The Big Over Easy

Friedland was greeted by the usual standing ovation, which he modestly dismissed with a wave of the hand. There were a few technical questions about his new technique, regarding varying weights of the component parts of the cake and how far you might project a chocolate sprinkle when pronouncing “psoriasis,” something Chymes deftly answered with complicated diagrams on an overhead projector as DS Flotsam gave out printed copies of all the details.

Jack, Briggs and Mary were watching from the door of the anteroom.

“What am I doing here?” asked Jack. “I’ve got nothing really substantial to add—I don’t really know if Winkie’s death was even connected.”

“It’s from the seventh floor, Jack.” Briggs said it without enthusiasm. Someone was leaning on him.

“What’s going on, sir?”

Briggs looked down and rubbed his forehead. “The Guild is very powerful, Jack. I’m sorry.”

Before Jack could even begin to think what he might mean, Chymes strode past them as he walked out of the pressroom. He went back on to take a curtain call but then came off again, glared at Jack with a confident smile and said, “You want the heat, Jack? Try the fire.”

And he joined Flotsam and Barnes on the other side of the anteroom, where they attended to him as a manager looks after a boxer who has just come out of the ring.

Usually Jack waited for the journalists to file out, as they generally made a lot of noise, and if Archibald or anyone else was polite enough to stay, he would at least be heard. But today was different. Today no one filed out. There was silence. For a moment Jack thought Chymes was about to go back on, but he had already started to discuss the possibility of solving the Slough Thuggee cult murders in time for the early-evening news the following day.

“Sir,” said Mary as she leaned around the door to peer at their expectant faces, “I think they’re waiting for you.”

“That’s not possible,” replied Jack, his heart missing a beat. He looked at Briggs, who wouldn’t catch his eye. He’d clearly been set up.

“Shit.”

“What?” asked Mary.

“I’m going to be boned out there.”

“You can refuse to go on.”

“If it’s not now, it will be later. No, let’s get it over with.”

He walked on to the symphonic clatter of camera motor drives.

“Good afternoon,” he began, feeling what he imagined was something akin to bowel-moving stage fright. “My name is Detective Inspector Jack Spratt, and I am head of the Nursery Crime Division here at Reading Central. On Monday morning at approximately one A.M., Humperdinck Jehoshaphat Aloysius Stuyvesant van Dumpty was murdered by a person or persons unknown as he sat upon a wall at his place of work. He died instantly. At present we are unable to state a motive.”

Josh Hatchett asked, “How was he killed?”

“He was shot.”

A murmur went through the collected newsmen. So far this wasn’t going too badly.

“Do you have any suspects?”

“We have a woman named Elizabeth ‘Bessie’ Brooks. We will be issuing a photograph after the press conference. In a separate development, Mr. William Winkie, Humpty Dumpty’s next-door neighbor, was found murdered in Palmer Park this morning. We are not ruling out the possibility of a connection.”

“Is Mrs. Garibaldi-Dumpty’s suicide connected to Mr. Dumpty’s death?”

“It is a direct consequence of it, yes.”

Hector Sleaze had been staring at what looked like a hastily photocopied list of press cuttings.

“Detective, I wonder if you could confirm for me that you recently attempted to convict the three pigs of Mr. Wolff’s murder?”

Jack shuffled uneasily. Here it comes, he thought. “That is true, yes.”

A ripple of laughter went through the room, and Jack felt himself grow hot.

“And that this failed conviction cost the taxpayers a quarter of a million pounds?”

“I’m not aware of the precise figure.”

“Okay,” said Hector after a pause, “can you also confirm that you have the lowest conviction/investigation ratio of any department in Reading?”

“Without looking at the records, it would be difficult to say.”

“Then let me help you,” Sleaze muttered, looking through his list. “Sheep rustling from Miss Bo-peep. Two arrests, no charges. Failure to properly take care of livestock by ‘Boy’ Blue. One arrest, no charges. Cruelly putting a cat in a well. Johnny Flynn arrested, no charges brought. Kidnapping of Hansel and Gretel with intent to commit cannibalism. One arrest, no charges. Criminal spreading panic of sky falling. One arrest, no charges. Bluebeard. Died awaiting trial. ‘Goosey’ Gander, freed on appeal. Mr. Punch, arrested for wife battery, throwing a baby downstairs and illegal possession of a crocodile. All charges dropped.”

Hector put down the list. “I could go on. Not a very good record, is it, Inspector?”

Jack stared at him. If the Prosecution Service had proceeded, he could have brought convictions on a lot more occasions. If there had been a will to have them convicted.

“The NCD is a department fraught with—”