A Murder for Christmas

by David W Robinson

  Even allowing for Christmas, Joe’s playlist would have been more varied. He’d have dropped in several 60’s tracks, and more exciting, less seasonal numbers from the 70s.

  Trying desperately to throw off his earlier depression, which he recognised as symptomatic of his solitary and celibate existence, he made an effort to enjoy the evening. Dinner had been a carvery where he could choose his own menu and he had settled for topside of beef with roast and minted potatoes, fresh carrots and a small range of green vegetables, with a slice of lemon meringue doused in cream for dessert. He confessed to his two companions that the food was excellent.

  “Me and Lee could do it as good,” he concluded, “but there’s no call for it at the Lazy Luncheonette.”

  Dinner proved to be a leisurely affair and it was almost 8:30 before they left the elegant dining room for the spectacular ballroom, its polished dance floor gleaming in the light of many chandeliers, the rich carpeting of the surrounding area soft and yielding under tired feet.

  Joe’s companions had dressed for a party. Brenda turned out in a knee-length dress of bright red, cut low at the top, augmented by red high-heels. Slightly more conservative, Sheila had nevertheless let her metaphorical hair down in a voluminous pale cream blouse offset by a dark skirt, and she, too, wore heels, but not as lethal as Brenda’s. Joe had opted for his customary conservatism and comfort. Light grey trousers and a short sleeve shirt, his feet snug in a pair of black leather loafers.

  Settling at a table near the exit, Joe bought them drinks and the two women chattered excitedly as the lounge began to fill up. By the time Nate Immacyoulate, the DJ, started his show, the place was humming.

  The first number out of the hat was from Girls Aloud and that set Joe’s teeth on edge. “Where the hell does he get a name like Nate Immacyoulate?” he grumbled.

  “It’s a stage name, Joe,” Sheila said.

  “You’ll probably find that his real name is Nathan Bickerdike,” Brenda suggested. Shortly after the Girls Aloud track ended, Joe made for the stage and had a quiet word in Nate’s ear. He came away with a firm promise that the “old folks will be catered for, man.”

  “That’s passive,” Joe complained as he left the stage. “He shoulda said he’ll cater for the old folks.” The full meaning of Nate’s words struck Joe and he turned back. “They’re not old,” he shouted. “They’re mature.”

  But the music of Take That drowned out his words and Nate did not hear him.

  While Sheila and Brenda kept up a steady banter between themselves and others seated around them, Joe spent much of the next hour assessing the crowd, particularly the LHS section of it. He guessed there were about 80 of them, slightly outnumbering the STAC contingent. The ill-tempered woman from Debenhams was dancing with George, and Joe was not surprised to see Dennis Wright over by the bar (Sheila had wasted no time in buttonholing him for his autograph). But if Wright was no surprise, Joe was intrigued to see Warren, the beard, Kirkland, and Oliver, greasy hair, Quinton taking an interest in George and the Dragon Lady.

  He pointed it out to Sheila.

  “Dennis told me all about her when he autographed my book,” she said. “Her name is Jennifer Hardy and she’s one of the leading lights of the LHS.”

  “Yeah?” Joe asked, raising his voice over the sound of Jedward. “What’s her specialist field? Losing the plot in public?”

  “Judging by the way she’s latched onto George, I’d say it was trapping off,” Brenda commented and Joe followed her envious stare to where their STAC friend had gone into a clinch with the woman.

  “Well, George always did have a silver tongue when it came to women,” Joe commented.

  Brenda smacked her lips. “He has more than a silver tongue, believe me.”

  Her cheeks colouring, Sheila giggled at the innuendo and Joe permitted himself a grimacing smile. Brenda’s amorous adventures were almost as legendary as George’s.

  Eventually bored with the women and the chatter and the persistent good wishes of the STAC members, he ambled over to the bar where Tom Patterson introduced himself.

  “Joe Murray,” Joe said shaking hands, and it was at that point that Patterson displayed astonishment at the name.

  “So you’re the famous Joe Murray,” he went on after his comment on the LHS preferring The Spice Girls.

  “Well, the Lazy Luncheonette does well, but I’d hardly call it famous. It’s well known in Sanford.”

  “It’s not your business I’m talking about, Joe,” said Patterson, “but you. Rumour has it you’re one of the best detectives in Yorkshire.”

  Joe smiled modestly. “I make a hobby of puzzles, mysteries, and I pride myself on my powers of observation.”

  Patterson reflected the smile. “You’re too modest. I read the reports of the way you proved your nephew innocent of murder, and the manner in which you cornered three people in Filey who had killed a man. Let’s try an experiment, Joe. What can you tell about me by just looking at me?”

  Joe almost said, ‘You’re a boring, half drunken idiot,’ but he checked himself. “I don’t play games,” he said. He scanned the room in time to see Dennis Wright and Oliver Quinton arguing. Wright must have said something final, because Quinton, his face blazing with anger, stomped away, looking around the room. On the dance floor, Kirkland was moving alone, alongside George Robson and Jennifer Hardy, and her face looked as mean as Dennis Wright’s.

  “Oh come on, Joe. If you’re that good, you must be able to make some kind of assessment just by looking me over.”

  Patterson’s words brought Joe back to the bar. He sighed and scanned the LHS man up and down. It was the barest of glances, but he took in the stained fingers, the wedding ring, a florid complexion, the threadbare Paisley tie, and a straining button at the waistband of his sombre suit trousers.

  “Not much,” he said, “and nothing you’d like to hear.”

  “Oh, come on, old boy,” Patterson insisted. “You’re a detective and I’m really fascinated by your claimed powers of observation and deduction.”

  Mentally Joe added another item to his list. “All right. You smoke too much, you probably drink too much, too, and you’re widowed.”

  Patterson’s mouth fell open. “I, er, well, good lord.” He glanced at the brown stains on his fingers. “Nicotine. That’s how you knew I smoked too much.”

  Joe nodded. “One cigarette is too many, and you’re hearing that from a man who rolls his own and has done for forty years.”

  “And drink?” Patterson asked.

  “You’re holding a glass of spirit, but look at your complexion. It’s glowing like a traffic light on stop. Could be high blood pressure, but it’s more likely to be a boozer’s blush.”

  Patterson shook his head in bewilderment. “Fair enough. Those I understand, but how did you guess I’m a widower?”

  Joe indicated the waistband of Patterson’s trousers, where the button hung by a long, stretched thread. “You called me, old boy. That tells me you were privately educated and it means you come from well-to-do stock. You probably chose your wife carefully, and such women are particular. For them, appearance matters. No wife like that would allow her husband to be seen in public with his button hanging off. She could be long-term ill, bedridden, hospitalised, but even so, she would insist on you turning out as you should be turned out. It means, Tom, that your good lady is no longer a factor in your life. She’s deceased.”

  Patterson smiled and applauded. “Very good and very accurate. But how do you know I’m not simply single or divorced.”

  “You’re wearing a wedding ring.” Joe indicated the gold band on Patterson’s left hand. “Most bachelors won’t wear one because it puts other women off. Men who are divorced tend to throw the wedding ring in a box and leave it in the attic because they don’t want to be reminded of a relationship gone sour. That’s where mine is. Only a man who had a stable marriage and who had lost his wife would continue to wear the wedding ring.” He raised his eyebrows. “How
long?”

  “Three years,” Patterson said. “And it doesn’t get any easier.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Joe said. “My wife walked out on me ten years ago, and I don’t miss her at all.”

  Patterson shook his head in amazement. “That is tremendous, Joe. You deduced all that from such tiny clues.”

  “It’s all about attention to detail,” Joe said. He turned from the bar and looked out across the crowded dance floor. His eye caught George Robson and Jennifer Hardy smooching to Judy Garland’s rendition of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

  He saw Oliver Quinton struggle his way through the crowded floor to reach the couple. Quinton must have said something because the next moment, Jennifer broke her clinch with George and turned on him. Joe wished he could lip-read; he would give his eyeteeth to know what she was saying. The argument went on for a good minute and at one stage, Jennifer took a pace towards Quinton whose body language spelled fear to Joe. As Quinton backed off from Jennifer, George took her arm, trying to persuade her to let it drop. At first she shrugged him off, but eventually she calmed down and while Quinton skulked off the floor, George and Jennifer went back to their smooch.

  “That woman of yours attracts a lot of attention and she certainly has a hell of a temper on her,” Joe said. “She had an argument with Warren Kirkland two minutes ago and she’s just ripped Oliver Quinton to pieces but look at her with George. She’s practically glued to him. Now what’s that all about? Trying to make Dennis Wright or Quinton or Kirkland jealous?”

  Patterson, too, had been watching the scene. “Jennifer? She’s not my woman.”

  Joe caught the inflection in Patterson’s voice. “She belongs to your crowd.”

  “And how do you mean she has a temper?” Patterson asked, ignoring Joe’s last remark. “I’ve known her for 28 years and I’ve never found her anything but charming.”

  Joe felt the inner glow again. Patterson was too easy to read. “Even though she turned you down?” he asked.

  Patterson blushed. “How did you know?”

  “It was what you said.” Joe grinned. “See, if you’ve known someone that long, you’d usually say something like, ‘I’ve known her for twenty-five years or more,’ but you were very specific. Twenty-eight years, you said. That usually means it’s someone special to you.” He took a swallow from his glass and smiled again.

  “That’s very perceptive, Joe.”

  “It’s the way I am,” Joe replied without a trace of modesty. Putting the glass on the bar, he asked, “You’ve known her all that time and never seen her snap? She tore a real strip off Wright in Debenhams this afternoon.”

  Patterson pursed his lips. “Dennis told me. It’s unusual. They normally get on very well.”

  Joe laughed aloud. “Well obviously he turned her down this time, huh?” His gaze travelled further round to where Dennis Wright was talking with other members of the LHS. “Talking of Wright, he must be sure of making some money to travel this far with his book.”

  Patterson nodded. “He’s likely to need it, too. Poor chap’s having a rough old time of it.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows. “A Brit living in America? Most of our ex-pats do well over there.”

  “Wright’s lived there a long time, Joe. Long enough to become established in academic circles, but he dabbled in a real estate deal which went wrong.”

  “Burned his fingers?”

  Patterson laughed. “Burned? It was like the fire that wrecked Leeds market back in seventy-five. Not a lot left after the flames had died down. Rumour has it he lost almost everything on the deal. He’s twice divorced, too. God only knows what kind of alimony he’s paying out.”

  “No wonder he didn’t want Jennifer Hardy climbing into his bed.”

  ***

  The smooth voice of Judy Garland faded along with the backing music, and George Robson prised himself away from Jennifer.

  Many men would consider George lucky, but he dismissed the argument every time he heard it. His success with women had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with charm.

  Aged 55, he looked ten years younger. He kept himself fit, thanks to his job and a couple of sessions a week in the gym at Sanford Sports Centre. He was good looking, still had a full head of hair, even if he did touch it up now and then to hide the grey, and his smooth, languorous voice had a soothing, persuasive effect on everyone – particularly women.

  Many of his peers would describe him as a Lothario, but that was unfair. He wasn’t simply racking up a string of bedfellows. Some of the women he had dated since his divorce had become steady girlfriends, with odd relationships lasting months at a time. Always, however, he moved on, especially when a woman began dragging him to furniture stores and hinting how well a particular piece would look in a shared home. George Robson was not interested in remarrying; merely having a good time. And STAC outings, like this one, provided him with the perfect opportunity to indulge his playfulness without the danger of deeper involvement. He and Jennifer would share a bed tonight, tomorrow, probably Monday, too, and over breakfast on Tuesday, they would make the usual overtures of her visiting him in Sanford or him coming over to Leeds, but it would all amount to nothing. He would go home, so would she and if they ever saw each other again, it would only be by chance.

  George didn’t mind. It was the way he preferred things.

  Coming off the dance floor, heading for the bar, he spotted Joe Murray talking to one of Jennifer’s colleagues, with Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump bearing down on them. He’d always felt Joe could take leaf out of his book. Get out of that café and live a little.

  “Come on, Jennifer. I’ll introduce you to Joe and his crowd.”

  She leaned tipsily into him, chuckling. “I’m quite happy tripping the light fantastic with the Director of Leisure Services.”

  George laughed. “Tell me what it’s all about.”

  She echoed the laughter. “It’s just a way of putting those two in their place. That’s all.”

  He wagged a jocularly disapproving finger at her. “No. There’s more to it than that. I know there is.”

  She huddled close to him and nuzzled his neck. “Come on, George. Do it for me. I promise you’ll get what you want.”

  He grinned. “We’ll see. Now come on. Let’s meet Joe.”

  Jennifer pulled a face. “Do I have to?”

  “Oh yes,” he assured her. “Everyone should meet Joe Murray at least once in their life. He confirms the theory that there’s always someone worse off than you.”

  She baulked again. “Only if you promise to do it for me? It’ll only take a minute.”

  George sighed and laughed. “All right. Come on. Meet Joe.”

  Judy Garland faded and couples began to leave the dance floor. Joe caught sight of Sheila and Brenda coming towards him and, at the same time, he noticed Patterson’s eyes follow George and Jennifer to the bar.

  “There you are, Joe,” Sheila said. “We wondered where you’d got to.”

  “Just having a drink and a natter,” Joe responded. “Ladies, this is Tom Patterson, Chair of the Leodensian Historical Society. Tom, these two chickens are my partners in crime, Sheila Riley and Brenda Jump, respectively the Membership Secretary and Treasurer of the Sanford Third Age Club.”

  Patterson shook hands with both women, and the three fell into immediate and animated conversation. Joe collected his drink and was about to return to his table, leave them to it, when George and Jennifer Hardy blocked his way. She was dressed casually yet smartly in a low cut top and short skirt. Around her neck, a gold chain gleamed in the flashing disco lights. Joe studied the pendant, which read MDCCMMLVIII.

  “Jennifer,” George said, “this is the famous Joe Murray. Joe, you miserable old sod, have you met Jennifer Hardy?”

  Joe scowled. “We’ve met.”

  She smiled drunkenly, showing even, white teeth. “Have we? I don’t think so.”

  “Debenhams earlier today. You were in a bad mood.
” Her features became more serious as she racked her drunken memory, and for a moment Joe thought she was about to apologise. He headed her off. “That date doesn’t make any sense,” he said, waving his glass at her pendant.

  Jennifer giggled. “It does if you take out a couple of initials.”

  Joe gazed at the necklace, his agile mind computing the necessary subtractions. He had the answer in under five seconds. “Oh right. I get it. Take out two ems and you have 1758. The year of your birth or the time of day someone gave you the necklace?”

  “Told you he was a cynical old git, didn’t I?” George chuckled.

  Giggling again, Jennifer announced, “It’s the year of the Middleton Light Railway, Mr Murray. The world’s first commercial railway, used to carry coal from Broom Colliery to the canals near Meadow Lane, right here in Leeds.” She smiled, revelling in her superiority. “I’m a historian. Tom must have told you. The Middleton Light Railway is my specialist area of study. And the two ems are for Matthew Murray. Your namesake, and the man who built the first steam engine to run on the railway.”

  “You know your stuff,” Joe said, disdain pouring through his words. “But you really ought to do a bit less specialising and pick up some manners in the time you free up. Excuse me.” He walked off, ignoring her gawping face and George’s fury.

  “Joe,” George called after him.

  Nearby, Sheila, Brenda and Patterson stared after his retreating back.

  Still ignoring the anger he had caused, Joe crossed the dance floor where a few couples were jiving around to Elvis Presley’s Blue Suede Shoes, and returned to the table, and while he walked he was conscious of Jennifer Hardy’s and George Robson’s livid stares on him, and of both Sheila and Brenda hurrying after him.

  “Joe,” Sheila scolded, “that was very rude.”

  “And what she said to Brenda in Debenhams wasn’t?” Joe snapped.