“Don’t think much of these alien-visitor johnnies,” he said, his red nose almost a hazard to shipping. “Who invited them here anyway?”
“We did,” replied Jack, “by transmitting all those seventies sitcoms. I think they wanted to find out why we never did a third series of Fawlty Towers. Excuse me.”
He found his mother standing on the lawn staring at the beanstalk. It was a cold, clear night, and the moon had come up, which somehow made the plant seem all the more remarkable. Just next to the potting shed, five separate dark green stalks had grown from the earth and fused into what appeared to be a large and complex plait that reached almost twelve feet into the air. Already leaves had started to unfurl on smaller stalks that radiated from the main trunk, and small pods had appeared with tiny vestigial beans inside.
“Isn’t it just the most beautiful thing ever?” asked his mother, her breath visible in the crisp air.
Jack took an eager step forward and then stopped himself. For a fleeting moment he’d felt a strange impulse to climb it. He shook himself free of the urge and said, “Stupendous! All this growth in one day?”
She nodded.
“And the party?”
“You know, I was fearful at first about the beanstalk. I thought of the harm it could do to the foundations, the value it might take off the house, that kind of thing. But then all of a sudden I thought, What the hell! and woke up to how extraordinary it was. And do you know, I’m really quite fond of it. I’m having a botanist here tomorrow to have a look.” She glanced around at her friends. “Someone brought over some hooch. I’m afraid to say we’re all a little tipsy.”
Jack sighed. “Does this mean you want to keep it?”
“Why not? Is it doing any harm?”
Jack had to admit that it wasn’t—yet. They both gazed at it for a moment. It quivered every now and then as growing stresses were released; they could almost see it grow larger in front of their eyes. His mother shivered in the cold air, and Jack draped his jacket over her shoulders.
“Do you think it’s self-pollinating?” she asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Are you sure you want to keep it?”
Mrs. Spratt patted her son’s hand reassuringly “Let’s leave it a couple of days. We can make a decision then.”
They went indoors, where his mum’s friends harangued him about the positioning of speed cameras until he was finally able to tear himself away.
When he got home, everything was peaceful. The young children were all asleep, Madeleine was in her darkroom, and Pandora was reading in the living room. Apart from the quiet sound of Prometheus playing a sad lament on his lute in the spare room, all was calm in the Spratt household. Jack went into his study, switched on his desk lamp and stared at his iQuang computer. It took him another hour to finish his report. The next morning at ten, he would present it to Briggs and officially close the case.
Or so he thought.
23. Mary’s Doubts
DOG WALKERS FACE BODY-FINDING BAN
Citizens who find a corpse while walking their dog may be fined if proposed legislation is made law, it was disclosed yesterday. The new measures, part of the Criminal Narrative Improvement Bill, have been drafted to avoid investigations looking clichéd once they reach the docudrama stage. Other offenses covered by the act will be motorists declaiming in a huffy tone, “Why don’t you catch burglars/real criminals for a change?” when caught speeding, if there is a documentary crew in attendance. Civil libertarians, motorist groups and dog walkers are said to be “outraged.”
—From Amazing Crime Stories editorial, December 9, 1997
Mary couldn’t sleep. She sat in the bedroom of her dilapidated flying boathouse and watched the rippled patterns the light made on the ceiling. Chymes seemed confident that the Humpty case hadn’t ended, and that bothered her. It shouldn’t have been any of her business, and that bothered her, too. At six-thirty she got up, showered and drove into Reading while it was still dark, the languid movements of late revelers and the bustle of early tradesmen the only activity in the sleeping town.
She had a coffee with the end of the night shift and at 8:00 A.M. went over to the Forensic Department to see if Skinner was by chance an early riser. He wasn’t, but she wanted to speak to him, so she sat outside his office until he arrived, coffee and papers in hand. He still had his bicycle clips on.
“I’m DS Mary,” she said. “I’m working with DI Spratt.”
She had expected a smirk when she said it but didn’t get one. Skinner was one of the friendlies.
“A fine man is Jack. Come on inside.”
He unlocked the door and let them both in. The strip lights flickered on, making Mary blink after the dinginess of the corridor.
“So,” said Skinner, guessing her intention almost immediately, “more questions over the Humpty murder? Or is it about Mrs. Dumpty?”
“Both.”
He pulled off his bicycle clips. “Shoot.”
“Five shots had been fired from Mrs. Dumpty’s .32,” she began,
“yet we can only account for one. What happened to the other four?”
But Skinner didn’t seem particularly puzzled.
“The fact they were missing from the clip means nothing, Mary. She might never even had loaded them.”
“So it’s not suspicious?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What about not finding the spent cartridge in Winkie’s garden?”
“Shells are often picked up by astute criminals, Mary. It’s fairly common knowledge that we can match a cartridge to a gun as easily as we can match a slug—often easier. Perps often use revolvers for just that reason.”
“What about a .32 caliber being able to destroy Humpty?”
He scratched his head. “I tend to agree with Mrs. Singh—I would have thought a larger caliber. He was very badly damaged. But we’re both guessing. Data on bullets going through large eggs is a little bit in short supply, as you might imagine.”
“But if we had the spent slug?”
“Oh, yes.” Skinner smiled. “If we had that, we could know for sure.”
Mary thanked him and moved to go, but Skinner laid a hand on her wrist.
“Be careful, Mary.”
“How do you mean?”
“Just that things are sometimes not always what they seem.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re new to Reading and new to Jack. Don’t underestimate him. He’s a better man than most people give him credit for.”
“I still don’t understand.”