A Murder for Christmas

by David W Robinson

  “No I didn’t,” Joe admitted. “But I know I didn’t kill her. I don’t know that you didn’t.”

  “Touché,” Quinton retorted. “It seems to me quite simple, but you won’t accept it. Your scum friend killed her. He wanted his legover, she told him where to go and he murdered her.” Again, Quinton leaned forward. “Let me tell you about Jennifer Hardy. She was a user of men. She would sleep with anyone if it suited her career, if she felt they could help advance her. She was, to put no finer point on the matter, an intellectual snob.”

  “Wright said the same thing,” Joe agreed.

  “At least he and I agree on something,” Quinton said. Bringing the topic back to the discussion in hand, he went on, “There is no way on God’s earth that Jennifer would have let that mate of yours into her bed. And there you have it, Murray. He tried it on, she said no, he killed her.”

  Joe stroked his chin. “Interesting.”

  Haunted by suspicion, Quinton sat upright. “What?”

  “You see, according to Chief Inspector Dockerty, George and Jennifer did have sex. Semen samples taken from her confirm it. Oh, it’s too early for a definite analysis, but the early indications are that the chances of it being someone other than George are lower than your chances of winning the lottery … again.” Joe added the rider as he recalled his research into Quinton.

  Taken by surprise, the millionaire resorted to bluster. “He must have forced her.”

  Joe laughed. “George? Meek, mild mannered George, the council gardener, forced a hard arse like Jennifer Hardy? No way. Besides, there are no other signs of violence apart from the blow to her head. If George had raped her, there would be indications, and she would never have turned her back on him afterwards.”

  “How do you know that she did?” Quinton demanded.

  “How did he hit her on the back of the head if she didn’t?” Joe countered. “See, Quinton, it seems to me like someone decided George would be a patsy for this killing. A poor sap taking the fall while the real killer goes free. But once you take into account the knowledge that George got what he wanted, any motive he may have had for killing her is gone, so you’re forced to look elsewhere. I have a motive. So does Tom Patterson, so does Dennis Wright … and so do you. Which of us has the strongest motive? Right now, I’d say you.”

  Quinton shook his head then looked wildly round. His eyes swung back to Joe, filled with anger and disbelief, then he half stood, sat again, and twisted his face into one of anguish. “No … look … aw … this is all wrong.”

  Joe waited. He knew that Quinton would calm down as quickly as he had heated up.

  He was right. After a moment or two, Quinton took a sip of his wine, and again leaned over the table. “You have this wrong, Murray. So you know all about me, great. You know I won the lottery. Half share of four million. It’s no big secret, anyway. You know I’m a coin collector. I always have been. I suppose it comes from working in a bank. With the lottery win, I could go for rarer, more expensive coins.”

  “And that’s where Jennifer came into your equation?” Joe’s question was more of a statement.

  Quinton nodded. “I read about her in Collector’s Monthly,” he explained. “Well-known rag. Anyone and everyone who collects anything from teddy bears to classic cars buys it. They ran a piece on her last year. All about how she was going to America to assist Wright on his new book. The article also went into some detail about the Middleton Penny. It’s an old tale. Everyone in the game knows about it. I contacted her by email, asking if she or Wright knew the whereabouts of the penny. I’d be prepared to pay top dollar for it, and there’d be a nice commission in it for her and Wright. She got back to me saying she didn’t know where the penny was, but if Wright did, she would let me know. That was it. Until September this year. She got back to me out of the blue, asked if we could meet. Here. In this hotel. I drove up here, she told me she hadn’t yet ascertained where the penny was, but she figured Wright knew and she was continuing to press him on my behalf. In the meantime, like you, she’d done her homework on me, knew I was a lottery winner, knew I wasn’t married, and before I knew it, she was taking me to bed.”

  “And here you are three months later, still looking for the penny,” Joe commented.

  Again, Quinton nodded. His grip on the wine glass tightened and the knuckles of his hand turned white. For a moment Joe was afraid the glass would shatter under pressure.

  Quinton relaxed a little. “We met a few times. Always here. That’s how the barman last night came to know me. We always enjoyed a good romp, and she kept promising me that Wright would let her know where to find the penny, and when he did, she would put me onto it.”

  “But you got cheesed off with the run-around?” Joe suggested.

  “I don’t know about cheesed off with it,” Quinton said. “I didn’t even realise she was giving me the run-around. I got some good times out of her. Then a member of staff told me that Wright would be here for the Leodensian Historical Society’s Christmas thrash, and I thought it would be a great opportunity for me to see the butcher not the block, as it were. So I booked a room for this weekend, just to make sure I was here.”

  “And when you spoke to Wright last night, he gave you the rough edge of his tongue.”

  “And how.” Quinton swallowed the last of his wine and played with the glass. “He told me he didn’t know what I was talking about, he told me Jennifer had never mentioned it to him and he told me, quite categorically, that like the rest of the world, he hadn’t a damned clue where the Middleton Penny was, and even if he did, he wouldn’t tell me.” He shrugged. “I started to get mad, but for God’s sake, have you seen the size of the man? He’d have torn me to pieces. So I had it out with Jennifer when she was dancing with your friend. She told me exactly where I could get off. Said I’d had what I really wanted and that was that. Never wanted to see or speak to me again. I tell you, I was pretty hacked off.”

  “Hacked off enough to come down and kill her in the early hours?” Joe asked.

  Contrary to his earlier performance, Quinton was not put out by the question. “No. Definitely not. Look, Murray, you must have guessed now that I amount to nothing. It’s all bluster with me. I’m not a violent man. I’m not bloody tall enough for a start off. My front, if you want to call it that, comes from money. I bully my way round because I can, because people are in awe of the money. That’s all. Like I told you, I went to bed when I left the disco last night, and I didn’t move until half past seven this morning.”

  Joe considered his position. “Tell me about Warren Kirkland. What’s the score between you and him?”

  “I can buy and sell him,” Quinton sneered.

  “What is with you and money, huh?” Joe bit the words off. “Your money isn’t worth that!” He snapped his fingers. “It doesn’t impress anyone, least of all me, because you don’t have anything I want. Just tell me what it is with you and Kirkland.”

  Quinton did not appear fazed by Joe’s outburst. “We’re competitors. He wants the Middleton Penny, I want the Middleton Penny. I’m prepared to outbid him.”

  “You want the Middleton Penny just to put one over on him?”

  Quinton shook his head. “I want the Middleton Penny because that’s what my life is about; owning rare coins. Putting one over on him is simply a bonus.”

  “Was he screwing Jennifer Hardy, too?”

  Now Quinton shrugged. “Possibly. Probably. I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I know is what I want.

  Joe got to his feet. “I’ll leave it at that for now, Quinton, but I’ll be talking with Dockerty again, and all this will rate a mention.”

  “Aw, come on, man, I just told you…”

  “And I told you,” Joe interrupted, “that I don’t know who killed Jennifer. It could be you, it could be Wright, it could be almost anyone in this hotel, but I only know who it isn’t. It isn’t George Robson.”

  Chapter Nine

  Leaving Quinton, Joe crossed the room
to stand before Kirkland.

  “Mr Murray. I wondered how long it would take you to get to me.” The voice was softer, quieter than Quinton’s, less forceful than Wright’s.

  Putting his beer on the table, Joe sat down. “You’re a management consultant. I’m just wondering if you managed to make George look guilty after killing Jennifer Hardy.”

  Kirkland smiled, his fine, white teeth showing through the black surround of his beard and moustache. “An entertaining, if idiotic idea.”

  “You think so? You can prove where you were at three thirty this morning?”

  “No. No more so than any of a dozen other people in this hotel. You included.” Kirkland’s face took on a smug set. “I saw that little tête-à-tête in Debenhams yesterday, and I noticed your exchange in the bar last night.” He settled himself into his seat. “So tell me, Murray, did you kill her?”

  Joe chuckled. “Nice try, but it won’t get you anywhere. Quinton already accused me, so did Wright, and so did Tom Patterson, if my guess is correct. I have an alibi, see. My prints are nowhere to be found in her room.”

  “Neither are mine,” Kirkland countered, “but you’re the criminologist. You could have worn gloves.”

  “So could you, so let’s stop fannying around. You were in Debenhams yesterday. I saw you there and you’ve just admitted it. I saw something else, too. When Jennifer stormed out of the place, you followed her. Why?”

  Kirkland sat forward again. “I just saw you speaking with Quinton. And now you have to ask me that? Are your powers of deduction slipping, Murray?”

  “I know about the Middleton Penny,” Joe retorted, “and I know you’re in hot competition with Quinton to get your greedy little hands on it. That doesn’t tell me why you followed Jennifer out of the café yesterday. See, if she was in possession of the penny, you’d have hassled her here, yesterday morning when you first arrived.”

  Kirkland’s eyebrows rose.

  “But you didn’t,” Joe went on. “Instead, you followed her round Leeds and sat a few tables away in Debenhams. And before you start, let me warn you. Don’t pretend it was coincidence. I know coincidences happen all the time in real life, but when two or three people all have the same thing on their minds, it’s not coincidence. You must have followed her round the city.”

  Kirkland did not answer for a long moment. He toyed with his glass of beer, drank some, then toyed with it some more before finally concentrating a candid stare on Joe.

  “I take it back, Murray,” he said. “I’ve heard about you. They say you’re a wizard detective. When I first saw you and then learned who you were, I thought it was all a joke. You look like a joke.” He paused to see if his observation would provoke comment. When it did not, he went on, “I’m a management consultant. I show people how best to manage their businesses, and it’s not all about efficiency. I teach them assertiveness, too. A good manager must be in control at all times. A part of that control is appearance. You have to look the part.” Kirkland gestured at his impeccable dress, the finely tailored, dark suit, pristine shirt, the tie snuggling beneath his Adam’s apple. “You don’t.”

  “I am what I am,” Joe responded. “I’m mean, miserable, surly, grumpy, and I run a successful small business without all this haute couture. You spend thousands on your suits and shirts, I spend a hundred pounds on a pair of jeans, trainers and a set of whites. It works for me, your way wouldn’t.”

  “Which is roughly what I was going to say,” Kirkland announced. “You don’t look the part, but your appearance hides your intuitive grasp of things. You don’t look smart, intelligent, but you are.”

  Ignoring the flattery, Joe demanded, “Why did you follow Jennifer yesterday?”

  “The Middleton Penny. What else?” Again he leaned forward, but this time he cast a furtive glance around the bar as if ensuring no one could listen in. “Ask yourself, Murray, why am I here this weekend? I have a wife back home in Northampton. I should be spending Christmas with her, my children and grandchildren. Why did I drive 140 miles to spend the Christmas weekend in this hellhole? Because I want the penny.”

  “Before Quinton can get his greasy hands on it.”

  Kirkland dismissed the idea with a flap of the hand and a derisive snort. “Quinton. He’s nothing. He’s no one. New money and he came by it the easy way. Won the bloody lottery. He’s a bully and a snot, but it doesn’t wash with me. I want the penny. I’m not interested in putting Quinton in his place.” He smiled thinly. “It would be nice to see his face, though, as I walk off with the prize.” He drew a breath. “I followed Jennifer in the hope that she might lead me to the penny.”

  “You’re sure she knew where it was?”

  The other nodded. “She told me so. I presume she got the information from Dennis Wright.”

  “Then why didn’t you hit on him?” Joe asked.

  “I did. His reply amounted to two words and was, let’s say, unrepeatable in polite company.”

  “So you thought Jennifer might be more amenable after she fell out with Wright?”

  Kirkland nodded. “Something like that. As it happens, she moved far too quickly for me to catch her up. By the time she made the corner of Briggate and The Headrow, I’d only reached Starbucks.” He laughed. “For some reason, she turned round and I’m sure she saw me. I ducked into Starbucks to avoid her.”

  Once again, Joe fell silent, mulling over his thoughts, calling on his memory for prompts. “Last night in the bar, early on, you approached Jennifer and George on the dance floor. How did she introduce George?”

  “She didn’t. Not then, anyway. She just told me to go away, using pretty much the same language as Wright had.”

  “So you didn’t know who George was?”

  “I had a brief word with her during dinner,” Kirkland replied. “While we were queuing up at the carvery. She told me she was dining with the Leisure Services Director from Sanford Borough Council, and she laid special emphasis on the title. I took that to mean that the chap owned the Middleton Penny and he was the one we would be negotiating with.” He sighed and shrugged. “Then, this morning, I learned that he wasn’t any such person. He was a gardener. No. I take that back. He was murdering gardener.”

  “George is like me. Working class,” Joe retorted, “and he’s no murderer. But I think you might be. Especially when you found out he was a gardener. Because that’s what she really told you on the dance floor, didn’t she?”

  Kirkland maintained his defiance. “No she did not. I’ve told you things as they happened, Murray, and my statement to the police will be no different.” He checked his watch. “And now if you don’t mind –”

  “I do mind,” Joe cut him off. “I haven’t done with you, yet. You came here this weekend to get your hands on the penny. How did you know it would be here?”

  “I don’t think it is. Jennifer emailed me and told me she knew who had it and that the owner would be in Leeds over Christmas. She also told me she would be here with the LHS crowd, and it might be to my advantage to show up. So here I am.”

  “And you trusted her?” Joe demanded.

  “She’s a distinguished historian with impeccable credentials. What’s not to trust?” He maintained his unruffled calm. “This kind of deal, Murray, is often done through a third party. Someone both sides can trust. The buyer turns up with the money, the seller turns up with the item. The intermediary holds the cash while the item is assessed and verified as genuine. The deal is done and each goes their separate ways. It’s standard procedure.”

  “Especially when the item is known to be stolen.”

  It was an attempt to rile Kirkland, but it failed. Finishing his beer, he said, “I don’t think that would count for much, Murray. The coin was stolen over forty years ago.”

  “Don’t give me that,” Joe sneered. “There is no statute of limitations in this country, you know. You’re a well-known coin collector, you know the story of the Middleton Penny. There may be a reward for it, but if anyone has the ri
ght, it’s the Diocese of Ripon, the people the penny was stolen from. If you entered into a deal with the current person in possession of that coin, you would be receiving stolen goods. It may not land you in the nick, but you’d be in one hell of a lot of trouble if and when the church decided to press charges. You and the dealer, and the intermediary. So don’t kid me.”

  “It would make an interesting case,” Kirkland said with a thoughtful gaze, “but in the grand scheme of things it’s hardly a major crime, is it?”

  Joe stood up and collected his glass. “It is when it leads to murder.”

  ***

  Rejoining Sheila and Brenda, placing fresh drinks on the table, Joe was surprised to see a group of young boys and men enter the room, led by a cleric.

  “The choir of St Dominic’s,” Sheila explained. “They’re part of the afternoon entertainment.”

  Joe tutted. “With a murder scene two floors above us? It’s a disgrace.”

  “Life goes on, Joe,” Brenda said, picking up her glass. “Cheers.”

  “I love hearing choirs at Christmas,” Sheila commented and sipped at her gin. “It reminds me of my childhood when all the family would go to a carol service on Christmas Eve. We were never particularly religious but father always insisted that the carols helped us get into the spirit of Christmas.”

  “Too commercialised these days,” Brenda said with a predictability that Joe found irritating. She stared him out. “You were going to say something, Joe?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I think peace and goodwill is overrated, especially when it comes to employees. Besides, my idea of Christmas spirit is half a pint of paraffin to light the space heater.”

  Putting her glass back on the table, Sheila changed the subject. “So what did you learn from Messrs Wright, Quinton and Kirkland?”

  Through a swallow of bitter, Joe told them of his conversations. Both women listened intently, and as Joe completed the tale, Brenda’s face opened into a broad grin.