It worked. Within a few seconds, the door had opened and Chymes strode in with a look of thunder on his face.

DCI Bestbeloved, seeing that things were suddenly becoming a great deal more complicated, hastily announced the suspension of the interview and switched off the tape recorder. He had been led to believe that Jack would be a “lamb to the slaughter” and bow to the inevitable—the idea of Chymes’s intervening was not part of the plan. Still, spared the burden of initiative by the appearance of such an eminent officer, he sat back to see how things would turn out.

“Do you see how easily I can bury you?” yelled Chymes. “If it’s not this way, it’s another. I’m through pussyfooting around—relinquish your case to me now and you may get to keep your pension.”

There was a pause as they stared at each other. Chymes was a powerful man, and a bully. Jack had been cowed by him many times, but he’d had enough.

“You couldn’t get this case by trying to turn my own sergeant against me,” he began in a low voice, choosing his words carefully. “You couldn’t get it by withholding pertinent evidence. You couldn’t get it by turning the press against me. And you won’t get it by invoking the IPCC.”

“It’s too late for deals,” sneered Chymes. “You’re finished.”

“I don’t think so,” replied Jack, trying to keep the dread in the pit of his stomach under control. He had once had to stand up to the school bully, and this felt exactly the same. He opened the buff envelope that Skinner had given Mary and placed the pictures on the table.

Chymes went silent.

“These are the crime scene photographs of the Andersen’s Wood murders,” explained Jack for the benefit of Bestbeloved and Briggs. “They clearly show that the cartridges used were Eley.”

He produced the evidence bag that contained the spent cartridges from his briefcase. “These are the ones Chymes sent down to me.”

It was clear to everyone in the room they were Xpress.

“Why would Chymes want to prove that the Marchetti shotgun I found at Humpty’s wasn’t the same one used on the woodcutter and his wife? Because I might have shown up a big hole in his investigation? That it wasn’t the Russian mafia at all? That Chymes concocted every single aspect of the investigation because he needed a filler for the 2003 Christmas bumper edition of Amazing Crime Stories?”

There was a deathly hush. This was heresy of the highest order. The veins in Chymes’s temples throbbed, and Briggs and Bestbeloved looked nervously at each other. If Jack could prove it, this was explosive stuff and heads would roll. A lot of them.

Chymes broke the tension by laughing.

“A ludicrous suggestion, Spratt. This is the sort of stuff that conspiracy theories are made of. There has clearly been an error in the continuity of evidence procedure. It is unfortunate but not irredeemable. I will hunt down the culprit and make sure he is suitably admonished.”

“You can do all that if you want,” said Jack, growing more confident by the second, “but it would be easier just to interview Max Zotkin, the surviving member of the Russian mafia who so eloquently gave evidence at his own trial supporting your every point. Only once he was sent down for ten years, he vanished from view. Who was he? An actor?”

There was silence.

“I don’t want to bring you down or tarnish the public’s perception of the Guild,” said Jack slowly. “I just want to find Humpty’s murderer without let or hindrance.”

Chymes thought hard for a moment and then said, “That’s it. He was part of a repatriation deal whereby UK convicts in Russian jails are swapped—”

“You can’t keep on making it all up,” interrupted Jack, “but if you insist, I’ll go head-to-head with you and ask embarrassing questions. How many other investigations did you ‘embellish’ in order to boost your Amazing Crime circulation figures?”

There was a pause while Chymes thought about this. Briggs exchanged nervous glances with Bestbeloved. They’d never seen Chymes bested, and to them—although they would never admit it—it was a not-unpleasant spectacle. The great man made to eat humble pie.

“Very well,” said Chymes at length, “I withdraw all interest in the Humpty investigation.”

“And I want your vote if I ever make it to a Guild final application.”

“I can do that,” said Friedland grudgingly. He was only one of five on the board, so it wasn’t a huge concession.

“And I want you to resign from the force.”

Chymes laughed, and Jack realized he’d taken it a step too far. Friedland, for all his faults, was almost untouchable. The Jellyman himself had requested him to look after his personal security for his visit on Saturday. The man was a legend. A flawed one, but a legend. And they don’t tumble that easily.

Chymes glared at Jack, then leaned closer. “We aren’t finished yet, Spratt.”

And he left the room. They heard him thump the door farther on down the corridor and a cry as he took out his rage on a subordinate.

“Are we done?” asked Jack.

Briggs and Bestbeloved exchanged another nervous glance. If Jack was capable of talking like that to Chymes, he was capable of anything.

“I will return when I have conducted further investigations,” announced Bestbeloved hurriedly, “and I may be some time.”

He ejected both tapes, threw them in his bag and left without another word.

“Well, Jack,” said Briggs when they were alone, “you really enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

“Friedland’s a jerk who’s become obsessed with circulation figures.”

“No,” retorted Briggs, “Friedland’s a jerk with power and influence. I hope you know what you’re doing. As far as he’s concerned, I’m now in your camp.”

“So?”

Briggs shrugged. “I just hoped he’d write me into his stories so I could do the rounds of the Friedland Chymes conventions. Watson did almost nothing else when Sherlock retired—made him a fortune. Still, I don’t think there’s much chance of that now.”

Jack relaxed. He had every reason to dislike Briggs, but he didn’t. He wasn’t bad, just weak.

“If I ever make it to the Guild, I’ll include you in my stories.”

Briggs seemed to cheer up at this. He’d wanted to be like Fried-land Chymes for years—yet now he was thinking he’d prefer to be like Spratt. A bit down at heel and almost invisible locked away at the NCD—but honest.

“If you do,” said Briggs, a glint in his eye, “will I get to suspend you at least once in every adventure?”

“Of course.”

“And should I change my name to Föngotskilérnie?”

Jack smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Briggs will be fine.”

“What’s your prose like, Mary?”

“Rusty—but not too bad.”

“Good. There exists the faintest possibility that I might make it into the Guild. If I do, I want you as my Official Sidekick.”

“I’m flattered of course, sir—but Chymes is on the selection committee. How would you get him to change his mind?”