“Pattern or plain?”
“Pattern—and lined, too. You might like to stake out DIY stores.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“He kills because that’s what he does best,” said Jack. “Don’t take any chances.”
“We don’t plan to. The SAS are on stand-by and armed to the teeth. They’ll be called in the moment he’s spotted.”
“The use of unnecessary and wholly unreasonable force,” added Briggs, “has been approved. We’re not planning for capture or containment.”
There was a pause and Jack stared at Briggs and Copperfield in turn, then at the crime scene, which was, he had to admit, far worse than anything he had seen either inside the NCD or out. Mr. Wolff’s scalding to death hadn’t been pretty, and Wee Willie Winkie’s evisceration wasn’t exactly Sunday lunch conversation. But three at one go was something quite new even by Gingerbreadman standards. He had an annoying habit of raising the ante every time he drew breath. But Jack still wasn’t satisfied.
“Sir—”
Briggs shook his head, took him by the arm and steered him toward a quiet spot.
“It’s no use, Jack,” he said once out of earshot. “Copperfield is running the hunt. And it’s not just me. The Chief Constable has been on the phone already. With Friedland out of the picture and you busy getting citizens eaten, we need somebody to put Reading back on the detecting map.”
“But the Humpty case—!”
“Humpty’s tumble is past history, Jack. We’ve all got to think of the future—and with that Red Riding-Hood fiasco still ringing in our ears, you need to be on your best behavior. Josh Hatchett is just itching to stick the knife in deeper.”
“Okay,” said Jack, “so I screwed up. The bedroom was dark—how was I meant to know it was the wolf and not Red’s gran? Besides, the woodsman’s timely intervention saved the day.”
“With no thanks to you,” replied Briggs. “And strictly speaking you should be on sick leave—have you seen the shrinks for some counseling?”
“All that weird shit goes with the NCD turf—it’s business as usual.”
“Maybe to you,” returned Briggs with a sidelong glance to make sure no one could possibly be listening to this insanity,
“but I’ve got a grandmother and a small girl in traumatic shock. They’ll probably sue the pants off us—if they ever come to their senses.”
Briggs lowered his voice.
“Jack, there’s no easy way to say this, so I won’t try. Your judgment has been called into question over the unconventional use of children as bait in the Scissor-man capture, and answers are already being sought about the Riding-Hood inquiry. The bottom line is that we need to be able to demonstrate that all our departmental heads are fully able to acquit themselves in difficult situations without any unpredictable or detrimental decision making.”
“You think I might be insane?”
“I know you’re insane, Jack—it’s a question of whether you’re too insane to run the NCD. It’s a directive from on high. You’re going to have to take a psychiatric evaluation to ensure you are still able to function properly as head of the NCD.”
“Sir—!” said Jack, knowing it would be almost impossible to get a doctor to say he was sane. In conventional policing a streak of madness could get you retired; in the NCD it was almost impossible to function without it. But Briggs was having none of it.
“The answer’s still no, Jack. You’ve been doing a lot of very strange stuff for far too long. I’m worried that it’s affecting your health, and judgment. DS Mary can be acting head of the NCD while you take it easy for a bit. Go home—put your feet up.”
“Sir,” replied Jack tersely, “I should be out hunting for a seven-foot cookie with a bad attitude—not watching reruns of Columbo on the telly.”
Briggs raised an admonishing finger. “Don’t underestimate Columbo, Jack—you might be interested to know that it’s being used for training at police college, along with Hawaii Five-O and Murder, She Wrote. And… I think you’ll find the Gingerbreadman is a cake.”
“Cookie, sir.”
“Cake, but never mind. It’s only because the Humpty gig was good PR that we’re not seeing the NCD disbanded out of hand. Right now you’ll do as you’re told.”
There was a pause. Jack stared at the ground, unsure of what to say.
“And if I find you hunting for the Gingerbreadman on your own,” added Briggs, waving the admonishing finger, “I’ll, I’ll…”
He paused for a moment, trying to figure out whether it was technically possible to suspend someone who was already on sick leave. And it wasn’t as though he could be sent anywhere lower than the NCD, anyway.
“I’ll not be happy,” he said at last. “Give Copperfield all he asks for, would you?”
He tipped his hat, mumbled, “So long, Jack,” and rejoined DI Copperfield, who was directing proceedings from a “murder procedure” checklist he had fortuitously brought with him.
7. Nursery Crime Division
Most-dumped boyfriend: It is reliably reported that Arnold Westlake (originally of Basingstoke, UK) has been dumped a grand total of 973 times in the past five years. Despite his being a self-confessed “sweet guy” and “good husband material” with a “fondness for starting a family,” Mr. Westlake’s serial dumpings continue to surprise and confuse him, especially as 734 of those dumpings were from the same woman, a Ms. Mary Mary of Reading, Berkshire. When asked to confirm figures, Ms. Mary angrily inquired who the other women dumping him were, and added, “No one dumps Arnold but me—it’s all over between us.”
Jack found Mary, and they drove back into Reading. He was silent for most of the journey, trying to think which was worst: being consistently trashed by the press, having a superior who didn’t trust his judgment, having a prime NCD case allocated away from him or enduring the ignominy of having a psychiatrist ask him pointless questions and then going “Aha” in a quasi-meaningful manner.
He explained the news to Mary, who said, “How about if we do a plot device number twenty-six and pretend not to look for him?”
“So you’re suggesting we look for him against orders, catch him, cover ourselves with glory, and the by-the-book officers look like idiots?”
Mary nodded enthusiastically. “Pretty much.”
“No, we’re going to follow plot device number thirty-eight.”
Mary narrowed her eyes. “Which one is that again?”
“We wait until they beg for our assistance, then save the day. For now we follow orders. After all, do you think we’d get the support Copperfield is getting if it was an NCD inquiry?”
Mary thought about the forty or so officers milling around the Gingerbreadman crime scene. The SOCO crew, the incident vehicles, the tracker dogs, the armed-response group, the catering facilities. Somehow she doubted it. The largest quantity of officers on an NCD inquiry could be counted on the fingers of Ashley’s hands, and he was a tridactyl—if you didn’t count his four thumbs.
They arrived at the Reading police station, parked the car in the underground lot and walked toward the elevators. As they approached, the doors opened and Agatha Diesel walked out. Jack groaned inwardly. Not because Agatha was Reading’s most aggressive and efficient parking attendant, and not because she happened to be married to Briggs. No, it was because Agatha and Jack had once, many years ago, had something of a fling together, and Agatha seemed intent that years, grayness, gravity or current marital status should not be a barrier to conjoining themselves in a tight knot of adulterous passion.