A Crampton of the Chronicle short story by Peter Bartram

“You don’t need to ask me what I want for Christmas,” said Frank Figgis.

He was holding the stub of Woodbine ostentatiously between his thumb and forefinger. He eased the dog-end between his lips and took a long drag. The ash dropped off and fluttered down his waistcoat like an early snow flurry.

“An ashtray?” I suggested.

Figgis harrumphed. He stubbed the dog-end out on the edge of his desk and tossed it into his waste bin.

Figgis was news editor of the Evening Chronicle. We were sitting in his office. It was the day before Christmas Eve.

“Never mind that,” he said, brushing the ash off his waistcoat. “What I want to know is what you’ve got planned for the Christmas Eve edition.”

It was a question I dreaded every year. Traditionally, tomorrow’s paper would be full of Christmas-themed stories.

It wasn’t hard to find a seasonal yarn if you were the paper’s business reporter. She’d be telling us that tills were ringing in the town’s shops which had had their best Christmas trading ever. Just as she had last year.

And simple if you were running the woman’s page. No doubt we’d be learning about another ten exciting things we could do with left-over turkey.

But not such a breeze if, like me, your byline read Colin Crampton, crime correspondent. My Christmas staple was the reheated favourite about thieves who broke into a house and stole the kiddies’ presents from under the tree. It helped if they were orphans (the kiddies that is, not the presents).

But this year, it seemed as though they’d knocked off early for the holiday (the thieves, not the kiddies). The orphans would be getting their stockings stuffed full by Santa. I had no story.

So I looked Figgis in the eye and said: “I’m working on something. I think it could be big.”

“Yes, and this,” he reached for another Woodbine, “is a Romeo y Julieta cigar.”

***

I stomped back to the newsroom feeling like the cracker that didn’t go bang.

I was angry with myself for not lining up a seasonal story for the Christmas Eve edition. I had to find something but time was running out.

Sally Martin, who wrote for the women’s page, bumped into me as I barged through the newsroom’s swing doors.

“You look as though you’ve just swallowed the sixpence from the Christmas pud,” she said.

“Worse,” I said.

She arched an eyebrow. “Figgis’ Christmas story?”

I nodded.

“You haven’t got one?” she said.

I nodded again.

“So you’ll be paying the Figgis’ Yuletide fine?”

“Looks like I’ve no choice,” I said.

It had been a tradition on the paper since before I joined that you either handed in a Christmas story on the twenty-fourth of December or paid Figgis a fine of one hundred Woodbines. Nobody knew when the tradition had started. But, then, nobody had been on the paper as long as Figgis. He’d probably started it himself. Anything to get more free smokes. But I was determined he wasn’t getting any from me.

Sally shrugged. “It’s happened to all of us. By the way, can you think of a tenth way to use left-over turkey? I’ve got nine already.”

“Only one,” I said. “And it involves Frank Figgis. But I’m not sure there’s a kitchen utensil for what I’ve got in mind.”

***

I crossed to my desk and slumped into my old captain’s chair. I brushed a stray strand of tinsel that had fallen from the decorations off my typewriter.

There were a couple of messages to call contacts. I recognised the names. They were time-wasters and would be angling for a Christmas drink on the strength of a feeble tip-off that wouldn’t even make a paragraph. I decided to ignore them.

Instead, I picked up the phone and dialled a number at Brighton police station.

The phone was answered after three rings. “Detective Inspector Ted Wilson.”

“What do you get if you cross Father Christmas with a detective?” I said.

“Santa Clues,” he said. “We had those crackers at the CID’s Christmas bash last night. Presumably you’ve not just called to tell weak jokes?”

“When you weren’t carousing, did you happen to come across any festive crime?” I said. “I’m looking for a story with a seasonal theme.”

A throaty chuckle came down the line. “Well, I’ve got good news for you. This is the quietest Christmas I’ve known since I joined this station. Looks like the criminal classes have taken on board that bit about peace and goodwill to all men.”

“Too bad,” I said. “Let me know if you hear of anything.”

“What did Cinderella say when the developers mislaid her photos?” he said.

“Some day my prints will come,” I said.

I replaced the receiver.

Will Colin find the Christmas Crime story he needs? Will there be more cracker jokes? You can read the rest of this seasonal short story over at http://www.colincrampton.com/ And find out more about Colin Crampton and the Chronicle here.

 

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