Autumn faded, duvets thickened and the mercury began its descent into winter. Fiona loved this time of year, when she could start lighting fires in the evening, getting all cosy and snuggling up with Simon Le Bon on the sofa, her hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate with a cheeky dash of brandy to warm her bones. But best of all, she loved the freewheel towards Christmas. The building excitement, when every day closer to the twenty-fifth seemed to fizz a little bit more than the last.
The charity shop ladies’ advent calendars were already bought and paid for, poised to open behind the till. Fiona had gone for a classic Cadbury’s, Daisy a Percy Pig, but Partial Sue had turned her back on confectionery this year, opting instead for something more controversial. A pork scratching advent calendar, which they were all keen to see opened to discover if each window contained a single pork scratching or a whole packet of the salty snack to which Sue was most partial.
Pulling on thick Christmas socks and a jumper, Fiona had been looking forward to today. A chance to do something happy and banish all the trauma and failure of the last few weeks. She headed out into the cold morning air towards the shop, her breath clouding in front of her and Simon Le Bon trotting by her side, looking extremely cute in his own Christmas jumper, a jolly red number adorned with white snowflakes. He would have received plenty of adoring oohs and aahs if there had been anyone around to see him. In the early morning darkness, Southbourne had not yet awoken, and the pair of them were the only ones wandering along Grand Avenue.
Every year at about this time, towards the end of November, Dogs Need Nice Homes had a tradition. The three ladies would come into the shop early on a Monday morning and spend the time transforming it into a seasonal wonderland. All of them being self-confessed Christmasoholics, their annual Deck the Halls Day would include cranking up the festive music, chain-eating mince pies and going completely overboard with the tinsel. Each year they’d acquire more and more of the glittery stuff, struggling to find places to store it for the rest of the year. However, it was worth it. By the time they’d finished, the shop would look splendid and enchanting in all its yuletide glory, the seasonal colours of red, green, gold and purple perfectly showcased against the rich dark-wood interior of the shop.
Of course, Sophie across the road would always outdo them but they didn’t care. Everything she did always seemed a bit desperate, showy and contrived. One year she had hired one of those huge inflatable snow globes, which drew quite a crowd outside the shop, until it split and polystyrene flakes blew all the way down Southbourne Grove like giant dandruff. To this day, people were still finding it wedged into cracks and stuck in trees. By contrast, Fiona and her friends’ approach to Christmas was more organic — chaotic and haphazard, to be more precise. Their philosophy was that as long as customers still had room to browse around, then they would try to fill the place with as many decorations as possible.
As she got closer to work, a merry sight warmed Fiona’s heart. Partial Sue’s Fiat Uno was parked outside almost buckling under the weight of a gargantuan Christmas tree strapped to the roof, just waiting to be brought inside, unfurled from its netting and decorated to within an inch of its life. As with everything, the three of them would split the cost of buying a tree for the shop, possibly the only time that Partial Sue didn’t mind putting her hand in her pocket. This year, it seemed she had really pushed the festive boat out. In fact, you could probably carve a festive boat out of the tree that sat atop her car. It would take all three of them to manoeuvre it inside, which was probably why it was still on the roof.
Fiona found herself swaddled in seasonal joy as she pushed the door open. Carols filled the air and the warm spices of cinnamon and nutmeg and a citrus zest wafted over her. She was treated to the sight of her two friends similarly clad in Christmas jumpers and up to their necks in tinsel and baubles. Daisy had commandeered a rather large gold bauble and was wearing it as an earring.
“Merry Christmas,” they happily chimed when they caught sight of Fiona.
“Merry Christmas!” Fiona beamed from ear to ear. She bent down and let Simon Le Bon off his lead. Sensing the happiness in the air, he scuttled towards Daisy and then Partial Sue, tail wagging like a rear windscreen wiper on the highest setting. Circling them affectionately, he received plenty of attention in return, the two of them cooing at the sight of his cute crimson jumper.
Thankfully, the murders had stopped. As DI Fincher had quite rightly predicted, the killer had slid into the shadows now that their technique had been exposed. Fiona took that as a win. And while she would have wanted to catch the killer more than anything, she was thankful for each day without incident, now that they had halted the murderous domino effect.
Consequently, the Charity Shop Detective Agency was on hiatus. One upside of this was that Christmas presents for all their friends and family had been sorted. They’d all be getting slightly used wireless spy cameras.
Daisy approached Fiona offering a plate of homemade mince pies, thick misshapen creations still warm from the oven. Fiona took one gladly.
“I hope you don’t mind us starting without you.”
“Not at all,” replied Fiona. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year, who can resist? Now, where shall I start?”
Partial Sue pointed outside. “Well, I think we need to get that tree off the top of my car before it crushes the suspension.”
“Do you think it’s big enough?” Fiona replied, gently sarcastic.
“Go for the biggest one possible, that’s my philosophy.”
“I think you succeeded,” Daisy said. “If it will fit through the door.”
“Well, only one way to find out. Shall we?” Partial Sue gestured towards the door.
“Let me just scoff this lovely mince pie,” Fiona said.
“There’s tea in the pot,” Daisy added.
Fiona took a seat at the table, which was scattered with decorations, scissors and tape. She poured herself a cup of tea from a pot shaped like a giant Christmas pudding, reserved for use only at this time of year. She took a bite from Daisy’s mince pie, sending pastry flakes everywhere. In a flash, Simon Le Bon was by her side, hoovering them up. Searching the table for something to use as a makeshift plate, Fiona came across the latest edition of the Southbourne Monitor among the festive paraphernalia. It was the Christmas edition, judging by the dubious use of seasonal clipart on the front cover. She couldn’t resist having a quick flick, and went straight to the “Bygone Southbourne” section, which, if everyone was honest, was the only bit worth perusing. She giggled as she spotted a shot of several familiar faces. The bleached-out image was entitled “Local Southbourne Professionals of the Nineties”.
Posing uncomfortably, not looking any happier thirty years ago even though he had a full head of hair, Oliver grimaced for the camera, dressed in a navy-blue polo. Next to him stood Malorie, who hadn’t changed at all. Clad in a smart business suit, she had that same indomitable expression on her face. In front of them was Saint June, Sarah Brown’s long-suffering neighbour, who had apparently been a nurse. Her face appeared softer and rounder before the years of working double shifts on the wards and then running around like everyone’s lackey must have turned it gaunt and bitter. Next to her stood Gail from the Cats Alliance, almost being nudged out of the picture by the others. She didn’t look too happy about being there. A few other faces were in the shot but Fiona didn’t recognise them. She called the other two over. “Hey, have you seen this? It’s Oliver with hair.”
“Let me see.” Partial Sue couldn’t get over there fast enough, and neither could Daisy. They abandoned the tangle of lights they were attempting to sort out, letting them drop to the floor.
“Oh my gosh! Oliver has actual hair,” Daisy exclaimed.
“I didn’t realise Saint June was a nurse,” Partial Sue said. “And look at Malorie, she’s still scary. I wonder what she used to do?”
“She was on the local council.” Daisy peered closer at the picture. “What’s that on Oliver’s chest?”
Partial Sue squinted at the image. “Looks like one of them logos, you know, like a shark or a crocodile. They have them on polo shirts to make them cost more.”
“Doesn’t look like a shark or a crocodile.” Daisy took a picture with her camera and enlarged it with her fingers.
There were three sharp intakes of breath, as it became clear that the logo did not belong to any fancy clothing brand.
It belonged to the telephone company.