A very happy Crimebo to you all. Huge thanks to everyone who has read, supported and helped spread the word about the Danny Lancaster crime thriller series in 2019.
As a special ‘thank you’ here’s a seasonal short story. I admit it’s an odd one, written for the wonderful Facebook group UK Crime Book Club, a bunch of crime enthusiasts now 9,000+ strong – https://www.facebook.com/groups/1116799071717588/
So, Happy Christmas from Danny and Bill. Hope you enjoy the short story.
THE (very thin) CASEBOOK OF QUESTOR BLUEHAT
The door crashed open. Investigo burst into the office, stumbled, pushed his cap up out of his eyes.
Questor Bluehat looked up slowly through a blue cloud of cigar smoke.
‘Didn’t I teach you to knock.’
‘The bell,’ wheezed Investigo.
‘What bell?’
‘THE bell.’
‘THE bell?’
Investigo nodded frantically
‘You’re pulling my cracker. That bell hasn’t rung in centuries.’
Investigo held the door wide. They both stared through the hazy air towards the sound of ringing.
Questor took a long draw on his cigar, worried. Half a millennium since their last case. He’d spent the empty days writing crime novels, unaware quite so much time has passed. They might be a tad rusty.
Investigo hopped impatiently from one foot to the other as his boss blew out a curving plume of smoke.
‘Last one, my last cigar.’ Then he squeezed out a pained sigh and ground out the thick leafy tube.
‘Ok, we’d better go see the Big Man.’
Questor levered his bulky frame out of the sagging swivel chair, took his squirt gun from the desk drawer and tucked it into his waistband.
‘Shit Christmas this is turning out to be.’
🎅🎅🎅🎅🎅🎅🎅🎅
It was a long walk. Up stairs, turn right, down stairs, turn left. Questor was wheezy and grumpy when he reached Santa’s Sanctum.
The door was vast but he kicked it anyway. As it flew open he leapt inside, shouted, ‘Freeze!’
A tall snooty elf stepped forward, his large nose raised so high Questor wasn’t sure how he could see around it. Maybe he didn’t want to.
The guy wore a black tailed dinner jacket with holly piping. The unusually tall elf leaned forward, oozing condescension.
‘As it’s December 24 in the high arctic we don’t have a lot of choice.’
‘Choice for what?’ demanded Questor.
‘Freezing,’ said the snooty elf.
‘Enough with the smart mouth,’ snapped Questor. ‘The bell rang, First time in centuries. We’re here to find out why.’
‘And you are?’
‘We’re the E.S.C.M.C.N.P.A.L.U!’
The snooty elf blinked, ‘the Esquemcanploo?’
Questor stared daggers, ‘We’re the Elf Serious Crime, Minor Crime, Nuisance, Parking And Litter Unit – the Blue Elves – and I’m asking the questions. So, who the fuck are you?’
‘I,’ said the snooty elf, ‘am Snootison, personal assistant to Santa Claus.’
‘Well you’re just another suspect to me,’ snapped Questor.
Snootison studied the two cops and couldn’t help but think they looked like the befores and afters in one of those frightful elf and fitness magazines.
‘And you are?’ sniffed Snootison.
‘Questor Bluehat.’
‘But you’re not wearing a blue hat.’
‘I’m undercover. So what’s the problem here?’
‘It’s a sensitive matter, delicate.’
‘That’s what they all say so cut the crap, spill.’
Snootison looked as if he was tasting something nasty.
‘A valuable item has gone missing.’
‘What item? What value?’
‘As I told you, it’s delicate.’
‘Listen, if you don’t start cooperating you’re going to need the National Elf Service to fix a busted schnoz so talk.’
Snootison managed to sneer and shudder at the same time.
‘A precious item belonging to Santa has been stolen.’
‘What item?’
Snootison swallowed hard.
‘It’s sensitive.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, lofty.’
‘No, I’m quite serious. It’s complicated.’
‘So uncomplicate it.’
The sound of Snootison thinking was almost audible. Questor snapped.
‘Ok, I need to see the Big Man.’
‘No! You can’t call him that. He’s very sensitive about his weight.’
Questor’s jaw dropped.
‘You’re pulling my cracker. He’s the big guy, everyone’s jolly grandad, the roly poly Christmas man.’.
‘I know, I know, but he’s had a few unfortunate incidents with chimneys in recent years. And you can’t imagine how difficult it is to get a reliable builder out during the holidays. It’s traumatised him. He’s even joined an elf help group.’
‘Gotta see him,’ said Questor, unmoveable.
Snootison slumped in defeat, his nose seemed to droop.
‘Very well, just please don’t mention the… weight issue.’
🎅🎅🎅🎅🎅🎅🎅
The brass sign read ‘Nick & Myra’. Moments after Snootison had tapped on the door they heard a booming voice, ‘Enter!’
Snootison turned the handle and stepped aside to let Questor and Investigo pass into the room.
The man before them might have body image issues but there was no arguing he was a big guy. A gazillion Christmas cards can’t be wrong.
‘Come in, come in,’ boomed Santa. ‘Call me Nick,’ he said with a smile, Then he indicated the small, cuddly woman standing beside him. ‘And this is my wife, Myra.’
Everyone nodded to everyone else until Questor stepped in to speed things along.
‘So, Big… er, Nick. What’s the problem?’
Santa chuckled. ‘Well, it’s rather embarrassing, really.’
‘We’re unshockable,’ said Questor. Before Nick could explain Myra raised a finger.
‘This is all very silly but someone has stolen Santa’s shorts.’
The room fell silent. It turned out the elf cops weren’t as unshockable as they’d thought.
‘Shorts?’ said Questor.
‘I know, I know,’ said Santa. ‘Myra is always telling me I don’t have the legs for them any more but on Christmas Eve I have to travel all around the world bringing presents to the children and it can get quite hot in that thick red outfit with all the fur trim.’
‘Fair point,’ said Questor. ‘So where do the shorts come in?’
‘Well,’ said Nick. ‘It’s chilly here on the day but in Australia it’s high summer, quite toasty actually. So when we cross the equator heading south I slip into something a little cooler.’
‘And now they’re gone?’ asked Questor.
‘Vanished,’ said Nick. He looked at Myra. She said nothing.
‘I need to see the scene of the crime.’
Myra led the way as they trooped into an adjoining room. She opened a large cupboard. Everyone leaned forward to study the contents.
Questor could see a Santa suit, golf trousers, a suit of armour, board shorts, Morris dancing costume and a very large set of motorbike leathers. At the end of the row was a single empty hanger.
‘It’s all very silly,’ said Myra. ‘I said Nick could wear his board shorts in the southern hemisphere but he insists it wouldn’t fit the image.’
‘I know it might seem unimportant,’ said Santa, ‘but the Christmas Eve delivery is such a well-oiled operation I worry this will upset things.’
‘Stress not, Big… er, Nick. It’s despicable lowlifes like these who put the grot in grotto and we’re the guys to sort them out.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Santa.
‘Just doing my job, er… Nick. You got any suspects?’
Santa spread his arms wide.
‘I don’t have a clue. This is unprecedented. It could be anyone at the North Pole.’
‘Then I’ll need to see everything,’ said Questor.
Snootison rolled his eyes.
‘Santa’s North Pole operation is very large.’
‘Let’s get moving, then,’ said Questor.
🎅🎅🎅🎅🎅🎅
The warehouse was so vast you could see clouds in the distance. Towering rows of shelving, bowed under the weight of presents, stretching so far they seemed to converge with the curvature of the Earth.
It was a hive of activity, uncountable numbers of happy elves packing and labeling.
Snootison stood beside Questor and Investigo, smug at their slack-jawed amazement.
‘As you can see,’ he said, superior nose waving like a conductor’s baton, ‘It’s very, very big.’
He paused for effect, watching the wide-eyed elf cops.
‘In fact, our operation is so large we believe it may be almost as big as the Amazon warehouse.’
🎅🎅🎅🎅🎅
Snootison swiped his ID card, swept open a huge wooden door and gestured for the investigators to enter.
‘This is the NoND – the Naughty or Nice Department where we check the records to see who deserves a Christmas present. The more frivolous of our colleagues describe it as the yayers and nayers.’
Questor looked around. You couldn’t get a more yin and yang room. It was enormous, filled with high desks in rows until they disappeared into the distance. Each desk bore a heavy ledger.
What made the NoND office so unusual was the invisible line that ran down the middle.
On one side there was a noisy hubbub of squeals and laughs as legions of happy elves flicked through their ledgers, ticking entries.
The other side of the room was silent. The elves there were sour and stone-faced. Ledger pages turned with funeral solemnity, pen nibs dripped red ink like bloody talons.
Questor stepped closer, peered over an elf’s shoulder at his ledger.
‘What’s onanism?’
The sour and stone-faced elf, indignant, slammed his ledger shut. Snootison stepped up quickly.
‘The contents are confidential.’
Questor spun so fast on his elf-slippered foot that his Blakeys screeched on the wooden floor. A meaty finger poked Snootison.
‘What are you hiding?’
‘Nothing, I just don’t think any of this is helping.’
Questor looking around the vast room, half laughter, half silence.
‘We’re wasting our time here.’
🎅🎅🎅🎅
The corridor was deserted as, weary, they lent on the coffee machine.
‘We don’t have much to go on,’ said Investigo.
Questor, eyes down on the threadbare carpet, sipped his coffee. Then he looked at his reusable cup, grimaced.
‘Whoever invented this crap should be struck off Nick’s list for life.’ He looked at Investigo. ‘We’ve been going at this the wrong way. The operation is too big, too many possible suspects.’
‘So what do we do, boss?’
Questor lifted the coffee to his mouth, changed his mind, poured it into the waste bin.
‘We need to go back to basics. Cui bono?’
‘Does he play for Brighton & Hove Elfbion?’
Questor looked thunderous.
‘I crack the gags in this outfit, Investigo. What we need to look for is means, motive and opportunity.’
Questor patted his pockets, pulled a sour face when he remembered he was out of cigars.
‘You cracked the case boss?’
Questor looked hard at his sidekick.
‘Yes, Investigo, I’m afraid I have.’
🎅🎅🎅
As they paused by the door, awaiting a response to their knock, Questor felt the weight of the squirt gun against his waistband. He pulled it halfway out, changed his mind, pushed it back.
The door opened.
‘I’ve been expecting you. Please come in.’
They stood in the living room. Myra gripped her hands in front of her, fluffy-slippered feet shuffling uneasily.
‘How did you know?
‘Motive and opportunity,’ said Questor. ‘You were the only one with the opportunity. We just need to know the motive.’
Myra coughed to clear her throat.
‘I received a letter from a small boy. Everyone in the world writes to Nick. He’s so, so busy. So when a letter came to me, well I… I thought I could ease his burden a bit.’
‘And how did this letter come to you?’ snapped Questor.
‘That’s a funny thing,’ said Myra. Neither cop looked amused.
‘I think the boy had trouble forming his letters. It might have been addressed to S Claus but ElfPost read it wrong so they delivered it to me.’
Questor could tell by Myra’s blink rate that she was stretching the truth tighter than Santa’s waistband.
‘Look lady, do I look like I fell off a yule log yesterday? Spill the beans or you’re in big trouble.’
‘Big trouble?’ said Myra, wide-eyed.
‘The biggest.’
‘You don’t mean… Elfcatraz?’
Questor replied with a slow, sinister nod.
‘All right, all right, I’ll come clean. I did it.’
‘Why?’
A single tear rolled down Myra’s chubby cheek.
‘Nick works so hard, I just wanted to help. It seems this boy Theo caught a glimpse of Nick leaving presents last year and wanted a pair of red shorts. It should never, ever have happened. Nick’s Christmas Eve flight depends on stealth mode. I’ll have to speak to the pixiedust people.’
‘The facts,’ said Questor. ‘Clock’s sticking, lady. Stick to the shorts.’
‘Well, the boy would have been disappointed if I hadn’t stepped in. There’s a rule that all Nick’s old Santa outfits have to go into the elfchives.’
Questor became aware he was doing a lot of nodding and stopped.
‘Look, Nick’s a big guy. How did you fit a kid in his shorts?’
Myra beamed, ‘A lifetime of seamstressing and a pinch of magic.’
‘Ok,’ said Questor, ‘What about Santa trying to chill in the southern hemisphere tonight. What’s he going to wear?’
Myra laughed. ‘That’s easy. I’ve pinched a pair of his old trousers from the elfchives, brushed off the brick dust, cut off the legs and added elastic into the waistband, lots and lots of elastic.’
‘It’s not the same,’ Questor scowled.
‘I know, dear, but it’ll do for tonight. And you can’t let the children down, can you.’
Questor sniffed the air.
‘You been at the plum brandy?’
‘Just a bit of Dutch courage. Did you know Nick’s called Sinterklaas in the Netherlands?’
‘We don’t distract easy, lady,’ snapped Questor. ‘Don’t you think you’ve undermined everything that Santa’s operation stands for, the magic, the mystery, even the man?
‘No,’ slurred Myra.
Questor thought for a moment, looked at Investigo, shrugged.
‘Fair enough.’
Myra threw back her head and thrust out her chubby wrists.
‘So, send me to Elfcatraz.’
Questor gave her his best interrogation face but he couldn’t hold it. He shrugged.
‘Hey, it’s Christmas.’
Mrs Santa let out a gigantic sigh of relief. Questor couldn’t stop himself smiling.
‘No harm no foul… foul…fowl…geddit?’
Myra had the politeness to titter. Investigo, after suffering years of his guvnor’s crap jokes, just rolled his eyes.
‘I know it’s against the rules,’ said Myra, her voice suddenly girlish and teasing. ‘But I do sometimes catch a glimpse of the yayers and nayers ledgers.’
This case had exhausted Questor. He wanted to say something, settled for a shrug.
‘I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble,’ she said, unsettlingly coquettish, ‘But I may have glimpsed mention of a box of cigars against your name.’
Questor, unable to maintain his Hard Cop face, grinned like a kid.
🎅🎅
His antlerphones crackled. ‘Santa1, Santa1, Grotto Control, you are clear to land on Runway 00.’
Rudolph braced as they swept over the threshold lights. The sleigh’s skids kissed the runway in a perfect two-point landing.
‘Santa1, Grotto Control, welcome home, guys. Great job tonight.’
Rudoph taxied into the hangar and began shutting down the sleigh’s systems. An elf worker carrying a large medical bag came aboard to give Santa his check-up. Myra had insisted ever since that unfortunate chimney blockage.
Rudolph watched the rest of his team heading off to the crew room, hooves dragging with fatigue.
He’d love to go with them, maybe knock back a few festive cloud berry cocktails in the crew mess, but as captain he still had work to do.
He needed to check over the sleigh before handing it back to his groundcrew.
He’d need to download the GPS tracking data to make sure the mission had been perfect, no child missed.
And he had to check the sleigh’s carbon footprint although their main output was methane, especially as Donner had been chomping kebabs en route.
Rudolph looked up at the sound of Santa’s shuffling feet. The exhausted old man was being led home by his elf worker.
Near the hangar door he paused, half turned, raised a fur-trimmed red arm.
‘Great job tonight, Rudolph. Be sure to thank the guys for me. Same time next year?’
‘You bet, boss.’
And then he was alone, the hangar silent apart from the tick-tick of the sleigh’s cooling airframe. He felt exhausted, antlers drooping.
The night had gone well but it had been a tough one. Prancer’s hoof cramp over Sicily had cost them time he’d had to make up by going supersonic over southern England.
That would get angry insomniacs trending on TwitElf.
The Boeing Airbus over Los Angeles had been way too close and it had taken precious minutes to shake off those two Russian Air Force MIG 35s over the Sea of Okhotsk.
At least the sleigh’s stealth mode hadn’t failed like it had over Oz last year.
Weary, Rudolph flipped open his crew bag and took out a joint. It was a risk but, hell, it was a year until his next pre-flight drug test.
He played a flame over the ragged end, inhaled, exhaled, felt some of the tension ease.
For a little entertainment, he flicked on the ElfCam, a complete record of their flight tonight.
As the joint kicked in he watched a streaking blur of activity, spotted the Airbus, then the MIGs.
And then he saw it.
Punched pause.
Rewound.
A dawn seaside scene, brilliant sunshine, dazzling sea, gleaming white beach. A small boy walking down a path with a surfboard.
Rudolph checked the coordinates. Bondi Beach, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, Southern Hemisphere.
He watched the barefoot boy pick his way down the path, gripping the surfboard that was almost too big for him.
The boy paused to hitch up his shorts. Rudolph activated facial recognition. A side panel appeared on his monitor and racing green letters blurred until they had a solution.
Theo Cox, age 8, Naremburn, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, Southern Hemisphere.
Rudolph zoomed the frozen ElfCam image as he drew on his spliff. Then he threw his head back, exhaled, chuckled.
The kid was wearing red shorts, bright red shorts trimmed with white faux fur (Santa had gone fur-free ages ago).
He’d heard rumours about the Big Man’s shorts on TwitElf but assumed it was the usual fake news. Most stuff on elfish media was.
But Rudolph knew how this night worked and it had to be down to Myra. He should report it, hand the footage to the Esquemcanploo cops.
Then again, everyone knew it was really Myra who wore the trousers… and the shorts. She was a bit of a rebel but, hey, why not?
The way things were going, Santa will be a woman one day soon.
Rudolph pulled on his spliff. As he blew blue smoke he raised a hoof in salute.
‘Merry Christmas, Myra. Respect!’
🎅
On Christmas Day Investigo went home to his mum and dad. No one saw Questor Bluehat but several elves reported seeing a swirling cloud of thick blue smoke gliding around.
©BILLTODD
——
📖 There are seven Danny Lancaster crime thrillers available as ebooks and paperbacks from Amazon, Kobo and Smashwords. The Amazon ebook of Danny1, THE WRECK OF THE MARGHERITA, is FREE. Ebooks 2 to 7 are just 99p/99c each. Visit www.billtodd.co.uk
Eat, drink and be merry! And a very Happy Christmas – Bill & Danny
