The Ho Ho Ho Mystery Read online

  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

  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

  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 d
isappeared? 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.’