The Big Over Easy

The security guard at the main gates of Winsum & Loosum was trapped behind toughened glass like a goldfish, and Mary had to speak to the bored and surly individual via a microphone. They were admitted after repeating their names several times and drove up to the crowded visitors’ parking area, which was adjacent to an unimaginatively landscaped grass mound.

As Mary locked the car, she thought it odd that the two world leaders in foot-care products were situated within a mile of each other. Almost like two ships, she mused, close enough to fire corporate broadsides.

The Winsum & Loosum headquarters was slick and elegant in a modernistic style, with a bright and airy lobby that rose six stories within the building. Jack and Mary announced themselves at the desk and were asked by the razor-thin receptionist to take a seat. They sat by the fountain and watched the glass lifts move up and down inside the lobby, disgorging hordes of expensively dressed executives who seemed to scurry purposefully in all directions but have very little to do.

Mary’s phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket, looked at it and groaned audibly.

“Same guy?” asked Jack. “What was his name? Arnold?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give the phone to me,” said Jack. “I’ll pretend to be your father.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Has he ever met your father?”

“No, sir.”

“Then hand it over.”

She reluctantly handed Jack the phone. He cleared his throat and pressed the “answer” button.

“Arnold?” he said, using his stern, talking-to-children voice,

“This is Brian, Mary’s father. I must say that I am a little disappointed that—”

He stopped, listened for a moment, smiled and then said, “Well, that’s very kind of you to say so, Arnold, but I must make this point abundantly clear—”

There was another pause. Jack made a few “uh-huh” and “yuh” noises before laughing and looking at Mary.

“Did she, now? How about that. What’s your line of work, Arnold?”

Mary stared at him, aghast. She made throat-cutting signals, shaking her head and mouthing no… no… no.

“Really?” carried on Jack. “Well, of course we are immensely proud of her now that she’s joined the NCD…. Of course…. DI Jack Spratt…. No, with two t’s…. That’s the one…. No, as I understand it, only one was a giant—the rest were just tall…. She didn’t?”

The conversation went on like this for quite a few minutes, with Mary sinking lower and lower in her seat.

“Well,” continued Jack, “you must come around for tea sometime. Myself and Mrs. Mary would be very pleased to meet you.” He paused again, put his hand over the phone and said to Mary,

“Where do we live?”

She glared at him, crossed her arms and said, “Basingstoke,” through gritted teeth.

“Basingstoke,” repeated Jack into the mobile. He laughed again. “No, we’re not at all ashamed. Call us anytime. Mary has the number. Same to you. Bye.”

He pressed the “end-call” button, shaking his head and smiling. He passed the mobile back and caught Mary’s eye as she gazed daggers at him.

“What? He sounds like a great guy. I think you should cut him a little slack.”

Mary wasn’t amused. “I thought you were going to get rid of him for me.”

Jack thought for a moment, trying to figure out a plausible excuse.

“No,” he said finally, “what I said was that I’d pretend to be your father. How did I do?”

Mary sighed. “Spookily accurate, sir.”

“DI Spratt?” said a pencil-thin woman who looked as if she’d escaped from the cover of a fashion magazine.

“Yes?” said Jack as they both stood.

“I am Miss Daley, the secretary to Mr. Grundy’s personal secretary’s assistant’s assistant.”

She shook both their hands.

“Welcome to Winsum and Loosum’s. Mr. Grundy is a busy man but understands the importance of police work. He has delayed a meeting in order to be able to grant you an audience.”

“How fantastically generous of him.”

“Mr. Grundy is always eager to assist the police in any way he can,” said the humorless assistant, who had somehow lost something on the road towards highly cultivated efficiency. She led them across the atrium and into one of the lifts, which then shot them upwards like an express train. It deposited them in a noiseless corridor that led to an oak-paneled boardroom with a large oval table in it. Two well-groomed executives were just leaving as they entered, one of whom Jack thought he recognized. They were efficiently introduced to Mr. Grundy by the assistant, who then seemed to melt away.

Solomon Grundy was everything Spongg was not. He had a limp handshake, a false smile and pallid features that surrounded a pair of eyes that were of the brightest blue but projected no emotion. His suit was hand-tailored from Savile Row but looked out of place on his large, bullnecked frame—he reminded Jack of a gangster desperate to be respectable. He wore a well-fitting toupée, and his hands were liberally covered with heavy gold jewelery.

Grundy had got to his feet as he welcomed Jack and Mary and offered them a seat on intentionally low chairs. He opened a silver cigar box and said, “Cigar? They’re Cuban.”