“Reject one mystery woman from the inquiry and another pops up in her place,” announced Jack. “Humpty has quite a following. How many of his ex-lovers have come forward to offer us their help?”

“One hundred and ninety-two,” replied Baker. “It’s going to take us weeks to sift through them all!”

“We don’t have weeks.”

Shenstone put his head around the door. “Hello, Jack!” he said cheerfully. “Want to hear the results of the vacuumings I took from the carpet at Grimm’s Road?”

“Sure.”

“In a word, it’s shit.”

“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 still intractable. What in hell’s name had Humpty been up to?

“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 suspected of wrongdoing.

“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.”

“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.”

“Then perhaps you will tell me why Little Pigs A, B and C were kept in cells that were scrupulously clean and tidy and were offered tea, coffee and biscuits instead of kitchen scraps and puddle water, as was their right?”

“Sorry?”

Bestbeloved laid another sheet of paper on the table. It was a letter from Nigel Grubbit, the pigs’ lawyer, and it bullet-pointed the complaints against Jack.

“They never indicated to me they had special needs,” replied Jack, looking down the list of grievances with a growing sense of unease. If he had won the case, no one would have cared less, but the pigs were eager for revenge—and cash, of course.

“It’s not their responsibility to ask for it,” said Bestbeloved.

“They also maintain that you interviewed them while eating a bacon sandwich. Why would you do something like that?”

Jack shrugged. “Probably because the canteen was out of rolls.”

Bestbeloved glared at him. “Do you find this whole interview funny, Spratt?” He tapped the pigs’ list of grievances. “Any three out of these six points would be enough to finish you, Spratt—and cost the Reading Police Department dear. Look at this: ‘DI Spratt and his assistant, PC Ashley, made comments about crackling and applesauce that were intentionally made to be overheard by Little Pig C.’ If this is true, Spratt, it constitutes a real physical threat to the well-being of the prisoners under your responsibility and might in fact constitute torture. Grubbit is quoting the Animal (anthropomorphic) Equality Bill of 1996 to us, and we think they have a good case.”

Jack sighed. He might be cleared by a tribunal in six months’ time, but that was six months too late. He needed to be free to continue the investigation this afternoon. The thing was, Jack knew that the pigs could have been sent packing if the IPCC had so wished, but this wasn’t about justice for three murderous porkers. It wasn’t just about getting Jack suspended and Chymes onto the Humpty case. No, this was about what happens to people who defy Chymes and the Guild. Jack’s demise would serve as a warning to anyone else daft or stubborn enough to make a stand.

He turned and looked at the one-way mirror in the interview room. Chymes would be behind it, watching, gloating.

“What do you want, Bestbeloved?” demanded Jack.

“I want all officers to uphold the letter of the law when interrogating prisoners,” he replied. “An officer who has gone astray is a stain upon the force and every honest officer in it.”

“Uphold the letter of the law?”

“Yes.”

“And the highest levels of probity when conducting investigations?”

“Of course.”

“All officers?”

Jack asked the question so pointedly that Briggs glanced sideways towards the one-way mirror. Jack was right. Chymes was in there.

“Then I’ve got something to say, and I think it would be better for everyone if this tape recorder were off.”

He directed the comment towards the mirror. There was no reaction, so he simply said, “It’s about a murder in Andersen’s Wood. It’s about Max Zotkin.”