“The case? I don’t need you to tell me that.”
“No, the vacuumings. It’s bird shit.”
“Bird shit?”
“Shit of birds, sir.”
“I know what bird shit is, Bob, but what’s it doing at Grimm’s Road?”
“I don’t know. It had been trodden into the carpet.”
“Recent?”
“Some recent, some old. The recent stuff, very recent—exited the back end of a bird less than a week ago.”
“That recent, huh?”
Jack took the report and read it aloud carefully. “‘Noted on the carpet were traces of an animal excrement that closely resembled that from aquatic birds such as coots, ducks, geese, etc….’”
He thanked Shenstone, who crept out silently. Jack wrote “Bird shit?” on the board and underlined it. He then added “Gold” and “Spongg shares” and “Willie Winkie.” He sat in his chair and stared at the whiteboard. The case was
“Detective Inspector Spratt?” came an unfamiliar voice from the door. They all turned to find Briggs with a small and weaselly-looking officer.
“You know I am.”
“My name is DCI Bestbeloved—IPCC. We need to talk.”
The Independent Police Complaints Commission was the police who policed the police. They were the ones who descended from a great height on any officer even
“Good afternoon, sir,” said Jack, thinking perhaps that he would have to give evidence against another officer or something. “How can I help?”
“By cooperating with the IPCC,” put in Briggs with a sigh.
“About what? You said I had until Saturday to finger Humpty’s killer!”
“It’s nothing to do with Mr. Dumpty,” said DCI Bestbeloved in a coldly businesslike manner. “It’s about the three pigs. They are pursuing a case for harassment, mental cruelty and malicious prosecution.”
PIGGY IN ROAST BEEF SHOCK
A piggy was caught eating roast beef yesterday, in direct contravention of rules governing the use of animal-based products’ being included in animal feed. The piggy, one of a litter of five, was in isolation yesterday as officers from DEFRA tried to trace the other members of his family. A spokesman for the agency had this to say: “Fortunately for us, one of the little piggies stayed at home, and another, when offered the roast beef, refused. A fourth went “wee wee wee” all the way home and is now also in quarantine. We are still trying to trace the first little piggy, who, it seems, went to market. Until he is caught, we have instructed the withdrawal of all pork-related foodstuffs from shops and have decided to cull everything in sight, whether porcine or not, just to be sure.
“Chymes put you up to this, didn’t he?” demanded Jack as he sat on a hard plastic chair in one of the interview rooms.
“No one puts us up to anything,” replied Bestbeloved stonily. “We will be conducting a full inquiry in due course. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense—”
“I know the score,” interrupted Jack. “Can we get on with it? I have an investigation to get back to.”
“I think it would be best if you were just to answer the questions,” said Bestbeloved, “and don’t think you’ll be getting back to work for a while.”
“Sir?” said Jack, appealing to Briggs, who was standing at the door.
Briggs shrugged. It was out of his hands.
“If you would like legal representation or someone from the Police Federation present,” went on Bestbeloved, “then we are very happy for that to be arranged—but would insist that you remain suspended on full pay until such time as that can be finalized.”
“I waive all rights to representation,” replied Jack steadily.
“Will you state your name for the benefit of the record?”
“Detective Inspector John Reginald Spratt, Nursery Crime Division, Oxford and Berkshire Constabulary, Officer Number 8216.”
“And you were the investigating officer in charge of Case 722/B, Possible unlawful killing of Theophilus Bartholomew Wolff aka ‘Big Bad’?”
“I was.”
Bestbeloved laid several sheets of paper on the table in front of him. They were custody and arrest records. “Is this your signature?”
“Yes.”
