'Is obviously not the killer. I'm letting you go. Get out. Leave the building.'
'Thanks,' said Eddie. 'Come on, Jack.'
'I'm coming,' said Jack. 'But who died? Who was murdered?'
‘Jack Spratt,' said Chief Inspector Bellis. ‘Jack Spratt is dead.'
17
Apart from those that do, of course, celebrity marriages never last.
For although celebrities are very good at being celebrities (they would not be celebrities if they were not), most of them are absolute no-marks when it conies to being a caring partner in a shared relationship. They just can't do it. It isn't in them to do it.
Not that we ordinary folk blame them for being this way. We don't. After all, it is we ordinary folk who have made these people celebrities.
Which possibly makes us to blame.
Or possibly not.
No, not: it's not our fault. We have given these people celebrity. They owe us.
And as we have huddled in rain-soaked hordes to cheer them at their celebrity marriages, it is only fitting that they give us something in return: the entertainment of their celebrity divorces. Let's be honest here, who amongst us can genuinely claim that we do not thoroughly enjoy a really messy celebrity divorce? We love 'em. We do.
We love to read in the gutter press all about the mud-slinging, accusations and counter-accusations. And if there's a bit of the old domestic violence in the millionaire mansion, we revel in that too. We even love the petty squabbling about who gets custody of the penguin. And as to the sordid and startling disclosures of what the private investigator actually saw when he peeped in through the hotel bedroom window, those get our juices flowing fair to the onset of dehydration.
And while we're being absolutely honest here, let us admit that when it comes to reading about the celebrity divorce, women love it more than men.
They do, you know. They really do.
It's a woman thing.
If you ask a man, he'll probably tell you that yes, he does enjoy a celebrity divorce, but given the choice, he'd far rather watch a building burning down.
But that's men for you.
Jack Spratt was a man, of course: a rich celebrity of a man, and his divorce from his wife Nadine brought colour to the front pages of the Toy City gutter press for several weeks. It was a very entertaining divorce.
The grounds were 'irreconcilable culinary differences' but, as it turned out, there was a whole lot more to it than that.
They were a mismatched couple from the start. Jack, a man naturally destined for fame by nature of having a big face and a small body, married Nadine, a woman with a very small face and a very large body (physical characteristics which would normally have doomed anyone to oblivion). They married when Nadine was fifteen.
Jack had always had a thing about large women.
It was that little man thing which is only fully understood by little men. And these little men have no wish to confide it to big men, lest they get a taste for it too and cut the little men out of the equation.
Nadine was a very large woman, and Jack loved her for it.
That their eating habits were so diametrically opposed didn't matter at all to either of them. In fact, it worked perfectly well during the early part of their relationship, when they lived in a trailer park on Toy City's seedy South-West Side. He worked in the slaughterhouse district on the night shift, where the black meat market in offal flourished. Had they never achieved the fame that their nursery rhyme brought them,[3] they might still have been together today.
Sadly, the more rich and famous they became, the-more clearly did the cracks in their relationship begin to show. They did not part amicably. She demanded a share in his chain of lean-cuisine gourmet restaurants. And he in turn laid claim to half of her fast-food burger bar franchises, Nadine's Fast Food Diners.
Neither wished to share anything with the other; these separate empires had been years in the building. So each sought to dish the dirt on the other — and when celebrity dirt starts getting dished, there always seems sufficient to build a fair-sized Ziggurat, a step pyramid, two long barrows and an earthwork.
With a little left over to heap into an existential confabulation of special ambiguity installation piece, such as the one currently on display at the Toy City Arts Gallery.
Jack's lawyer brought forth evidence that Nadine had been intimate with at least seven dwarves.
In response to this, Nadine hit Jack somewhat below the belt, dwelling far too graphically upon his sexual inadequacies. He had never satisfied her sexually, she said, because, with his refusal to eat fat, cunnilingus was denied to her.
This disclosure was met with howls of joy from the gutter-press-reading population. And much thumbing through dictionaries. Followed by even greater howls.
So much Eddie told Jack as they trudged across town to the rear of Boy Blue's where Jack had left Bill Winkie's car.
He told Jack more when, having discovered that Bill Winkie's car now stood upon bricks, its wheels having been removed by jobbing vandals, they trudged further across town to avail themselves of the whatever-she-was-that-wasn't-a-woman's car, which they had left parked at the scene of the Clockwork Car Company fire.
And if there was anything that Eddie had missed first or second time around, he revealed that to Jack when, having discovered, much to their chagrin, that the car had been removed to the police car pound for being parked in a tow-away zone, they trudged back to the police station.
If there was anything else that Eddie had forgotten to mention, it remained unmentioned when, upon learning that the car would only be surrendered to Jack and Eddie if they could prove ownership and pay the fine, they trudged, earless and footsore, across the street from the police station and into a Nadine's Fast Food Diner.
It was a spacious affair, with man-sized chairs and tables. These were all of pink plastic and pale pitch-pine. The walls were pleasantly painted with pastel portraits of portly personages, pigging out on prodigious portions of pie — which, considering the alliterative nature of the breakfast served by the toymaker, may or may not have been some kind of culinary running gag.
'I love these places,' said Eddie. 'High cholesterol dining.'
'What's cholesterol?' Jack asked.
'I think it's a kind of pig.'
A waitress greeted them. She was tall and voluptuous, pretty in pink and tottered upon preposterously high high-heels. She led them to a vacant table and brought Eddie a child's high-chair to sit on.
'I know it's undignified,' said Eddie. 'But it's worth it for the nose bag.'
The waitress said, Til give you a moment,' and tottered away. Jack watched her tottering. She did have extremely wonderful legs.
'Something on your mind?' Eddie asked. 'Regarding the dolly?'
Jack shook his head fiercely. 'Certainly not,' he said. 'Do you have any money, Eddie?' He perused the menu. It was a wonderful menu. It included a host of toothsome treats with names such as The Big Boy Belly-Buster Breakfast, The Double-Whammy Bonanza Burger Blowout and The Four Fats Final Fantasy Fry-Up.
Jack cast his eye over the Hungry Cowboy's Coronary Hoedown: two 10 oz prime portions of beef belly flab, generously larded and cooked to perfection in a sealed fat-fryer to preserve all their natural grease, served between two loaves of high-fibre white bread and the soggiest chips you'll ever suck upon.
Jack's mouth watered. 'Have you any money?' he asked Eddie.
3
A rhyme penned by the now legendary Wheatley Porterman, who, while still an impoverished rhyme writer, happened to be living in the trailer next door to Jack and Nadine.