Deadvent Calendar - December 7th
The detectives go to lunch with Inspector Street and discover that she doesn't like them, or, which is more important, Christmas
Deadvent Calendar is a seasonal murder mystery told in 24 crimes. It follows the adventure of amateur detective Shilo Coombes and his companion as they try and unravel a sinister plot to murder the unChristmassy - a plot that doesn’t seem very Christmassy itself.
All killer stocking filler.
Ms Emma Sharp, canny toy department buyer, who as long ago as last summer started hoarding copies of the must-have Hell Bear action figure, planning to sell them herself at a grossly inflated margin once all the desperate parents got properly panicked, found bound up in sparkly paper and ribbon and suffocated to death in a Christmas stocking. You’d have thought she would have realised she’d be making herself unpopular, but I suppose she was just *ahem* too wrapped up in herself.
December 7th
It took almost as much persuading to get Shilo to go to Inspector Street as it did for Inspector Street to actually see us. She had a substantial list of reasons why she couldn’t. She didn’t want to, for one. She had actual work to do unlike some misguided individuals. Wasting police time was a serious matter. It was a Saturday. We were getting in the way of people who had important things to do. Whatever it was it wasn’t one of those important things. We were idiots.
I took exception to that last one. We were only mostly idiots, I felt. Shilo, of course, was a complete idiot but I was at least partly sensible. I had evidence for that. I, after all, was not the kind of person who responded to the idea of there being a criminal genius abroad in London by shouting ‘The game is afoot!’ and going to fetch a deerstalker. I was the kind of person who said: “We should tell the police.”
In the end we waited outside until she went for lunch.
Even then she tried to ignore us until we squeezed onto her table in the cafe and stared at her until she looked up from her tuna mayo, rolled her eyes and sighed.
“What?”
“Perhaps the most extraordinary,” said Shilo, “Certainly the most outre, the most convoluted, the most fascinating case I have ever come across.”
“Ignore him,” I said.
“I don’t need your advice to do that,” said Street, “I always do. Shut up, lanky, and let your fat friend do the talking.”
I decided to style that out.
“Do you remember that flier some was handing out in the pub?” I fumbled in the file of newspaper clippings I hand brought, “During the quiz night?”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” muttered the inspector through a mouth of granary bap.
“Look at this stuff about Christmas spirit,” I said, “About how people who ruin Christmas ought to be punished.”
“Krampus’ list,” said Shilo.
“What if someone was actually doing it?” I said.
“Making a list?” said the Inspector, “It’s all everyone does this time of year.”
“Making a list,” I said, “And then killing the people on it.
“First December,” I started laying clippings and print outs on the table, “A man is decapitated in a fairground accident; the second, a man is killed by malfunctioning Christmas lights, Tuesday, it’s an exploding cracker, Wednesday a woman falls off a roof dressed as Father Christmas. There’s more, one every day since the beginning of the month.”
Street leaned over and pushed idly at the clippings, dripping tuna on them. “Accidents,” she said.
“Very Christmassy accidents,” said Shilo, “All of them.”
“It’s Christmas,” said Street, “That’s when Christmassy accidents happen.”
“And every one of them happening to decidedly unChristmassy people,” I said, “This one, on Monday: we were there.”
“Were you?” Street shot me a look, interested at last.
“The victim was a man called Rammage, a builder, who had been delaying work on a house so that he could charge the owner, a woman called Penny, extra to get back in in time for Christmas.”
“If that was grounds for murder,” said Street, “There’d be no builders left in the country.”
“Oh, but she didn’t kill him,” said Shilo, “She’s staying with a friend: cast iron alibi.”
“And you know this how?” asked Street.
“We went to question her,” said Shilo, proudly.
“You entered a third party’s premises under false pretences and questioned them?” said Street, “Dear god, I hope she presses charges. I would dearly love to feel your collar, you moron.”
“But,” I said, trying to distract her away from the thought of arresting us, “She was in the pub just before this man was killed in a fire started by an exploding cracker, in the pub and interfering with the place settings.”
“Right,” said Street, finishing her roll, “I don’t know what you think this all means…”
“What it means,” said Shilo, “Is that someone has a plan, an extraordinary, diabolical plan. You go to them with a murder you want done and they undertake, as it were, to perform it, asking in return that you play a small part in someone else’s murder. It’s brilliant.”
“What I was going to say,” said Street, slowly, “Is that I don’t know what you think this all means and I don’t care. These are all accidents, this one,” she tapped the Constantinou clipping with a greasy finger, “This one I know about, its an accident. Faulty cracker from Vietnam, flammable costume from Taiwan. We’ve warned the public, Department of Trade and Customs are following up. Accident. Accident, accident, accident. Accident.”
She stabbed each of the clippings in turn and then pointed at us. “Accidents,” she said, “The pair of you. Terrible, terrible accidents.”
“Someone,” I said, “Is just beginning an advent calendar of murder. There will be more.”
“God give me strength,” she said, standing up, “Let me give you one little lesson in police work - look at these: all over the place, absolutely nothing to connect any of them, absolutely nothing in common, not the reason, the way the accidents happened, the victims.”
“That’s the genius of it,” said Shilo.
“The flier,” I said, “They were ruining people’s Christmasses, every single one of them. They were Scrooges. They were unChristmassy.”
“And who can blame them,” she said, picking up her coat, “What is Christmas but a chance to charge extra for a pub lunch,” she pointed at Constantinou, “Or sell people pointless nonsense like trees and lights,” she waved at Rammage, “You think he was killed because he was using Christmas to gouge his clients? That’s what Christmas is, a bloody con, a chance to pick the nation’s pockets once a year? Do you know what happens to crime rates over Christmas? Do you know how many little weasels there are out there using Christmas and their excuse for their horrid little rackets and dodges and business? Do you know how busy I am? Dear God, only four more weeks to go and then it’ll all be over.”
She turned and stalked to the door of the cafe, shrugging into her coat. She opened the door and turned.
“And you two,” she said, raising a finger, “You do not think about this again, you do not do any more ‘detecting’, you do not read any more papers, you do not do anything and, most importantly, and I cannot stress this enough, you do not come near me ever again.”
And she was gone.
“I won’t say I didn’t tell you,” said Shilo, “No, wait, I will. I told you so. I told you it was pointless. She did say one interesting thing, though.”
“She said she wanted to arrest you,” I said, “That was interesting, I thought.”
“I meant what she said about Christmas,” he said.
“She practically quoted Christmas Carol,” I said, “A chance to pick a man’s pocket every twenty fifth of December, is how Scrooge puts it.”
“I would imagine a police Inspector would have a lot of enemies,” he said.
“I bet she does,” I said.
“And what if one of those enemies knew of a way to get rid of an unChristmassy police Inspector,” said Shilo, tapped the file of clippings and raising an eyebrow.
“Oh,” I said, seeing what he was driving at, “Oh. Oh.”
“What she said about never coming near her again,” said Shilo, “I propose we do the precise opposite.”