“It’s me,” said Mary.
“What’s the time?”
“Ten past nine.”
Jack rubbed his face. He’d been asleep for over two hours, and now he noticed that Ben had written “Working hard, Dad?” on the driver’s-side window as he’d slept. Madeleine must have seen him sleeping, and he half hoped he’d have a message from her, too—but he didn’t.
“What’s the news?”
“Positive ID from Mrs. Singh—it’s Goldilocks all right.”
“What did Briggs have to say about it?”
“He said he wasn’t going to elevate this to a full-level NCD murder inquiry without some sort of proof that she was killed unlawfully, but that I should continue ‘rigorous inquiries’ with my current level of resources.”
“Which is you and Ashley,” observed Jack, “a woeful lapse of responsibility, even for Briggs—he must be stretched thin with the hunt for the Gingerbreadman. Have you spoken to Josh?”
“I’ve just told him. He’d been expecting it, but the confirmation was still a shock. I showed him the list of Mr. Currys to see if he knew which one Goldilocks had been having dinner with the night before she died.”
“And?”
“He didn’t even look at the list. He said it was a code name—and that Goldilocks had made him swear not to reveal who it was.”
“I’ve a feeling this is
“You’d be right. ‘Mr. Curry’ was… Bartholomew.”
Jack was suddenly wide awake.
“Bartholomew?
“The very same.”
“Why the secrecy? Was she investigating him?”
“Josh said we should ask Bartholomew.”
“He’s right,” said Jack. “We will.”
“Shouldn’t I okay it with Briggs first?” asked Mary nervously. “This could be a very hot potato.”
“I’ve had hotter,” said Jack. “Besides, Briggs said this wasn’t an all-out murder inquiry yet.”
They agreed to meet at the council offices where Bartholomew was holding a surgery that morning. But Sherman Bartholomew wasn’t a doctor. He was Reading’s representative in the House of Commons. The Right Honorable Sherman Oscar Bartholomew, MP.
European nation with highest politician/lover ratio: Few European states can hope to compete with France and Italy in this department, and the two nations have been battling for European political lothario supremacy for over thirty years. The contest has been increasingly acrimonious since 1998, when France was initially the clear winner but somehow “lost” sixty-eight illicit lovers in the recount and had to concede defeat. The following year was no less rocked in scandal, when the Italians were disqualified for “stretching the boundaries” of their elected representatives to include senior civil servants—and the crown was tossed back to France. No one was quite prepared for the disgraceful scandal the following year when it was discovered that one French minister had no mistress at all and “loved his wife,” a shocking revelation that led to his resignation and ultimately to the fall of the government.
“I’m sorry we always have to meet under such disagreeable circumstances,” said Jack to a well-dressed, handsome man in his late fifties. “This is Detective Sergeant Mary Mary, also of the NCD.”
“I was the defense attorney for the Gingerbreadman,” explained Bartholomew for Mary’s benefit. “No one else would handle it.”
“You put up a robust defense,” replied Jack with a smile.
“I’m always relieved it wasn’t robust
“We’re not on the chase. I shouldn’t worry—you’re the last person he’d want to attack.”
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