Chapter 12 Christmas Day at the police station…
‘It’s a pity we didn’t have crackers,’ said Sergeant McDonald, contemplating the Christmas dinner set out on the table in the police station kitchen.
If he mentions crackers one more time he’ll drive me crackers, Charlie thought to himself as he carried on grimly setting out red and green paper napkins.
At last the four of them sat down at the table. Charlie had to concede that Sergeant McDonald might have been right about the crackers. It would have been worth it just for the paper hats. There was something about wearing a paper hat that made the most ponderous policeman lighten up a bit.
‘We could have virtual crackers,’ said Keith Burnett suddenly.
The other three stared at him as if he had just landed from an alien spaceship and didn’t know the rules whereby human beings on earth lived their lives.
‘Well, I mean we could take it in turns to tell pathetic jokes - the kind that you might find in a cracker. In fact,’ he added, apparently emboldened by the flabbergasted silence, ‘we could each write one on a piece of paper and then swap them round.’
‘That’s one of the stupidest ideas I’ve ever heard,’ said Karen Whitefield after careful consideration.
Keith Burnett blushed.
‘No, wait a minute,’ said Sergeant McDonald. ‘The boy’s got something… We could make our own paper hats too.’
‘The meal will get cold,’ Charlie snapped, and then softened slightly as he saw Keith start to shrink into himself like a tortoise tucking its head into its shell. ‘We can do the hats and jokes later, ready for when we’re having our Christmas cake. Nothing’s going to happen today, in fact we might as well not be here at all, except to get a chance to catch up on the paperwork for the robbery. We can’t start interviewing witnesses - not on Christmas Day. And the roads in and out of town are all closed now so nobody can go anywhere and get themselves stuck or go through any windscreens.’
‘They’ll have forgotten all about the robbery by Boxing Day,’ Sergeant McDonald grumbled, but he sat down at the table and started to help himself to the sprouts. In spite of being frozen and then microwaved, they didn’t look any worse than sprouts always did, reflected Charlie.
‘So what was all that about going to speak to Lord Murray?’ said Karen as they finished off their microwaved turkey dinner. The roast potatoes were the weak point, thought Charlie regretfully. They didn’t come out well. They needed a proper oven and proper animal fat - none of this healthy vegetarian oil or whatever it was.
‘There was something of his on the list from the jeweller,’ he said. ‘Anyone for pudding? Ice-cream? Or will we start the cake now instead of keeping it until later?’
Karen looked at him rather censoriously. Did she think he should be focussing on the investigation instead of the catering? She was quite right. But he had felt bad about asking all of them to work on Christmas Day, and he had tried to make up for it as best he could.
‘What was it?’ she asked. ‘On the list?’
‘A gold peacock. With precious stones. Said to be by Fabergé. We could have biscuits and cheese if you like.’
‘I’ll have the pudding,’ said Sergeant McDonald.
‘Me too!’ said Keith.
‘So,’ said Karen, raising her voice a notch to show she was in a determined mood, ‘what was it doing at the jeweller’s shop, then?’
‘He’d sold it to them during the summer,’ said Charlie, getting the pudding under control. He had been sceptical about cooking it in the microwave in the first place but it looked all right. He hoped they wouldn’t all go down with food-poisoning.
‘So why bother questioning him, then? It didn’t have anything to do with him any more.’
‘Just a hunch, I suppose. It looked to be by far the most valuable item on the list, if it was really made by Fabergé that is, and I thought Lord Murray might know more about it than anyone else. Its history. Its provenance. Anything.’
‘Aren’t we clutching at straws, sir?’ said Karen, taking a slice of cheese and a couple of oatcakes. That wasn’t the right way to finish off a Christmas dinner. But maybe she was watching her figure.
‘You’re right, we are,’ said Charlie. He laid down his spoon for a moment and turned to face her so that she would know he was taking this conversation seriously. ‘What we really need to do is to interview all the witnesses and get forensics back to give the shop another going-over. But neither of these things is going to happen today.’
‘Is there any news from the hospital?’ said Keith Burnett suddenly.
‘Yes, both patients are resting comfortably,’ said Sergeant McDonald. ‘I rang and checked this morning… It’ll be a miserable time for them and their families, though. Why did the robbers have to use guns? We haven’t had anything like that in Pitkirtly since - well, I can’t remember when.’
‘We’ve had guns being used,’ Karen pointed out.
‘Yes, but not armed robbery,’ said the sergeant, finishing off his pudding and taking a lump of cheese and several cream crackers. ‘The other times guns have been used it’s been in domestic incidents.’
Charlie supposed you could call the Petrelli affair a domestic incident, but in his opinion that was stretching things a bit. He didn’t feel like arguing about it, though. It wasn’t exactly the right topic to discuss over Christmas dinner.
‘That doesn’t make it any better,’ said Karen. She seemed to be in a combative mood today. Maybe she was one of those people who don’t like Christmas. Or maybe it was the opposite: she had been planning a big family occasion and now wasn’t even able to be there. Charlie tried to remember if he knew anything about her circumstances. She wasn’t married, anyway, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have family. Her parents could well be still alive, unlike his own, and expect her to go round and be festive with them.
A faint feeling of melancholy washed over him. They should have had a drink with their meal. That would have made them all feel better. But he hadn’t had the nerve to flout the regulations to that extent, quite apart from the risks if one of them had to go out urgently on a case.
‘Aren’t there usually lots of domestic quarrels and scenes over Christmas?’ said Keith. He had a knack of asking questions that were difficult to answer.
‘Most people can stand the first half of the day,’ said Sergeant McDonald placidly. ‘It’s when they wake up from their after-dinner nap that it gets tricky. They’ve had all their presents, and there’s nothing more left to look forward to.’
‘We’d better not let ourselves nod off, then,’ said Charlie.
Once they had cleared away the dinner plates, he set Keith to work making paper hats and tearing up bits of scrap paper to write cracker jokes on. He planned to have another look at the jewel robbery case, bringing all the notes and lists and immediate witness statements together on his desk to see if he could discern some sort of a pattern that would lead him into the robbers’ minds.
He hoped he could concentrate on it. He had a horrible feeling that he had created a monster when he authorised Keith Burnett to pursue the cracker theme. It would be his own fault if the young constable suddenly appeared at his elbow asking why elephants paint the soles of their feet yellow.