The Big Over Easy

Jack shrugged. Mary was right. The case was as clear as it could be, and that was good, because that was what he was there for. But from a purely selfish viewpoint, he felt somehow cheated. Murder inquiries didn’t come around every week, and he had hoped this one would make up for the pig fiasco. It had welcomed him in with open arms, only to spit him out half chewed. The mystery—such as it was—had rapidly devolved to just another crime of passion, an act of desperation that destroyed two lives and ruined countless others. The investigation was over and with it, as likely as not, him and the NCD. He imagined that this was how Friedland felt when a plum mystery collapsed into a simple case of robbery in front of him. And feeling like Chymes made him feel even worse. Besides, he needed a case like this more than at any time before. To prove to Briggs and his blasted budgetary meeting, if not to himself.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Sir?”

“Shit,” he reiterated slightly louder, “and bollocks.”

He sighed, finally coming to terms with the fact that the inquiry was over.

“There are always a few unanswered questions at the end of an investigation, Mary. But this one’s over, and I’d be clutching at straws to think otherwise. Now, I’d better get this sewn up all nice and neat, just as Briggs wants it.”

To say that Ashley, Baker and Kandlestyk-Maeker were disappointed would be a severe understatement. This investigation was a holiday from their usual dull duties, and they grumbled and moaned as Jack told them the news.

“We’re waiting for the results of handwriting analysis before we can officially close the case, so I want all notes spick and span by ten tomorrow.”

“Sir—” began Ashley, but Jack silenced him with a gesture.

“Is this a pertinent question regarding the inquiry?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then. Let’s just keep ourselves to ourselves for a bit and catch up on paperwork. Where’s Otto?”

“Still trying to ID the man in those photographs we found in Humpty’s desk, I think.”

“Better get him back.”

Ashley and Gretel looked at each other and sat down quietly to do his bidding, as Mary slipped out the door.

Jack flicked through the message slips stuck to his telephone. There was a request from Bo-peep, who had once again lost her sheep, and another message from the Allegro Owners’ Club asking whether he had checked the torque settings on the wheel bearings. There were several from his mother, the last one of which was marked “urgent.”

Blast! he said to himself. He had forgotten to do anything about the bean refund. He picked up the phone and rang the Paint Box and was informed by a very helpful assistant that Mr. Foozle had departed unexpectedly and at very short notice to London, where he was to attend a Stubbs auction; he wouldn’t be back until Friday. She knew nothing about the beans and had no idea why Foozle would be going to a Stubbs auction, at short notice or otherwise. Jack put the receiver down and stared at his computer terminal blankly. Something about the whole Humpty affair felt wrong, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Sadly, “hunches” and “feelings” didn’t really sit well with Briggs—unless you were Guild, in which case you could base a thousand-man-hour investigation on one.

“1000 010011 1010010 10010,” said Ashley in hushed tones on Gretel’s phone in the next room. “10010 11010 00100111 1011.”

“Are you talking to your mother on the office phone?” bellowed Jack.

“Sorry,” said a sheepish voice, and all was quiet. Jack stared at his “four-and-twenty blackbirds” screensaver in a desultory manner until he left to go to the Jellyman security briefing.

While Jack was attending the briefing along with all the other officers of inspector rank and above, Mary was sitting in the Platters Coffeehouse, feeling a bit nervous—and annoyed. From the way things looked, her chances of working with Chymes had been seriously scuppered, and she might have risked her reputation for being trustworthy for nothing if Chymes decided to drop her. If it got out that she had acted behind the back of her senior officer, she’d probably have to transfer to the sheep-theft unit in Lerwick or something. Chymes must have been wrong about the Humpty case, but it didn’t matter. She had fulfilled her part of the bargain—she hoped he would fulfill his. She took a sip of coffee and flicked through her notes. She had even photocopied Mrs. Dumpty’s confession.

“Mary?” said Flotsam, who was approaching with a coffee of his own. “You don’t mind me calling you Mary? You can call me Eddie if you want.”

She smiled and invited him to join her.

“How’s it going?” asked Flotsam.

“Haven’t you heard? The ex-wife killed him. Motive, opportunity and, best of all, a note.”