Copyright ©: Robert Taylor 2024

The right of Robert Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with The Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without the author’s written permission.

All characters in this story are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

Beginning

The widow and her widower partner made their way along the path leading through the woods. They were not partners in the sense that they co-habited, although they lived under the same roof;; they were not partners in business, although they worked together; they were not partners in crime, although they were crimefighters. It was Christmas Day and they had nothing to do. Friends were entertaining them for Christmas lunch, the rest of their household were enjoying a lie-in and they sought the splendid solitude of the woods on a cold day in December.

Their German Shepherd, Odin, was off the leash and ranging ahead, taking in all the smells of the woods in winter which, were clearly, many and varied. He was pawing at rotting logs, disturbing bugs in their lair and, every so often, a suicidal squirrel would cross his path; Odin would give chase but to no avail, as he hadn’t yet mastered the art of climbing trees, instead he was left barking at their base while the rodent laughed at him from on high. It clearly didn’t matter that he was unable to catch them as he was running around, like the wind was in his tail, enjoying every second of the walk as if it were his last.

The path was dry after two weeks of unseasonable weather with brilliant blue skies and sunshine. Areas of deep shade were still boggy following the deluges of October but the track was firm, underneath a layer of rusted leaves. It had been a cold night, the leaves and branches were coated in a furry hoar-frost and snowflakes fluttered to the ground reminding them of the impending white-out that was expected in the afternoon.

The widow, Sue-Beth Walters, spotted a sole robin sitting on the branch of a skeletal oak about twenty metres or so to their left. She lifted up her smart binoculars, aimed and snapped. The photograph was instantly shared to her phone, in her pocket, and computer, back at base.

“Gosh! That’s absolutely magnificent,” she exclaimed passing the phone to her friend. “Look at this, Curt.”

The huge man took the device in his shovel-like paws, exaggerated by the ski gloves he was wearing, and looked down upon the image. The robin filled the frame and looked as though it was taken from only a metre or so away. “Magnificent, indeed,” Curtly Richardson agreed.

The dog had returned to them wondering what all the fuss was about. He started to paw at the ground which was slowly being covered in delicate snow.

“Not to someone’s liking,” giggled the widow.

“You be patient, young man,” the widower gently chastised the animal.

The tail wagged in response.

They continued under the seasonal latticed ceiling of the forest until they emerged into an open field. Sue-Beth pointed out some mistletoe draped around the branch of an elm at the edge of the clearing. The couple locked eyes, hers a brilliant, piercing blue that could light the darkest of nights and his, a smouldering black that could ignite passion in the coldest of hearts. She moved into his open arms and clung to him. Neither was really sure what came over them. Maybe it was an unfulfilled longing or maybe it was a couple of glasses of Buck’s Fizz before the morning had really started. Their lips sought each other’s and they enjoyed a long lingering kiss.

Curt pulled away saying, “I’m sorry!”

She nodded. “I know.”

Sue-Beth’s eye was caught by something over Curt’s right shoulder. “What the…?”

Curt spun around and looked in the direction of Sue-Beth’s gaze. He saw a low flying light aircraft skimming the treetops in the distance. It was flying across their path from left to right. The bright white fuselage was a contrast to the threatening grey of the clouds banking up behind it. Although a fair distance away, they both saw something drop off it or from it. Sue-Beth immediately brought the binoculars up to her eyes again, located the machine and repeatedly pressed the “Take Picture” button.

“There should be a good image among that lot that we can use,” she said.

They started off across the field. The snow was now settling and only tussocks protruded above the covering. It was still a gentle fall but slow accumulation was hiding the grass. A steep incline led to the spot where the object had fallen into, what they could now see was a stand of maize, no doubt cover for pheasants being fattened up for shooting. An awkward silence had descended on the pair as they made their way up the hill toward their target.

“Sue-Beth,” Curt interrupted the quiet. “I’m sorry about back there. I don’t know what came over me. Well, actually, I do. I love and care for you more than anything in the world but I am not ready to move on yet. It still feels like some sort of betrayal.”

“It’s alright. You don’t have to explain. I have exactly the same feeling for you as well. I love you, Curt, but it doesn’t seem right to me either at this time.”

Sue-Beth Walters had now been a widow for over sixteen years following the death of her husband from an exploding roadside device, an IED, in Afghanistan. She had, on that occasion, moved onto a new love in the form of another soldier who had also been killed in action. She had then vowed that she would never get into an intimate relationship ever again as she could never face the potential hurt.

Curtly Richardson had fallen in love for the first time in his life in his early thirties with a beautiful Italian dancing girl. She had been taken from him in a brutal terrorist attack in Rome. Like Sue-Beth he soon found another love and, together, they had been expecting their first child. First they lost their unborn baby to a ferocious racist attack by a damaged son of a white supremacist thug who had indoctrinated the boy with all sorts of right-wing propaganda, belittling other races claiming they were not of equal standing to the fair-skinned. He then lost his wife, driven to a tragic suicide when she couldn’t recover from the death of their son. He had now been a widower for six years and, like Sue-Beth, couldn’t countenance the hurt of losing someone else. They had now lived under the same roof for three-and-a-half years and kept dancing around the elephant in the room of their unconcealed love for one another. They were both determined that it would remain platonic. Sure, there had been passing touches on the stairs or even the occasional stolen kiss but the move to the physical was an invisible barrier that could not be breached for fear of jinxing the other’s life.

They had covered the ground quickly and had both developed a sweat by the time they arrived at the edge of the cover-crop. They followed the dog around to the opening where gamekeepers let themselves in to top up the feeders and water. Curt drew his reliable old Glock 19 from his thick coat.

“Bloody hell, Curt. It’s a Christmas Day stroll in the country. Please don’t tell me you’ve got a spare magazine as well.”

“Like the good cub-scout I never was, I always go prepared,” he replied whilst pulling from his other coat pocket a magazine of fifteen 9mm rounds. He liked the Glock, out of all the British police issue handguns, as it didn’t have a safety as such. Equally, it couldn’t go off by accident as the trigger had to be pulled in a certain way in order to fire.

Sue-Beth simply rolled her eyes.

On the edge of the clearing in the middle of the stand of maize lay an object partly concealed by snow. It was the mangled body of a dark haired woman dressed in a party frock of sorts. It was clear that both arms and legs had been smashed by clean breaks, probably caused by the fall. They retreated out of the stand when they heard the unmistakable sound of a quad-bike approaching. The falling snow had muffled the engine sound from them until it was nearly upon them.

“Oh Christ” Here comes Jolly,” said Richardson.

“Why on earth is he called Jolly? I don’t think I actually know anyone who is more miserable.”

“I’ll tell you later. I found out from Des at the pub a couple of months ago. I meant to tell you then.”

“I’ll shoot that bloody dog if I find it off its lead,” barked the ill-mannered gamekeeper as he dismounted his bike. The newcomer approached the pair. He was a strange looking creature, in that, his head had the appearance of a red skull. It was as if his skin had been wrapped tight around the bone and someone had forgotten to insert muscle and flesh. Years of outside life had left him with the ruddy complexion which made him appear ghoul-like in certain lights.

“Good morning to you as well,” said Curt. “And Happy Christmas.”

The gamekeeper stopped short of them when he spotted the pistol in Curt’s hand.

“If you shoot my dog,” Curt growled. “I will shoot you. Your choice.”

“Them birds are extremely valuable to his lordship and make the estate a lot of money. We don’t need city types like you trudging around, frightening ‘em off.”

“Fair enough,” Sue-Beth put in. “Why don’t you go in and check that no damage has been done and we’ll be on our way?”

“I’ll do that,” said Jolly and disappeared into the crop.

He quickly reappeared, the colour having drained from his face. The two crime-fighters, he an ex-policeman and her ex-army, found it difficult to suppress smiles. All three of them plus Odin stood at the entrance waiting for Jolly to confirm what he had discovered. The partners were sure that Jolly would have seen many dead bodies in his time but were pretty sure that few, if any, of them would have been human. They, on the other hand, had seen plenty, and weren’t fazed by the experience.

“There’s a dead woman in there!” Jolly blurted out.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Sue-Beth countered.

“What’re you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing! It’s his lordship’s land so I guess it’s down to you,” she said.

Odin left the trio debating jurisdiction and returned to the clearing. He approached the corpse. He showed no interest in the dead woman, instead digging away at the accumulated snow. Frustrated, he began to whine. Curt and Sue-Beth led the way back to where the dog was sniffing while Jolly kept a safe distance to the rear. Curt returned the weapon to his coat pocket.

“Do you notice anything peculiar about the body?” asked Curt of his partner.

“I was thinking that as well. She has amazing colour for someone who has been dead for some time and laid for half-an-hour or so in the freezing cold. It’s almost like the colour has been painted on. Maybe a fake tan?”

“Exactly!”

“Livor-mortis?”

“I somehow doubt it. I’m not convinced there will be any. All a bit peculiar.”

The pair approached the woman and Curt put his fingers to the neck looking for a pulse. “Nothing! It’s as cold as death but doesn’t feel real?”

He pushed his hand under the body where the dog had been looking and pulled out a dead pheasant. The bird was covered in red. He sniffed the bird.

“Doesn’t look like blood,” observed Sue-Beth.

Curt smiled and winked. “Let’s see if we can jolly Jolly up a little.

“Here you are, Jolly. Looks like she bagged a pheasant when she landed.”

He tossed the bundle of feathers to the mortified gamekeeper. “God!” the man exclaimed. “ It’s covered in blood. Is it the woman’s?”

“I think it is the woman’s, in the sense that it was probably on or under her dress, when she was thrown out of the aeroplane. It’s not blood, though.”

“It’s not?” What is it, then?”

“Take a sniff.”

“What?” Jolly inhaled the scent coming from the dead bird. “Christ! It’s tomato sauce!”

“Yep. And, it isn’t a real body either.”

“It’s not?”

“No. I’m not quite sure what it is, but it certainly isn’t human.”

Sue-Beth lent in for a closer look. She turned the corpse over and noted immediately that the dress was covered in the condiment below the belt. “It’s a sex doll,” she announced.

“Is it?” This time it was Curt who seemed surprised by the statement. “You sure? How do you know?”

“I reckon anyway. Not a hundred-per-cent sure. I’ve read about them in magazines.”

“Oh yeah! I forgot, we have very different interests when it comes to reading!”

“Is this some sort of game?” Jolly asked, the colour having returned to his features.

Richardson had his phone out. “Can you look at the pictures you took of the plane, Sue-Beth, and see if you can get an identification number at all?”

She opened up the photos section on her phone and after a few taps, finger pinching and spreading, she showed Curt a full-screen image with the
Registration number clearly visible.

Curt punched in the name of Duncan Cobbold and, within a few rings, it was answered with “Happy Christmas, Curt.”

“To you as well, Duncan. Listen, this is not really a social call although the matter is a bit perplexing.” He went on to explain what they had witnessed and finished off with the plane’s unique identifier. “Can you trace that for us, please?”

“On it,” replied the head of the Home Security Team.

“How does the thing work?” Curt addressed the enquiry to Sue-Beth. “You seem to have an unparalleled expertise in matters of a manikin nature.”

“I am not one-hundred-per-cent sure. I know they are meant to provide a realistic experience and assume there must be a battery somewhere for it to work. Maybe it is left plugged into the mains like a battery operated vacuum cleaner or something.”

Curt rolled the body back and forth looking for a switch. He felt around the head, looked under the feet and frisked the entire body. “How do you turn her on, then?”

“Have you thought of trying a candle-lit dinner with champagne and even some flowers! Used to work for me in the day. Probably still would, if the right bloke offered it.”

“Ha, bloody ha!”

“No idea. Have never been intimate with one.”

Jolly was clearly uncomfortable with the line of their conversation. “What you gonna do with it? You can’t leave it here.”

They ran through some ideas. Decided it was too far to carry it back to their house and eventually hit on putting it on the back of the quad-bike. They planned a route that would eliminate most road usage and would bring them out on Church Road, just below the church, only leaving a small trundle up the hill to the Richardson residence.

Curt and Sue-Beth started to walk back briskly. Both immediately felt the discomfort of icy sweat on their backs. They stayed ahead of the quad-bike and its gruesome load. As they came up the hill to the church, the vicar was parking, ready for the Christmas Day service. Sue-Beth jogged up the hill and caught up with the vicar as a diversion. “Good morning and Happy Christmas, Darren,” she said drawing his gaze toward the gate and the church beyond.

“Oh. Bless you, my child,” he replied.

She didn’t respond to the child comment as she was probably ten years older than the young preacher. “Busy day for you, I assume?” she asked as she really couldn’t think what else to say.

“Oh yes but so rewarding. Will you be joining us today, Sue-Beth?”

“I am afraid not. Curt and I have just been called and have a job to go on. I am sure my mother-in-law, Lady Isobel, will be in attendance.” She inwardly sighed with relief as the quad-bike slid past with the gaudily dressed pleasure princess lying prostrate in the load bay. They hadn’t been able to find a cover.

“Morning, Darren,” said Curt as he arrived at the gate. “Come on Sue-Beth. Cobbold has been back to me and we have a destination. Happy Christmas, Darren, and to your flock as well.”

“Thank you, my son.”

The two members of the crack Home Security Team jogged back to the house. Curt dashed inside and came out with his car key-fob. He clicked the button and instantly the locks snapped open accompanied by flashing indicator lights. Jolly and Sue-Beth handled the body through the open tailgate and laid it on the floor behind the back seat. The parcel shelf was in position and there was no chance of glimpsing the load through the rear windows.

“It’s about an hour-and-twenty-five minutes from here. You can call Amelia on the way and see if there is any chance of turning an early lunch into a late lunch. I think we can be back in time for the festivities to begin.”

He punched the post-code into the Mercedes GLS SUV’s satnav and was pulling away before the machine had performed its calculations. “Time now is nine-fifty-one. Should be there by eleven-twenty. A couple of hours to close this out, say one-twenty and home by ten-to-three.”

Sue-Beth made a call to the Bryant household and got Amelia. She made the enquiries, discussed the case without divulging details and, to Curt’s ear, seemed as though she had gotten an affirmative from their host. There was never really going to be any doubting it, as Amelia was one of the most pleasing human beings walking the planet. His own phone blasted out Wizard’s “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day” through the car’s speaker system which was eventually curtailed by Curt pressing the answer button on his steering wheel. The in-car monitor indicated it was Duncan Cobbold. “What do you have, my friend?”

The Christmas music was replaced by connection static resounding around the car from the speakers with Cobbold’s voice filling the void. “The plane belongs to a flying club. It is a Cessna which, incidentally, still hasn’t got back to base. The secretary of the club has agreed to meet you at the main hangar in about forty minutes. I can see you’re on schedule so you may have ten minutes to spare. I’ll text you the details via the encoded line.”

A notification alert nearly deafened them as it came in, reverberating through the speakers.

As the pair had driven north, the snow had slowly dissipated before stopping altogether. The roads were perfectly dry although the outdoor temperature was showing minus-two. They pulled off the main road onto a proper country lane before finding the turning into the airfield. A windsock indicated a north-easterly and just along was the hangar. A red estate car was pulled up just to the side of the main sliding doors. A man was getting out of the driver’s door as they approached.

“I nearly forgot,” said Sue-Beth. “Why is he called Jolly?”

“Later.”

Curt and Sue-Beth got out and were immediately hit by the cutting breeze, no doubt coming straight off the North Sea. They opened the back doors , dived in and retrieved their thick coats. Richardson felt the comforting weight of the Glock still in the pocket, not that he thought it would be needed. They didn’t bother with hats or gloves, a decision immediately regretted as they headed toward their liaison. Sue-Beth’s blonde hair was immediately picked up in the wind and, despite it being secured in a band, her pony tail shook like the tail of a dog. Curt felt as though he had popped his shaven head into a freezer.

“You must be Mr Greaves?” the open-faced man greeted their host.

“I am,” said the flying club secretary.

“I am Curt Richardson and this is my partner, Sue-Beth Walters.”

They shook hands before the pair produced identity badges from their pockets, badges that were always carried in the car.

“How can I assist you?”

“Is the plane back yet?” asked Curt.

“Got in nearly forty minutes ago. All locked away and checked.”

“Can we look at it?”

“Of course,” said Greaves and turned toward the personnel door to the right of the main sliding doors. Curt and Sue-Beth stepped in either side of him.

“Who took it out?”

“Strange one that. It was meant to have been taken out by Sam Butcher but when I was driving up here, I passed his wife, Sandra, in his car. No real problem with that as they are both qualified pilots and members of the club.”

“Interesting,” allowed Sue-Beth.

Greaves opened the personnel door into a sparse office with another door leading through to the hangar on the left. Doors to the right headed through to a tea-point and toilets. In the hangar, there were four light aircraft. The one they were seeking was second in the row. There was the unmistakable aroma of aircraft fuel and cleaning fluids permeating the freezing cold air.

Richardson ducked under the wing, opened the door and climbed in. There was still a feint warmth inside from the trip but there was a vinegar based smell hanging in the cockpit. Most definitely, tomato ketchup!


Denouement

“That was a wonderful meal, Amelia. I feel stuffed,” said Curt rubbing his full belly before taking another sip from his wine.

The crime-fighting partners had telephoned ahead when they had realised that the snow was getting heavier and asked Lady Isobel and Toby to make their own way to the Bryant’s. They also requested that changes of clothing were collected up and taken along as well.

My party clothes are laid out on my bed,” Walters put in.

“Okay, Mum,” said Toby. “And yours, Curt?”

“Not so well organised, I’m afraid, just have a dig around in my wardrobe. Jeans and a tee-shirt will be fine.”

Walters sniggered.

Last, but not least, they were instructed not to forget Odin.

Curt drove onto the drive slightly later than planned, around five in the afternoon, mainly thanks to the atrocious driving conditions. Flutes of champagne were thrust into their hands as they entered, before they were ushered away to separate bathrooms to get ready for the festivities. Christmas lunch, now more like dinner, was finally served at six-thirty. It was now half-past-eight.

“Good. Glad you enjoyed it,” responded the hostess. If you would like to retire to the drawing room, I am sure Sean would be delighted to bring coffees and teas through.”

“Of course,” agreed her husband. “Who wants what?” Isobel?”


Lady Isobel Walters was the mother-in-law of Sue-Beth and the former owner of Crouch Hall, where the Bryants were now hosting Christmas dinner. “Coffee, please,” she said.

“Sue-Beth?”

“Coffee too, please.”

“Mum?” he addressed his wife.

“Coffee.”

“Poppy?” Sean asked their eldest daughter.

“Coffee, please, Dad.”

Daisy, the younger of the two daughters requested tea. Curt opted for coffee along with the last at the table, Toby, Sue-Beth’s son by her marriage to the late Colonel Nathan Walters and now, boyfriend of Poppy Bryant.

“Oh! I am a bit of a pain going for tea, aren’t I?” said Daisy.

“Yes. You are,” joked her father.

“Alright. I’ll have coffee as well.”

The group wandered through to the adjoining drawing room whilst Sean headed for the kitchen followed by the two dogs, Odin and Bella, the Bryants’ golden Labrador bitch. Both always on the lookout for titbits.

Curt offered to stoke the wood-burner. Offer accepted, he picked up the padded gauntlets, opened the doors, poked around to rouse the embers into life and placed three medium sized logs in the centre of the fire.

Coffees served; ports and brandies standing alongside for those who wanted them, they all relaxed into the comfortable sofas and armchairs. Soft Christmas music serenaded them from the Bang and Olufsen system.

“I do believe Curt and Sue-Beth have had an interesting day which I think we would all like to hear about,” said Sean as he took his chair.

Curt, the only one still wearing a paper crown from the cracker, and Sue-Beth started.

They went through a brief description of seeing if Lady Isobel and young Toby wanted to join them, on a crisp Christmas morning walk, over glasses of Buck’s Fizz, sitting in front of the roaring log burner, before sunrise. They had set off a short while before the sun rose and took their regular route past the church, down the hill, past horse paddocks, through the woods to the point where they emerged onto the fields. The kiss under the mistletoe at the edge of the woods was omitted from the tale but both parties exchanged glances at the place where that should have featured. No-one picked them up, though.

Then the aeroplane was spotted, skimming low over the distant treeline, like a bird of prey circling its target below. The object fell to earth and, before the pilot had had a chance to escape, Sue-Beth had captured enough clear pictures through her wondrous smart binoculars, to provide a later ID of the craft. This was where they made the first reference to the gender of the pilot. They mentioned how the pilot had not seen them, following, what she had thought was, a thorough survey of fields and woodland for miles around. She had clearly missed the two at the edge of the wood to her starboard, camouflaged as they were against the dark background in their winter clothing.

This was followed by the discovery of the victim and the arrival, quad-bike and all, of Jolly, who was less than enthusiastic about the former city-dwellers, as he thought them, traipsing through his maize and disturbing the poor old pheasants.

“He’s a dick,” Poppy interrupted.

“Poppy!” her father scolded her. “Let’s not bring the tone of the evening down. Anyway, he’s had a tough time of it recently, what with the death of his wife. I bet the poor old boy spent Christmas Day on his own.”

Poppy assessed her Dad’s intervention for less than a second. “That’s as maybe, but he’s still a dick!”

“Why is he called Jolly?” an exasperated Sue-Beth put in seeing the ideal opportunity.

“I know,” said Daisy and Toby, almost together.

“You can put her out of her misery at the end,” said Curt. “Otherwise, we might lose the thread.”

The story continued as they regaled putting the body onto the load deck of the bike and concealing its presence from the vicar as he was making his way into the church for the most important service of the year. Well, if not the most important, certainly the busiest.

Both the story-tellers were surprised that no-one had challenged them for removing a body from a crime scene without forensics and the local police being involved. They had discussed the telling of the tale when driving back, in between fits of laughter, and had thought that it might be at this point that they would have to divulge the corpse’s true identity. Neither were sure whether it was the consumed alcohol or the riveting telling of the story that had made the audience not question it. They both, secretly, settled on the alcohol consumption. They did embellish the part Odin played in discovering the dead pheasant and the look on Jolly’s face when Curt had tossed the bird to him.

“The vicar never mentioned anything to me,” said Isobel. “The ruse must have worked!”

By the time they had got back home, the snow was a little heavier and really was, beginning to settle. Cobbold had welcomed the diversion from peeling vegetables and dug out some critical information pursuant to the investigation.

“What was the tomato ketchup about?” asked Amelia.

“We’ll come to that at the end,” said Sue-Beth. She saw her moment again, “Why is he called Jolly?”

“Later,” said Curt again.

The drive into Norfolk had seen the snowfall ease and eventually dwindle to nothing. In fact, the roads were perfectly dry up there. The secretary of the flying club, no names mentioned to protect the guilty and ashamed, had met them by the huge hangar at the old World War Two airfield, location also redacted to protect the guilty and ashamed.

Following their chat with Mr Greaves, they drove to the suspect’s home where they had only found Mrs at home. She seemed quite shocked to see them, especially so soon after getting home herself.

After repeating the process of identity badges with the suspect, they were invited in, given some welcome coffee and small mince pies, before Sandra, as they decided to call her, had broken down and asked if it was alright to speak to Sue-Beth alone, as it was a bit of an embarrassing subject and not something she was proud of.

Sue-Beth took up the story from there. “Curt went out to the car but, thanks to our bodycams, was able to listen in. First, I found some tissues so she could wipe away the tears.

“She started by letting me into a secret. Her husband, we shall call him Sam, had a voracious appetite for the physical side of the marriage which she didn’t have the inclination to reciprocate. She had then thought it a good idea to get him one of those animatronic sex dolls. Very realistic, she said. He spent far more time with it than she had envisaged he would, which she didn’t think was particularly healthy. He would sit in the garden in summer and chat to her, almost wooing her, before disappearing off whilst Sandra sat alone wondering what on earth she had done. You need to realise that tears were rolling down her face throughout the telling. She was quite distraught.

“Then, this morning, Sam had gotten up early and, to be fair, had made Sandra breakfast in bed. But that was a diversion so that he could get Leila, that’s the name of the doll, ready for Christmas Day. When Sandra came downstairs, she was aghast to find Leila wearing one of Sandra’s own dresses already sitting at the dining table. On closer inspection, she also discovered her wardrobe had been raided further for bra, panties, tights and shoes. To complete the insult, the model was wearing Sandra’s earrings and necklace. She told me that she just saw red. Sam had gone out with some mates for a walk which would see them call at the pub for a late morning drink. That probably meant she had a four hour window.

“She had grown to hate the doll even though it had been her idea. Sam was treating it more and more like a human, and although intended only for the carnal side, that Sandra didn’t feel able to provide any longer, Leila was taking over. Sitting with him when he watched television, sitting in the garden with him for a Sunday afternoon drink, so on and so forth. He was becoming obsessed. She got a carving knife from the kitchen and set about mutilating Leila’s genitals and breasts. There were cuts and gashes everywhere. Stuffing, or whatever it is made from, was leaking out of the wounds. To create more dramatic effect, she tipped half a bottle of tomato sauce over the tops of the legs.”

“What a weirdo,” said Daisy. “Makes Jolly look like a real nice human being.”

Curt took on the baton from Sue-Beth. “After the frenzy, the adrenalin subsided and guilt began to creep in. She felt bad for what she had done so decided to dispose of the evidence. Firstly, she emailed the flying club secretary on Sam’s account to book a plane, thinking that she would drop the body in the sea but she hated flying over water, some sort of phobia. She then remembered the valley just to the north of Oakshott, her sister lives nearby and the couple had sometimes flown into the airfield at the top of the road. Her intention was to drop the body and call on her sister for a coffee and some sisterly comfort. Unfortunately, it began to snow and the forecast was for worse so she turned tail and headed back to base. She was just unlucky that Sue-Beth happened to be in the right place or, rather, the wrong place at the wrong time and happened to be looking in the right direction.

“That left one missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle. How would Sam react to it? I went to the pub and found him sitting at a table with three friends. As I approached the bar door, I could hear revelry emanating from every opening but when I entered the bar it was like someone turned a switch off. Not every day that the good folk of that particular village get a black man with a mangled Brummie accent walk in the door!

“Out of politeness I asked that he joined me outside for a chat. I didn’t know how his mates would react knowing he slept with a doll. I thought he would be furious but he wasn’t. He had misunderstood Sandra’s intentions thinking that because she had bought it for him as a gift, she fully approved of her being accepted into family life. I took him home and the meeting was a little frosty to start with but after a while they fell into one another’s arms and tears of relief flooded out.”

“How do you know he didn’t beat the crap out of her as soon as you walked out the door?” asked Sean.

“Well…. I’ve met some arseholes in my time and, honestly, I don’t think he is one of them. Plus, the fact that when we were driving back, battling the ever thickening snow, Sue-Beth got a text from Sandra.”

Sue-Beth searched in her clutch-bag for her phone, tapped it a couple of times before reading out the message: “ Dear Sue-Beth and Curt. I cannot believe how fortunate we have been for you to stumble into our lives today. After you left, we had a good long chat and have ironed out some things where we think we both took each other for granted. You didn’t know it but you have given us the best Christmas we have had in years. Sue-Beth, I thank you for your openness as well and I really hope that the barriers that are preventing you two from falling in love, will fall and you too can live happily ever after. You deserve it after all you have been through. Once again, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Merry Christmas and we promise to call on you when we next visit my sister.”

“Wow!” whispered Amelia wiping a tear from her eye. “Good work, guys!”

“Do those dolls actually work?” asked Lady Isobel.

“Grandma!” protested Toby. “There are young people in the room!”

“And, if they do, do they do male versions?” she continued with a twinkle in her eye.

“Grandma! That’s gross. Yuk!”

Laughter replaced the melancholy that had consumed the room.

“Right then,” Sue-Beth put in. “Why is he called Jolly?”

“Daisy,” said Curt. “The floor’s yours.”

“Well. Simple really. You know how he has that face that looks like a red skull? Well, you know his surname is Bones?”

“Yeah!” chorused the group.

“Then you add in the bit that he always seems to be angry?”

“Yeah!”

Well, his full nickname is Skull and Crossbones. Then some cad realised that the Skull and Crossbones pirate flag is also known as the Jolly Roger. It is a real shame his Christian name isn’t Roger. Since then, though, Jolly has stuck.”

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Sue-Beth. “Was I the only one who didn’t know?”

“I reckon so, Mum,” said Toby.

“What’s his real Christian name?”

Nobody knew.

Lady Isobel, Sue-Beth, Curt and Toby were all staying with the Bryants as guests in the under-used west wing of the house. Curt and Sue-Beth, having had a tiring day, made their excuses and headed for the bedrooms. When they got to the hall outside the double-bedded en-suited rooms, they paused. A clumsiness came over them. A short silence ensued.

“Merry Christmas, Susan Elizabeth Walters.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Curtly Vivian Richardson. What a day!”

The End