The big over easy

She sat down on the chaise longue again.

“How I prattle so! You must be busy. Is there anything else that I can do for you?”

“Only if you can think of one particular girlfriend of Humpty’s that he might have liked enough to marry.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve no idea.”

Jack stood up. “Well, I think that’s it for now.”

“For now?”

“You don’t mind if I come back should any other questions arise?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Just one more thing. Would you sign Brown-Horrocks’s clipboard? I know he wants you to.”

They thanked her and left. As soon as Lola had closed the door, she put a worried hand to her face, strode quickly to the window and raised the blind. She then picked up the telephone.

“It’s Lola,” she said. “He suspects.”

39. The Red Ford Zephyr

RED HERRING USE TO BE CONTROLLED

Blatant red herrings and overused narrative blind alleys could land a detective in hot water if the Limited Narrative Misdirection bill becomes law later this year. The controversial new law called for by readers’ groups has few friends among the Guild of Detectives, which still maintains that there is “no problem” and that self-regulatory guidelines prepared in 1904 are “more than adequate.” “We’re not asking much,” explained a representative of the twenty-million-member readers’ lobbying group TecWatch. “We just want to see good investigations — not routine rubbish padded out with inconsequential nonsense.” The bill follows the successful passing of the so-called surprise assailant act last year, which outlawed the publication of investigations where the murderer is suddenly revealed two pages from the end without a single mention in the previous one hundred thousand words.

Extract from The Owl, October 1, 1979

Spongg Villas was only a ten-minute walk from Reading Central, and by the time they got back, there had been a development.

“We’ve just had an anonymous phone call with info on Humpty’s car,” said Gretel, talking to Jack but looking at Brown-Horrocks.

“Who from?”

“They didn’t say. Male caller from a phone box in Charvil. Gave the information and then rang off.”

“Headway at last. Whereabouts?”

They stepped closer to the Reading and District wall map, which had to be hung sideways as it was the only way it would fit on the tiny wall.

“They said it could be found…” muttered Gretel, looking at the address on the piece of paper and finally jabbing a finger perilously close to the edge of Andersen’s Wood. “Here.”

Jack looked at the place Gretel had indicated. There were no houses within a mile in any direction.

“Right. Mary and I are going out to have a look. Check out the owners of the closest houses and see if you can spot any link.”

The crossroads where they’d been told they could find the Zephyr was in a rural setting to the west of the city, from where they could easily see Andersen’s Wood on the next hill. A single signpost with peeling paint sat forlornly at the roadside, and there was no evidence of habitation in any direction. After the bustle of the town over the past few days, the peace of the country was a welcome diversion. The roar of the M4 had been soothed into a gentle rumble by the distance, and for once it wasn’t raining.

They stopped the car and got out. Brown-Horrocks had been in the passenger seat, but the small car had not been designed to fit his lanky frame, and he had sat the whole journey with his knees almost around his ears.

“When do you get your vintage Rolls-Royce back from the garage?” he asked. “I don’t think much of their loaner.”

“Next week,” replied Jack as he pulled on a coat against the wind and looked up and down the empty road. “I don’t see a car anywhere.”

“Hoax?”

“Could be. But let’s be sure. You take that road, I’ll take this one. Search as you go.”

They went their separate ways, with Brown-Horrocks walking behind Jack and asking occasional questions.

“Are you an alcoholic or a reformed alcoholic?”

“Reformed… but with occasional lapses,” said Jack, hazarding a guess as to what would be most acceptable to the Guild.

“Good,” said Brown-Horrocks, making another note.

It was Mary who made the discovery. A rickety-looking Quonset hut in a field that was mostly overgrown by brambles. She called Jack over, opened the gate and walked over to the hut. Its doors had sagged and were fastened with a rusty hasp that was secured by a tent peg. Jack carefully lifted out the peg and let the doors swing open. The hut was dry and the floor made of compacted soil; the brambles that covered the outside had also forced holes in the corrugated iron roof and were now starting to take over the interior as well. Sitting in the middle of the hut and looking as clean and new as when it was built was the Zephyr.

Mary delicately tried the doors. “Locked.”

“He had no car keys on him,” said Jack. “Try the tailpipe.”

Mary walked to the back of the car as Jack cupped his hands around his face and peered in the window.

The driver’s seat was converted for Humpty’s unusual shape, looking a bit like a padded egg cup with a high back. The pedals were all on extensions for his little legs, and the gearshift had been elongated to compensate for his short arm reach.

“Bingo,” said Mary, holding up a set of car keys. She inserted one into the door and unlocked it. She grasped the handle and opened the door.

“RUN, FOR GOD’S SAKE, RUN!” yelled Jack, sprinting out of the makeshift garage at full speed and hoping that Mary and Brown-Horrocks were behind him. He got as far as the middle of the road when the car exploded. He didn’t hear the sound at first, just a shock wave that scooped him up off his feet like an unseen hand and propelled him through the air to the ditch at the other side of the road, where he landed with a thump that knocked the wind out of him. He covered his head with his arms as a shower of debris rained down and a sheet of twisted corrugated iron fell close beside him. His ears were ringing, and in the momentary semideafness that followed, all sounds seemed dead and lacking in detail. He got up, checked he wasn’t damaged and divested himself of his singed overcoat. The remains of the car were fiercely ablaze, and the roadway was covered with wreckage. He appeared, apart from a cut on his face from where he had landed in the ditch, unharmed.

“Are you okay?” he asked Mary, who had landed a half dozen paces from him.

“I think so,” she replied as she dusted herself down. It was only when Jack started to think clearly again that he remembered there was someone missing.

“Brown-Horrocks?” he said, quietly at first, scanning the roadway for any sign of life. “BROWN-HORROCKS!” he said again, this time louder as he ran towards the shattered building with a sinking feeling. Of the Guild examiner there was no sign, and the car looked as if someone had tried to inflate it with an air hose. The roof bulged outwards, and all the doors had blown off.

“BROWN-HORROCKS!” he yelled once more, now looking around the wreckage for any clue as to what had happened to him, no matter how gruesome.

“Where is he?” asked Mary, who’d arrived by Jack’s side.

“I don’t know. Shit. Killing a Guild examiner. And he was a giant. I’ll never live this down at the station.”

“I’m six foot nine,” came an indignant voice behind them. “I’m not a giant.”

They turned to find him staggering up from the side of the road. He had been thrown in a quite different