Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

“But bad luck when you came along,” Alix said, her voice overflowing with admiration.

“Yes, I got the gist of the story from the stationmaster at Lynn. It was a risk using the same cab, but I fancy the killer thought he’d got away with it. And he wasn’t likely to attack me with nothing in my hands. I arrested him on suspicion as soon as I got here.”

“You’re a brave man, as well as a fine detective,” Alix said, actually clapping her hands. “Isn’t he a brave man, Bertie?”

“Where were the stolen jewels?” I asked.

“In the box seat he sits on.”

“Speaking of boxes, do we have a Christmas box for Sergeant Cribb?” Alix asked.

She looked to me, I looked to Knollys and he sniffed, sighed and took a couple of gold sovereigns from his pocket.

“And there’s his fee, of course,” Alix said. “Twenty-five pounds, I suggest.”

Cribb looked as if his Christmas was just beginning.

As for me, I’ve never felt the same about Christmas trees. Before Papa made them popular, we had something rather better. The custom was to hang up a bough entwined with mistletoe, holly, ivy and other evergreens, candles, apples and cinnamon sticks. It was called the kissing bough and when I’m King I intend to reinstate it.

If the Queen allows.

We called him the Brigadier with the buggered ear. Just looking at it made you wince. Really he should have had the bits surgically removed. He claimed it was an old war wound. However, Sadie the Lady, another of our residents, told us it wasn’t true. She said she’d talked to the Brig’s son Arnold who reckoned his old man got blind drunk in Aldershot one night and tripped over a police dog and paid for it with his shell-like.

Because of his handicap, the Brigadier tended to shout. His “good” ear wasn’t up to much, even with the aid stuck in it. We got used to the shouting, we old farts in the Never-Say-Die Retirement Home. After all, most of us are hard of hearing as well. No doubt we were guilty of letting him bluster and bellow without interruption. We never dreamed at the time that our compliance would get us into the High Court on a murder rap.

It was set in motion by She-Who-Must-Be-Replaced, our so-called matron, pinning a new leaflet on the notice board in the hall.

“Infernal cheek!” the Brig boomed. “They’re parasites, these people, living off the frail and weak-minded.”

“Who are you calling weak-minded?” Sadie the Lady piped up. “There’s nothing wrong with my brain.”

The Brig didn’t hear. Sometimes it can be a blessing.

“Listen to this,” he bellowed, as if we had any choice. “‘Are you dissatisfied with your hearing? Struggling with a faulty instrument? Picking up unwanted background noise? Marcus Haliburton, a renowned expert on the amazing new digital hearing aids, will be in attendance all day at the Bay Tree Hotel on Thursday, 8th April for free consultations. Call this number now for an appointment. No obligation.’ No obligation, my arse — forgive me, ladies. You know what happens? They get you in there and tell you to take out your National Health aid so they can poke one of those little torches in your ear and of course you’re stuffed. You can’t hear a thing they’re saying from that moment on. The next thing is they shove a form in front of you and you find you’ve signed an order for a thousand pound replacement. If you object they drop your NHS aid on the floor and tread on it.”

“That can’t be correct,” Miss Martindale said.

“Completely wrecked, yes,” the Brigadier said. “Are you speaking from personal experience, my dear, because I am.”

Someone put up a hand. He wanted to be helped to the toilet, but the Brigadier took it as support. “Good man. What we should do is teach these blighters a lesson. We could, you know, with my officer training and George’s underworld experience.”

I smiled faintly. My underworld links were nil, another of the Brig’s misunderstandings. One afternoon I’d been talking to Sadie about cats and happened to mention that we once adopted a stray. I thought the Brig was dozing in his armchair, but he came to life and said, “Which of the Krays was that — Reggie or Ronnie? I had no idea of your criminal past, George. We’ll have to watch you in future.”

It was hopeless trying to disillusion him, so I settled for my gangster reputation and some of the old ladies began to believe it, too, and found me more interesting than ever they’d supposed.

By the next tea break, the Brigadier had turned puce with excitement. “I’ve mapped it out,” he told us. “I’m calling it Operation Syringe, because we’re going to clean these ruffians out. Basically, the object of the plan is to get a new super-digital hearing aid for everyone in this home free of charge.”

“How the heck will you do that?” Sadie asked.

“What?”

She stepped closer and spoke into his ear. “They’re a private company. Those aids cost a fortune.”

The Brig grinned. “Simple. We intercept their supplies. I happen to know the Bay Tree Hotel quite well.”

Sadie said to the rest of us, “That’s a fact. The Legion has its meetings there. He’s round there every Friday night for his g&t.”

“G&t or two or three,” another old lady said.

I said, “Wait a minute, Brigadier. We can’t steal a bunch of hearing aids.” I have a carrying voice when necessary and he heard every word.

“‘Steal’ is not a term in the military lexicon, dear boy,” he said. “We requisition them.” He leaned forward. “Now, the operation has three phases. Number One: Observation. I’ll take care of that. Number Two: Liaison. This means getting in touch with an inside man, Cormac, the barman. I can do that also. Number Three: Action. And that depends on what we learn from Phases One and Two. That’s where the rest of you come in. Are you with me?”

“I don’t know what he’s on about,” Sadie said to me.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s playing soldiers, that’s all. He’ll find out it’s a non-starter.”

“No muttering in the ranks,” the Brigadier said. “Any dissenters? Fall out, the dissenters.”

No one moved. Some of us needed help to move anywhere and nobody left the room when tea and biscuits were on offer. And that was how we were recruited into the snatch squad.

On Saturday, the Brigadier reported on Phases One and Two of his battle plan. He marched into the tea room looking as chipper as Montgomery on the eve of El Alamein.

“Well, the obbo phase is over and so is the liaison and I’m able to report some fascinating results. The gentleman who wants us all to troop along to the Bay Tree Hotel and buy his miraculous hearing aids is clearly doing rather well out of it. He drives a vintage Bentley and wears a different suit each visit and by the cut of them they’re not off the peg.”

“There’s money in ripping off old people,” Sadie said.

“It ought to be stopped,” her friend Briony said.

The Brig went on, “I talked to my contact last night and I’m pleased to tell you that the enemy — that is to say Marcus Haliburton — works to a predictable routine. He puts in a fortnightly appearance at the Bay Tree. If you go along and see him you’ll find Session One is devoted to the consultation and the placing of the order. Session Two is the fitting and payment. Between Sessions One and Two a box is delivered to the hotel and it contains up to fifty new hearing aids — more than enough for our needs.” He paused and looked around the room. “So what do you think is the plan?”

No one was willing to say. Some might have thought speaking up would incriminate them. Others weren’t capable of being heard by the Brigadier. Finally I said, “We, em, requisition the box?”