“Hello,” said Jack.
“Mary Mary,” said Mary Mary.
“Hello, hello?”
“Don’t play the fool, Spratt,” cut in Briggs.
“It’s Mary Mary,” explained Mary. “That’s my name.”
“Mary Mary? Where are you from? Baden-Baden?”
“First time I heard that one, sir — today.”
Jack sighed. He smiled mechanically, she smiled mechanically, and they shook hands.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” she said.
“And you,” replied Jack. “Who are you working with?”
She looked across at Briggs rather pointedly.
“Mary is your new detective sergeant,” said Briggs. “Transferred with an A-one record from Basingstoke. She’ll be with you on this case and any others that spring up.”
Jack sighed. “No offense to DS Mary, sir, but I was hoping you could promote Ashley, Baker, or — ”
“Not possible, Jack,” said Briggs in the tone of voice that made arguing useless. He looked up at the ominous sky. “Well, I’m off. I’ll leave you here with Mary so you can get acquainted. Remember: I need that report as soon as possible. Got it?”
Jack did indeed get it, and Briggs departed.
Jack shivered in the cold and looked at her again. “Mary Mary, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kind of an odd name.”
Mary bit her lip. It was a contentious point with her, and the years had not diminished the hot indignation of playground taunts regarding contrariness. It was an odd name, but she tried not to let her feelings show.
“It’s just my name, sir. I come from a long line of Mary Marys — sort of like a family tradition. Why,” she added, more defensively.
“is there a problem?”
“Not at all,” replied Jack, “as long as it’s not an affectation for the Guild’s benefit — Briggs was threatening to change his to Föngotskilérnie.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“Friedland Chymes’s investigations usually end up in print, as you know,” explained Jack, “and Briggs is habitually not referred to. He thought a strange name and a few odd habits might make him more … mentionworthy.”
“Hence the trombone?”
“Right.”
There was a short silence, during which Jack thought about who he would have preferred to have as his DS and Mary thought about her career.
“So the NCD disbanded?” she said, using her best woeful voice to make it sound like terribly bad news. “That would mean all the staff would have to be reassigned to other duties, right?”
“Along with the chairs and table lamps, yes, I suppose so.”
“When is this budgetary meeting?”
“The Thursday following next.”
Mary made a mental note. The sooner she could get away from this loser department, the better.
Jack turned his attention to the shattered remains of Humpty’s corpse.
Mary took her cue and flicked open her notepad. “Corpse’s name is — ”
“Humpty Dumpty.”
“You knew him?”
“Once,” Jack sighed, shaking his head sadly. “A very long time ago.”
Humpty’s ovoid body had fragmented almost completely and was scattered among the dustbins and rubbish at the far end of the yard. The previous night’s heavy rain had washed away his liquid center, but even so there was still enough to give off an unmistakably eggy smell. Jack noted a thin and hairless leg — still with a shoe and sock — attached to a small area of eggshell draped with tattered sheets of translucent membrane. The biggest piece of shell contained Humpty’s large features and was jammed between two dustbins. His face was a pale white except for the nose, which was covered in unsightly red gin blossoms. One of the eyes was open, revealing a milky-white unseeing eye, and a crack ran across his face. He had been wearing a tuxedo with a cravat or cummerbund — it was impossible to say which. The trauma was quite severe, and to an untrained eye his body might have been dismissed as a heap of broken eggshell and a bundle of damp clothing.
Jack knelt down to get a closer look. “Do we know why he’s all dressed up?”
Mary consulted her notebook. “He was at something called the Spongg Footcare Charity Benefit — ”
“What?” interrupted Jack. “The Spongg bash? Are you sure?”
“The invite was in his shirt pocket.”
“Hmm,” mused Jack. He would have to talk to Madeleine — she might even have a few pictures of him. “It was an expensive do. We’d better speak to someone who was there. We should also talk to his doctor and find out what we can about his health. Depression, phobias, illness, dizzy spells, vertigo — anything that might throw some light on his death.”
Jack peered more closely at Humpty’s features. He looked old, the ravages of time and excessive drinking having taken their toll. The face of the cadaver was a pale reflection of the last time they had met. Humpty had been a jolly chap then, full of life and jokes. Jack paused for a moment and stared silently at the corpse.
Mary, to whom every passing second was a second not spent furthering her career, had made a choice: She would keep her head down and then try to get a good posting when the division was disbanded. If she did really well with Jack, perhaps Chymes would take notice. Perhaps.
She said, “How did you know him?”
“He used to lecture on children’s literature and business studies at Reading University. Good company and very funny, but a bit of a crook. He was being investigated by the university in 1981 when Chymes and I questioned him — ”
“Whoa!” said Mary suddenly. “You worked for Friedland Chymes?”
“No,” replied Jack with a sigh, “Friedland and I worked together. You didn’t know he started at the NCD, did you?”
“No.”
“He doesn’t spread it around. I’ve had some good officers through here, but they don’t stay for long.”
“Really?” said Mary, as innocently as she could.
“Yes. It’s a springboard to better things — if you consider that anything is better than this. Unless you run it, in which case — ”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but Mary knew what he meant.
“So … how long have you been here?”
“Since 1978,” mused Jack, still staring at Humpty’s unseeing eye.
“Twenty-six years,” said Mary, perhaps with a little too much incredulity in her voice than she would have liked. Jack looked at her sharply, so she changed the subject.
“I heard Friedland Chymes was a joy to work with.”
“He’s an ambitious career officer who will lie, cheat and steal as he clambers over the rubble of used and discarded officers on his way to the top.”
“Boy, did I read that wrong,” she replied, not believing a word — she knew how the brightest stars always invoked jealousy from those left behind.
“Yes, you did. You’ve heard, I suppose, about the murder of Cock Robin?”
“No.”
Jack sighed. No one ever did these days. Chymes made certain of it. It had been two decades ago anyway.
“Well, it doesn’t matter — it’s ancient history. To get back to Humpty, Friedland and I questioned him about a racket in which he imported eight containerloads of spinning wheels the week before the government ban. The compensation deal netted him almost half a million, but he’d done nothing illegal. He was like that. Always up to something. Ducking and diving, bobbing and weaving. He was fired from the university when they suspected him of having his hands in the till.”
“They couldn’t fire him over suspicion, surely?”
“No, but he’d made the mistake of having an affair with the dean’s wife, and it didn’t go down too well. Last I heard of him, he had hit the sauce pretty badly and was into commodity speculation.”