“Who called you?” asked Jack, suddenly alert.
“Ashley,” replied Mary. “He said the whole station was in an uproar; Briggs was running around barking orders at people—and sometimes just barking.”
“And that’s what worries me,” said Jack, thanking Dorian and walking briskly from his office.
“That Briggs is rusty when it comes to panic?”
“No. I was the original arresting officer. The Gingerbreadman is clearly NCD—why didn’t they call us first?”
6. The Gingerbreadman Is Out
Most dangerous baked object: A hands-down win for the Gingerbreadman, incarcerated at St. Cerebellum’s secure hospital for the criminally deranged since 1984. He is currently serving a four-hundred-year sentence for the murder and torture of his 104 known victims; his crimes easily outrank those of the second-most-dangerous baked object, a fruitcake accidentally soaked in weed killer instead of sherry by Mrs. Austen of Pembridge, then served up to members of the Women’s Federation during a talk about the remedial benefits of basket weaving. The final death toll is reputed to have been 62.
Jack insisted they take his new Allegro, and a few minutes later they were heading out of town to the south and the little village of Arborfield. Mary tuned in the wireless and heard a news bulletin on RadioToadReading informing everyone exactly why they should be panicking and what form this panicking should take. The broadcasts were uncannily successful, and in a few short hours a state of fear had descended on the town, with normally sensible citizens running around like headless chickens and generally behaving like idiots.
Because of this the roads and streets were spookily empty. Mary and Jack passed almost no one until they arrived at a police roadblock just outside the village, from where they parked the car and walked past TV-network vans and police mobile-incident trucks. They ducked under a Do Not Cross barrier and after a few hundred yards were met by such a scene of unrestrained violence and aggression that Mary, with never the strongest stomach, had to do a rapid about-face and tell Jack she’d see him later.
The St. Cerebellum’s van that had transported the Gingerbreadman was lying on its side with the rear doors torn off. The bodies of the three who died instantly were still there, uncovered, being photographed. Already SOCO had started to record everything at the crime scene. The Gingerbreadman had undertaken the gruesome attack with a ferocity at least equal to or even greater than when he was last at liberty. A torn-off arm lay in the street, and the body of a man in a suit lay in an awkward position, half out of the passenger seat of the van. It looked as though he had been twisted until he broke.
“Shit,” muttered Jack under his breath. It was worse than he imagined. The memories of twenty years came back in a flurry of painful, unwanted images.
“Spratt?” said a familiar voice behind him. It was Superintendent Briggs, Jack’s immediate superior. A middle-aged man with a well-developed paunch, he had kindly eyes and one of those anachronistic comb-over hairstyles to disguise the fact he was going bald, but it fooled no one. Although Jack was head of the NCD, Briggs acted as his liaison with the rest of the force and had the power to tell him to drop any case he didn’t feel was worth pursuing. Their relationship usually swung between hot and cold, and Briggs had made it his sworn duty to suspend Jack at least once during any investigation, more for dramatic effect than anything else.
“Good morning, sir, we came as quick as we could,” responded Jack, noticing that Briggs was with DI Copperfield, a contemporary of Jack’s who worked CID at Reading Central.
“We?” asked Briggs, looking around.
“Mary’s not too good with bodies, sir—I think she’s honking up in the bushes. Good morning, David.”
“Jack,” replied Copperfield cheerily. He was the same age as Jack but looked younger than their shared forty-five years. His boyish good looks and absence of gray meant he could easily pass for thirty, and frequently did.
“You caught him the last time,” Briggs said to Jack. “Your experience in this matter might be invaluable.”
“When did he escape?”
“Ninety-seven minutes ago,” replied Copperfield. “Killed two male nurses and his doctor with his bare hands. The other three orderlies who accompanied him are critical in the hospital.”
“Critical?”
“Yes. Don’t like the food, beds uncomfortable, waiting lists too long—usual crap. Other than that they’re fine.”
This was big. Bigger than anything Jack had handled. The last time the Gingerbreadman was at large, Jack was partnered with Friedland Chymes. But ex-DCI Chymes was now gone—retired under accusations of cowardice. This was up to Jack and Jack alone. Or so he thought. He took a deep breath.
“I’m going to need more manpower,” he began, counting off the items on his fingers, “more than we’ve ever had on an NCD inquiry. Plus forensic resources, overtime and…”
His voice trailed off as he saw Briggs stare at the ground. He knew then why they hadn’t called him.
“Jack,” said Briggs slowly, “this won’t be your investigation.”
Jack looked at Briggs, then at Copperfield, who looked away, faintly embarrassed.
“I don’t understand.”
“Which part of ‘not your investigation’ don’t you understand?” asked Briggs with well-practiced acerbic wit. He was learning it at night school.
“The ‘not your investigation’ part. I’m Nursery Crime Division. This is the Gingerbreadman. My jurisdiction. The NCD has much experience in these matters.”
“Unarguably,” replied Briggs uncompromisingly, “which is why I want you to give Copperfield all the help you can.”
“David is leading this?” asked Jack, the incredulity in his voice making the remark a question about ability. Copperfield was a nice guy and a good officer, but he couldn’t hack this sort of investigation, and Jack knew it. David gave a wan smile. He didn’t want to play the political game and liked Jack personally, so wasn’t going to make an issue of the lack of confidence. Secretly, he probably agreed with him, but he’d never run a murder investigation before and liked the sound of it—especially the vague possibility of promotion if he was successful.
“If I’ve anything to ask after I’ve seen the Gingerbreadman’s original arrest report,” said Copperfield with a certain degree of vagueness, “I’ll be sure to get in touch.”
“Perhaps,” said Jack pointedly, “you should be asking yourself why the Gingerbreadman was being driven around unsecured in a minivan rather than prison transport.”
Copperfield stared at Jack for a moment. Fully aware of his intellectual shortcomings, David compensated by doing everything by the book. Even reading the book he did by the book. Everything was orderly and logical and procedure based in his world. He understood intuition and wild improbable hunches that turned out to be right, but he never used them—they were the tools he always left in the box during an investigation. Conversely, they were the ones that Jack used most. In the hazily preordained world of the NCD, it was almost obligatory. Even so, Copperfield made a mental note of what Jack said. He was right: The Gingerbreadman was a category A+++ patient and he hadn’t even been handcuffed.
Jack rubbed his brow. Copperfield as the investigating officer was madness even by NCD standards, which were by definition pretty broad.
“He’s dangerously insane,” said Jack, “but there are vague patterns to his behavior. He usually violently ingratiates himself into someone’s house or flat and stays there for as long as he thinks he can. His ‘hosts’ generally don’t survive the visitation, although he always makes a point of paying for any food he eats, does the laundry and then wallpapers the front room.”