“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—”
“In fact,” continued Hector, “I can only find sixteen successful convictions in the twenty years you have been heading the Nursery Crime Division. One every fifteen months. Friedland Chymes convicts that many every five weeks.”
It was an unfair comparison, and Jack clenched his jaw. Friedland had been busy.
“The NCD, Mr. Sleaze, is a unique area of policing where an understanding of the problems of the characters involved often allows me to stop things before they get out of—”
“Inspector Spratt, are you competent to run Mr. Dumpty’s murder investigation or are you really trying to work beyond your capabilities?”
“There is no doubt,” said Jack slowly, “that this case falls strictly within the NCD’s jurisdiction.”
“Do you think Chymes might have been able to secure a conviction of the three pigs?”
He would, of course. Juries considered it an honor to work with Chymes. But Jack had paused in his answer, and it gave him away.
“I take that as a yes, Inspector. Do you think it would be prudent to hand over the investigation to Chymes so we might see some headway?”
“I am completely in control of the investigation,” replied Jack hurriedly, answering for answering’s sake and wanting to be out of that room as soon as possible. But they weren’t done. They had been well primed. The newspaper headlines were already written, Chymes had made sure of it—and it would sell papers. Lots of them. Jack glanced over to where Briggs was staring at him from the side door. Beyond him Jack could see Friedland Chymes wearing a look of ill-disguised delight. The last detective who had tried to usurp Chymes’s dominance of Reading Central and refused to relinquish a case had been a bright spark named Drood. He had been transferred to the unrelenting tedium of the Missing Persons Bureau.
“DI Spratt,” resumed Hector, “I understand you have killed several giants in the past, and I would like to ask what you have against people of large stature?”
Jack resisted the temptation to tell Mr. Sleaze to poke his accusations up his nose, took a deep breath and said instead, “I was exonerated of all blame, Mr. Sleaze. The report is a matter of public record. Besides, only one of them was technically a giant. The others were just tall. Are there any more questions?”
“Yes,” said Sleaze. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate for you to invite a senior officer to assist with the investigation? Someone with talent and an impeccable clear-up rate? Someone like DCI Chymes, for instance?”
It went on in this vein for another twenty minutes until, hot and sweaty and almost shaking, Jack managed to escape.
Briggs and Friedland were talking to each other in the corner of the anteroom but broke off as soon as he entered.
“If you want to relinquish control of the Humpty investigation right now,” said Chymes in a very businesslike manner, “I’m sure a way can be found to stop the undeniably harmful headlines from being published tomorrow morning.”
“For the good of Reading Central, I would have thought you might do that anyway,” retorted Jack.
“Oh, no,” said Chymes airily. “My control over the press is extremely limited.” He turned to Briggs. “Sir, I think you should take Spratt off the Humpty investigation.”
Briggs bit his lip.
“Sir?” said Chymes again. “I think you should order—”
“I heard what you said. If there is no headway by Saturday night, you can have it.”
“But I want it now!” yelled Chymes like a petulant schoolboy.
“It’s mine, and I want it!”
Briggs rankled visibly. Jack had often seen Briggs start to get pissed off at him, but never at Chymes.
“I gave my word, Friedland.”
“Even so—”
“Even so nothing,” said Briggs sternly. “I am your supervisory officer, and I give you orders, not the other way around. Do you understand?”
“Of course, sir,” said Chymes, surprised and taken aback by Briggs’s actually daring to stand up to him. “Did I read somewhere that you play the trombone? An Urdu-speaking, trombone-playing superintendent strikes me as just the sort of character the readers of Amazing Crime Stories might be—”
“Friedland?” interrupted Briggs.
“Sir?”
“Get out of my sight.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.”
Chymes went scarlet, turned tail and strode angrily from the room, his minions at his heels.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jack as soon as they had left.
“What the hell,” said Briggs, deflated. “I hate the trombone, and I’ve put in my thirty years. You’ve got until Saturday.”
And he was gone, leaving Mary and Jack in the empty anteroom. Next door they could hear the journalist from the Reading Daily Eyestrain snoring.
“Things are going to get hot, Mary. Sure you don’t want that transfer?”
“Not for anything, sir. You, I and the NCD are disbanded together.”