Bob Burke - The Ho Ho Ho Mystery

‘Mrs Claus, do you mind if we have a look around? I’d particularly like to see where your husband left from yesterday. We might just spot something.’ I have to confess that I couldn’t see how it was possible for a sleigh and team of reindeer (whether they could fly or not) to actually leave the property; there just didn’t seem to be any space available in the grounds to do so. Chances were that any vehicle trying to depart would end up colliding with a giant plastic snowman and crashing into a hill of artificial snow trailing streams of coloured lights behind it. Now there was a traffic accident I’d love to get the police report on!

After getting her consent, we went through the house looking for anything out of place, anything that might throw some light on what had happened. Let me tell you, there was so much Christmas junk around it was hard to tell what might constitute a clue. Everywhere we looked there was another tree laden down with tinsel or a sleigh hanging from the ceiling, and effigies of the man himself seemed to have been placed strategically in every room we entered. We certainly wouldn’t have any difficulty identifying him; he was just like every picture you’ve ever seen: large, fat, jolly, dressed in red with a long white beard. I just hoped that we wouldn’t be doing that identification as he lay on a slab in the morgue. That would certainly put a damper on Christmas – and would be more than a little difficult to explain to all the kids who were waiting expectantly for their presents.

Eventually we came to the conclusion that either the house had no clues whatsoever or else they were so successfully buried under mounds of festive tat we were never going to find them anyway. Even though Santa seemed to have taken his passport, some money and a suitcase of clothes (more red outfits, I assumed) with him when he’d left, Mrs Claus had advised that that was standard practice when he went to the North Pole. In fairness, I hadn’t expected to find anything out of the ordinary, I was just covering all the bases.

The only thing we hadn’t seen yet was the sleigh departure area and I asked if we could be taken there. Mrs Claus took us to a metal door – somewhat incongruous amidst the pine – and pressed a button on the wall beside it. It slid silently open and we were ushered into a tiny room, barely big enough to fit us all. Inside she pressed another button on a console and, after the door had closed again, we began to descend. Cool, I thought, we’re on our way to some secret underground base.

I didn’t realise how right I was. Once the lift had stopped and the doors opened, we stepped out on to a balcony overlooking a brightly lit, high-tech facility that bore no relation to the house constructed above it. Mrs Claus saw my look of astonishment and nodded.

‘Yes, it’s a bit different, isn’t it? This is where the real business of Christmas is carried out – as well as at our North Pole base, of course. What’s above is only for show and to satisfy the expectations of the locals. After all, they do have certain preconceptions we must meet.’

I was tempted to tell her that these expectations could have been met with a lot more subtlety and taste, but bit my tongue before saying something I’d probably regret later. Instead I walked over to the edge of the balcony and looked down. Below me a large ramp curved up from the ground towards a flat ceiling, where it seemed to end abruptly. To one side a group of reindeer were being brushed down and led away to straw-lined stables. Over speakers that dotted the walls a loud voice was saying, ‘Attention, attention, flight SCA219 has arrived safely from the North Pole. Reindeer have been unhitched and are being refuelled for the return flight, which will depart in approximately two hours. Please ensure all cargo has been loaded and safely strapped down. We do not want a repeat of the frisbee incident.’

I looked over at Mrs Claus and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

She sighed heavily. ‘One of our more infamous accidents. During a Christmas delivery back in the fifties a number of frisbees fell off the sleigh as we flew over a place called Roswell. We managed to gather them all back up before they could do too much damage, but unfortunately some of the larger ones – the ultra-giant luminous ones – were seen by a number of the locals. They caused quite a stir, you know.’

Now there was a perfect definition of the word ‘understatement’ – and she’d said the whole thing without any suggestion of irony.

‘Ever since then we’ve made sure to keep all cargo securely fastened to avoid any further unpleasantness,’ she concluded.

‘I’m sure you have,’ I said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Did anything else happen to fall off the sleigh at the same time?’

‘Yes, we did lose two inflatable toy aliens as well. We never did find them that night. I’ve often wondered where they got to.’

Basili nudged me sharply in the side. ‘Don’t even be thinking about telling her, Mr Harry,’ he whispered.

I nodded and bit my lip – but I was tempted. ‘Mrs Claus, is it possible to talk to the air-traffic controller who was on duty when your husband disappeared? I’d like to get a better idea of the timings.’

‘Yes, of course, and please call me Clarissa; Mrs Claus seems so formal, don’t you think?’

She led us to a small control room that seemed to be wall-to-wall computers and consoles showing a bewildering series of numbers, radar displays and what presumably were flight paths. Sitting in front of them, speaking urgently into a large microphone was one very stressed air-traffic controller who seemed to be talking to seven different sleighs at once.

‘Yes SCA74 you are clear to land. SCA42 please keep circling at your current height until you hear otherwise. No, SCA107, I didn’t get to record the Hubbard’s Cubbard concert on TV last night for you. What’s that, SCA92? Say again. Did I hear you correctly, you have a lame reindeer? Keep on this flight path and we’ll divert you to the emergency runway. We’ll have rescue teams standing by. Ground control out.’ He pressed a button and sirens began to wail all around. ‘Emergency, emergency; rescue teams to emergency runway. Repeat, rescue teams to emergency runway. We have a landing-gear problem on SCA92.’

There was a flurry of activity from down below as rescue teams in fire engines and ambulances raced out to the runway to await the arrival of the stricken sleigh. I turned to Mrs Claus. ‘Does this kind of thing happen often?’

She shook her head. ‘Not really – and, frankly, it’s not much of an emergency either. All the reindeer has to do is keep his legs up when he lands and the others will bring him in safely. Our man here,’ and she pointed at the harried controller, ‘just likes to do things by the book.’

‘Any chance I might have a quick word? I won’t keep him too long.’

‘Go right ahead.’ She tapped the controller on the shoulder. ‘Charles, this is Mr Pigg. He’s investigating my husband’s disappearance. He’d like to ask you some questions about the night he vanished.’

Charles nodded once but never took his eyes off the displays in front of him.