The big over easy

was true but what was provable.

“I’ll concede it’s a bit flimsy, sir.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“It’s more than flimsy,” said Briggs at length, “it’s blessed inconvenient. I’ve got a roomful of press who want to hear exactly how Spongg murdered Humpty.”

“Can I make a suggestion?” asked Brown-Horrocks.

“Certainly,” said Briggs.

“I’ve spoken to the editors at Amazing Crime Stories and they’re very taken with the whole chiropody/bioterrorism/nursery rhyme angle, so they’ll go with what you’ve got — sight unseen. I suggest that you make it seem to readers as if Spongg did kill Humpty. I’m sorry to say that publication might be seriously compromised if there were any complications, false endings or unresolved plot threads.”

There was silence.

“He’s right,” said Briggs. “Without Spongg in custody, the case remains open anyway. If we announce the findings that Brown-Horrocks suggests, it’ll be good for the force — and good for your Guild application.”

Jack didn’t say anything, so Briggs, sensing reticence, continued: “I’ve had the Chief Constable on to me twice today already. He thinks we should keep the NCD and promote you to DCI. The Chief is not happy that Chymes fabricated the entire Andersen’s Wood murder case and feels that we should advance someone from within the Reading force just in case. He is prepared to offer you all the help and assistance that might be required to make the NCD as much of a success as DCI Chymes was. Times change, Jack, and we have to change with them. Public approval is a currency we cannot afford to fritter away. Of course, this would all depend on your ability to play ball. You’ve moved up a notch, Jack. The stakes are bigger — but then so are the rewards.”

Briggs and Brown-Horrocks looked at him expectantly.

Jack thought for a moment and stared at the floor. He’d like the respect, the kudos, the extra cash, the parking place. He’d also like to make DCI. But most of all he wanted the NCD to stay as it was. Yet if he’d learned anything over the past few days, it was that Amazing Crime Stories and the Guild had no place attempting to make murder, tragedy and violence marketable commodities for the edification of the masses — that and never go near a thirty-seven-kilo verruca.

“This must have been how it all began with Chymes,” sighed Jack. “A small omission on one case, an ‘embellishment’ on the next. The question is not about what’s best but what’s right. Chymes had confused the two and compromised not only his own integrity but that of the police — and the due process of law. I’ll let you have a full report on Humpty by Monday morning, along with my recommendations regarding Solomon Grundy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go and thank the team.”

Jack walked down the corridor to the elevator and pressed the “call” button. He turned to Mary.

“You know, Sergeant, principles cost money. And if I’ve learned anything over the past few days, it’s — ”

“Sir,” interrupted Mary before he could embark on what would doubtless have been a very boring speech about moral relativism, “do you really believe that Grundy had Humpty killed?”

“I’m afraid so. But Briggs is right. Proving it will be tough. We’ll have to get a confession from the hit man himself, implicating Grundy.”

“We can start to delve on Monday, sir.”

Brown-Horrocks dashed up to them as the lift doors opened.

“I’m not going to change my mind,” said Jack.

“No, no,” said Brown-Horrocks quickly, “the day is not yet over, and my observational duties include your personal life — although from what you’ve told me about your regrettably abstemious and monogamous existence, there doesn’t seem to be much of interest. Still, orders are orders.”

Ashley, Tibbit, Baker and Gretel applauded Jack and Mary as they walked into the NCD offices and gave them some real champagne, but in plastic cups. It was too small in there even with Ashley stuck to the ceiling, so Brown-Horrocks and Gretel stepped outside to the corridor, where there was more headroom for them both. They looked at each other again. Brown-Horrocks was the first person Gretel had ever had to look up to, and she was the tallest woman Brown-Horrocks had ever seen — and, to him, the most beautiful.

“You’re the most… tall woman I have ever laid eyes upon,” said Brown-Horrocks after a long pause.

Gretel said nothing, went all shy and didn’t know what to do with her hands.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I like your overalls.”

“Well,” said Jack, clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention, “any news about Spongg?”

“Latest report,” said Baker, who had a large bandage on his leg but didn’t seem to be in any pain at all, “is that the French Coast Guard found the wreckage of a light aircraft floating off the Normandy coast. They’ll know more when the search continues tomorrow at first light.”

“Well, then,” said Jack, holding his cup aloft, “this is to all of us — and teamwork. Each and every one of you was exemplary. Long after we are ashes and the great adventures of this small department are chronicled for all to see, people will — ”

“DI Spratt?” came a low voice from the door, interrupting what also might have turned out to be a long and tiresome speech. They turned to see three men dressed in dark suits and gray macs. They had sunglasses on and were unmistakably Secret Service.

“That’s me.”

They looked him up and down. Dressed in the blue overalls he seemed more like a decorator. “You have something we want, Inspector.”

“Something of extreme value,” said the second.

“A goose,” said the third, who was holding a pet carrier.

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Jack, who didn’t like the idea of giving anything to the Secret Service, especially something that lived and breathed.

“I don’t really think that’s any of your concern,” said the one who had spoken first.

“It will be studied by top scientists,” said the second.

“Top scientists,” repeated the one with the pet carrier. “Where is it?”

Jack sighed. “Okay, who’s got the goose?”

Tibbit led them into the filing room, where there was a sheet of plastic on the floor and a large cardboard box lined with straw. The goose hissed as the third man grabbed it roughly by the neck and bundled it unceremoniously into the pet carrier. It managed to bite him, much to Jack’s and Tibbit’s delight, and the other agent took the four golden eggs and placed them in a bag.

“She will be well looked after, won’t she?” asked Tibbit, who had grown quite fond of the bird.

“They’ll want to know how she does it,” said the second.

“Don’t worry, kid,” said the third, “they’re all experts. This is for you.”

And he handed Jack a receipt for one goose and four golden eggs.

He gave a cruel laugh, and they were all gone without another word.

“Sir,” said Tibbit in a hoarse whisper, “I must tell you something.”

“Yes?”

“They’re going to take the goose apart to see how it works and find that it’s just a goose, aren’t they?”

“In NCD work you can never be a hundred percent sure the way events might be interpreted, but yes, it seems likely.”

He faltered for a moment, unsure of how to put it. Finally he said, “One goose looks a lot like another, don’t you think?”

Jack smiled. “Yes,” he replied, “I daresay it does. But I know nothing and don’t wish to know anything. If anyone swapped the goose, good luck to them as long as they use that wealth wisely. If they don’t, then I just might wish to get involved.”

Tibbit smiled. “Thank you, sir.”