The Big Over Easy (13 page)

The security guard
at the main gates of Winsum & Loosum was trapped behind toughened glass like a goldfish, and Mary had to speak to the bored and surly individual via a microphone. They were admitted after repeating their names several times and drove up to the crowded visitors’ parking area, which was adjacent to an unimaginatively landscaped grass mound.

As Mary locked the car, she thought it odd that the two world leaders in foot-care products were situated within a mile of each other. Almost like two ships, she mused, close enough to fire corporate broadsides.

The Winsum & Loosum headquarters was slick and elegant in a modernistic style, with a bright and airy lobby that rose six stories within the building. Jack and Mary announced themselves at the desk and were asked by the razor-thin receptionist to take a seat. They sat by the fountain and watched the glass lifts move up and down inside the lobby, disgorging hordes of expensively dressed executives who seemed to scurry purposefully in all directions but have very little to do.

Mary’s phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket, looked at it and groaned audibly.

“Same guy?” asked Jack. “What was his name? Arnold?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give the phone to me,” said Jack. “I’ll pretend to be your father.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Has he ever met your father?”

“No, sir.”

“Then hand it over.”

She reluctantly handed Jack the phone. He cleared his throat and pressed the “answer” button.

“Arnold?” he said, using his stern, talking-to-children voice,

“This is Brian, Mary’s father. I must say that I am a little disappointed that—”

He stopped, listened for a moment, smiled and then said, “Well, that’s very kind of you to say so, Arnold, but I must make
this
point abundantly clear—”

There was another pause. Jack made a few “uh-huh” and “yuh” noises before laughing and looking at Mary.

“Did she, now? How about that. What’s your line of work, Arnold?”

Mary stared at him, aghast. She made throat-cutting signals, shaking her head and mouthing
no…no…no.

“Really?” carried on Jack. “Well, of course we are
immensely
proud of her now that she’s joined the NCD…. Of course…. DI Jack Spratt…. No, with
two t
’s…. That’s the one…. No, as I understand it, only one was a giant—the rest were just tall…. She didn’t?”

The conversation went on like this for quite a few minutes, with Mary sinking lower and lower in her seat.

“Well,” continued Jack, “you must come around for tea sometime. Myself and Mrs. Mary would be very pleased to meet you.” He paused again, put his hand over the phone and said to Mary,

“Where do we live?”

She glared at him, crossed her arms and said, “Basingstoke,” through gritted teeth.

“Basingstoke,” repeated Jack into the mobile. He laughed again. “No, we’re not at all ashamed. Call us anytime. Mary has the number. Same to you. Bye.”

He pressed the “end-call” button, shaking his head and smiling. He passed the mobile back and caught Mary’s eye as she gazed daggers at him.

“What? He sounds like a great guy. I think you should cut him a little slack.”

Mary wasn’t amused. “I thought you were going to get rid of him for me.”

Jack thought for a moment, trying to figure out a plausible excuse.

“No,” he said finally, “what I
said
was that I’d pretend to be your father. How did I do?”

Mary sighed. “Spookily accurate, sir.”

“DI Spratt?” said a pencil-thin woman who looked as if she’d escaped from the cover of a fashion magazine.

“Yes?” said Jack as they both stood.

“I am Miss Daley, the secretary to Mr. Grundy’s personal secretary’s assistant’s assistant.”

She shook both their hands.

“Welcome to Winsum and Loosum’s. Mr. Grundy is a busy man but understands the importance of police work. He has delayed a meeting in order to be able to grant you an audience.”

“How fantastically generous of him.”

“Mr. Grundy is always eager to assist the police in any way he can,” said the humorless assistant, who had somehow lost something on the road towards highly cultivated efficiency. She led them across the atrium and into one of the lifts, which then shot them upwards like an express train. It deposited them in a noiseless corridor that led to an oak-paneled boardroom with a large oval table in it. Two well-groomed executives were just leaving as they entered, one of whom Jack thought he recognized. They were efficiently introduced to Mr. Grundy by the assistant, who then seemed to melt away.

Solomon Grundy was everything Spongg was not. He had a limp handshake, a false smile and pallid features that surrounded a pair of eyes that were of the brightest blue but projected no emotion. His suit was hand-tailored from Savile Row but looked out of place on his large, bullnecked frame—he reminded Jack of a gangster desperate to be respectable. He wore a well-fitting toupée, and his hands were liberally covered with heavy gold jewelery.

Grundy had got to his feet as he welcomed Jack and Mary and offered them a seat on intentionally low chairs. He opened a silver cigar box and said, “Cigar? They’re Cuban.”

Jack declined his offer, but Grundy put one in Jack’s top pocket anyway and winked at him, then gave one to Mary and said, “For the boyfriend.” He then sat down in his own huge, corporate comfy chair and spun completely around, lighting his cigar as he did so. He stopped facing straight ahead as he clicked off his lighter, then placed his hands on the table and blew out some cigar smoke. It seemed like a well-rehearsed routine.

“This interview, is, I assume, to do with Mr. Dumpty’s death?”

“Just an informal chat, Mr. Grundy.”

“Why should it be formal? Unless, of course, Mr. Dumpty’s death was suspicious. Is this the case, Inspector?”

You don’t get to be the ninth-wealthiest man in Britain without being astute, thought Jack—or perhaps he already knew?

“We believe there are suspicious aspects to his death, yes, sir. Who was that leaving as we came in?”

“Two of my junior board members. I expect you recognized Friedland’s brother?”

“How long has he been working here?”

“Does this relate to Humpty’s death?”

“No.”

“I’m a busy man, Mr. Spratt.”

Jack grew hot. It was not a very subtle put-down, but effective. Grundy had been leading the conversation since he’d walked in. Jack decided he’d have to get the upper hand again and invoked his secret plan: talk to other people as Friedland talked to him.

“So am I, Mr. Grundy,” replied Jack, staring at him coldly. “A man—well, an egg, actually—has died, and I think irrespective of who or what he was, he deserves that I investigate his death to the best of my ability. So tell me, how do you describe your relationship with Spongg’s?”

Grundy smiled. A smile of respect, thought Jack. To people like Grundy, straight talking was the answer. He still wasn’t going to make it easy, though, and his dispassionate eyes bored into Jack like augers.

“Rivals. That’s no secret. We tried to buy them out six months ago but were thwarted by a new shareholder.”

“Humpty Dumpty?”

“Indeed. I wager old Randolph is kicking himself. With Mr. Dumpty dead, his shares are wrapped up in probate. They’ll go bust, and we’ll take all we want from the receivers.”

He smiled an ugly smile, and Jack shifted his weight uneasily. He didn’t like Grundy one bit.

“Sounds as though his death has benefited you, Mr. Grundy.”

“It has benefited the
company,
Mr. Spratt. The same as if he had fallen off a bike or died in his sleep. Corporate business is a dangerous place; I do not own this company any more than you own the Reading police force. The shareholders will view Mr. Dumpty’s demise without grief. We thought perhaps Humpty had a refinancing package for Spongg’s, but his death will have put a stop to that. In under a year, we will have added their product lines to ours. I hope I am candid, Mr. Spratt.”

“Very,” replied Jack. “What did you and Mr. Dumpty talk about at the Spongg Charity Benefit?”

Grundy laughed. “Your information is good, Inspector. He offered me his thirty-eight percent share of Spongg’s for ten million. I told him the time for deals had long passed, and he told me I wouldn’t be laughing this time next year. We’ll take what we want from the receivers. I heard his private life was fairly colorful. Why don’t you speak to some of his girlfriends? Jealousy is a powerful emotion, Mr. Spratt.”

“So is revenge, Mr. Grundy.”

Grundy guessed Jack’s inference. “You have Splotvia on your mind, Mr. Spratt?”

Jack nodded. “I understand you lost a great deal of money?”

Grundy contemplated the end of his cigar for a few moments.

“It was that damnable mineral-rights scam of his. I should never have become involved, but then again, it was business.”

“So you weren’t bitter?”

“Of course not. I was
furious.
You’d better know the facts. He raised that share capital and spent it, not on securing mineral rights but on arming the rebels against the military dictatorship that ran the country. I tried to have him charged with fraud, but he covered his tracks well. They even”—he laughed—“made him a colonel in the Splotvian Imperial Guard.”

“Sounds like a good motive to me, Mr. Grundy.”

“I disagree,” replied Grundy evenly. “My loss to Humpty was only
two-tenths of one percent
of my fortune. Consider this: Even if I generously estimated your personal net worth at four hundred thousand pounds, the comparative loss to you would be only eight hundred pounds. Two million may be more money than you’ll see in a lifetime, but I could lose that sum
every week for a decade
before I might consider myself ruined. Do I make myself clear?”

Jack gritted his teeth. He’d enjoy bringing this one down.

“Abundantly, Mr. Grundy. I wonder if you could tell me your movements following the Spongg Charity Benefit on Monday?”

“I returned home,” he replied, indignant that he should have to account for his actions to anyone, “with my wife. You can ask her, if you so wish, with my blessing.”

Jack stared at Grundy, who looked back at him without sentiment. Jack wanted to make him sweat, so he tried a threat.

“I’d like to interview the board of directors and read the company minutes for the past two years.”

Grundy rolled his eyes and tapped some ash into a crystal ashtray the size of a hand basin. “It’ll require a court order.”

Jack stared at him. “I thought you would be happy to assist, Mr. Grundy.”

The bluff failed.

“Of course. What you ask will require considerable expenditure of time and resources. A court order gives me peace of mind that you really need what you ask for. I won’t be given the runaround on a non-Guild NCD officer’s whim. And I’ll tell you now I don’t frighten easily. I have been investigated by the FBI, the CBI, the CID, the MCC and the FO. I have weathered four stock-market crashes and suffered monetary losses that exceed the GNP of East and West Woppistania
combined.
I survived all that, and I’ll certainly survive you.”

His voice had kept the same modulation, although red blotches had been breaking out on his pale face. Jack feared for any junior board member who had this to contend with. Grundy paused for a minute as his face returned to its normal pallid complexion, then spoke again: “Is there anything else?”

“Not for the moment,” said Jack as sternly as he could. He needn’t have bothered. It came out sounding weak and ineffectual, and Grundy knew it. He gave a smile and bade them good day.

The elegant assistant appeared from nowhere and escorted them back to the elevator, in which they were plunged at freefall speed back to the lobby, thanked and shown the door in under a minute.

“I’ve never been so efficiently expelled from a building before,” murmured Mary in awe as they walked back to the Allegro.

“I imagine that being fired is probably a similar experience,” said Jack, “but without the courtesy of the elevator.”

As soon as
they walked into the station, they realized that something was going on. A certain buzz travels around as everyone discusses a prominent case. Friedland might have felt it all the time, as his exploits were routinely grapevined, but Jack had never experienced it before. Ashley and Gretel were waiting for them in the NCD offices.

“What’s going on, Gretel?”

“Humpty’s murder, sir. Seems like everyone has an opinion about how the investigation should be run. The Superintendent has been calling every twenty minutes wanting to know where you were.”

“Ah,” said Jack, “no surprises there. Have you found any irregularities in Humpty’s finances yet?”

“It’s very complex and very confusing,” said Gretel, “like being lost in a large forest. But I’m making headway. I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything solid.”

She turned back to her desk and dialed another number on the telephone.

“Ashley, any luck with that auburn hair?”

“Not yet, sir. I’m running through the telephone directory; there are a lot of hairdressers in Reading.”

“Keep at it. Did Tibbit get a name for the lad in the photograph?”

“No,” said Ashley, “but we did get a cross-reference match with a silver VW Polo and the Christian name of ‘Bessie.’ Her name’s Bessie Brooks, veterinarian’s assistant, age 11001. Hasn’t been seen at work since the morning Humpty was killed. The address is on your desk.”

“Excellent. Call Ops and get some uniform around there to bring her in for questioning. If she doesn’t want to come, then arrest her as a possible suspect. Mary?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I don’t buy that ‘two million means nothing to me’ crap from Grundy. This is a request for a search warrant for Winsum’s headquarters. I want you to—”

“Murder, Jack?”

Briggs was at the door. He didn’t look quite as angry as Jack had supposed he might be.

“Yes, sir.”

“I could have sworn you told me yesterday it was suicide.”

“I made a mistake. I’d spoken to you before Mrs. Singh’s initial report. There’s a copy on my desk—”

“I’ve read it, Jack. So he was shot—by whom?”

Jack outlined what had happened in the investigation so far, which wasn’t very much. Briggs didn’t seem bowled over with enthusiasm, but then Briggs never was. The three pigs he had never been keen on, and the emperor’s-new-clothes fraud inquiry had similarly been looked upon with tepidity. Even so, his answer surprised Jack.

“Well,” he said as soon as Jack had finished, “seems like you’re doing fine. Keep me informed of any developments, and if there’s anything you want,
anything
at all, just call me.” He paused and then added, “As long as it’s not extra manpower, overtime, funds or…anything else I don’t agree with. I’ll have my secretary prepare a list. I meant what I said earlier about fast results. The budgetary meeting is next week, and an early arrest would do a lot towards continued funding. And listen: This doesn’t mean you’re excused from the Sacred Gonga security duties. I’m short-staffed as it is, and we’ve overspent this year already.”

He thought for a moment.

“One other thing: I’ve just spoken to the Chief. He’s had a call from Solomon Grundy
himself,
who lambasted him for half an hour about your threats. Do you seriously expect me to believe that Grundy is behind all this?”

“It’s possible, sir. Winsum and Loosum are set on owning all Spongg’s foot-care remedies. Dumpty blocked a takeover bid and then seemed set on some kind of a plan to save Spongg’s.”

“What sort of plan?”

“I don’t know, but with Dumpty out of the picture, there is no barrier to Winsum and Loosum’s eventual takeover of Spongg’s. They have the best motive I can see, and what’s more, Solomon
himself
lost two million in Humpty’s Splotvian mineral-rights scam.”

“The one in 1990? Fourteen years ago?”

“Yes,” said Jack, “that one.”

“And the proof?”

Jack stared at Briggs.

“That’s what the search warrant is for, sir.”

“
What
search warrant?”

“This one,” said Jack, holding the request up a bit weakly.

Briggs glared at him, took the application and tore it in half.

“Sorry, Jack. You’re going to have to do better than this. Words burnt into the wall. Voices from burning bushes, three witches around a cauldron. Anything. No hearsay, no suspicions and definitely no hunches. You don’t pester Mr. Grundy or Winsum and Loosum until I see that proof and sanction it.”

“But—”

“But nothing, Jack. The answer is no. We’ve got the Jellyman coming to town, and that’s a big deal. Grundy’s forty million to keep the Sacred Gonga in Reading is going to be a big tourism pull for the city—why would anyone want to visit Reading without the Sacred Gonga?”

“The river? SommeWorld? The Friedland Museum? Castle Spongg? Shopping?”

“It’s no joking matter. Think of the big picture. Think of Reading.” He lightened and laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it’s politics. Seventh floor. Don’t forget, if you get any proof, come to me first.”

He looked at his watch. “Are you going to attend the press briefing, Spratt?”

“I didn’t think I’d bother, sir.”

“I think perhaps you should.”

“Because they might be interested this time around?”

“Not at all. It just allows Friedland to shine with greater luster.”

“Then how could I refuse?”

“Good. And I want a full report on my desk ASAP and not a Jack Spratt keep-the-NCD-going-at-all-costs special.”

He clapped his hands together and rubbed them happily.

“Right. Well, I must speak to Friedland before he goes on. Solved another one this morning, y’know—
remarkable
fellow!”

Briggs gathered up his papers and strode off.

“Well,” said Mary, who had returned to Jack’s side, “are we still on the case?”

“It seems so,” said Jack with furrowed brow, “but Briggs wasn’t his usual shouting, screaming, threatening-to-suspend-me self. I hope he’s not unwell or anything—or perhaps he’s just happy with the way things are going. What do you think?”

Mary felt herself swallow, and her mouth went dry. It could easily be explained. She knew that Friedland was poised to take over the inquiry, and it would be with her help, too.

“I…I have no idea, sir.”

“Me neither,” muttered Jack, “but I’m not complaining. Any news on Mrs. Dumpty?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“We can’t search through Grundy’s boardroom minutes, so do some background delving, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. What is it, Gretel?”

“Skinner sent down a report.”

He read it carefully.

“The cartridges didn’t match,” announced Jack, handing the report to Mary. “The Marchetti
did
belong to the woodcutters, but it wasn’t the one used to kill them. That’s a relief. I wasn’t keen on having to wade through one of Friedland’s old cases. And I was a fool to think he might be
wrong.
”

He walked from the room.

Mary wandered over to Gretel. Although she was subordinate to Mary, she had the edge in terms of years and experience. It gave Gretel the upper hand beyond the boundaries of official rank, and they both knew it. Mary would not ever want to pull rank on Gretel, and Gretel would make quite sure that Mary never had to.

“How’s it going?”

“Not too bad. Forensic accounting is an underused science. Look here: Last July, Humpty bought a thousand tons of fine-grade copper in Splotvia with money from an account drawn on the Bank of Malvonia. He swapped the copper for a hundred thousand gallons of béarnaise sauce. The sauce was never delivered, and Humpty received a refund. The refund was paid to a subsidiary company in Woppistania, which then used the cash to finance a hotel-development deal in Wozbekistan, which in turn generated a loss that Humpty was able to offer to large multinationals in order for them to offset against tax. In return for this, Humpty was given an eight percent fee. From a dirty forty thousand pounds to a laundered eighty thousand pounds in a few short moves. It would take a phalanx of lawyers a month to figure out whether a law had been broken, and another month to figure out which one.”

It wasn’t the reason Mary had walked over. She knew next to no one in Reading apart from an aging aunt and a few ex-boyfriends. Gretel, she thought, would be a good person for nothing more unproductive—and necessary—than a chat.

“Are you really a baroness?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” replied Gretel in the sort of way that you might admit to having two cars, “but it means nothing. My family is from East Germany. They had a large house and grounds near Leipzig. When the Russians took over, my family escaped to West Berlin with only the title and a single crested teaspoon. You’re from Basingstoke, yes?”

“Born and bred—and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Yes,” agreed Gretel, “so I heard.”

“You’re very tall,” observed Mary. “Don’t you worry about Jack and his…reputation?”

“The giant killing? No. His
shortest
victim was at least six inches taller than me, so I figure I’m well beneath his height criteria. When did you make sergeant?”

“Four years ago,” replied Mary. “I took my Official Sidekick exams—for all the good it did me. Tell me, you’ve worked with Chymes. What’s the possibility of him dumping that idiot Flotsam? He’s sloppy and irritating, and his prose stinks.”

“
True Detective
would welcome such a thing, but I’m not sure Chymes would dump him. Flotsam knows a lot about Friedland that Friedland wouldn’t want to get out.”

“Such as?”

“Nobody really knows—and Chymes wants to keep it that way. Flotsam’s here to stay, sadly—unless he wants out. Why, have you got your eye on the top DS job in Reading?”

“
Very
long-term plan,” said Mary hurriedly.

“The Chymes detecting machine is a double-edged sword,” confided Gretel. “The benefits are enormous. You play to
his
rules, and you sometimes hate yourself for doing so—but six months later it’s standard operating procedure and you’re looking to see who you can trample over next.”

Mary nodded thoughtfully. She often hated herself. Once more here and there wouldn’t make much difference.

“And that,” continued Chymes triumphantly, “was how we knew that Major Stratton was guilty. By pointing suspicion at himself via the unfinished Scrabble game and the half-eaten macaroon, he hoped to be charged, then released when his alibi was proved, banking on the fact that the police would eliminate him from their inquiries completely. But by analyzing the dried saliva on the back of the stamp, I could prove that Wentworth had
not
sent the letter purporting to be from the mergers commission. So with Dibble’s allergy to leeks ruling
him
out, Wilks in custody at the time…”

He paused in front of his audience, who were frozen to the spot, spellbound.

“…it could only be Major Stratton.”

There was a burst of applause and a battery of cameras going off as Friedland nodded his appreciation at their appreciation.

“But what alerted you to Major Stratton in the first place?” asked Josh Hatchett.

“Simplicity itself.” Chymes smiled. “The Major was an accomplished Scrabble player. He would never have played ‘quest’ without bonuses when the possibility existed to play ‘caziques’ on a triple-word score. He must have had something else on his mind—such as
murder
!”

There was another burst of applause.

“You are most kind,” he said modestly. “A complete write-up of the case will be published under the title ‘The Case of the Fragrant Plum.’ Ladies and gentlemen—the case…is
closed
!”

Jack was observing from the side door when Mary joined him. They watched Chymes take questions and explain in minute detail how the case was solved.

“What’s this about you applying for the Guild, sir?” asked Mary.

“It was my wife’s idea. But with Chymes on the selection committee, I think my chances are on the lean side of zero.”

Mary didn’t answer.

“You might have said
something
in rebuttal,” he muttered sulkily. “Like ‘Surely not, sir’—if only to make me feel better.”

“Surely not, sir,” said Mary with a sigh. “Is that better?”

“No. In fact, it’s worse.”

“Do you know all these people?” she asked to change the subject, staring at the curious array of journalists. There were three news crews, a Japanese film crew, several independents and a small, rather lost-looking man with a camcorder who was obviously a newshound for a local cable channel.

“The thin guy at the end is Josh Hatchett of
The Mole
. Next to him is Hector Sleaze, who writes for
The Toad
. They hate each other. The bloke with the glasses is Clifford Sensible of
The Owl,
who is about the only serious journalist here. The big fellow who looks a bit drunk in the front row is Archibald Fatquack, who edits
The Gadfly
. The two either side of him are Geddes and Pearson, who work for the local papers, the
Reading Mercury
and the
Reading Daily Eyestrain
. The others I don’t know, but presumably they’re syndicated journalists from the nationals.”

There was more applause as Chymes finished answering questions, turned left and right for the photographers to get a few alternative snaps, then strode from the room with a flourish. Within five minutes the pressroom was empty apart from Archibald and Hector Sleaze, who was trying to decipher some of his own shorthand.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” said Jack slowly as he approached the lectern. “Yesterday morning at approximately one
A.M
., Humpty Dumpty was shot dead as he sat on his favorite wall. He died instantly. Any questions?”

Jack started to leave, but there was a question—and it wasn’t from Archibald either. It was from Hector, who had never stayed long enough to even see Jack walk on, let alone speak.

“Who are you?” asked Hector Sleaze.

“Detective Inspector Jack Spratt of the Nursery Crime Division.”