The Big Over Easy (16 page)

Briggs beckoned
Jack into his office and had him wait while he spoke on the phone to the workman redecorating his house. After an inordinately long ten minutes discussing the choice of wallpaper for the front room, he hung up and stared at Jack.

“You’ve got a confession note?” he asked.

Jack slid it across the table. It was in a clear plastic cover, and Briggs put on his glasses.

“Verified by the handwriting people?”

“Yes, sir. It’s definitely Mrs. Dumpty’s.”

“Well,” said Briggs removing his spectacles, “I think that’s fairly straightforward, don’t you?”

“But for the smaller-than-expected caliber pistol and the four missing cartridges, and—”

“And
what
?”

“I just don’t think she killed him. We interviewed her at ten-thirty the morning of her ex-husband’s death. Less than ten hours. She loved him, sir, even after the split—most people dump their ex’s stuff as soon as the papers come through, but everything that was his was still in her house. I’m not convinced that a crime of passion would leave her so
calm.
”

Briggs held up the suicide note. “And this? What do you make of this? I quote: ‘…I prayed for God to forgive me as I pulled the trigger.’ She had the motive, opportunity—but, best of all, she wrote a confession. This one’s over, Jack.”

“She didn’t kill him, sir.”

“Listen,” said Briggs, “I know the NCD means a lot to you, but we can’t justify the expense. We’ve got to make some hard choices, and I’m sure the budgetary meeting can make a generous settlement for early retirement. You’ve done good work, Jack, but it’s a question of priorities.”

“I thought it was just the department getting canned?” said Jack, rising to his feet.

“You
are
the department,” replied Briggs, also rising. “Where else were you going to work? CID? Don’t make me insult you by offering you traffic or something. The Humpty case is closed.”

“The budgetary meeting is on Thursday, yes?”

“Yes,” said Briggs sharply, wondering what he was up to, “why?”

“Just let me carry on until then to prove she didn’t do it and if I can’t, I’ll call it a day and the coroner can have a murder/suicide.”

“No.”

“Twenty-four hours, then.”

“Sorry.”

“Until tomorrow morning?”

“No!”

“Twenty years,” said Jack, “twenty years I’ve run the NCD, and while I admit I have made a few slip-ups and killed a giant or two—”

“Four. It was four, Jack.”

“He was barely six foot eight, sir. Listen, I’ve never asked you for anything before now. Geoffrey,
please.
”

It was the first time he had ever used Briggs’s first name. He hoped to God he had remembered it correctly. The Superintendent paused for a moment and stared at him, then finally shook his head.

“I can’t do it, Jack. You’ve got nothing. No, I take that back. You’ve got
less
than nothing. If you could show me one positive piece of evidence, I’d be happy to keep it open, but as it stands, I think all you’ve got is a hunch and a strong suit of delusive hope. And that’s not enough to keep an inquiry open.”

“It’d be enough for Friedland,” said Jack rather feebly.

“You,” said Briggs slowly, “are not Friedland. Not even close.”

“Sir…!” pleaded Jack, numbed by his intransigence.

“Interview’s over, Jack. And I’m sorry.”

“Briggs!”

“You’d better leave, Jack. I can sense you’re going to say or do something that you might regret.”

Jack sighed and headed for the door.

The intercom beeped.

“Yes?”

It was Sergeant Mary, explained Briggs’s secretary. Jack grimaced. She might at least have had the good grace to wait until he was out of Briggs’s office before she requested a transfer.

“Send her in.”

Mary stepped in rather self-consciously, looked at Jack and then walked past him to face Briggs at his desk.

“I was just telling your senior officer, Mary, that by this time next week, the NCD will be disbanded. You are here to ask for an immediate transfer, I take it?”

Mary bit her lip. She could still back out. Chymes or Jack? Two days ago—no, wait, two
hours
ago it would have been a no-brainer. Now it was different. The NCD? Well, somehow it felt sort of right. That she
belonged.

“I don’t think so, sir.”

Briggs raised an eyebrow, and Jack stopped in midstride.

“I found the slug that killed Humpty. It had fallen to earth in a length of guttering two doors down. SOCO are on their way now. The slug is only mildly deformed, but we can tell the caliber. It’s a.44. If Mrs. Dumpty
did
kill him, then she used another gun from the one we found in her desk.”

She waited a moment for the information to sink in.

“I spoke to Mr. Spatchcock, who is her personal trainer, this morning. He was with her when Humpty was killed. All night. They were lovers.”

Briggs stared up at her coldly. “And this?” he asked, indicating the suicide note. “What are you saying? Someone
forced
her to write that note?”

“I’ll confess it’s a puzzler,” said Jack, who had returned to Briggs’s desk, “but we’re going to find out.”

“This Thomas Spatchcock fellow is wholly unreliable,” muttered Briggs, clutching at straws. “I don’t think we can believe a word he says.”

“I never said his name was Thomas,” said Mary in a quiet voice.

There was silence. Briggs had dropped himself in it, and he knew it. He rubbed a hand wearily over his face, pushing his glasses onto his forehead.

“Okay,” he said as he took off his spectacles and leaned back in his chair, “you’ve got me. This isn’t my doing. Chymes wields considerable weight with the Chief Constable, and as you know, he wants the Humpty gig. Look, well…I’m hanging out on a limb here, but you’ve got until the end of play Saturday to make some headway. If it’s not sorted by the time the Jellyman has come and gone, I’m putting someone else on the case. And if you aren’t out of my office in ten seconds, I’ll change my mind—and screw the consequences.”

As soon as they were in the corridor, Jack turned to Mary.

“In the nick of time. I thought you hated it here?”

“I thought so, too, sir. But you know when you said the NCD grows on you?”

“Yes?”

“Well, it’s grown on me. And listen, sir, I have to apologize for something.”

“Don’t bother. You’ve more than made up for it, whatever it was.”

“No, I
really
want to tell you.”

“And I
really
don’t want to hear it. If you were at the Guild bar the night before last or speaking to Flotsam at Platters Coffeehouse, I really don’t want to know about it—you probably have your reasons. Did they do the old ‘Barnes is retiring, we need a replacement’ routine on you?”

“You
knew
? Why didn’t you say something?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. It was your decision. I kind of felt you’d do the right thing, though.”

Mary couldn’t think of anything to say. He had trusted
her
to do the right thing, and she had almost stabbed
him
in the back.

“I’ve…I’ve underestimated you, sir—badly.”

“Well, I shouldn’t worry about it. I’ve been underestimated before.”

She felt anger rise inside her. Anger at herself for being such a fool, and anger at Chymes for taking advantage of her.

“Sir,” she said, “Chymes wants the Humpty investigation for the
Amazing Crime
Summer Special—he knew the night before we did about Humpty’s murder and has known about Spatchcock from about the same time. We can lodge a complaint about serious professional misconduct!”

“Mary,” said Jack quietly, “calm down. Think you’re the first person this has happened to? I told you before: He’s a complete shit. Don’t waste your breath. Gretel’s career is almost finished, and all she did was call him an arsehole. Have you any idea what a formal complaint would do to you? We concentrate on Humpty. Nothing else matters. Okay?”

She took a deep breath.

“Yes, sir. But I think I’ve made a lifelong enemy of Chymes.”

“You and me both. Did I ever tell you why?”

“No.”

“His fiancée left him when he pinched the credit for the Gingerbreadman capture.”

“So?”

“She left him for
me.
She was my first wife.”

“The one who passed away?”

“Right. Ben and Pandora’s mother.”

“Chymes got the Guild, and you got the girl.”

Jack smiled. “In one. I got the better part of the bargain, and he knew it.”

Mary looked up at Jack, but this time in a different light.

“Why have you stayed at the NCD so long, sir?”

He shrugged. “It needs me. And I need it. Can’t explain. Just the way it is. Make any sense?”

“Kind of. Oh, I almost forgot.” She pulled the buff envelope from out of her jacket. “I was asked to give you these by someone who doesn’t want to be identified.”

“Skinner?’

“Yes.”

“Usually him. Let’s have a look.”

He opened the envelope and flicked through the pictures, rubbed his forehead and put them back.

“Don’t show these to anyone, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. What is it?”

“Something bigger than any of us. Just forget about them.”

“Sir!” said Baker as they approached the NCD offices. “Just got a message from Ops. It’s Willie Winkie.”

“Asleep again?”

“Permanently. Over in Palmer Park. Mrs. Singh is already in attendance. Is the Humpty investigation finished?”

“Far from it!” yelled Jack over his shoulder as they hurriedly retraced their steps down the corridor. “It’s back on with a vengeance. As you were. I want some answers by the time I get back.
TIBBIT!
”

It was raining hard
when Jack, Mary and Tibbit pulled up at the perimeter of Palmer Park, a sports field and public amenity site to the east of town. A uniformed officer in a raincoat pointed them towards a white scene-of-crime tent set up behind the grandstand. The rain had discouraged all onlookers, and the only member of the public visible was a lone runner who plodded around the track, seemingly oblivious to the downpour.

“Tibbit, start on some house-to-house, will you? I want to know if anybody saw anything.”

Tibbit took out his notepad and walked over to the row of houses that faced the field.

“How far are we from Grimm’s Road?” asked Mary as they trudged across the wet grass.

“A couple of hundred yards. The other side of that road.”

The immediate area around the crime scene had been taped off. Shenstone was the Scene of Crime Officer, and he had conveniently rigged a narrow “exit and entrance” walkway delineated by white tape so they could all come and go without destroying any potential footprints. Mary started to talk to the officer first on the scene, who was relieved that it was an NCD case; it meant a lot less paperwork.

“Hello, Shenstone,” said Jack. “What have you got?”

Shenstone stood up from where he had been examining the ground.

“Good morning, sir. I thought this one might be under your jurisdiction.” He pointed at the ground. “Some healthy footprints, but nothing exciting—a size-ten Barbour wellie by the look of it. But what seems odd is that the person in the wellies has tried to obliterate some of the evidence. You can see where they’ve made an effort to scour the ground.” He pointed again. “Just there…and again, over there.”

“So
two
people, one of whom might have had distinctive shoes?”

“Something like that.”

Jack thanked him and stepped into the white tent. Winkie’s body was lying facedown in the mud. His nightgown and nightcap were soaking wet and clung to his pale white flesh. The grass and mud around him were darkly stained with blood, and a candlestick was on the ground next to him. His hands had already been bagged, and Mrs. Singh and her assistants were just about to turn him over.

Jack crouched down next to the pathologist, glad for the protection the tent could offer from the rain.

“Hello, Jack,” said Mrs. Singh cheerfully. “You certainly know how to show a girl a good time. Know him?” She leaned back so he could get a good look at the body.

“His name’s William Winkie. Lived next door to Humpty over at Grimm’s Road. How did he die?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

She gave a few instructions to her assistants, and they gently rolled the body over. It was not a pretty sight. His eyes were still wide open, an expression of stark terror etched on his features. The cause of death was obvious. Jack looked away, but Mrs. Singh leaned closer. To her this wasn’t just a human body but a riddle in need of a solution.

“One slash, very powerful and very deep, from right collarbone to halfway down the midthorax. They even managed to split his sternum.”

“Ax?”

“I think not. A broadsword or samurai weapon would be more likely. A cut this deep needs to have a lot of momentum behind it. He died from shock and blood loss, probably between three and six
A.M
. The assailant came from the front and was violently aggressive in the attack, but
controlled.
One slash and no more. Was Mr. Winkie part of the Humpty investigation?”

“Not really, but it was from his backyard that Humpty’s fatal shot was fired.”

Mrs. Singh raised her eyebrows. “That would make sense of what he’s holding. Take a look.”

Jack looked closely at the dead man’s fist. Held tightly between his finger and thumb were the corners of what looked like pieces of paper.

“Several fifty-pound notes,” she said helpfully.

“Idiot,” muttered Jack.

“He can’t hear you,” replied Mrs. Singh, busying herself with her task as the photographer took some pictures.

“What makes pathologists so facetious, Mrs. Singh?”

She smiled. “Pathologists are just happy people, Jack.”

“Oh, yes? And why’s that?”

“No possibility of malpractice suits for one thing.” She looked closer at Winkie’s mouth and murmured, “What have we here?”

She pushed his mouth open, had a look with a penlight and closed it.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t see that again.”

Mary stepped into the tent, glanced at the corpse, muttered “Oh my God,” held her hand over her mouth and stepped out.

“See what again?”

“They split his tongue.”

“Porgia,” muttered Jack.

“A
classic
Porgia MO,” agreed Mrs. Singh. “I should call the dogs’ home if I were you.”

“Mary?”

“Yes?” came Mary’s voice from outside the tent.

“Call the Reading Dog Shelter and tell them to set aside any anonymous offerings of scraps they might receive.”

Mary didn’t quite understand what was going on but flipped open her mobile and called Ops to get the number.

“Porgia?” repeated Jack with incredulity. “Is there anything else?”

“I’ll know more when I get him back to the lab,” said Mrs. Singh, “but while you’re here, I’m having a few problems with the dynamics of Humpty’s shell breakup.”

“How do you mean?”

“You know me—I’m never happy until I have all the answers. Skinner and I have been running a few tests using ostrich eggs. He set them up on the range and fired a .22 bullet through them and then used the data to try to build a usable model for egg disintegration. It’s as much for our own interest as for anything else, but we’re having trouble equating Humpty’s destruction with what we’re seeing on the range. It’s possible that one shot and a fall might not have been enough to destroy him. I’m looking for other evidence of postfall damage, but with one hundred twenty-six pieces, it’s tricky to tell. Mind you, ostrich eggs are like cannonballs, so it might not be a good test. I’ll know more in a day or two.”

“What about the analysis of his albumen?”

“Inconclusive—but then the Ox and Berks forensic labs are not really geared up for eggs. I’ve sent swabs from the inside of his shell to the SunnyDale Poultry Farm for an in-depth oological analysis. Couple of days, I imagine.”

Jack thanked her and stepped out of the tent. It had stopped raining, but the sky was dark and portended more to come.

“What news, Mary?”

“His wife has been informed,” she explained, still looking a little pale. “One of her relatives is going to go around and look after her.”

“Who found Winkie?”

“A man walking his dog. He’d seen the body earlier but thought it was just a bundle of rags. He alerted us at ten-thirteen.”

“Find out what time Winkie came off shift and have a word with his workmates. See if he was boasting of a windfall or something.”

“Connected to Dumpty’s murder?” asked Mary.

“Possibly. Here’s a workable scenario: Mr. Winkie
did
see something the night that Humpty was killed and tried to blackmail the killer, who then arranged the payoff and a permanent good-night for Wee Willie Winkie.”

“Why the bit about the tongue? Unnecessarily gruesome, isn’t it?”

“A lot of Nursery Crime work is gruesome, Mary—it comes with the turf. Tongue splitting was a Porgia crime family method of dealing with anyone they suspected of speaking to the authorities. ‘Telling tales,’ they called it. They used to cut it up so that all the dogs in the town could have a little bit.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“It’s classic NCD stuff. The thing is, Chymes and I jailed them all twenty years ago. But they were very powerful—perhaps they still are. Call Reading Gaol and get us an interview. I think we’ll have a word with Giorgio Porgia himself. What news, Tibbit?”

“Not much, sir. Nobody seemed to see anything. There was talk of a white van, though.”

“Box van?”

“They couldn’t tell.”

Jack and Mary left Tibbit to do more house-to-house and walked back to the Allegro in silence. Jack leaned on the car roof, deep in thought.

“Did you find anything on Solomon Grundy?”

“Clean as a whistle. Never been investigated for anything, no criminal record—not so much as a speeding fine. A trawl through the
Mole
archives shows a healthy ruthlessness in his business dealings, but nothing we didn’t know already.”

“Blast. Winkie worked at Winsum and Loosum’s, and Solomon Grundy had a two-million-pound motive to have Humpty killed.”

“It’s small beer to him, sir,” said Mary. “Ninth-wealthiest man in the country. He said he could lose two mil a week for ten years before it would worry him. It’s true—I’ve checked. He’s worth over a billion.”

“He could have been lying. He might actually be a very vindictive man indeed. Trouble is, Briggs says I can’t speak to him until this Jellyman Sacred Gonga thing has come and gone.”

“Then why don’t we speak to his wife? She might let something slip.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t think of a better way to piss off Grundy and Briggs.”

“Not really,” replied Mary. “Grundy told us we could ask his wife about his whereabouts the night Humpty died—and with his blessing.”

Jack smiled. This idea he liked.

“Good thought. I think we’ll do precisely that.”

As they drove away, Mary noticed that the passenger window had let rainwater leak onto her seat.

“Yes,” said Jack when she pointed it out, “it usually does that.”