesn’t make any sense. What’s a Christmas cracker factory doing in the middle of Camberwell?’

  ‘It was founded by my great-grandfather.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re quite getting my drift, Fulbright. I don’t care if your family has been here since the middle ages. This building is a waste of space.’

  ‘We’re highly profitable.’

  ‘You’re just about breaking even. But the fact is, if this site was redeveloped – houses, offices, retail outlets – it would be worth millions. I’m amazed you never saw it. We’re in south London for Christ’s sake! You could be making your product anywhere. Why do you want to make it here?’

  ‘We’ve always been very much part of the local community.’

  ‘Oh per-leas
e!’ Osborne held up a gloved hand. ‘Don’t start talking to me about community and social cohesion and all that crap. I’m only interested in business. And take it from me, mate, this business makes no sense.’

  ‘People like Christmas crackers …’

  ‘They only like them at Christmas and that’s once a year! Hardly a brilliant start for a business model. Anyway, they can buy them from China and Eastern Europe at half the price.’

  ‘We pride ourselves on our quality.’

  ‘Quality?’ The businessman threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’re not making Swiss watches here. You’re not making integrated circuits. Shall I tell you something? Speaking personally, I don’t give a damn about Christmas. Next December … I’ll be on my yacht in the Caribbean, as far away from it as I can get. I hate Christmas trees, Christmas carols, Christmas lights and all the rest of it. Stupid Christmas cards with robins and three wise men. Bloody pantomimes at the theatre and people queuing up to buy stuff they don’t want and which will be in the bin before January.

  ‘But shall I tell you what I hate most about Christmas? Christmas crackers! Even when I was a kid I never understood them. I mean, first of all they look stupid and then you rip them apart. And there’s nothing inside! All you get is a crap novelty – one hundred per cent useless. Has anybody ever got anything decent out of a cracker? The crap novelty, the stupid hat, the joke that isn’t funny. Useless! Useless! Useless! Why do you even bother?’

  Arthur Fulbright had listened to all this in silence but two red pin-pricks had appeared in his cheeks and for once the polite smile had vanished from his lips. He had no understanding of finance. He didn’t know how this man had acquired the shares. All he wanted was for the interview to be over. ‘If I understand you correctly,’ he said, ‘you want us to move.’

  ‘Here’s my problem,’ Osborne returned. ‘I could move you. We could fire the staff and hire a new workforce somewhere cheaper. Somewhere up in the north …’

  ‘I wouldn’t wish to fire my staff,’ Fulbright interrupted.

  ‘That’s exactly my point. If I was doing the firing, you’d be the first to go. I knew it the moment I walked in here. This is a family business. Duh! You know a lot about family but nothing about business and that’s why you’re not making money. It doesn’t matter where I put you, Mr Fulbright. North, south, east or west, you’re not going to make a sensible profit. So you know what? It’s easier just to close you down.’

  * * *

  That was how it had really gone. But of course Arthur Fulbright couldn’t tell the detective that. He didn’t know a great deal about police methods but he had watched enough Poirot and Morse on television to realise how very easily he could make himself the prime suspect in the businessman’s murder.

  ‘How long did Mr Osborne stay here?’ the detective asked.

  ‘About an hour. He asked a lot of quite penetrating questions about the Christmas cracker business and he was very keen – dead keen I would say, although perhaps that isn’t appropriate in the circumstances – to learn more.’

  ‘How did he leave it?’

  ‘As I said, we arranged to meet again in January.’ Fulbright shook his head, downcast. ‘He talked about reinvestment. I’d hate to think that his untimely death would put an end to that.’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘He didn’t talk to anyone else about his visit here?’

  Fletcher shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not. Mr Osborne seems to have been something of a one-man band in the way he operated and he’d fired his secretary the month before he died so she couldn’t tell us anything. I’ve looked through his diary and computer files but frankly it’s all a mess.’

  ‘Oh dear. That’s most unsatisfactory. I suppose that when the dust settles we’ll just have to continue as we have always done – without any help from outside.’

  There was nothing more to be said. DI Martin Fletcher folded his notebook with the bitter knowledge that he was no closer to the truth. Perhaps, he reflected, it was the ex-secretary after all. Osborne had fired her for no reason and without references and she was spitting blood. But then again, what about the mistress? It was clear that Osborne had been brutal to her. And then there was the business partner who had just come out of jail …

  ‘Thank you for your time, sir,’ he said.

  ‘You have no more questions, Detective Inspector?’

  ‘Not at this stage. No.’

  ‘Let me show you out.’

  The two men stood up and left together.

  ‘So how exactly did Mr Osborne die?’ Fulbright asked as they made their way out of the office. He posed the question quite casually, as if merely to make conversation rather than because he really wanted to know.

  DI Fletcher thought back to the photographs and files that littered his desk. It was amazing how much police work still relied on paper.

  Harvey Osborne had lived in a huge house in Richmond with one hundred metres’ private frontage onto the River Thames. The house was modern but built in the Regency style with a swimming pool in the basement, a cinema suite, a snooker room, and a kitchen that could have supported a three-star London restaurant. He lived there alone. His second wife had been kicked out and his mistress had a two-bedroom flat in Fulham. On the night of the murder, Osborne had been asleep in his luxurious bedroom on the first floor. He must have thought he was safe. The house was completely surrounded by a fifteen-metre wall with CCTV everywhere. An electrically operated gate provided the only way in and it was guarded by a cabin with three Estonian security men on twenty-four-hour standby.

  It should have been impossible to break in.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we know,’ Fletcher said. ‘Although of course this is highly confidential.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Fletcher had decided to run through it one more time with Arthur Fulbright, even though he knew he shouldn’t. But he had the vague hope that spelling it all out, going over it step by step might help him to see it all more clearly and perhaps to spot the single clue he was sure he was missing.

  ‘It happened at midnight on November 10th. That was just over three weeks ago. Mr Osborne was alone in the house but his security detail – three men – were in the cabin by the front gate. And this is where it starts. They should have been patrolling the grounds but they weren’t. It seems that a few days before, somebody had sent them a set of plastic poker dice. You know Estonians love to gamble. Well, they were totally absorbed in the game and that was why they didn’t step outside.

  ‘The intruder – let’s assume he was a man – arrived at midnight and the first thing he did was to lock the security men into the cabin, using a miniature padlock which he fixed to a hasp on the door. Even if they’d broken off from their game, it would hold them up when they tried to get out.

  ‘Then the killer set to work on the front gate. There was an electronic keypad which controlled it but he unscrewed that with a miniature screwdriver and then set to work on the wires. They were tightly packed together and according to forensics, he used a device not dissimilar to a nail clipper to cut through them. He connected two of the wires with a stapler which he must have brought with him and that caused a short-circuit which opened the gate.

  ‘The garden was pitch black and he couldn’t risk being seen but we think he used a very small torch and possibly a compass to navigate his way forward. When he reached the front door, he picked the lock with a pair of tweezers and that was how he got into the hall. Osborne had an infra-red beam in front of the stairs which would have set off the alarms but our guy was smart. He had brought powder compacts – the sort young girls use for make-up – and he positioned them very carefully, using a tape measure. They refracted the beam and he was able to continue up the stairs and into Osborne’s bedroom.’

  ‘Did he have a gun?’

  ‘No. The murder weapon was particularly horrible. He used a length of paper which he had soaked in silver oxidoazaniumylidynemethane – an extreme
ly unstable chemical also known as silver fulminate. It is a primary explosive, highly sensitive to friction. The intruder looped the paper around Mr Osborne’s neck and then tightened it. The result was an explosion which blew Mr Osborne’s head off.’

  ‘How dreadful, Detective Inspector. But you mentioned CCTV. Surely they will have photographed the man.’

  ‘The man or the woman! Oh yes, sir. We have images of him all right. But unfortunately he was wearing a brightly coloured tissue mask around his face with holes cut out for his eyes. There is absolutely no way we can identify him.’

  ‘And he got away?’

  ‘The guards realised something was wrong when they heard the explosion and managed to break out of the cabin. But the killer had strewn marbles along the path and all three of them were thrown off their feet. This gave him enough time to make his escape – not back to the main road – but down the river. We’re not yet sure what sort of vessel he used but it was certainly fast because he was gone before the guards got anywhere near.’

  ‘The fastest thing on a river? I would suspect that would be a motor-pike.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  It seemed to Fletcher that a smile had flickered across the face of Arthur Fulbright which had quite changed his appearance. For just a few seconds he had looked quite cruel. But the smile had already gone and Fletcher was sure he had imagined it.

  ‘Nothing, Detective Inspector.’

  ‘Well, anyway, sir, that’s how it was. And now if you’ll excuse me …’

  Fletcher got up. The two men shook hands and he made his way back downstairs. He had definitely decided he would interview the secretary again. The more he thought about it, the more suspicious she seemed.

  Tilda, the receptionist, gave him a box of Camber-well Crackers on the way out. It was a very nice thought. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she said.