The Ho Ho Ho Mystery

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 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

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.