A/N: I don't own Ashes to Ashes. Any chance of getting the rights as a Christmas present?
Many, many apologies for my silence since September. I have been, and still am, dealing with ongoing family illness. I hope to update "The Beginning of an Era" as soon as possible, and in the meantime, here's the first chapter of my Christmas fic for this year. It isn't finished yet, but I'll progress it as best I can.
In the meantime, a merry Christmas to one and all - and if anyone feels like reviewing, it would be a Christmas present to me!
"Luigi! What the bloody 'ell's 'appened to your nice, tidy restaurant? Looks like the Christmas department of 'Amleys after the Luftwaffe 'ave been through!"
Luigi sighed as he trotted towards his most irascible but dependable customer. "But, Signor Hunt, it is the festive season. The customers expect it."
"Well, this customer doesn't." Gene plumped into his usual seat at the corner table, and Alex, as usual, sat opposite him.
"I think it looks very nice, Luigi. Your staff must have been working very hard to make the place look like this."
Her last remark was very slightly double-edged. To her adult eyes, the superabundance of frosted twigs, silver-sprayed garlands and patently fake holly looked, like the restaurant itself, undeniably naff. But it reminded her of Christmas decorations in her childhood, and for that she was nostalgically grateful. All the same, she did wonder whether some of this stuff would manage to stay up until Twelfth Night without annihilating at least one unwary customer.
"Grazie, Signora Drake. I am glad that someone likes it. The Christmas menu will be out next week."
"If there's any turkey pizza, I'm going," Gene grumbled.
"Not at all Signor Hunt. All the finest Italian Christmas specialities."
"That sounds delicious," Alex said warmly. "In the meantime, tonight I'll have the veal scallopine, please."
"Spaghetti bolgonese. An' the turnips at the long tables'll 'ave whatever they're 'aving."
"Right away, Signora Drake, Signor Hunt." Luigi bustled away.
Alex rested her forearms on the table. "Why do you dislike Christmas so much, Guv?"
"Who said I did?" Gene poured his first glass of red and another for Alex. "There's a time an' a place for everything. In the case of Christmas, as far away as possible from sober, honest citizens like me."
"Sober?" Alex echoed. "You? That'll be the day."
"Christmas is an excuse to double the price on everything an' stuff the populace on overpriced turkey," Gene proclaimed. "At the coldest time of year when the folk who most need cheerin' up can't afford it. An' it gives diabolical restauranteurs the opportunity to attempt to do in their long-sufferin' clientele."
To underline his point, a swag of fake ivy came loose from an overhead beam and hung down in a great loop which nearly garrotted a passing waiter. Gene looked up at the precarious array of festive finery suspended directly above his head and groaned.
"Come on, Bolly, let's shift tables."
Alex decided not to argue. They picked up their coats, wine and glasses and moved to the small table beside the arch, just as Luigi approached with their food.
"Signor Hunt, your usual table is not to your liking tonight?"
Gene scowled. "Let's say that eating my spaghetti with a gold-painted pine cone in it isn't my preferred method of consumption."
With a dull roar, the garlands and wreath above the corner table subsided with a crash onto the chair which Gene had just vacated.
Gene shrugged. "You see?"
Luigi bellowed something angry in Italian at a blushing young waiter who ran with a dustpan and brush to sweep up the debris.
"A thousand pardons, Signor Hunt! It is young Emanuale, he is new and very enthusiatic. I give you every assurance that this will not happen again."
"It 'ad better not," Gene growled. "Otherwise you'll find yourself with one waiter on a charge of attempting to assault a police officer."
"Oh, come on, Gene, it was an accident," Alex urged. Gene glowered and tucked into his spaghetti. She decided not to press the point further. Knowing what he had let slip to Sam about his abusive childhood, she could imagine the hellish memories that he associated with the Chistmas season.
-oO0Oo-
It was 9.45, and everyone was in the state of being pleasantly mellow without being drunk just yet, when Luigi trotted up to Gene's table.
"Perdono, Signor Hunt. The Chief Constable is on the telephone for you."
"Oh, deep joy. Did the tosser say what 'e wants with honest off-duty coppers at this time of night?"
"He said it was something about a very important and unusual theft which he wishes you to investigate."
"Bugger. Bye-bye, nice, quiet evening." He followed Luigi to the phone on the counter, feeling more nervous than he cared to let on.
"Hello, Sir. What can I do for you?" He shot a scowl at Luigi, who tactfully turned the music down. "Sorry about the noise, I'm in a restaurant."
"I know, Sergeant James said you'd gone off duty. There's been a robbery at the Barbican Centre. A priceless Stradivarius has been stolen. You and your team are to get down there and investigate at once. Do you hear me? At once."
"Sorry Sir, a what has been stolen?"
"A priceless violin, man! Now, get down there at once. I don't want to have to tell you again. This is reputational, Hunt. Important. I expect results."
"Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir. At once." There was a bang on the line suggesting that the other phone had been slammed down. Gene noticed that the upper-class twat hadn't apologised for rousting out the whole team while they were off duty.
"Bolly. Ray. Chris. The Chief Bastard wants us to do 'is dirty work for 'im. Now."
"Aww, Guv - " Chris moaned.
"Why? What's happened?" Alex demanded as all three rose to their feet.
"From what the Chief Calamity tells me, someone's straddy bloody fiddle's been nicked!"
-oO0Oo-
Almost as soon as the Quattro had taken off, Gene's radio crackled.
"Guv. Viv here."
"So it was you who told the Chief Coronary where I was?"
"I doubt it would have taken much detective work on his part, Sir. I've just received a message. Drive to the front entrance of the Barbican Centre in Silk Street. The deputy manager, Mr Herbert Bennett, will be there to meet you and take you and the team backstage. A team of uniform have been dispatched there already and are conducting a backstage search."
"Message understood. Out." Gene turned a corner so sharply that the Quattro rose onto two wheels. "Take note, lady an' gentlemen. We're meeting an 'Erbert. A right 'Erbert, by all accounts."
"You said that a fiddle had been stolen?" Alex asked. "Did you say something about a Strad? You can't mean a Stradivarius?"
"Sounds like a nasty disease," Ray remarked from the back seat.
"Antonio Stradivari was the greatest luthier in the world, ever," Alex said impressively. "The instruments he made are the finest there are. They're worth millions."
"Loo cleaner?" Chris was typically uncomprehending.
"Luthier. Maker of violins," Alex corrected.
"Can't whoever's lost it ask 'im to make another, then?" Ray demanded.
"They'd have a job," Alex said acidly. "He died in 1737."
"They'll just 'ave to get someone else to make 'em one, then!" Gene snarled as he swung the Quattro into Beech Street on two wheels.
"And how would you feel if someone told you to drive a Leyland because one car's just like another?" she retorted.
She felt the car and its master shudder at the thought. "Suggest that one more time, an' you can walk."
"I wasn't suggesting," she argued. "I was only pointing out that to a violinist, a Stradivarius is as incomparable as the Quattro is to you - oh, we're here. That must be Mr Herbert."
A worried-looking man with a neat suit and a moustache waved them to a stop outside the Silk Street entrance. Gene wound the window down and treated the unfortunate man to his best glare.
"DCI Hunt? Herbert Bennett. I'm the deputy manager of the Barbican Centre. Thanks for coming so promptly. Would you care to take your car down here to the artists' car park, and I'll escort you backstage."
With the Quattro safely stowed, Mr Bennett took them through a pass door to the backstage area of the Barbican Hall. It was a curved corridor behind the concert platform, the rear side of which was studded with doors leading to individual dressing rooms, with a bar at the centre. Alex remembered the area well, having attended many concerts at the Barbican in her youth and adulthood. Following the successful defence of a prominent agent accused of embezzlement, Evan had formed connnections in the classical music business. He had frequently obtained discounted tickets for them both and taken her backstage to meet the artists after the concert. She wondered fleetingly whether he and her younger self had been there that night, but, scanning the crowd, she could not see a tall, bearded man with a fair-haired little girl clinging to his side. Which, she reflected, was probably just as well.
The open space was populated with a a detachment of PCs and a large number of agitated ladies and gentlemen, many of them in evening dress and clutching instrument cases. At the epicentre of the din were two men, one of whom was a dark-haired, fresh-faced teenage lad who was clearly distraught, and an older, elegant gentleman in white tie and tails who was attempting to impose some order amid the chaos. Alex guessed that he was the conductor and that the youngster was the bereft violinist. Both faces were vaguely familiar to her.
Mr Bennett clapped his hands for silence and went completely unnoticed. A grinning horn player removed his instrument from its case and blew a tuneless blast, and the ruckus subsided.
"Could I 'ave some peace an' bastard QUIET 'ere!" Gene bellowed.
"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience," Mr Bennett intoned insincerely. "This is DCI Hunt of the Metropolitan Police. He and his team are here to investigate the theft of Mr Peal's violin. They will need to question everyone, and those who can be exonerated will be allowed to leave as soon as possible."
"Bloody 'ell! Look, Ray! There's dozens of fiddles 'ere!" Chris yelped, pointing to the serried ranks of hostile orchestra members.
Alex rolled her eyes, but Gene growled, "Good point. Ray. Chris. Get 'em all to open their cases an' see if the owner can ID 'is property."
"No need, Inspector." The conductor stepped forward. "I already took that step while we were waiting for you. Richard Morton. I'm the musical director of the Philadelphia Orchestra, we've been playing here tonight. When the police first arrived to search the area, I got my players to produce their instruments, and Mr Peal has confirmed that none of them is his. Your colleagues have undertaken a search of all the dressing rooms, including mine, but the Stradivarius is not anywhere backstage."
"As soon as the alarm was raised, I got my staff to stop anyone leaving the Centre," Bennett added.
A police sergeant approached. "Sir. PS Walsh. Police have been searching everyone detained after Mr Peal confirmed that his violin was missing, but nobody has it. It's too large to conceal on the person, and all cars, bags and cases have been searched. We've released everyone who's been searched, except here backstage, in case you needed to interview them to find witnesses."
"Which we will," Gene said darkly.
"You've been very thorough," Alex said smoothly. "Who discovered that the violin was missing, and at what time?"
The teenager stepped forward. "I did. Josiah Peal. I played her in the second half of tonight's programme. Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto."
"Her?" Gene echoed.
"The violin," the boy said impatiently. "The Golden Stradivarius. An instrument like that has a soul, a personality. I can't just say it about her. I don't play her, we sing duets together."
"Give me patience," Gene muttered.
"Mr Peal!" Alex was impressed. "It's an honour to meet you. I'm such an admirer of your work." She recognised him now. In her own time, he would have become one of the greatest virtuosi of the age. But now he was a scared kid facing the ruination of his career.
"That's kind of you, Miss," the boy said distractedly. "This is only my first concert in the UK. It was part of my prize for winning the Van Hatten Scholarship last year." He was shaking. "Arnold Van Hatten, the millionaire, owns her. The Stradivarius. He lent her to me for the UK tour. If I lose her, I'm done for. He could sue. It'll end my career before it's started."
"Look, Joe, you know the violin's insured - " Morton began consolingly.
"Insured?" the boy wailed. "Do you think money could compensate him, or me, for losing her? What if she's damaged or broken?"
"You 'eard the lady," Gene said drily. "When did you last see the love of your life an' when did you find she'd upped an' left you?"
Peal tried to calm himself. "In my dressing room, after the performance." He pointed to a door, marked with his name, near to the centre of the corridor. "I put her in her case and closed it. Then I went out to join everyone else at the bar outside for the sponsors' post-concert party."
"An' you left the door unlocked."
"Yes. I'll never forgive myself. There were a lot of friends and well-wishers visiting backstage, I must have been out there a good twenty minutes, being introduced to sponsors, talking to people, signing autographs. A reporter's here from the Musical Times and he asked me for a quick interview. I gave it, and he asked if his photographer could have a shot of me with the violin. So I went into the dressing room to get her and found the case empty."
Alex surveyed the area. A colonnade of pillars stood between the dressing room doors and the area where everyone was congregated. "Given the size of the crowd, and the obstructed view of the door, someone might have easily slipped in and out without anyone noticing."
Gene scowled. "What are the exits from this place?"
"They're at either end," Bennett informed him. "One door on each side leads into the auditorium, plus there's the door over there to the car park, the way we came in."
"Any way of knowing who's been in 'ere?"
"I'm afraid not," Bennett sighed. "Strictly speaking, nobody should come in here but the performers, backstage staff and authorised guests, but in practice it's hard to stop members of the public coming in from the stalls if they're looking for an autograph or know one of the performers. There was a sponsors' reception tonight, so the place was particularly busy."
Gene glared. "Your security's not up to much. An' a fiddle worth a fortune was left unattended in an unlocked room."
"I assure you that, in the light of this incident we shall be reviewing all security - " Bennett began.
"Oh, give over. Any idea of who might 'ave left this area before Ding-Dong 'ere found the fiddle 'ad walked?"
"I'm afraid not. Anyone might have left via the stalls, mingling with patrons leaving the Hall or the Barbican Theatre."
"Oh, deep joy."
"All the orchestra and our staff are here," Morton added helpfully. "We're all staying in the same hotel and travel to and from the Hall by coach. Walter Mansfield, our manager, has checked that everybody's present and correct."
"Right. Let's 'ave a look at the crime scene. Ray, Chris, stay out 'ere an' talk to this lot. Keep any witnesses who saw anyone goin' in an' out of the changing room or anyone leaving who might 'ave been 'iding a fiddle on their persons. Take the names an' addresses of the rest an' let em go."
"Roger that, Guv."
"Sergeant. Get Mr Bennett 'ere to get all the stewards in the building together - "
"They're called ushers here," Alex said tactfully.
"Whatever. Get 'em all together an' grill 'em good."
"Sir." The sergeant departed with Bennett.
"Which one is your dressing room, Josiah?" Alex asked the lad kindly. He looked thoroughly intimidated by Gene, and she knew that if she put him at his ease, they would have a better chance of getting information from him.
"This one, here." Josiah pointed to a door just to the right of the centre of the curve. A card on the door bore his name, and Morton's name was on the door to the left.
Gene shot it a sharp look. "You left the door closed when you went out to the party?"
"Yes?"
"An' it was closed when you went in to find your sweet'eart gone?"
"Yes."
Gene took a handkerchief from his pocket and laid it tenderly over the handle. "Then we'll open this very, very gently."
"Oh!" Josiah looked up at him in dawning comprehension. "You mean - fingerprints?"
"Bang on. An 'ow many episodes of Starsky an' 'Utch an' Kojak 'ave you watched, then?"
Josiah blushed. "Rather a lot."
"There are worse role models," Gene said drily, opening the door. He and Alex walked in, with Josiah, Morton and Mansfield, the orchestra manager, tagging on behind.
The dressing room was comfortably furnished, with a wardrobe, armchair and illuminated dressing table with a large mirror. The red morocco leather violin case lay open and empty on the table.
"I can see why the thief left this case behind," Alex said as she approached the table. "It's much too distinctive. Far easier to hide the violin under a coat or in a carrier bag and walk out."
"The case was closed when I came in. I opened it and found it empty," Josiah contributed.
Gene stooped and picked up a black woolly glove from beneath the dressing table.
"Yours?" he barked at Josiah.
The lad shook his head. "No, mine are leather and they're in my coat pocket, over there." He pointed to the wardrobe.
Alex bent over the violin case. "Guv. There are black woollen fibres in the clasp, here."
"So the glove must belong to the thief?" Josiah suggested.
"Must 'ave been wearing gloves when 'e came in, so no dabs on the door 'andle. Bugger."
"Yes, but then they snagged on the clasps of the case," Alex added. "The thief didn't dare wear them while handling the violin, it might have slipped. It would have been frightful if he'd dropped it." She saw Josiah shiver at the thought.
"Yeah. So, 'e tries to get the case open, the gloves snag, 'e panics an' takes 'em off."
"Or at least one of them," Alex temporised. "This glove's a right-hander."
"Probably shoves 'em into 'is pocket, may not 'ave realised 'e's dropped it 'til 'e's clear. Calling card. An' that'll mean 'e's left 'is prints on the case. We'll want this for dabs. An' unless e's a southpaw an' left one glove on, there'll be prints on the door 'andle this side when 'e left." He turned to Josiah. "Who except for you came in 'ere today?"
Josiah considered. "Mr Morton, of course, and Mr Mansfield, and a couple of the Barbican's staff. Then after the show, the sponsors' representative, Mr Plowman, and a couple of friends. They're all outside."
"We've been rehearsing here all day," Mansfield put in. "The cleaners were still finishing up this morning when the orchestra arrived. I saw them polishing all the metalwork."
"Thank you. That's very useful," Alex said politely.
"What I don't understand," Mansfield added, "is that I looked in here during the party, and the place was empty then."
"It's all about timing," Gene said thoughtfully, turning back to Josiah. "You said you were out of 'ere twenty minutes, at the party. When?"
"The performance ended just before nine thirty," Mansfield said helpfully.
"Thanks." Josiah considered. "I must have come out about a quarter of an hour later."
"It must have been about fifteen minutes after that that I looked in," Mansfield said. "The Musical Times reporter wanted to talk to Joe. I couldn't see him in the crush of people, so I knocked at the door and called his name. There wasn't any answer, so I put my head round the door and called him again. The room was empty and the case was closed on the table. Then I heard a call for silence while the sponsors said a few words, so I closed the door and went back to the bar. I saw Joe with Mr Morton, so as soon as the sponsor finished I took them over to the reporter."
"The sponsor's speech was at ten sharp," Morton contributed.
Gene nodded. "How long after did you raise the alarm?"
"That was about ten-ten," Morton said sadly.
"So the thief 'ad at least ten minutes' start an' all the exits in the building to choose from. Could 'ave been up to twenty-five minutes if the fiddle 'ad been taken before you looked in."
"But why should anyone want to steal it in the first place?" Morton demanded. "It's unique and recognisable. The colour's unlike any other violin Stradivari ever made, a rich golden brown, the wood seems to glow. That's why it's called the Golden Stradivarius. The sound, there's nothing like it in the world. It would give itself away as soon as it's played."
"Who usually plays the violin?" Alex asked. "You said it had been lent to you for this tour."
"Mr Van Hatten's kept her locked in a vault since he bought her eight years ago," Josiah said scornfully. "It's a crime. It's an instrument to be played, not just admired. That's why I was so glad of the opportunity to play her."
Gene regarded him consideringly. "If you wanted 'er that badly, might you 'ave nicked 'er too?"
"What do you mean?" Morton said sharply.
"Maybe that's why you left 'er alone in an unlocked room while you went out to the party. So that you could get someone to nick 'er an' 'and 'er over later. Then you could play 'er as much as you like."
"Guv!" Alex remonstrated.
"No!" Josiah had gone as white as a sheet, and Morton had to grab his arm to stop him falling. "No!" he shrieked again. "How can you? How can you say that? I wanted her, but I'm not a thief!"
"Sir, I must ask you to leave here at once," Morton said coldly. "How dare you accuse a child of theft?"
Alex instantly move in to comfort the sobbing boy. Only two years older than my Molly. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "I must apologise for him. We have to follow all lines of inquiry. Haven't you ever seen The Winslow Boy? When Robert Donat accuses the boy of theft to establish his innocence? That's what my Guv's just done, and I'm satisfied that it worked."
"W-why?" Josiah gulped, looking up at her from within her encircling arm.
"I'm a psychologist. I'm trained to look for responses and body language. Yours would have been different if you were guilty."
"You have to remember that we're performers," Morton added, calmed slightly by Alex's reassuring manner. "A stolen instrument would be no use to someone who wants to play it in public. That's why I can't understand why it was taken."
"Well, it was," Gene snapped, "an' thanks to your security the thief could be anywhere by now!"
There was a tap at the door and Ray walked in.
"Guv. We've got witnesses."
TBC
