The Big Over Easy

The man nodded to the barman who had been hovering discreetly nearby.

“Do you know who I am?” asked the man.

“Yes, you’re DS Eddie Flotsam. You’ve been Chymes’s OS for sixteen years and penned over seventy of his stories. But you’re less… cockney than I imagined.”

“Not cockney at all,” he admitted, “nor particularly chirpy. It was a marketing ploy FC and I came up with in the early days. I think it works.”

“It does. I’ve been a big fan since before I was in the force.”

“You’ve been an OS yourself, haven’t you?” asked Flotsam.

“I was with DI Flowwe for four years.”

“We know,” replied Flotsam, handing her the beer that had just arrived. “Your file makes for good reading. Cheers.”

“Cheers. Um… are personal files meant for general distribution?”

He laughed. “This is the Guild, sister. Let me introduce the gang.”

The “gang,” as Flotsam described them, had all received numerous mentions in the Friedland Chymes stories, but their fictionalized counterparts, like Flotsam’s, didn’t really match up, so they were hard to figure out.

“That’s Barnes, Hamilton, Hoorn and Haynes. Seagrove is over there on the blower. Probably the bookies.”

They all nodded their greetings. Despite stories to the contrary, they didn’t look an unfriendly bunch.

“I read your account of the Shakespeare fight-rigging caper,” said the one named Hoorn. “I thought it impressive. The pace was good, you built the tension early, and you managed to keep it sustained throughout the story.” He shook her hand and added, by way of an afterthought, “And the police investigation itself was quite good, too—although if I’d been Flowwe, I would have let one member of the gang escape to add a small amount of tension to a recapture. You could have stretched the headlines over another two days.”

“It was our biggest case to date,” replied Mary defensively.

“I don’t think he wanted to blow it for the sake of a few good headlines.”

“That’s what sorts out the good from the greats,” said Hamilton, sipping a martini. “If you want to hit the big time and run investigations that fit well into a TV or movie format, you’re going to have to take a few risks.”

“Does Friedland?”

No one answered, which Mary took to mean that he did. You don’t get to number two in the Amazing Crime rankings by playing it safe. It wasn’t permitted to “alter, embellish or omit pertinent facts” in one’s investigation to make better copy, but all of them did it in one form or another. If it got a result, no one minded. The whole thing suddenly seemed that much more exciting and daring. Friedland’s team under Flotsam was a close unit and had been through a lot together—and had reaped the benefits, both professionally and financially. Piarno Keyes had played Flotsam in Friedland Chymes and the Carnival of Death, and character rights paid handsomely.

“What does DCI Chymes want with me?”

“Barnes retires next month,” Flotsam said, pointing to a member of the small clique who was rolling a cigarette. “Network Mole wants to retain him as police adviser on their TV shows.”

She couldn’t quite believe her ears. “I’m up for inclusion in the team?”

“Nothing’s fixed,” said Flotsam with a shrug, “but you’re qualified and a looker.”

“Is that important?”

“For the telly. The Guv’nor wants us to look a bit less male elitist, so we need another girlie. But he doesn’t carry dead wood, and there’s no one else suitable in the frame.”

“I’m working down at the NCD at present.”

There was a murmur of impolite laughter from the small group.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. Barnes and Seagrove have both done a stretch down there. How’s Jack, by the by?”

“He’s… Jack,” she answered, finding it too much of an easy shot to gain Brownie points by trashing him, something that would doubtless have gone down well. Jack was unremarkable and in a loser department, but he’d treated her well. Chymes’s gang took her meaning to be derogatory and laughed. Flotsam’s phone beeped, and he glanced at the text message before putting down his cigar and straightening his tie.

“That was the Guv’nor. He’ll see you now.”

Mary was taken through another door, which led into the inner sanctum, a personal retreat for the great detectives themselves. It was here surrounded by the dark oak paneling that they met nightly to discuss cases, brainstorm ideas or simply just unwind among their intellectual equals. Mary tried not to gawk at the six or seven famous names that she recognized from her initial glance around the room, but it was tricky not to. There had never been this sort of thing at Basingstoke, but then twenty-fifth was the highest ranking a Basingstoke detective had ever got.