PUMPKIN TRANSMUTATION DEVICE TESTED
Scientists at QuangTech were said to be “overjoyed” at the latest testing of their new pumpkin transmutation device, it was reported in the Berkshire Radio News this month. The Reading-based technology company had been experimenting on pumpkins for some years, but until now with little success. The highly technical article outlines for the first time the extraordinary advances made in the world of pumpkin transmogrification. “It is possible,” said a QuangTech spokesman yesterday, “to change pumpkins into almost anything one wishes by bombarding them with twin beams of particle-shifting gamma radiation, then moving the charged particles to within a magnetic-contained matrix of the new shape. The successful transmutation of a pumpkin into a coach was undertaken last week and was entirely successful—for a while. At present we have no way of permanently fixing the new shape, and the coach reverted to a pumpkin around about midnight.”
—Extract from The Mole, April 19, 1988
Aside from the absence of the Sacred Gonga and the fact that it wasn’t held in the visitors’ center, the Jellyman’s Sacred Gonga Visitors’ Center dedication went extremely well. Everyone present commented on how it was conducted with the utmost tact, solemnity and reverence. After the dedication ceremony, the Jellyman went on a procession route through the town, stopping off at various places of interest on the way.
The police estimate for the turnout was nearly three hundred thousand, despite the poor weather and the faint possibility of contracting verrucas. Of that it was estimated that 10 percent actually got a good look, 30 percent saw a man in a white suit waving, a further 30 percent saw only a distant white blob, 10 percent thought they saw something but actually didn’t, and the remainder saw nothing at all.
Madeleine, Stevie, Ben, Pandora, Megan and Jerome had been in the unlucky last category. They had left too late and got stuck in the throng, battling with the crowds and dodging street traders who were selling everything from Jellyman key rings to bedside lamps to DVDs of his speeches to dolls that made suitably sagacious pronouncements when you pulled a string at the back of their neck. Pandora and Ben gripped Jerome and Megan’s hands lest they get swept away in the crowd. They got to the Civic Center just as the Jellyman had gone in. When he came out two hours later, a police van pulled up and blocked their view, so all they saw was the back of his white Daimler limousine as he drove off to visit St. Septyck’s new ward for terminal sarcastics. Madeleine thought of waiting for his return in three hours’ time, but the children were tired and it had begun to drizzle. They made their way back home in a subdued mood. It was a bit like visiting the beach one day in the year to find it shut.
“Congratulations, Jack!”
Briggs shook him warmly by the hand, but Jack didn’t smile. The decontamination process has that effect on people.
“They got away, sir. It’s not much of a result.”
“You’re wrong,” Briggs said, handing Jack and Mary champagne glasses. “It’s a very good result. Without you more than ten thousand people would be infected with Dr. Carbuncle’s unbelievably infectious superverruca by now—with potentially millions in the coming months. Swimming pools, beaches and sports halls would have become no-go zones and shoe shops places of dread and suspicion. Spongg’s would be charging what they want, and we’d all be none the wiser. No, it’s a very good result indeed.”
Jack took a sip of the champagne to find that it was, in fact, fizzy apple juice.
“We’re still on duty,” said Briggs in response to Jack’s quizzical look. “Cheers!”
“Cheers, sir.”
Briggs sat at his desk. It was early evening, and the day’s security precautions were being slowly wound down. The Jellyman was at his last official engagement, a banquet over at the sprawling QuangTech facility to celebrate the technological, industrial and artistic achievements of Reading. Jack and Mary had been called up to Briggs’s office quite unexpectedly and were surprised to find Brown-Horrocks there, still dressed in the blue overalls, which were too short and showed at least seven inches of white ankle.
“The Biohazard Response Team went to Dr. Carbuncle’s house and are going to encase it in concrete rather than risk even moving the verruca,” said Briggs. “The Foot Museum is being soaked in disinfectant and won’t be reopened for six months. I’ve had a word with the head of the Center of Communicable Diseases. They’d like to shake your hand without latex gloves on—that’s quite an honor from those chaps.”
“Yes, but what about Lola and Spongg, sir?”
Briggs shook his head. “They won’t find anywhere they can hide in Europe. The deliberate spreading of infectious diseases is serious stuff; the police forces of the Continent will definitely be on the lookout.”
Jack was less than happy. Spongg and Lola’s progress had been charted by a series of sightings in the South of England. It seemed they had commenced their Channel crossing at Lulworth, and the French had sent two reconnaissance aircraft to patrol the coast. They were recalled three hours later when the Hornet Moth didn’t show.
“Have you seen the late editions?” asked Briggs. He showed Jack a copy of The Toad. It carried glowing reports of the extraordinary drama played out in Reading that day and heaped almost as much praise on Jack today as the bile they had dumped on him yesterday. “It’s all going frightfully well. The press want you to issue a statement. Perhaps you could make up a catchphrase for yourself—something like…‘This inquiry is shut’—or something.”
“I’d be lying, sir.”
“I’m sorry?”
Brown-Horrocks looked up from where he was transcribing his notes, which had faded badly in the autoclave.
“Something’s not right,” said Jack despondently. “Spongg planned to kill Humpty but didn’t. Someone beat him to it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Lola said that she would inherit Humpty’s thirty-eight percent after her ‘husband’s untimely death in the Zephyr.’ If she was in on the whole scam from the beginning, she must have known about the shooting—so why mention the Zephyr? It was how they intended to kill him, but events overtook them. Then, when we visit her for the second time, asking annoying questions about Humpty’s new wife, they decide to use it on us.”
“That’s it?” said Briggs with a laugh. “That’s the sole reason for your doubts?”
“Pretty much. Someone else killed Humpty.”
“Who?”
“A hit man working for Solomon Grundy.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! We’ve gone down that avenue already. Grundy said he knew that his wife fooled around and didn’t care. I need proof, Jack, proof!”
“He only said he didn’t care, sir. Grundy turned down an offer of ten million for Humpty’s thirty-eight percent the night of the charity benefit. Charles Pewter told me the price was a snip and he should have jumped at the chance—but he didn’t. He knew there was no point, as Humpty had less than three hours to live. He knew that because he had paid a gunman to kill him. All the ‘understanding husband’ act was a sham—Grundy took his wife’s affair very badly indeed.”
“And Winkie?”
“He must have recognized the shooter. Someone from Winsum’s, where he worked.”
Briggs drummed his fingers on the desk and exchanged looks with Brown-Horrocks. He took a deep breath and said, “Refusing ten million quid for dodgy foot-care shares is undoubtedly the most tenuous piece of evidence I’ve ever heard. You could be wrong; Lola might have made a mistake mentioning the Zephyr.”
Jack bit his lip. Briggs was right. It was conjecture. Sadly, this wasn’t about what was true but what was provable.
“I’ll concede it’s a bit flimsy, sir.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“It’s more than flimsy,” said Briggs at length, “it’s blessed inconvenient. I’ve got a roomful of press who want to hear exactly how Spongg murdered Humpty.”
“Can I make a suggestion?” asked Brown-Horrocks.
“Certainly,” said Briggs.
“I’ve spoken to the editors at Amazing Crime Stories and they’re very taken with the whole chiropody/bioterrorism/nursery rhyme angle, so they’ll go with what you’ve got—sight unseen. I suggest that you make it seem to readers as if Spongg did kill Humpty. I’m sorry to say that publication might be seriously compromised if there were any complications, false endings or unresolved plot threads.”
There was silence.
“He’s right,” said Briggs. “Without Spongg in custody, the case remains open anyway. If we announce the findings that Brown-Horrocks suggests, it’ll be good for the force—and good for your Guild application.”
Jack didn’t say anything, so Briggs, sensing reticence, continued: “I’ve had the Chief Constable on to me twice today already. He thinks we should keep the NCD and promote you to DCI. The Chief is not happy that Chymes fabricated the entire Andersen’s Wood murder case and feels that we should advance someone from within the Reading force just in case. He is prepared to offer you all the help and assistance that might be required to make the NCD as much of a success as DCI Chymes was. Times change, Jack, and we have to change with them. Public approval is a currency we cannot afford to fritter away. Of course, this would all depend on your ability to play ball. You’ve moved up a notch, Jack. The stakes are bigger—but then so are the rewards.”
Briggs and Brown-Horrocks looked at him expectantly.
Jack thought for a moment and stared at the floor. He’d like the respect, the kudos, the extra cash, the parking place. He’d also like to make DCI. But most of all he wanted the NCD to stay as it was. Yet if he’d learned anything over the past few days, it was that Amazing Crime Stories and the Guild had no place attempting to make murder, tragedy and violence marketable commodities for the edification of the masses—that and never go near a thirty-seven-kilo verruca.
“This must have been how it all began with Chymes,” sighed Jack. “A small omission on one case, an ‘embellishment’ on the next. The question is not about what’s best but what’s right. Chymes had confused the two and compromised not only his own integrity but that of the police—and the due process of law. I’ll let you have a full report on Humpty by Monday morning, along with my recommendations regarding Solomon Grundy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go and thank the team.”
Jack walked down the corridor to the elevator and pressed the “call” button. He turned to Mary.
“You know, Sergeant, principles cost money. And if I’ve learned anything over the past few days, it’s—”
“Sir,” interrupted Mary before he could embark on what would doubtless have been a very boring speech about moral relativism, “do you really believe that Grundy had Humpty killed?”
“I’m afraid so. But Briggs is right. Proving it will be tough. We’ll have to get a confession from the hit man himself, implicating Grundy.”
“We can start to delve on Monday, sir.”
Brown-Horrocks dashed up to them as the lift doors opened.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” said Jack.
“No, no,” said Brown-Horrocks quickly, “the day is not yet over, and my observational duties include your personal life—although from what you’ve told me about your regrettably abstemious and monogamous existence, there doesn’t seem to be much of interest. Still, orders are orders.”
Ashley, Tibbit, Baker and Gretel applauded Jack and Mary as they walked into the NCD offices and gave them some real champagne, but in plastic cups. It was too small in there even with Ashley stuck to the ceiling, so Brown-Horrocks and Gretel stepped outside to the corridor, where there was more headroom for them both. They looked at each other again. Brown-Horrocks was the first person Gretel had ever had to look up to, and she was the tallest woman Brown-Horrocks had ever seen—and, to him, the most beautiful.
“You’re the most…tall woman I have ever laid eyes upon,” said Brown-Horrocks after a long pause.
Gretel said nothing, went all shy and didn’t know what to do with her hands.
“Thank you,” she replied. “I like your overalls.”
“Well,” said Jack, clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention, “any news about Spongg?”
“Latest report,” said Baker, who had a large bandage on his leg but didn’t seem to be in any pain at all, “is that the French Coast Guard found the wreckage of a light aircraft floating off the Normandy coast. They’ll know more when the search continues tomorrow at first light.”
“Well, then,” said Jack, holding his cup aloft, “this is to all of us—and teamwork. Each and every one of you was exemplary. Long after we are ashes and the great adventures of this small department are chronicled for all to see, people will—”
“DI Spratt?” came a low voice from the door, interrupting what also might have turned out to be a long and tiresome speech. They turned to see three men dressed in dark suits and gray macs. They had sunglasses on and were unmistakably Secret Service.
“That’s me.”
They looked him up and down. Dressed in the blue overalls he seemed more like a decorator. “You have something we want, Inspector.”
“Something of extreme value,” said the second.
“A goose,” said the third, who was holding a pet carrier.
“What are you going to do with it?” asked Jack, who didn’t like the idea of giving anything to the Secret Service, especially something that lived and breathed.
“I don’t really think that’s any of your concern,” said the one who had spoken first.
“It will be studied by top scientists,” said the second.
“Top scientists,” repeated the one with the pet carrier. “Where is it?”
Jack sighed. “Okay, who’s got the goose?”
Tibbit led them into the filing room, where there was a sheet of plastic on the floor and a large cardboard box lined with straw. The goose hissed as the third man grabbed it roughly by the neck and bundled it unceremoniously into the pet carrier. It managed to bite him, much to Jack’s and Tibbit’s delight, and the other agent took the four golden eggs and placed them in a bag.
“She will be well looked after, won’t she?” asked Tibbit, who had grown quite fond of the bird.
“They’ll want to know how she does it,” said the second.
“Don’t worry, kid,” said the third, “they’re all experts. This is for you.”
And he handed Jack a receipt for one goose and four golden eggs.
He gave a cruel laugh, and they were all gone without another word.
“Sir,” said Tibbit in a hoarse whisper, “I must tell you something.”
“Yes?”
“They’re going to take the goose apart to see how it works and find that it’s just a goose, aren’t they?”
“In NCD work you can never be a hundred percent sure the way events might be interpreted, but yes, it seems likely.”
He faltered for a moment, unsure of how to put it. Finally he said, “One goose looks a lot like another, don’t you think?”
Jack smiled. “Yes,” he replied, “I daresay it does. But I know nothing and don’t wish to know anything. If anyone swapped the goose, good luck to them as long as they use that wealth wisely. If they don’t, then I just might wish to get involved.”
Tibbit smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
Jack walked back into the office to continue his speech.
“Where was I? Ah, yes: Long after we are ashes and—”
Luckily for the NCD staff, he was once again interrupted, this time by Mrs. Singh, who swept in like a galleon in full sail.
“There you are!” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Don’t you ever return calls?”
“I’ve been busy bringing down the second-biggest foot-care empire in the world and one of Reading’s most respected figures—and my mobile was blown up.”
“You could have used Mary’s.”
“It was taken by an identical-twin butler.”
“What about that Guild chap’s?”
“Melted in the autoclave.”
“Never mind. I got Humpty’s results back from the SunnyDale Poultry Labs.”
“And?”
“Large quantities of alcohol, traces of marijuana, and about sixty-eight different strains of salmonella, four of which would probably have proved fatal within the next six months, and traces of chorioallantoic membrane.”
Everyone in the room leaned closer.
“Traces of what?”
“Chorioallantoic membrane. It’s a highly vascularized extra-embryonic membrane that functions as a site for nutrient transport and waste disposal during embryonic development.”
“Embryonic development?” echoed Jack. “You mean…”
“Right. He didn’t die from the gunshot wound or the fall. He hatched.”
There was a deathly hush as they took this in.
“Hatched? You mean to tell me Humpty Dumpty was pregnant?”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” replied Mrs. Singh, “although ‘pregnant’ is perhaps the wrong word. He was an egg, Jack, and eggs, when fertilized, hatch.”
“I know what eggs do, Mrs. Singh. And what was going to come out? A three-hundred-pound chicken?”
“Not at all,” replied Mrs. Singh. “Even my most conservative estimates place the chick alone at that sort of weight—the fully grown hen would probably tip the scales at two to three tons.”
“I need to sit down.”
“You are sitting down. Skinner and I couldn’t simulate the extreme breakup of his shell,” continued Mrs. Singh, “no matter what we did. The damage was too severe for anything a bullet might have caused. Something hatching, now, that’s a different matter.”
“So how did the bullet go straight through?”
“Fluke,” replied Mrs. Singh. “It must have passed between the body and the wing or the leg—or something.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Mary, trying to get all the information in context. “Firstly, he’s a guy, right? Even if he is, to all intents and purposes, a very large egg?”
“Indeed,” replied Mrs. Singh, “he had all the necessary equipment.”
“And a series of girlfriends, so he wasn’t shy on exercising it,” added Jack.
“Okay. He’s over sixty-five years of age, so I think we can safely say he was born—laid—whatever—unfertilized. Most eggs are, right?”
“Right.”
“So when was he fertilized?”
Mrs. Singh thought for a moment. “This is more the field of avian pathologists, but by comparing the volume of his egg and likening that to a scaled-up model of ostrich chick development, we can safely say…about six months ago.”
“How?”
“The hole I found drilled in his shell,” said Mrs. Singh. “A modified IVF procedure would do the trick.”
“But it’s still murder,” muttered Jack. “Whatever grew inside him would have been slowly consuming him from within. The question is: Why?”
“I should imagine the poultry industry might be very interested in a three-ton chicken, sir.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mary. You’d never find an oven big enough. Besides, what misbegotten evil genius would be so cruelly insane as to want to carry out such a bizarre and perverted experiment on a living, breathing creature?”
They looked at each other, snapped their fingers in unison and said, “Dr. Quatt!”
“Spot on. She had the opportunity, the skill, the knowledge. But, more important, the total absence of any ethical standards whatsoever. Gretel and Ashley, take a couple of officers and go to St. Cerebellum’s to arrest Dr. Quatt. Baker, call the Ops room and see if anyone has reported seeing a giant chicken loose in Reading—especially near the Grimm’s Road area. I want locations, times, size, everything—so we can plot them on a map.”
They all dashed off to do his bidding. Ashley scampered along the roof to the elevator while Gretel bade Brown-Horrocks a shy “well, see you around, then” sort of farewell.
“Thanks, Mrs. Singh, you’re a marvel. Stay for a drink?”
She politely declined, as she had to babysit two of her grandchildren, then stared in a medically curious way at Brown-Horrocks and departed.
“At last!” announced Jack. “Some closure. I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. I’ve been blown up, decontaminated, rolled along the top of a room, my Allegro’s been written off, and I was almost vaporized by an insane chiropodist. And tomorrow I’ve got to hunt a giant chicken running loose in Reading. Well, cheers.”
“Cheers, sir.”
“Do you think Officer Kandlestyk-Maeker would enjoy the zoo?” asked Brown-Horrocks, who obviously had other things on his mind. “They’ve got a baby giraffe, you know.”