The Ho Ho Ho Mystery
The Ho Ho Ho Mystery
Bob Burke
The festive follow-up to The Third Pig Detective Agency.When Father Christmas goes missing on Christmas Eve eve, Mrs Christmas calls on our intrepid hero Harry Pigg to track him down.What follows is another hardboiled caper featuring fairy tale villains, plenty of red herrings, a few close shaves, a couple of punch ups and a very clever twist.Aided and abetted by his sidekicks Jack Horner and the genie from the lamp, Harry tries to save Christmas before time runs out.If only he didn’t have to deal with those bloody annoying elves.
The
THIRD PIG
DETECTIVE AGENCY
THE HO HO HO MYSTERY
BOB BURKE
To Ian, Adam and Stephen
For the inspiration
(and for keeping me grounded)
Contents
Cover (#ued2253b1-4f7a-5f9b-bba0-b0550a247bc8)
Title page (#u1d12410a-1c30-5c9d-90d8-11391c69dc47)
1 Lady in Red
2 Shop Till You Drop
3 Wondering in a Winter Wonderland
4 Ground Control to Harry Pigg
5 And Pigs Might Fly
6 The Soft Shoe Slingshot
7 Ice Station Santa
8 I Am Not Spock
9 Dashing Through the Snow
10 CSI: Grimmtown
11 A Rug with a View
12 Sleigh Belles Ring
13 A Run Across the Rooftops
14 Another Chapter in Which Nothing Unpleasant Happens to Harry
15 A Night at the Jazz
16 Get Behind Me Santa
17 Happy Christmas to All, and to All a Good Wrap Up
Acknowledgments
Copyright
About the publisher
1 Lady in Red (#ua4ffbb26-6ad1-54e2-99a7-c159ccde8cc8)
The woman claiming to be Mrs Claus glowered at me, her face turning as red as her very Christmassy jacket. ‘Well,’ she demanded, ‘is there a problem?’ I considered the question carefully. There were a number of problems actually, but I wasn’t about to list them out – at least not to a very angry woman who seemed capable of doing me serious physical harm. I’d received enough punishment during my last case and I wanted this one – if, in fact, it turned out to be a case at all – to be as pain-free as possible. Diplomacy was clearly the order of the day.
‘Mrs Claus, please make yourself at home.’ She squeezed herself into the offered chair, which protested loudly at the intrusion. It looked like someone had tried to stuff a red pillow into a flowerpot. When she was comfortable (or at least not too uncomfortable), I asked her to tell me the story from the beginning; if nothing else, it would give me a chance to get my thoughts together – and these thoughts were currently so far apart they couldn’t even be seen with the help of the Hubble telescope.
‘It’s my husband, you see,’ she said, fidgeting with her cuffs. ‘He’s disappeared.’
‘And your husband would be …?’ I knew what she was going to say; I just wanted to hear her say it. This was obviously a very poor attempt at a practical joke and I needed to stay sharp to find out who the culprit was, although the finger of suspicion was pointing firmly at Red Riding Hood. This was just the kind of stunt she’d pull. More importantly, once I knew who it was, I could figure out a way to get back at them. No one got the better of Harry Pigg in the practical jokes department.
‘He’s Santa Claus, of course.’ Her face got redder with indignation. ‘Who did you think I was married to dressed like this?’
I had to admit she did look the part. If I had to buy an outfit for Santa’s wife, it was exactly what I’d have picked: fashionable red trouser suit with white fur lining and a very trendy pair of black high-heeled boots. Well, I’d have picked something red anyway.
‘OK, let me get this clear,’ I said, trying hard not to snigger. ‘You are married to Santa?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘As in the jolly fellow with the white beard who says, “Ho ho ho” a lot and flies around dropping off presents to children all over the world on Christmas Eve?’
‘Is there another?’ she demanded.
‘Not that I’m aware of.’ I was now biting the inside of my cheek so as not to laugh hysterically in her face. ‘And he’s missing?’
‘Yes, as I’ve already pointed out to you.’
‘You’re sure he’s missing and not just away on a boys’ weekend with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy?’ I couldn’t contain myself any longer and burst into howls of laughter.
Seconds later I was pinned to the wall behind my desk with Mrs Claus’s forearm rammed firmly up against my neck. I felt my eyes bulge from the pressure on my throat and I was distinctly short of breath.
‘Do you think this is funny?’ she demanded. ‘My husband has disappeared; children all over the world are facing huge disappointment when they wake up on Christmas Day and find nothing under their trees except bare carpet and some pine needles, and you see fit to sit there making jokes at my expense?’ She pulled her arm away and I dropped to the floor gasping for air. I noticed that my two new ‘partners’, Jack Horner and the genie, had beaten a hasty retreat into the main reception area outside. Cowards! I might have to revisit this new working arrangement if this was going to be their attitude at the slightest hint of trouble.
‘Clearly I’m wasting both my time and yours, Mr Pigg,’ she said, with what I must admit was a certain degree of righteous indignation. ‘I shall take my business to someone who is prepared to take my problem somewhat more seriously. Good day to you.’
As she stomped to the door and made to leave, it occurred to me that she might actually be telling the truth; she was pushing it a bit for someone playing a joke. More to the point, if she was being truthful, taking her business elsewhere meant Red Riding Hood would get the case and the only way she was getting any case at my expense was over my cold and lifeless body. Then again, with my luck, that mightn’t be beyond the bounds of possibility either – I’d come close a few times on my last case, why would this be any different?
It was time for eating some pie of the humbly flavoured sort.
‘Mrs Claus, please accept my apologies for my behaviour.’ I walked after her and extended my trotter. ‘My last case has left me the worse for wear and I’m not quite myself at the moment.’ If you’ve been keeping up with my career, you’ll know this wasn’t entirely untrue. ‘Please make yourself comfortable and I will give you my complete and undivided attention and will personally guarantee the quality of service for which this agency is renowned.’
I was piling it on a bit, but, in my defence, I was getting desperate. I needed to keep this client. Apparently mollified, she turned and sat back down in the chair – which once more protested loudly at the strain.
I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘Make sure it doesn’t,’ Mrs Claus replied. ‘I haven’t got time for amateurs and I need to find my husband before it’s too late.’ Her tough veneer finally cracked and she began to cry gently.
‘You mean they might kill him?’
‘No,’ she blubbed. ‘I mean too late for Christmas.’ Obviously the thought of her husband being killed hadn’t crossed her mind and the tears came even more quickly when she realised what I’d said.
Nice one, Harry, I thought. Make the client feel worse.
I handed her a tissue from a box in my drawer and she dabbed her eyes. While she did so, I quickly checked the box to make sure I had enough tissues. I figured she could be crying for quite some time.
‘Mrs Claus, perhaps you could start from the beginning so we can decide on a proper course of action. How long has he been gone?’
‘Since yesterday morning,’ she replied. ‘He left the previous night for our northern base and was due to arrive first thing yesterday. According to the elves, he never showed. We’ve checked with air-traffic control and they’ve had no reports of any accidents. The last thing we heard was when he gave us an update an hour out of Grimmtown. Since then, nothing. It’s as if he just disappeared into thin air. I may never see him again.’ This brought on a fresh deluge of tears. Now I was really concerned; if she didn’t stop soon there was the distinct possibility my office would be flooded and I wasn’t sure that my insurance would cover the cost of the damage.
‘OK, OK.’ I whipped out my notebook and began to scribble down what she was saying. ‘How was he getting to your base? Grimmair?’
‘Oh goodness, no. He always flew himself. He’s quite an accomplished sleigh pilot, you know. He doesn’t like travelling by commercial airlines.’
I didn’t blame him. I didn’t fancy it too much either. I always seemed to end up squashed between the two smelliest, loudest and most unpleasant Orcs on the flight – and they always took my peanuts.
‘So, he left on his sleigh. Was this some sort of motorised craft or …?’
‘Goodness, Mr Pigg, do you know nothing about my husband? It was reindeer powered. All his sleighs are propelled by a team of reindeer. Of course this wasn’t the elite team; they’re saved for the Christmas run. These were just economy reindeer, but certainly capable enough of getting him to the North Pole without incident. But he never arrived.’ More tears.
‘And you’ve received no communication of any sort, either from him or anyone who may have taken him?’
‘Nothing and I’m so worried something might have happened to him. Please, Mr Pigg, I need your help; the children need your help.’
I thought of Jack Horner waiting outside. What would he think of me if I didn’t find Santa Claus – especially if I didn’t do so before December 25th?
‘OK, let’s go through some of the more obvious questions. Does he have any enemies?’
A shake of the head.
‘Have you noticed anyone suspicious hanging around the house over the past few days?’
Another shake.
‘Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kidnap him? Are you rich?’
‘We have some money put aside, but we reinvest most of what we make back into the company. Every year there are new toys added to the children’s lists, so we’re constantly developing new products and this puts quite a drain on our finances. We’re not in it for the money, you know. If whoever did this did it because they think we’re wealthy, they’ll be sorely disappointed.’
That left one obvious question. ‘So if he wasn’t kidnapped for the money, then why was he kidnapped?’
Mrs Claus shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know; I just want you to find him, whatever it takes.’ But as she said it, I thought I detected the faintest hint of evasion in the glance she gave me. She knew more than she was saying. There was obviously something else going on here and, with my luck, it would almost certainly result in something unpleasant happening to me while I tried to work out what it was.
Super!
‘Is there anything else you can tell me that might be important?’ I pressed. ‘Did your husband appear any different before he left? Did he seem tense, out of sorts? Any little detail, anything you might have noticed, no matter how insignificant, might be important.’
Mrs Claus thought for a second and shook her head. ‘No, nothing. It was just another trip. He was as happy as always. Lots of “Ho, ho, ho’s” and “Merry Christmas, everyone’s”. He did like to get into the spirit of things early. And now he’s gone.’
Just when I thought the waterworks had finished, they started up again. She was a one-woman reservoir. She appeared to be storing enough water inside her to supply an entire town for a year. Where did she keep it all? I was hoping she’d stop soon – I was running out of tissues.
‘Mrs Claus, let me assure you that the Third Pig Detective Agency is on the job. Our skilled operatives will be working on the case to the exclusion of everything else and we will do our utmost to ensure your husband is returned safe and sound.’
I know, I know: ‘skilled operatives’ was stretching it a little, but I was hoping she hadn’t noticed that, apart from me, they consisted of a small boy and a fat ex-genie dressed in bright yellow silk trousers.
She seemed reassured by my charm (in fairness, who wouldn’t be) and got up to leave. As she walked to the door, something struck me – and it wasn’t her forearm this time.
‘Just one last question: have you talked to the police about this?’
‘I reported it as soon as I found out he was missing, but they don’t seem to be taking it too seriously. As there wasn’t a ransom note and he’s only been gone for a day, they’re suggesting he might have just run off with someone else.’ She hauled herself to her full height and bristled with indignation. ‘As if!’
Frankly, if I was him, I’d be breaking all land-speed records to get as far away from this woman as was humanly (or porcinely) possible: she terrified me. ‘Just out of curiosity, how long have you been married?’
She smiled proudly. ‘Two hundred and thirty-seven years of wedded bliss last October.’
That stopped me in my tracks. ‘He must be quite a man.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
She nodded. ‘And I, Mr Pigg, am quite a woman. I quickly put the police right on that particular theory of theirs, let me assure you, but I don’t expect them to give it their full and undivided attention just yet – despite my best efforts to persuade them otherwise.’
I didn’t have any doubts as to the effectiveness of her powers of persuasion; she’d already convinced me to take on her case – and against my better judgement too. It looked like I had a new client.
‘OK, Mrs Claus, we’ll probably need to check out your house and wherever your husband left from on the off chance there might be a clue as to what happened. Is there anyone else in the house at the moment – housekeeper, gardener, someone else who might know where your husband has gone?’
‘Goodness no, apart from the local flight-control team and reindeer wranglers, there’s just the two of us. All the rest of our employees are at our headquarters at the North Pole.’
‘How many employees do you have up there?’
‘Apart from the reindeer, we’ve got our admin staff and about one hundred elves. They’re very diligent, you know.’
Elves! I’d probably have to talk to them as well; there was always the possibility that if this did turn out to be a kidnapping, someone there might be involved. Great! A trip to the North Pole in December: ice, snow, freezing temperatures and elves – and you know how much I dislike elves. They’re pompous, arrogant, overbearing and talk in riddles – and that’s just their good points.
‘We’ll need to interview everyone,’ I said to her. ‘Where’s the nearest airport?’
‘Let me take care of that,’ she said. ‘We have our own fleet of reindeer-powered luxury private sleighs that will take you straight to the facility.’
I wasn’t sure how comfortable a private sleigh flight would be, but I imagined there wouldn’t be much chance of an in-flight movie – or in-flight catering either. On a brighter note, I probably wouldn’t be forced to sit between two Orcs and watch them fight over my peanuts. Every cloud, eh?
‘I’ll contact you when we need to go north, then,’ I said to Mrs Claus.
She nodded in reply and turned to me as she went out of the door. ‘Please don’t let me down, Mr Pigg. Time is short and I don’t have much of it to waste.’ Although her tone was abrupt, I couldn’t fail to notice the look of relief that skated quickly across her face before disappearing behind that stern mask once more. Maybe this wasn’t a con job after all.
‘We’re on it,’ I reassured her as she left the office.
2 Shop Till You Drop (#ua4ffbb26-6ad1-54e2-99a7-c159ccde8cc8)
Seconds later – once they were sure she was gone – my two partners peered around the door. For those of you who don’t know them, Basili was an ex-genie (don’t ask) who I’d inherited after my last case and Jack Horner was an annoying small boy and wannabe detective with a tendency to be always right and who had gotten me out of a tight spot or two recently. I hadn’t the heart to sack either of them (yet).
‘Is it OK to come in?’ asked Jack nervously. I waved for them to enter and sit down.
‘You two were a great help,’ I said to them. ‘Where were you when she had me pinned to the wall?’
Basili looked at me apologetically. ‘Well, Mr Harry, you did seem to be having the situation under control and we were thinking it would be better if you perhaps spoke to the red woman on your own.’
For a moment I considered how dangling in the air while an angry woman used my throat as a resting place for her forearm could possibly constitute having the situation under control and then realised that my partners were cowards – yes, even more cowardly than me. They were just the kind of guys I could rely on when we were in a tight spot – rely on to beat a hasty retreat and leave me to face the music. A consensus of cowards – what a team.
‘Well, it looks like we’ve got ourselves another case, so it’s time to get to work. Jack, you need to start talking to other kids. Try to find out everything you can about Santa Claus. If anyone knows, kids will.’ Jack nodded and raced out of the office, eager to be of assistance.
When Jack had disappeared down the stairs, Basili looked at me curiously. ‘Why did you ask young Mr Jack to do this investigating? Surely he will return with the information that this Santa Claus is a jolly old man who is dressing in red, is being very happy and is bringing lots of nice things to them. This every child knows.’
‘Exactly,’ I replied. ‘I just wanted him out of the way while I talked this case over with you. I didn’t want him to hear what we were going to say.’
‘With me? How can I be of assistance?’
‘Because surely that story can’t be true, can it? Think about it: how can one old man possibly deliver that many presents to that many houses all over the world in one night? It’s not physically possible. At the very least it would take an army of Santas – and a fairly big army at that. If he was on his own and could get his sleigh to move fast enough to do the run in one night, both he and his reindeer would be vaporised in an instant. He’d never even get out of the hangar. He wouldn’t be delivering too many toys then would he? Of course,’ and I began to have that sinking feeling I knew only too well, ‘there’s always magic. As an ex-genie, and with your knowledge of things magical, is it possible that someone would be powerful enough to generate enough magic to actually allow him to do it?’
Basili thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Even I would not have been capable of it. Such a power would go beyond the realms of magic. I have never heard of such a thing.’
‘Exactly my thinking; now you can see why I didn’t want Jack to hear. It would have destroyed his fantasy about Santa Claus and destroyed his Christmas. I certainly wouldn’t want that on my conscience.’
‘But, Mr Harry, it still begs the question: why did that red woman come to you? Even if what she has said is untrue, maybe her husband has still been kidnapped. She seemed to be most persuasive in that regard.’
I touched my neck gingerly. He had a point. ‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm in popping out to see the scene of the alleged crime, is there? It might give us a clue as to what’s going on.’
Basili clapped his hands in excitement. ‘A clue, a clue. Yes, that is what detectives do. We are finding clues and solving the mystery.’
He probably had an image of us arriving at the scene, walking around with a magnifying glass, picking up clues casually off the ground like we were picking fruit and having the mystery solved before lunch. I tried to bring him down gently. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be that easy: there’s still the possibility that Santa did a runner and will turn up later today looking embarrassed and begging for forgiveness – and if I was him I’d be doing some quality grovelling.’ I stood up and put on my jacket. ‘But before we do anything else, we need to go shopping.’
The ex-genie looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘Shopping, Mr Harry? At a time like this?’
‘Yes, Basili, shopping. It may have escaped your notice, but as an apprentice detective, partner and potential undercover operative you are hardly a model of inconspicuousness at the present time.’
He carefully considered what he was wearing and acknowledged that I had a point. Flouncy yellow silk trousers that looked like he’d attached a pair of hot air balloons to his legs, an ornate shiny waistcoat that barely covered his chest and left most of his ample midriff exposed, and a pair of shoes that gave the impression they’d be more comfortable being piloted down a canal by a gondolier singing ‘O Sole Mio’ at the top of his voice. No, Basili needed new threads and fast, otherwise he’d be indefinitely confined to desk work.
A thought struck me – desk work, now that’s not a bad idea at all. It would certainly keep him out of the public eye and he could wear whatever selection of brightly coloured silks he possessed – and I probably wouldn’t ever need to pay for lighting in my office again.
At the same time another more predatory thought (I have lots of those too) pointed out that if he did have as much money as he’d claimed then I needed to keep him sweet so I could use some of it to invest in the Third Pig Detective Agency like he’d promised. And don’t get too upset by my seemingly mercenary attitude. The genie owed me. After all, it was me who had risked my precious hide by rescuing him from a very miffed Aladdin (and an even more miffed Edna) and making sure he wouldn’t get caught up in that three wishes lark ever again. The least he could do in recompense was sub me some cash to buy some cool stuff.
I began clocking up my shopping list, all that kit I’d had to do without over the years: bugging devices, proper cameras, cool hi-tech surveillance equipment. With all that gear I could really outdo Red Riding Hood and consolidate my position as the foremost detective in town. All it was going to take was a bit of imagination and some shrewd investment at Gumshoes’R’Us and I was on my way.
‘OK Basili, let’s do it. Two hours from now you’ll be stunningly sartorially elegant or my name’s not Harry Pigg.’
Two hours from now the bottom had fallen out of my day.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but that card is also being refused.’ Danny Emperor, proprietor of Emperor’s New Clothes Men’s Emporium had run three of Basili’s credit cards through the machine and all had been refused.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked, getting just a tad concerned. ‘Can you try it one more time?’
Danny swiped the card once more and, once more, there was a high-pitched and (I thought) gleeful beeping as the system failed to validate it. I turned to the genie, who was becoming more dejected by the minute. He cut a forlorn – if somewhat conspicuous – figure, standing luminously among the racks of dark suits like a lighthouse in the middle of a bog. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked him. ‘Are you sure you were telling me the truth about all this money of yours?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Harry,’ he said glumly. ‘As I told you, I had played the markets for many years while I was in the lamp. The return was, how shall I say, significant.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ I muttered to myself as Danny cut another of Basili’s credit cards in two. As my dreams of a high-tech detective agency began to fade back into obscurity, a thought struck me. Reaching for my cellphone, I made a quick call to my lawyer, Sol Grundy (a man I keep very, very busy most of the time), and explained the situation to him. He told me he’d see what he could do and get back to me asap. If anyone could find out what was going on, he was the man. In the meantime all we could do was wait (and hope), surrounded by all the extra-large suits we were trying to buy.
Fortunately my lawyer works fast. Barely ten minutes had passed before he rang back.
‘Sol,’ I said, ‘what’s the story?’
‘Not good, Harry.’ Sol replied. ‘Looks like your buddy has some problems. From what I’ve been able to find out, it looks as though Aladdin has had all his assets frozen, claiming that as they were acquired while your man was in his employ then, legally, they’re Aladdin’s. As of now, Basili has nothing. I know it sounds a bit high-handed and I’m not sure as to the legality of Aladdin’s actions, but it’s a grey area, so the courts will have to decide.’
‘See what you can do, OK?’ Aladdin was probably doing this out of sheer spite because we’d gotten one up on him. ‘But watch out: that Aladdin is a slick operator.’
‘Yes Harry, I’m aware of that. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.’ Which was true, yesterday was Thursday. ‘Oh, by the way, he’s repossessed the lamp too.’
‘He’s more than welcome to it. It’s worthless now.’ Even the genie couldn’t use it as a home now that he had no magic. He’d already bruised his big toe trying to get back into it through the spout. It was most definitely an ex-magic lamp. Then another awful thought struck me – it was clearly my day for them: if the genie couldn’t get back into the lamp and had no money, then where was he going to live?
This was a question with only one possible answer: it looked like, for the foreseeable future, I was going to have a large, farting, silk-clad genie sleeping on my couch.
3 Wondering in a Winter Wonderland (#ua4ffbb26-6ad1-54e2-99a7-c159ccde8cc8)
The Claus house was so sweet and twee it made those candy cottages that dotted the Enchanted Forest look like outhouses. I could feel my teeth starting to decay and my arteries hardening just by looking at it. I’d probably die of a sugar overdose once I crossed the threshold. No matter what angle you looked at it from, it screamed Christmas in much the same way as Aladdin’s mansion had screamed bad taste.
The house itself was a long, low log cabin – at least I think so. It was impossible to make out for sure, covered as it was from floor to roof in brightly coloured Christmas lights, which explained the bright glow in the sky we’d noticed as we drove over. These weren’t just your usual strands of lights draped along the roof; oh no, there were rock bands that didn’t have light shows as extravagant as what we were witnessing here. Rumour had it that Hubbard’s Cubbard’s lighting tech had spent six weeks studying these illuminations so he could get some good ideas for their next world tour. I couldn’t say I blamed him; at any moment I expected a plane to land in the front garden, having mistaken the house for the approach to Grimmtown Airport. Even sunglasses wouldn’t have been of any use here.
I could have sworn I even saw some people stretched out in the garden getting themselves a nice tan, but I couldn’t be sure such was the assault on my eyes.
Seasonal ornaments covered the lawns. Reindeer jostled with Christmas gnomes; trees and snowmen seemed to be fighting for space with models of sleighs and Santas. It looked like a Christmas civil war had broken out and I had no idea who was actually winning. Even the corner of the swimming pool that I could see around the back of the house looked to have been covered with some sort of plastic ice on which mechanical rabbits, reindeer and snowmen skated happily away.
Snow covered the entire scene, giving it a little extra seasonal ambience – as if it really needed it. As we hadn’t seen snow in Grimmtown for over five years, I used my powers of deduction to work out that it too, like everything else, was clearly fake.
Gingerly stepping around sunbathers and giant ornaments, I made my way to the door, pausing only to flick my fingers against a giant stalactite that hung from the eaves in front of me. Plastic too! I hammered on the reindeer-head door knocker, which lit up when I grabbed it and began singing ‘Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer’. It had gotten as far as ‘Then one foggy Christmas Eve’ before, to our relief, the door finally opened and Mrs Claus’s familiar imposing figure peeked out. Just in case she wanted to exercise her forearm again I took a careful step back, but this time she seemed happier to see me – thankfully.
‘Mr Pigg.’ Then she saw Basili standing behind me. ‘And your comedic sidekick, how nice.’ There was an indignant snort from just over my left shoulder. ‘It’s good of you to come so soon. Please, come in.’ She held the door open so we could enter.
Inside was just as tastefully decorated as outside. It seemed to be going for that ever-trendy neo-Lapland Rustic Charm look – as in pine everywhere. A mouth-watering aroma of mince pies emanated from a nearby kitchen. If the effect was to lull visitors into that warm Christmassy mood and leave them feeling good about themselves and everyone else, then it was very effective – until it came up against a cynical gumshoe like me. I was more of a ‘Bah humbug’ merchant when it came to Christmas.
Mrs Claus led us into a large living room dominated by a roaring fire. Gaudy red-and-white patterned socks hung from the pine mantelpiece and an enormous Christmas tree towered in one corner of the room. She indicated that we should sit in the comfortable-looking armchairs facing into the blazing inferno.
Once we were settled, I began. ‘Has your husband contacted you?’
A quick shake of her head was the only response.
‘Anyone else been in contact? A phone call or ransom note?’
Another shake of the head. Her lower lip began to tremble.
Please, no more waterworks, I thought to myself. I didn’t bring any wet gear.
‘Very odd,’ I mused. ‘I would have thought by now someone would have gotten in touch.’ Of course, the fact that no one had contacted her gave credence to the police theory that Santa had done a runner – but I wasn’t going to say that in front of the lady with the strongest forearms I’d ever seen. On the other hand, I had to be seen doing something to justify whatever fee I might get out of this case.
‘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.
4 Ground Control to Harry Pigg (#ua4ffbb26-6ad1-54e2-99a7-c159ccde8cc8)
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.
‘OK, Charles. Can you tell us what happened?’
‘Sure. Santa’s private sleigh left here as scheduled at 21:00 hours. At 22:00 hours he contacted us to let us know that things were OK and that he was ascending to his cruising height. After that nothing, and he never arrived at Polar Central. That’s all I know.’
‘How long would the flight normally be?’
‘About three hours, give or take.’
‘And would it be unusual for Mr Claus to maintain radio silence for the duration?’
‘It depends. It was a routine flight, so apart from an occasional update we might not hear from him until he was beginning his approach to Polar Central, so it wouldn’t necessarily be a cause for concern. He does this run very regularly, you know.’
‘I see, OK. Thanks, Charles.’ He barely acknowledged me as he turned his attention back to his screens. I looked at Mrs Claus. ‘Mrs Cl … I mean Clarissa, this is a most peculiar case. I can find no evidence of any wrongdoing here nor can I explain your husband’s disappearance. Clearly he’s missing, but I can’t explain it. It is possible that I may be able to find out something by interviewing the staff at your North Pole base. How soon can you organise a flight for us since I’d like to start talking to them as soon as possible?’
‘You can leave right now,’ she said. ‘We have a number of private sleighs – state of the art – that we keep on standby for any sudden or unexpected departures. They’re very comfortable and should get you there in a matter of hours.’ Mrs Claus turned to Charles. ‘Ask the ground crew to prep Jingle Bells for an immediate departure to Polar Central.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied and issued orders into a nearby radio.
As he spoke we were shepherded downstairs into an (admittedly very comfortable) departure lounge, where we were given heavy fur coats to wear – which didn’t bode too well for the journey ahead. Once we were warmly wrapped up we were taken to the sleigh.
I have to confess at this point that I was expecting an open box with a hard wooden seat and large storage area; all sitting on top of two long, curved, metal skis with a team of smelly, flea-ridden reindeer attached to the front.
The reality was so very different.
A sleek red-and-white (of course) chassis, like a giant covered bobsleigh, rested on huge, sturdy-looking skis. To my relief there was no sign of outside seats so it looked as though we’d be inside – and warm, I hoped. Naturally it wasn’t all high-tech. I’d been expecting something like rocket-powered engines, so I was a tad disappointed to see a team of twelve reindeer being hooked up to the front of the sleigh, but at least they looked the part too: sleek, strong and very healthy looking. I just wasn’t too sure they’d manage to get the sleigh off the ground.
Mrs Claus saw my look of uncertainty and quickly reassured me, ‘They’re Class Two reindeer; some low-level raw magic and power. Don’t worry; they’ll get us there without difficulty.’
Magic: I knew there’d be magic involved somewhere. I didn’t share her confidence. Magic and me just didn’t mix. If something was going to go wrong with this craft, chances were it would be when I was travelling in it.
Slowly and with a large degree of caution I approached the sleigh. As I did, a door in the side slid quietly open, revealing a luxurious interior. Large, comfortable-looking seats lined the walls and a plush carpet covered the floor. No prizes for guessing the colour scheme. Hey, maybe this wouldn’t be too bad after all.
One of the ground crew approached. ‘Everyone inside please, we depart in five minutes.’
We all entered and quickly strapped ourselves into the seats. I sank into mine and it surrounded me like I was in a hot bath. This was the life. If I didn’t know better I’d have thought I was in someone’s living room. Across from me Basili struggled with his seat belt and looked anxiously at me. I gave him a reassuring smile, but he didn’t seem too convinced. Maybe he didn’t like flying either – which was strange, considering he used to be a genie and spent most of the time when he popped out of his lamp hanging in the air with smoke for legs. I hoped for his sake we’d have an uneventful flight.
Behind me Mrs Claus was talking to our in-flight steward and asking him to organise drinks and something to eat as soon as we were airborne. As he walked back to the galley, there was a sudden jolt and the sleigh began to move forward along the ramp. As we began to pick up speed, I noticed – somewhat nervously – that we were racing up the ramp towards the ceiling I’d seen earlier. The sleigh got faster and faster as we approached the blank wall ahead.
‘Shouldn’t there be a door or something?’ I shouted over my shoulder to Mrs Claus, who was lying back with her eyes closed, seemingly blissfully unaware of our imminent collision.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Pigg. I’m sure the pilot knows what he’s doing.’
Outside, the scenery was passing by in a blur as the reindeer picked up speed, apparently oblivious to their impending doom.
The ceiling got closer and closer and I got more and more scared. ‘Ohmigod, we’re all gonna die; we’re all gonna die; WE’RE ALL GONNA DIIIIAAAARGH.’ As I screamed in terror at our imminent collision with the ceiling, it suddenly split in two and the sleigh shot out through the opening. Through the window I got a blurred glimpse of the swimming pool parting on either side as we came up through it. Seconds later we’d left the ground behind us and hurtled into the night sky.
‘There,’ came a sleepy voice from behind me. ‘I told you he knew what he was doing.’
5 And Pigs Might Fly (#ulink_82aec282-efad-5758-93a9-78093a4ea77f)
I sank back in my seat, sweating … well, um, like a pig actually. I was close to hyperventilating and tried to get my breathing under control before I passed out. Across the aisle Basili was studying me with interest, seemingly oblivious to what just happened.
‘You are well, Mr Harry?’ he asked.
‘I’ll live,’ I gasped. ‘But I don’t think I’ll be able to cope with any more scares like that.’
Behind me, a gentle snoring sound suggested Mrs Claus was far less worried than either of us.
‘I am sure there will be no more incidents until after we are arriving at our destination.’ Basili unfastened his belt – which was clearly making him uncomfortable – let his seat back and closed his eyes. Seconds later he too was snoring, but much louder than the ladylike trilling from Mrs Claus. Great: snoring in stereo for the rest of the trip! I wondered if there was an in-flight movie; I could certainly do with some distraction.
Unfortunately, it looked as though the nearest I was going to get to in-flight entertainment was looking out of the window. Mind you, judging by the speed at which the clouds passed by it seemed that the reindeer were moving at quite a clip. Maybe there was some germ of truth in what Mrs Claus had told me. If these were Class Two animals, I wondered how fast Class One reindeer could go. Idly musing on thoughts like this (and because I had nothing else to do – the current case proving to be completely devoid of any leads), I eventually sank into a light doze.
A loud blaring brought me to my senses. The captain was shouting at us through the intercom. ‘Attention, passengers. Ground control has detected another craft approaching us at speed. We have as yet been unable to make contact with them. Please return to your seats and ensure your seat belts are securely fastened while we establish what is going on. Thank you.’
Just as he finished there was a loud thud on the side of the sleigh as something made heavy contact. The impact caused the sleigh to lurch wildly and turn on its side. Before I could grab on to anything, I slid across the floor and smashed into the cabin door. Showing scant regard for safety regulations and quality construction, it swung open and I dropped out of the sleigh into the freezing night.
I felt a trotter bang off something as I fell. Using whatever innate survival instincts I possessed (I certainly wasn’t doing this by design – trust me), my other trotter swung around and clung desperately to one of the sleigh’s landing skis. The sleigh careened wildly as it was hit again and I just managed to keep my grip. Almost immediately, Basili’s semi-conscious body fell out of the cabin above and plummeted past me. Using the same innate sense of self-preservation I’d used, his arms were stretched out trying to grab on to anything that might save him. Unfortunately for me, he wasn’t quite as good at it as I was. Instead of grabbing the ski, he wrapped an arm around my legs and clutched them tightly.
I tried to look down at the ex-genie dangling from my legs. ‘Basili,’ I shouted, trying to be heard over the wind, ‘can you climb up my body and grab on to a ski?’
‘I do not think so, Mr Harry. I am barely feeling my hands. It is a most unusual and unpleasant sensation. Perhaps if I am letting go, you may be able to climb back in.’
‘Not an option, Basili,’ I muttered through gritted teeth. ‘We need to come up with something else – and quickly.’
‘Trust me, Mr Harry,’ came the strained voice from below. ‘I am thinking as fast as I can.’
As I gamely struggled for inspiration, there came a voice from above asking what was, in the circumstances, possibly the most idiotic question I’d ever heard.
‘Are you two gentlemen OK?’ asked Mrs Claus, peering down from the open door.
‘Not really. Now if you would be so kind as to find something we can grab on to before we end up trying to fly of our own accord, we’d be really grateful.’
‘One moment, I’ll see what I can do.’ Her head disappeared back into the sleigh before I could point out that we really didn’t have the luxury of a moment to spare.
‘Hold on, Basili,’ I roared down to the genie. ‘Help may be on its way.’ As I did so, my trotters began to slip away from the skis. Frantically, I tried to hold on, but the strain was too much. My trotters protested at what they were being asked to do – they didn’t seem to think it was fair. Inch by inch they began to slide apart. I wasn’t going to manage it.
Just as I was about to give way, Mrs Claus shouted down at us again. ‘Here, grab on to this.’ Something snaked past my shoulder and I grabbed on to a thick rope and held on to it as if my life depended on it (which it did).
I was just thanking my lucky stars, lucky rabbit’s foot, lucky anything-else-lucky-I-had-in-my-possession when the big, ugly, hob-nailed boot of fate stamped down on me one more time. The sleigh skewed wildly as our attackers hit it once again. There was a scream and I saw a blur of red as something large fell past me. There was an almighty tug on my legs as if someone had attached something heavy – like, say, a truck – to them.
Whatever chance I had of hanging on while Basili dangled from my legs had disappeared when Mrs Claus added her ample frame to the equation. Now, I could feel the rope sliding through my trotters as my arms finally gave up, shouted surrender and lay down their weapons. I didn’t know how long the rope was, but from the speed I slid down along it I didn’t think there was much more left to hold on to. This was it; this was the end.
6 The Soft Shoe Slingshot (#ulink_6ea37bb1-a8de-5ce4-bfcb-b156e0bb14c3)
Or was it?
I didn’t plummet down through the inky blackness and end up an unpleasant mess on the ground below (as I’d not unreasonably expected) but landed instead on something hard and metallic. Behind me I could hear Basili crying, ‘Thank the gods’, and, behind him again, Mrs Claus was just crying. I didn’t even bother trying to work out what had happened; I just lay where I was and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. From the speed of the wind across my face it seemed like we were on something that was moving fast – but what? When the surface underneath me lurched sharply and I saw us move towards the sleigh we’d just fallen from, I knew exactly where we were.
Were we safe? Hell, no!
Were we in a better position than before? Marginally – in the sense that we weren’t hanging off each other and facing certain death.
Where exactly were we? We’d fallen on to the roof of the sleigh that had been attacking us!
Was that better? Only if it flew in a straight line.
I turned to my companions and broke the good news to them. From what I could see of their expressions they were less than gruntled too. Clearly they shared my opinion of our predicament.
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Bob Burke
The festive follow-up to The Third Pig Detective Agency.When Father Christmas goes missing on Christmas Eve eve, Mrs Christmas calls on our intrepid hero Harry Pigg to track him down.What follows is another hardboiled caper featuring fairy tale villains, plenty of red herrings, a few close shaves, a couple of punch ups and a very clever twist.Aided and abetted by his sidekicks Jack Horner and the genie from the lamp, Harry tries to save Christmas before time runs out.If only he didn’t have to deal with those bloody annoying elves.
The
THIRD PIG
DETECTIVE AGENCY
THE HO HO HO MYSTERY
BOB BURKE
To Ian, Adam and Stephen
For the inspiration
(and for keeping me grounded)
Contents
Cover (#ued2253b1-4f7a-5f9b-bba0-b0550a247bc8)
Title page (#u1d12410a-1c30-5c9d-90d8-11391c69dc47)
1 Lady in Red
2 Shop Till You Drop
3 Wondering in a Winter Wonderland
4 Ground Control to Harry Pigg
5 And Pigs Might Fly
6 The Soft Shoe Slingshot
7 Ice Station Santa
8 I Am Not Spock
9 Dashing Through the Snow
10 CSI: Grimmtown
11 A Rug with a View
12 Sleigh Belles Ring
13 A Run Across the Rooftops
14 Another Chapter in Which Nothing Unpleasant Happens to Harry
15 A Night at the Jazz
16 Get Behind Me Santa
17 Happy Christmas to All, and to All a Good Wrap Up
Acknowledgments
Copyright
About the publisher
1 Lady in Red (#ua4ffbb26-6ad1-54e2-99a7-c159ccde8cc8)
The woman claiming to be Mrs Claus glowered at me, her face turning as red as her very Christmassy jacket. ‘Well,’ she demanded, ‘is there a problem?’ I considered the question carefully. There were a number of problems actually, but I wasn’t about to list them out – at least not to a very angry woman who seemed capable of doing me serious physical harm. I’d received enough punishment during my last case and I wanted this one – if, in fact, it turned out to be a case at all – to be as pain-free as possible. Diplomacy was clearly the order of the day.
‘Mrs Claus, please make yourself at home.’ She squeezed herself into the offered chair, which protested loudly at the intrusion. It looked like someone had tried to stuff a red pillow into a flowerpot. When she was comfortable (or at least not too uncomfortable), I asked her to tell me the story from the beginning; if nothing else, it would give me a chance to get my thoughts together – and these thoughts were currently so far apart they couldn’t even be seen with the help of the Hubble telescope.
‘It’s my husband, you see,’ she said, fidgeting with her cuffs. ‘He’s disappeared.’
‘And your husband would be …?’ I knew what she was going to say; I just wanted to hear her say it. This was obviously a very poor attempt at a practical joke and I needed to stay sharp to find out who the culprit was, although the finger of suspicion was pointing firmly at Red Riding Hood. This was just the kind of stunt she’d pull. More importantly, once I knew who it was, I could figure out a way to get back at them. No one got the better of Harry Pigg in the practical jokes department.
‘He’s Santa Claus, of course.’ Her face got redder with indignation. ‘Who did you think I was married to dressed like this?’
I had to admit she did look the part. If I had to buy an outfit for Santa’s wife, it was exactly what I’d have picked: fashionable red trouser suit with white fur lining and a very trendy pair of black high-heeled boots. Well, I’d have picked something red anyway.
‘OK, let me get this clear,’ I said, trying hard not to snigger. ‘You are married to Santa?’
‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘As in the jolly fellow with the white beard who says, “Ho ho ho” a lot and flies around dropping off presents to children all over the world on Christmas Eve?’
‘Is there another?’ she demanded.
‘Not that I’m aware of.’ I was now biting the inside of my cheek so as not to laugh hysterically in her face. ‘And he’s missing?’
‘Yes, as I’ve already pointed out to you.’
‘You’re sure he’s missing and not just away on a boys’ weekend with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy?’ I couldn’t contain myself any longer and burst into howls of laughter.
Seconds later I was pinned to the wall behind my desk with Mrs Claus’s forearm rammed firmly up against my neck. I felt my eyes bulge from the pressure on my throat and I was distinctly short of breath.
‘Do you think this is funny?’ she demanded. ‘My husband has disappeared; children all over the world are facing huge disappointment when they wake up on Christmas Day and find nothing under their trees except bare carpet and some pine needles, and you see fit to sit there making jokes at my expense?’ She pulled her arm away and I dropped to the floor gasping for air. I noticed that my two new ‘partners’, Jack Horner and the genie, had beaten a hasty retreat into the main reception area outside. Cowards! I might have to revisit this new working arrangement if this was going to be their attitude at the slightest hint of trouble.
‘Clearly I’m wasting both my time and yours, Mr Pigg,’ she said, with what I must admit was a certain degree of righteous indignation. ‘I shall take my business to someone who is prepared to take my problem somewhat more seriously. Good day to you.’
As she stomped to the door and made to leave, it occurred to me that she might actually be telling the truth; she was pushing it a bit for someone playing a joke. More to the point, if she was being truthful, taking her business elsewhere meant Red Riding Hood would get the case and the only way she was getting any case at my expense was over my cold and lifeless body. Then again, with my luck, that mightn’t be beyond the bounds of possibility either – I’d come close a few times on my last case, why would this be any different?
It was time for eating some pie of the humbly flavoured sort.
‘Mrs Claus, please accept my apologies for my behaviour.’ I walked after her and extended my trotter. ‘My last case has left me the worse for wear and I’m not quite myself at the moment.’ If you’ve been keeping up with my career, you’ll know this wasn’t entirely untrue. ‘Please make yourself comfortable and I will give you my complete and undivided attention and will personally guarantee the quality of service for which this agency is renowned.’
I was piling it on a bit, but, in my defence, I was getting desperate. I needed to keep this client. Apparently mollified, she turned and sat back down in the chair – which once more protested loudly at the strain.
I breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘It won’t happen again.’
‘Make sure it doesn’t,’ Mrs Claus replied. ‘I haven’t got time for amateurs and I need to find my husband before it’s too late.’ Her tough veneer finally cracked and she began to cry gently.
‘You mean they might kill him?’
‘No,’ she blubbed. ‘I mean too late for Christmas.’ Obviously the thought of her husband being killed hadn’t crossed her mind and the tears came even more quickly when she realised what I’d said.
Nice one, Harry, I thought. Make the client feel worse.
I handed her a tissue from a box in my drawer and she dabbed her eyes. While she did so, I quickly checked the box to make sure I had enough tissues. I figured she could be crying for quite some time.
‘Mrs Claus, perhaps you could start from the beginning so we can decide on a proper course of action. How long has he been gone?’
‘Since yesterday morning,’ she replied. ‘He left the previous night for our northern base and was due to arrive first thing yesterday. According to the elves, he never showed. We’ve checked with air-traffic control and they’ve had no reports of any accidents. The last thing we heard was when he gave us an update an hour out of Grimmtown. Since then, nothing. It’s as if he just disappeared into thin air. I may never see him again.’ This brought on a fresh deluge of tears. Now I was really concerned; if she didn’t stop soon there was the distinct possibility my office would be flooded and I wasn’t sure that my insurance would cover the cost of the damage.
‘OK, OK.’ I whipped out my notebook and began to scribble down what she was saying. ‘How was he getting to your base? Grimmair?’
‘Oh goodness, no. He always flew himself. He’s quite an accomplished sleigh pilot, you know. He doesn’t like travelling by commercial airlines.’
I didn’t blame him. I didn’t fancy it too much either. I always seemed to end up squashed between the two smelliest, loudest and most unpleasant Orcs on the flight – and they always took my peanuts.
‘So, he left on his sleigh. Was this some sort of motorised craft or …?’
‘Goodness, Mr Pigg, do you know nothing about my husband? It was reindeer powered. All his sleighs are propelled by a team of reindeer. Of course this wasn’t the elite team; they’re saved for the Christmas run. These were just economy reindeer, but certainly capable enough of getting him to the North Pole without incident. But he never arrived.’ More tears.
‘And you’ve received no communication of any sort, either from him or anyone who may have taken him?’
‘Nothing and I’m so worried something might have happened to him. Please, Mr Pigg, I need your help; the children need your help.’
I thought of Jack Horner waiting outside. What would he think of me if I didn’t find Santa Claus – especially if I didn’t do so before December 25th?
‘OK, let’s go through some of the more obvious questions. Does he have any enemies?’
A shake of the head.
‘Have you noticed anyone suspicious hanging around the house over the past few days?’
Another shake.
‘Do you know of any reason why anyone would want to kidnap him? Are you rich?’
‘We have some money put aside, but we reinvest most of what we make back into the company. Every year there are new toys added to the children’s lists, so we’re constantly developing new products and this puts quite a drain on our finances. We’re not in it for the money, you know. If whoever did this did it because they think we’re wealthy, they’ll be sorely disappointed.’
That left one obvious question. ‘So if he wasn’t kidnapped for the money, then why was he kidnapped?’
Mrs Claus shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know; I just want you to find him, whatever it takes.’ But as she said it, I thought I detected the faintest hint of evasion in the glance she gave me. She knew more than she was saying. There was obviously something else going on here and, with my luck, it would almost certainly result in something unpleasant happening to me while I tried to work out what it was.
Super!
‘Is there anything else you can tell me that might be important?’ I pressed. ‘Did your husband appear any different before he left? Did he seem tense, out of sorts? Any little detail, anything you might have noticed, no matter how insignificant, might be important.’
Mrs Claus thought for a second and shook her head. ‘No, nothing. It was just another trip. He was as happy as always. Lots of “Ho, ho, ho’s” and “Merry Christmas, everyone’s”. He did like to get into the spirit of things early. And now he’s gone.’
Just when I thought the waterworks had finished, they started up again. She was a one-woman reservoir. She appeared to be storing enough water inside her to supply an entire town for a year. Where did she keep it all? I was hoping she’d stop soon – I was running out of tissues.
‘Mrs Claus, let me assure you that the Third Pig Detective Agency is on the job. Our skilled operatives will be working on the case to the exclusion of everything else and we will do our utmost to ensure your husband is returned safe and sound.’
I know, I know: ‘skilled operatives’ was stretching it a little, but I was hoping she hadn’t noticed that, apart from me, they consisted of a small boy and a fat ex-genie dressed in bright yellow silk trousers.
She seemed reassured by my charm (in fairness, who wouldn’t be) and got up to leave. As she walked to the door, something struck me – and it wasn’t her forearm this time.
‘Just one last question: have you talked to the police about this?’
‘I reported it as soon as I found out he was missing, but they don’t seem to be taking it too seriously. As there wasn’t a ransom note and he’s only been gone for a day, they’re suggesting he might have just run off with someone else.’ She hauled herself to her full height and bristled with indignation. ‘As if!’
Frankly, if I was him, I’d be breaking all land-speed records to get as far away from this woman as was humanly (or porcinely) possible: she terrified me. ‘Just out of curiosity, how long have you been married?’
She smiled proudly. ‘Two hundred and thirty-seven years of wedded bliss last October.’
That stopped me in my tracks. ‘He must be quite a man.’ I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
She nodded. ‘And I, Mr Pigg, am quite a woman. I quickly put the police right on that particular theory of theirs, let me assure you, but I don’t expect them to give it their full and undivided attention just yet – despite my best efforts to persuade them otherwise.’
I didn’t have any doubts as to the effectiveness of her powers of persuasion; she’d already convinced me to take on her case – and against my better judgement too. It looked like I had a new client.
‘OK, Mrs Claus, we’ll probably need to check out your house and wherever your husband left from on the off chance there might be a clue as to what happened. Is there anyone else in the house at the moment – housekeeper, gardener, someone else who might know where your husband has gone?’
‘Goodness no, apart from the local flight-control team and reindeer wranglers, there’s just the two of us. All the rest of our employees are at our headquarters at the North Pole.’
‘How many employees do you have up there?’
‘Apart from the reindeer, we’ve got our admin staff and about one hundred elves. They’re very diligent, you know.’
Elves! I’d probably have to talk to them as well; there was always the possibility that if this did turn out to be a kidnapping, someone there might be involved. Great! A trip to the North Pole in December: ice, snow, freezing temperatures and elves – and you know how much I dislike elves. They’re pompous, arrogant, overbearing and talk in riddles – and that’s just their good points.
‘We’ll need to interview everyone,’ I said to her. ‘Where’s the nearest airport?’
‘Let me take care of that,’ she said. ‘We have our own fleet of reindeer-powered luxury private sleighs that will take you straight to the facility.’
I wasn’t sure how comfortable a private sleigh flight would be, but I imagined there wouldn’t be much chance of an in-flight movie – or in-flight catering either. On a brighter note, I probably wouldn’t be forced to sit between two Orcs and watch them fight over my peanuts. Every cloud, eh?
‘I’ll contact you when we need to go north, then,’ I said to Mrs Claus.
She nodded in reply and turned to me as she went out of the door. ‘Please don’t let me down, Mr Pigg. Time is short and I don’t have much of it to waste.’ Although her tone was abrupt, I couldn’t fail to notice the look of relief that skated quickly across her face before disappearing behind that stern mask once more. Maybe this wasn’t a con job after all.
‘We’re on it,’ I reassured her as she left the office.
2 Shop Till You Drop (#ua4ffbb26-6ad1-54e2-99a7-c159ccde8cc8)
Seconds later – once they were sure she was gone – my two partners peered around the door. For those of you who don’t know them, Basili was an ex-genie (don’t ask) who I’d inherited after my last case and Jack Horner was an annoying small boy and wannabe detective with a tendency to be always right and who had gotten me out of a tight spot or two recently. I hadn’t the heart to sack either of them (yet).
‘Is it OK to come in?’ asked Jack nervously. I waved for them to enter and sit down.
‘You two were a great help,’ I said to them. ‘Where were you when she had me pinned to the wall?’
Basili looked at me apologetically. ‘Well, Mr Harry, you did seem to be having the situation under control and we were thinking it would be better if you perhaps spoke to the red woman on your own.’
For a moment I considered how dangling in the air while an angry woman used my throat as a resting place for her forearm could possibly constitute having the situation under control and then realised that my partners were cowards – yes, even more cowardly than me. They were just the kind of guys I could rely on when we were in a tight spot – rely on to beat a hasty retreat and leave me to face the music. A consensus of cowards – what a team.
‘Well, it looks like we’ve got ourselves another case, so it’s time to get to work. Jack, you need to start talking to other kids. Try to find out everything you can about Santa Claus. If anyone knows, kids will.’ Jack nodded and raced out of the office, eager to be of assistance.
When Jack had disappeared down the stairs, Basili looked at me curiously. ‘Why did you ask young Mr Jack to do this investigating? Surely he will return with the information that this Santa Claus is a jolly old man who is dressing in red, is being very happy and is bringing lots of nice things to them. This every child knows.’
‘Exactly,’ I replied. ‘I just wanted him out of the way while I talked this case over with you. I didn’t want him to hear what we were going to say.’
‘With me? How can I be of assistance?’
‘Because surely that story can’t be true, can it? Think about it: how can one old man possibly deliver that many presents to that many houses all over the world in one night? It’s not physically possible. At the very least it would take an army of Santas – and a fairly big army at that. If he was on his own and could get his sleigh to move fast enough to do the run in one night, both he and his reindeer would be vaporised in an instant. He’d never even get out of the hangar. He wouldn’t be delivering too many toys then would he? Of course,’ and I began to have that sinking feeling I knew only too well, ‘there’s always magic. As an ex-genie, and with your knowledge of things magical, is it possible that someone would be powerful enough to generate enough magic to actually allow him to do it?’
Basili thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Even I would not have been capable of it. Such a power would go beyond the realms of magic. I have never heard of such a thing.’
‘Exactly my thinking; now you can see why I didn’t want Jack to hear. It would have destroyed his fantasy about Santa Claus and destroyed his Christmas. I certainly wouldn’t want that on my conscience.’
‘But, Mr Harry, it still begs the question: why did that red woman come to you? Even if what she has said is untrue, maybe her husband has still been kidnapped. She seemed to be most persuasive in that regard.’
I touched my neck gingerly. He had a point. ‘Well, I suppose there’s no harm in popping out to see the scene of the alleged crime, is there? It might give us a clue as to what’s going on.’
Basili clapped his hands in excitement. ‘A clue, a clue. Yes, that is what detectives do. We are finding clues and solving the mystery.’
He probably had an image of us arriving at the scene, walking around with a magnifying glass, picking up clues casually off the ground like we were picking fruit and having the mystery solved before lunch. I tried to bring him down gently. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be that easy: there’s still the possibility that Santa did a runner and will turn up later today looking embarrassed and begging for forgiveness – and if I was him I’d be doing some quality grovelling.’ I stood up and put on my jacket. ‘But before we do anything else, we need to go shopping.’
The ex-genie looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘Shopping, Mr Harry? At a time like this?’
‘Yes, Basili, shopping. It may have escaped your notice, but as an apprentice detective, partner and potential undercover operative you are hardly a model of inconspicuousness at the present time.’
He carefully considered what he was wearing and acknowledged that I had a point. Flouncy yellow silk trousers that looked like he’d attached a pair of hot air balloons to his legs, an ornate shiny waistcoat that barely covered his chest and left most of his ample midriff exposed, and a pair of shoes that gave the impression they’d be more comfortable being piloted down a canal by a gondolier singing ‘O Sole Mio’ at the top of his voice. No, Basili needed new threads and fast, otherwise he’d be indefinitely confined to desk work.
A thought struck me – desk work, now that’s not a bad idea at all. It would certainly keep him out of the public eye and he could wear whatever selection of brightly coloured silks he possessed – and I probably wouldn’t ever need to pay for lighting in my office again.
At the same time another more predatory thought (I have lots of those too) pointed out that if he did have as much money as he’d claimed then I needed to keep him sweet so I could use some of it to invest in the Third Pig Detective Agency like he’d promised. And don’t get too upset by my seemingly mercenary attitude. The genie owed me. After all, it was me who had risked my precious hide by rescuing him from a very miffed Aladdin (and an even more miffed Edna) and making sure he wouldn’t get caught up in that three wishes lark ever again. The least he could do in recompense was sub me some cash to buy some cool stuff.
I began clocking up my shopping list, all that kit I’d had to do without over the years: bugging devices, proper cameras, cool hi-tech surveillance equipment. With all that gear I could really outdo Red Riding Hood and consolidate my position as the foremost detective in town. All it was going to take was a bit of imagination and some shrewd investment at Gumshoes’R’Us and I was on my way.
‘OK Basili, let’s do it. Two hours from now you’ll be stunningly sartorially elegant or my name’s not Harry Pigg.’
Two hours from now the bottom had fallen out of my day.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but that card is also being refused.’ Danny Emperor, proprietor of Emperor’s New Clothes Men’s Emporium had run three of Basili’s credit cards through the machine and all had been refused.
‘Are you sure?’ I asked, getting just a tad concerned. ‘Can you try it one more time?’
Danny swiped the card once more and, once more, there was a high-pitched and (I thought) gleeful beeping as the system failed to validate it. I turned to the genie, who was becoming more dejected by the minute. He cut a forlorn – if somewhat conspicuous – figure, standing luminously among the racks of dark suits like a lighthouse in the middle of a bog. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked him. ‘Are you sure you were telling me the truth about all this money of yours?’
‘Oh yes, Mr Harry,’ he said glumly. ‘As I told you, I had played the markets for many years while I was in the lamp. The return was, how shall I say, significant.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ I muttered to myself as Danny cut another of Basili’s credit cards in two. As my dreams of a high-tech detective agency began to fade back into obscurity, a thought struck me. Reaching for my cellphone, I made a quick call to my lawyer, Sol Grundy (a man I keep very, very busy most of the time), and explained the situation to him. He told me he’d see what he could do and get back to me asap. If anyone could find out what was going on, he was the man. In the meantime all we could do was wait (and hope), surrounded by all the extra-large suits we were trying to buy.
Fortunately my lawyer works fast. Barely ten minutes had passed before he rang back.
‘Sol,’ I said, ‘what’s the story?’
‘Not good, Harry.’ Sol replied. ‘Looks like your buddy has some problems. From what I’ve been able to find out, it looks as though Aladdin has had all his assets frozen, claiming that as they were acquired while your man was in his employ then, legally, they’re Aladdin’s. As of now, Basili has nothing. I know it sounds a bit high-handed and I’m not sure as to the legality of Aladdin’s actions, but it’s a grey area, so the courts will have to decide.’
‘See what you can do, OK?’ Aladdin was probably doing this out of sheer spite because we’d gotten one up on him. ‘But watch out: that Aladdin is a slick operator.’
‘Yes Harry, I’m aware of that. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.’ Which was true, yesterday was Thursday. ‘Oh, by the way, he’s repossessed the lamp too.’
‘He’s more than welcome to it. It’s worthless now.’ Even the genie couldn’t use it as a home now that he had no magic. He’d already bruised his big toe trying to get back into it through the spout. It was most definitely an ex-magic lamp. Then another awful thought struck me – it was clearly my day for them: if the genie couldn’t get back into the lamp and had no money, then where was he going to live?
This was a question with only one possible answer: it looked like, for the foreseeable future, I was going to have a large, farting, silk-clad genie sleeping on my couch.
3 Wondering in a Winter Wonderland (#ua4ffbb26-6ad1-54e2-99a7-c159ccde8cc8)
The Claus house was so sweet and twee it made those candy cottages that dotted the Enchanted Forest look like outhouses. I could feel my teeth starting to decay and my arteries hardening just by looking at it. I’d probably die of a sugar overdose once I crossed the threshold. No matter what angle you looked at it from, it screamed Christmas in much the same way as Aladdin’s mansion had screamed bad taste.
The house itself was a long, low log cabin – at least I think so. It was impossible to make out for sure, covered as it was from floor to roof in brightly coloured Christmas lights, which explained the bright glow in the sky we’d noticed as we drove over. These weren’t just your usual strands of lights draped along the roof; oh no, there were rock bands that didn’t have light shows as extravagant as what we were witnessing here. Rumour had it that Hubbard’s Cubbard’s lighting tech had spent six weeks studying these illuminations so he could get some good ideas for their next world tour. I couldn’t say I blamed him; at any moment I expected a plane to land in the front garden, having mistaken the house for the approach to Grimmtown Airport. Even sunglasses wouldn’t have been of any use here.
I could have sworn I even saw some people stretched out in the garden getting themselves a nice tan, but I couldn’t be sure such was the assault on my eyes.
Seasonal ornaments covered the lawns. Reindeer jostled with Christmas gnomes; trees and snowmen seemed to be fighting for space with models of sleighs and Santas. It looked like a Christmas civil war had broken out and I had no idea who was actually winning. Even the corner of the swimming pool that I could see around the back of the house looked to have been covered with some sort of plastic ice on which mechanical rabbits, reindeer and snowmen skated happily away.
Snow covered the entire scene, giving it a little extra seasonal ambience – as if it really needed it. As we hadn’t seen snow in Grimmtown for over five years, I used my powers of deduction to work out that it too, like everything else, was clearly fake.
Gingerly stepping around sunbathers and giant ornaments, I made my way to the door, pausing only to flick my fingers against a giant stalactite that hung from the eaves in front of me. Plastic too! I hammered on the reindeer-head door knocker, which lit up when I grabbed it and began singing ‘Rudolph, the Red-nosed Reindeer’. It had gotten as far as ‘Then one foggy Christmas Eve’ before, to our relief, the door finally opened and Mrs Claus’s familiar imposing figure peeked out. Just in case she wanted to exercise her forearm again I took a careful step back, but this time she seemed happier to see me – thankfully.
‘Mr Pigg.’ Then she saw Basili standing behind me. ‘And your comedic sidekick, how nice.’ There was an indignant snort from just over my left shoulder. ‘It’s good of you to come so soon. Please, come in.’ She held the door open so we could enter.
Inside was just as tastefully decorated as outside. It seemed to be going for that ever-trendy neo-Lapland Rustic Charm look – as in pine everywhere. A mouth-watering aroma of mince pies emanated from a nearby kitchen. If the effect was to lull visitors into that warm Christmassy mood and leave them feeling good about themselves and everyone else, then it was very effective – until it came up against a cynical gumshoe like me. I was more of a ‘Bah humbug’ merchant when it came to Christmas.
Mrs Claus led us into a large living room dominated by a roaring fire. Gaudy red-and-white patterned socks hung from the pine mantelpiece and an enormous Christmas tree towered in one corner of the room. She indicated that we should sit in the comfortable-looking armchairs facing into the blazing inferno.
Once we were settled, I began. ‘Has your husband contacted you?’
A quick shake of her head was the only response.
‘Anyone else been in contact? A phone call or ransom note?’
Another shake of the head. Her lower lip began to tremble.
Please, no more waterworks, I thought to myself. I didn’t bring any wet gear.
‘Very odd,’ I mused. ‘I would have thought by now someone would have gotten in touch.’ Of course, the fact that no one had contacted her gave credence to the police theory that Santa had done a runner – but I wasn’t going to say that in front of the lady with the strongest forearms I’d ever seen. On the other hand, I had to be seen doing something to justify whatever fee I might get out of this case.
‘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.
4 Ground Control to Harry Pigg (#ua4ffbb26-6ad1-54e2-99a7-c159ccde8cc8)
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.
‘OK, Charles. Can you tell us what happened?’
‘Sure. Santa’s private sleigh left here as scheduled at 21:00 hours. At 22:00 hours he contacted us to let us know that things were OK and that he was ascending to his cruising height. After that nothing, and he never arrived at Polar Central. That’s all I know.’
‘How long would the flight normally be?’
‘About three hours, give or take.’
‘And would it be unusual for Mr Claus to maintain radio silence for the duration?’
‘It depends. It was a routine flight, so apart from an occasional update we might not hear from him until he was beginning his approach to Polar Central, so it wouldn’t necessarily be a cause for concern. He does this run very regularly, you know.’
‘I see, OK. Thanks, Charles.’ He barely acknowledged me as he turned his attention back to his screens. I looked at Mrs Claus. ‘Mrs Cl … I mean Clarissa, this is a most peculiar case. I can find no evidence of any wrongdoing here nor can I explain your husband’s disappearance. Clearly he’s missing, but I can’t explain it. It is possible that I may be able to find out something by interviewing the staff at your North Pole base. How soon can you organise a flight for us since I’d like to start talking to them as soon as possible?’
‘You can leave right now,’ she said. ‘We have a number of private sleighs – state of the art – that we keep on standby for any sudden or unexpected departures. They’re very comfortable and should get you there in a matter of hours.’ Mrs Claus turned to Charles. ‘Ask the ground crew to prep Jingle Bells for an immediate departure to Polar Central.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied and issued orders into a nearby radio.
As he spoke we were shepherded downstairs into an (admittedly very comfortable) departure lounge, where we were given heavy fur coats to wear – which didn’t bode too well for the journey ahead. Once we were warmly wrapped up we were taken to the sleigh.
I have to confess at this point that I was expecting an open box with a hard wooden seat and large storage area; all sitting on top of two long, curved, metal skis with a team of smelly, flea-ridden reindeer attached to the front.
The reality was so very different.
A sleek red-and-white (of course) chassis, like a giant covered bobsleigh, rested on huge, sturdy-looking skis. To my relief there was no sign of outside seats so it looked as though we’d be inside – and warm, I hoped. Naturally it wasn’t all high-tech. I’d been expecting something like rocket-powered engines, so I was a tad disappointed to see a team of twelve reindeer being hooked up to the front of the sleigh, but at least they looked the part too: sleek, strong and very healthy looking. I just wasn’t too sure they’d manage to get the sleigh off the ground.
Mrs Claus saw my look of uncertainty and quickly reassured me, ‘They’re Class Two reindeer; some low-level raw magic and power. Don’t worry; they’ll get us there without difficulty.’
Magic: I knew there’d be magic involved somewhere. I didn’t share her confidence. Magic and me just didn’t mix. If something was going to go wrong with this craft, chances were it would be when I was travelling in it.
Slowly and with a large degree of caution I approached the sleigh. As I did, a door in the side slid quietly open, revealing a luxurious interior. Large, comfortable-looking seats lined the walls and a plush carpet covered the floor. No prizes for guessing the colour scheme. Hey, maybe this wouldn’t be too bad after all.
One of the ground crew approached. ‘Everyone inside please, we depart in five minutes.’
We all entered and quickly strapped ourselves into the seats. I sank into mine and it surrounded me like I was in a hot bath. This was the life. If I didn’t know better I’d have thought I was in someone’s living room. Across from me Basili struggled with his seat belt and looked anxiously at me. I gave him a reassuring smile, but he didn’t seem too convinced. Maybe he didn’t like flying either – which was strange, considering he used to be a genie and spent most of the time when he popped out of his lamp hanging in the air with smoke for legs. I hoped for his sake we’d have an uneventful flight.
Behind me Mrs Claus was talking to our in-flight steward and asking him to organise drinks and something to eat as soon as we were airborne. As he walked back to the galley, there was a sudden jolt and the sleigh began to move forward along the ramp. As we began to pick up speed, I noticed – somewhat nervously – that we were racing up the ramp towards the ceiling I’d seen earlier. The sleigh got faster and faster as we approached the blank wall ahead.
‘Shouldn’t there be a door or something?’ I shouted over my shoulder to Mrs Claus, who was lying back with her eyes closed, seemingly blissfully unaware of our imminent collision.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Pigg. I’m sure the pilot knows what he’s doing.’
Outside, the scenery was passing by in a blur as the reindeer picked up speed, apparently oblivious to their impending doom.
The ceiling got closer and closer and I got more and more scared. ‘Ohmigod, we’re all gonna die; we’re all gonna die; WE’RE ALL GONNA DIIIIAAAARGH.’ As I screamed in terror at our imminent collision with the ceiling, it suddenly split in two and the sleigh shot out through the opening. Through the window I got a blurred glimpse of the swimming pool parting on either side as we came up through it. Seconds later we’d left the ground behind us and hurtled into the night sky.
‘There,’ came a sleepy voice from behind me. ‘I told you he knew what he was doing.’
5 And Pigs Might Fly (#ulink_82aec282-efad-5758-93a9-78093a4ea77f)
I sank back in my seat, sweating … well, um, like a pig actually. I was close to hyperventilating and tried to get my breathing under control before I passed out. Across the aisle Basili was studying me with interest, seemingly oblivious to what just happened.
‘You are well, Mr Harry?’ he asked.
‘I’ll live,’ I gasped. ‘But I don’t think I’ll be able to cope with any more scares like that.’
Behind me, a gentle snoring sound suggested Mrs Claus was far less worried than either of us.
‘I am sure there will be no more incidents until after we are arriving at our destination.’ Basili unfastened his belt – which was clearly making him uncomfortable – let his seat back and closed his eyes. Seconds later he too was snoring, but much louder than the ladylike trilling from Mrs Claus. Great: snoring in stereo for the rest of the trip! I wondered if there was an in-flight movie; I could certainly do with some distraction.
Unfortunately, it looked as though the nearest I was going to get to in-flight entertainment was looking out of the window. Mind you, judging by the speed at which the clouds passed by it seemed that the reindeer were moving at quite a clip. Maybe there was some germ of truth in what Mrs Claus had told me. If these were Class Two animals, I wondered how fast Class One reindeer could go. Idly musing on thoughts like this (and because I had nothing else to do – the current case proving to be completely devoid of any leads), I eventually sank into a light doze.
A loud blaring brought me to my senses. The captain was shouting at us through the intercom. ‘Attention, passengers. Ground control has detected another craft approaching us at speed. We have as yet been unable to make contact with them. Please return to your seats and ensure your seat belts are securely fastened while we establish what is going on. Thank you.’
Just as he finished there was a loud thud on the side of the sleigh as something made heavy contact. The impact caused the sleigh to lurch wildly and turn on its side. Before I could grab on to anything, I slid across the floor and smashed into the cabin door. Showing scant regard for safety regulations and quality construction, it swung open and I dropped out of the sleigh into the freezing night.
I felt a trotter bang off something as I fell. Using whatever innate survival instincts I possessed (I certainly wasn’t doing this by design – trust me), my other trotter swung around and clung desperately to one of the sleigh’s landing skis. The sleigh careened wildly as it was hit again and I just managed to keep my grip. Almost immediately, Basili’s semi-conscious body fell out of the cabin above and plummeted past me. Using the same innate sense of self-preservation I’d used, his arms were stretched out trying to grab on to anything that might save him. Unfortunately for me, he wasn’t quite as good at it as I was. Instead of grabbing the ski, he wrapped an arm around my legs and clutched them tightly.
I tried to look down at the ex-genie dangling from my legs. ‘Basili,’ I shouted, trying to be heard over the wind, ‘can you climb up my body and grab on to a ski?’
‘I do not think so, Mr Harry. I am barely feeling my hands. It is a most unusual and unpleasant sensation. Perhaps if I am letting go, you may be able to climb back in.’
‘Not an option, Basili,’ I muttered through gritted teeth. ‘We need to come up with something else – and quickly.’
‘Trust me, Mr Harry,’ came the strained voice from below. ‘I am thinking as fast as I can.’
As I gamely struggled for inspiration, there came a voice from above asking what was, in the circumstances, possibly the most idiotic question I’d ever heard.
‘Are you two gentlemen OK?’ asked Mrs Claus, peering down from the open door.
‘Not really. Now if you would be so kind as to find something we can grab on to before we end up trying to fly of our own accord, we’d be really grateful.’
‘One moment, I’ll see what I can do.’ Her head disappeared back into the sleigh before I could point out that we really didn’t have the luxury of a moment to spare.
‘Hold on, Basili,’ I roared down to the genie. ‘Help may be on its way.’ As I did so, my trotters began to slip away from the skis. Frantically, I tried to hold on, but the strain was too much. My trotters protested at what they were being asked to do – they didn’t seem to think it was fair. Inch by inch they began to slide apart. I wasn’t going to manage it.
Just as I was about to give way, Mrs Claus shouted down at us again. ‘Here, grab on to this.’ Something snaked past my shoulder and I grabbed on to a thick rope and held on to it as if my life depended on it (which it did).
I was just thanking my lucky stars, lucky rabbit’s foot, lucky anything-else-lucky-I-had-in-my-possession when the big, ugly, hob-nailed boot of fate stamped down on me one more time. The sleigh skewed wildly as our attackers hit it once again. There was a scream and I saw a blur of red as something large fell past me. There was an almighty tug on my legs as if someone had attached something heavy – like, say, a truck – to them.
Whatever chance I had of hanging on while Basili dangled from my legs had disappeared when Mrs Claus added her ample frame to the equation. Now, I could feel the rope sliding through my trotters as my arms finally gave up, shouted surrender and lay down their weapons. I didn’t know how long the rope was, but from the speed I slid down along it I didn’t think there was much more left to hold on to. This was it; this was the end.
6 The Soft Shoe Slingshot (#ulink_6ea37bb1-a8de-5ce4-bfcb-b156e0bb14c3)
Or was it?
I didn’t plummet down through the inky blackness and end up an unpleasant mess on the ground below (as I’d not unreasonably expected) but landed instead on something hard and metallic. Behind me I could hear Basili crying, ‘Thank the gods’, and, behind him again, Mrs Claus was just crying. I didn’t even bother trying to work out what had happened; I just lay where I was and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. From the speed of the wind across my face it seemed like we were on something that was moving fast – but what? When the surface underneath me lurched sharply and I saw us move towards the sleigh we’d just fallen from, I knew exactly where we were.
Were we safe? Hell, no!
Were we in a better position than before? Marginally – in the sense that we weren’t hanging off each other and facing certain death.
Where exactly were we? We’d fallen on to the roof of the sleigh that had been attacking us!
Was that better? Only if it flew in a straight line.
I turned to my companions and broke the good news to them. From what I could see of their expressions they were less than gruntled too. Clearly they shared my opinion of our predicament.
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Bob Burke
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 28.04.2024
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О книге: The festive follow-up to The Third Pig Detective Agency.When Father Christmas goes missing on Christmas Eve eve, Mrs Christmas calls on our intrepid hero Harry Pigg to track him down.What follows is another hardboiled caper featuring fairy tale villains, plenty of red herrings, a few close shaves, a couple of punch ups and a very clever twist.Aided and abetted by his sidekicks Jack Horner and the genie from the lamp, Harry tries to save Christmas before time runs out.If only he didn’t have to deal with those bloody annoying elves.