“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.”