Jack picked up the evidence bag that contained the shotgun and walked out the door.
The Nursery Crime Division, it seemed, didn’t generate many headlines—the framed news clippings that hung on the wall were just short, faded sections of newsprint culled from the few papers that carried the stories. There were clippings about Bluebeard’s arrest, Giorgio Porgia, the notorious crime boss, and several others, going back over four decades. Uniquely, there was one regarding the Gingerbreadman from the front page of The Toad, but since it described Jack as “Chymes’s assistant,” Mary could understand why it was the least prominent.
“I figured you were a coffee person,” said a voice. Mary turned to find the young constable she had seen earlier at Grimm’s Road doing house-to-house. They had spoken, but only about work. She didn’t even know his name.
“Thank you,” replied Mary, taking the coffee gratefully and waving a hand at the press cuttings. “What do you know about all this?”
“Before I was even born,” replied Tibbit, “but according to Gretel, the Giorgio Porgia collar was more DI Spratt’s than Chymes’s. The Super got funny about it when things got dirty. No one gives a damn about the nurseries as long as they kill one another. Porgia made the mistake of taking out real people. The Guv’nor had all the evidence, but Chymes closed the case—and got the credit.”
“No wonder Jack doesn’t like him.”
“It goes back further than that. He doesn’t talk about it much.”
Mary’s mobile started ringing. She dug it out of her pocket and looked at the Caller ID. Arnold again.
“This is a guy named Arnold,” said Mary, handing the still-ringing phone to Tibbit. “Can you tell him I’m dead?”
Tibbit frowned doubtfully but took the phone and pressed the answer button anyway.
“Hello, Arnold?” he said. “PC Tibbit here. I’m afraid to tell you that DS Mary has been killed in an accident.” He winced as he said it, and there was a pause as he listened to what Arnold had to say. “Yes, it was very tragic and completely unexpected.” He listened again for a moment. “That’s no problem, I’ll tell her. Good day.”
He pressed the end-call button and handed the mobile back.
“He said he was very sorry to hear about your accident and he’ll call you later. I don’t think he believed me.”
“No, it’s going to take more than my death to put him off, but thanks anyway. What’s your name?”
“Constable Tibbit.”
“Sergeant Mary Mary,” said Mary, shaking Tibbit’s hand,
“pleased to meet you.”
The young officer thought hard for a moment, then said, “Arrange a… symmetry.”
Mary arched an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
He didn’t answer for a moment but again thought hard and finally said in triumph, “Many… martyrs agree.”
“Are you okay?”
“Of course!” replied the young constable brightly. “It’s an anagram. If you take ‘Sergeant Mary Mary’ and rearrange the letters you get ‘Arrange a symmetry’ or ‘Many martyrs agree.’ The trick is to have them make sense. I could have given you ‘My matey arrangers’ or ‘My artery managers,’ but they sort of sound like anagrams, don’t you think?”
“If you say so.”
She had thought that perhaps Tibbit might have been a life raft of normality that she could somehow cling to for sanity, but that hope was fast retreating. It was little wonder he had been allocated to the division.
“It’s a palindrome,” continued the young constable.
“Sorry?”
“Tibbit. Easy to remember. Reads the same backwards as forwards. Tibbit.”
Mary raised an eyebrow. “You mean, like ‘Rats live on no evil star’?”
He nodded his head excitedly. “I prefer the more subtle ones, myself, ma’am, such as ‘A man, a plan, a canal, Panama.’”
Mary sighed. “Sure you’re in the right job?”
Tibbit appeared crestfallen at this, so Mary changed the subject.
“How long have you been here?”
“Six months. I was posted down here for three months, but I think they’ve forgotten about me. I don’t mind,” he added quickly.
“I like it.”
“First name?”
“Otto,” he replied, then added by way of explanation, “Palindrome as well. My sister’s name is Hannah. Father liked word games. He was fourteen times world Scrabble champion. When he died, we buried him at Queenzieburn to make use of the triple word score. He spent the greater part of his life campaigning to have respelt those words that look as though they are spelt wrongly but aren’t.”
“Such as…?”
“Oh, skiing, vacuum, freest, eczema, gnu, diarrhea, that sort of thing. He also thought that ‘abbreviation’ was too long for its meaning, that ‘monosyllabic’ should have one syllable, ‘dyslexic’ should be renamed ‘O’ and ‘unspeakable’ should be respelt ‘unsfzpxkable.’
“How did he do?”
“Apart from the latter, which has met with limited success, not very well.”
Mary’s eyes narrowed. She feared she was having her leg pulled, but the young man seemed to be sincere.
“Okay. Here’s the deal. You stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours. Get me St. Cerebellum’s number and make Jack a cup of coffee.”
8. The Armony
The Forensic Department in Reading was an independent lab and covered all aspects of forensic technology as well as being an R&D lab for Friedland Chymes’s sometimes eccentric forensic techniques. The department serviced not only the Oxford & Berkshire Constabulary but also the Wiltshire and Hampshire forces, too. Chymes had insisted long ago that they should be close enough for personal visits, which always made for more dramatic stories than sending material off and receiving technical reports in return. It pissed off Inspector Moose in Oxford no end, but that might have been the reason Chymes did it.
—Excerpt from Chymes—Friend or Foe?
The armory and ballistics division was run by George Skinner. He was a large man with a bad stoop, graying hair and a permanent hangdog expression. He wore pebble specs and a shabby herring-bone suit that seemed as though he had inherited it from his father. Looks can be deceptive and were definitely so in Skinner’s case. Not only was he an inspired ballistics and weapons expert, able to comment expertly and concisely on everything from a derringer to a bazooka, he was also highly watchable in the documentaries that often followed one of Chymes’s investigations. But despite his somewhat sober appearance, he was also a lively fixture of Reading’s nightlife. He could outdrink almost anyone, and if there was a report of someone dancing naked on the tables down at the Blue Parrot, you could bet safe money it was Skinner.