The Big Over Easy

by Jasper Fforde

  —Extract from the Reading Mercury, July 18, 1990

  They hadn’t been wasting time back at the NCD offices. It was Ashley who had come up with the first good lead. He had put a name to the man in the photograph, the one in Humpty’s still-untraced Ford Zephyr.

  “Who?” asked Jack.

  “Thomas Timothy Thomm. DI Drood down at Missing Persons found him. I did you a printout of his record—but on acetate so you could still look at your desk while reading it.”

  “Very…thoughtful of you, Ashley.”

  It seemed that Thomm was the son of the Reading Philharmonic’s premier flautist. Unable to stop an unexplained compulsion to steal pigs, he was sent at age sixteen to a young offender’s institute to “straighten him out.” It achieved the opposite, and after being in and out of jail for a number of offenses, he was eventually sentenced to fifteen years for armed robbery. He had been released on parole two years previously.

  “Looks like he’s prime NCD jurisdiction,” murmured Jack.

  “They should have sent him through to me. Where is he now?”

  “That’s the thing,” observed Ashley. “He’s not been seen at all for over a year. Didn’t turn up for parole meetings—there is an outstanding arrest warrant, and his parents have put him on the Missing Persons register. I’m trying to contact his parole officer and see what else I can learn.”

  “More questions!” said Jack in exasperation. “It’s about time we had some bloody answers!”

  Baker had been in town making inquiries but had drawn a blank. No one had seen Humpty for over a year, leading some wag in Humpty’s old local to remark that he was surprised to find that Humpty was still alive to be murdered. Baker questioned him further, but it seemed that the man was only reflecting Humpty’s slightly downmarket business reputation. “Shady” was the word the man used, although neither he nor anyone else could say who had actually fallen foul of him. Indeed, everyone Baker met commented on how much he was liked. Humpty’s womanizing was well known, but Baker didn’t find out much more.

  “Out of sight for over a year?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Baker. “Apart from his neighbors around Grimm’s Road, no one’s seen anything of him at all.”

  “In hiding?” murmured Jack, half to himself.

  “It would explain the drab office at Grimm’s Road. No one would expect to see him at that end of town. But if he’s in hiding, why pop up blind drunk at the Spongg Charity Benefit?”

  “Prometheus said he thought Humpty was saying good-bye to him the last time they met. Perhaps Humpty knew he wasn’t long for this world. He offered all his shares to Grundy for ten million. Sounds pretty last-ditch to me. Anything on Bessie Brooks?”

  “Still nothing. She withdrew two hundred pounds in cash last night from the city center, so she’s still in the area.”

  “I’ll release her name and picture to the press.”

  “Sir?”

  It was Gretel. Jack walked into the filing room that she was using as her office. The small room was awash with papers, faxes and financial reports.

  “What news?”

  She put her pen down and leaned back in her chair. “Complex, sir, very complex.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s about gold.”

  “Gold?” queried Jack “What is it?”

  “It’s a yellow-colored precious metal. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

  “Old joke, Gretel. What about it?”

  “Well, eighteen months ago Mr. Dumpty comes into a large quantity of bullion. No assay marks, the finest available.”

  She held up a receipt.

  “He sells it to buy shares in Spongg’s. He does the same thing a week later, then a week after that. He claims it is scrap and it requires no documentation. As he sells more and more, the markets in London get suspicious—they start to offer him a lower price, as they think it might be stolen. He eventually finds a ready market in Wozbekistan, Malvonia, Woppistania and a few other tattered remnants of the former Soviet Union where no questions are asked. Except there’s a problem. They can’t give him the hard currency he needs. He swaps it for copper, scrap, béarnaise sauce, strawberries, anything that can be sold in the West and realize its value. If you turn up his passport, I think you’ll find he has enough frequent-flier miles to go to Jupiter. He’s been all around the world selling gold, solely to purchase Spongg shares. Every time he had some cash, he went to Pewter.”

  “How much gold has he sold?” asked Jack.

  “About two and a half million pounds’ worth.”

  “That’s a lot of gold. Where do you think he got it?”

  “How about another illegal spinning-straw-into-gold den?” suggested Baker.

  “Not since we banged up…what was his name again?”

  “Rumplestiltskin?”

  “Right. But check he’s still inside, just to make sure. Any other gold missing?”

  Gretel shook her head. “That’s the problem. Nothing of this volume has been stolen recently, but muse on this: The first batch of Spongg shares was bought four days after the woodcutters’ murder.”

  “So you’re saying the woodcutters found some gold, were murdered, then Dumpty—he might not be the actual killer—starts to sell it himself?”

  “It’s a possibility,” observed Gretel.

  “Hmm,” murmured Jack. “It wouldn’t be the first time that anyone was killed over a piece of yellow metal. Good work, Gretel. I owe you several large drinks for this. See if you can find out where he got the gold from. Missing bullion consignments—anything. Go back fifty years if you have to.”

  Mary had joined them.

  “I spoke to Tom Thomm’s father. Get this: Tom was sponsored for early release…by Humpty.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere. What else?”

  “He got Tom a job as a lab assistant in Goring two years ago. Six months after that, Tom leaves the job and comes into some cash. Buys his father a new car and his mother a new hip. Then, about a year ago, he vanishes from sight.”

  Jack cocked his head to one side and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The date of Thomm’s enrichment matched the date of the woodcutters’ death, and it seemed likely that if Humpty didn’t kill the woodcutter and his wife, then perhaps Tom Thomm did.

  He addressed the NCD office.

  “Listen up, everyone. We have a definite lead and a time scale that seems to fit. Here it is: Tom Thomm and Dumpty meet two years ago when Humpty is sponsoring him for early release. Dumpty gets Thomm a job, which he keeps until the same time as the woodcutter and his wife are murdered.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “I’d say almost certainly that Tom Thomm killed the woodcutter and brought the gold to Dumpty to sell.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, Baker?”

  “I thought the Russian mafia killed the woodcutter? Chymes’s investigation of the case was well documented in Amazing Crime.”

  “Then let’s say Tom stumbles across the gold after the Russian mafia kills the woodcutters and takes it to Humpty. Yes, Ashley?”

  “Could Tom Thomm have killed Dumpty?”

  “It’s possible, but why? Tom Thomm wouldn’t have been able to sell the gold any more efficiently than Dumpty. Either way, we need to find this Thomm fellow. He’s a strong link in the whole inquiry. Yes, Baker?”

  “Rumplestiltskin is still inside,” he said, turning from the Police National Computer terminal. “He didn’t supply the gold.”

  “Good. Where was I?”

  “Buying Spongg shares?”

  “Right. Humpty uses the gold to buy thirty-eight percent of Spongg stock, but for the last year he has been in hiding at Grimm’s Road. On Sunday night he has a voluble argument with a Miss Bessie Brooks, who we can’t find, goes to the Spongg Charity Benefit, gets completely plastered and offers his entire Spongg holding to Solomon Grundy. Grundy turns him down flat, and Humpty tells him that his stock will be worth a lot more ‘t
his time next year.’ Humpty then blurts out that he will pledge fifty million to rebuild St. Cerebellum’s, is taken home in Randolph Spongg’s own car and six hours later he’s shot dead.”

  “He thought the share price would go up,” observed Mary.

  “Exactly. Spongg prices are dropping daily, but he’s still buying, so he knows something we don’t. He goes to sit on his wall to sleep off the booze, and someone comes up behind him and shoots from a range of three to four feet with a .44 caliber. What did Mrs. Singh say the time of death was?”

  “Between one and three A.M.”

  “Right. Humpty collapses stone dead into the backyard of 28, Grimm’s Road, where he is discovered by his landlady at seven-thirty A.M. It was raining, so a lot of evidence has been washed away. The following day his ex-wife confesses to his murder and then kills herself—she didn’t do it but must have thought she had. The twenty-eight-foot-long hair came from Mrs. Grundy, who was having an affair with Humpty. Grundy knew about it and said he didn’t mind, which kind of throws the jealous-husband motive out the window.”

  He stopped and looked at them all.

  “I don’t think we’re halfway there yet. Any questions?”

  “Wee Willie Winkie,” said Gretel.

  “A good point. Winkie was Humpty’s next-door neighbor and is violently murdered early this morning. It’s possible he saw something and tried to blackmail them, but we don’t know for sure. Same as this white van that was seen outside Humpty’s and also where we found Winkie. Bear it in mind, but it could be nothing.”

  “Don’t Winsum and Loosum’s use white vans?”

  “Yes—and half the companies in Berkshire. Any questions?”

  There weren’t. They all knew what they had to do.

  “One other thing,” said Jack. “A certain DCI named Friedland Chymes wants to take over this investigation and will do almost anything to do so. I want all approaches from him or a member of his staff reported to me. Let’s keep gossip to a minimum, too. Okay, that’s it. Find me Thomm and where Humpty has been living this past year, and we need to speak to Bessie Brooks.”

  There was an unseemly rush for the only available chairs. Gretel, as usual, won.

  “What do you think about Winkie?” asked Jack.

  “I’m not sure,” replied Mary. “If he’d been shot with a .44 caliber, I might be a bit more positive. He might simply have been mugged; the fifty-pound notes could have been his.”

  “I agree. Listen: If we can discover Humpty’s plan for raising his share value, we’ll find the motive for killing him.”

  “Then why don’t we speak to Spongg again?” suggested Mary. “After all, he stood to gain far more than Humpty ever did from a hike in the share prices.”

  28. Castle Spongg

  NAIL SOUP FAD SPREADS

  The popularity of Nail Soup continues to spread across Reading this week with the news that Smileyburger has added Nailburger to its product list and the makers of Cup-A-Soup, Pot Noodle and Walkers Crisps are introducing “nail flavor” to their product lines. The tasty and healthy concoction that consists only of a nail and hot water has baffled nutritionists and scientists for some months. “It’s very odd,” declared a leading food expert yesterday, “but the nutritional benefits of nail soup are indisputable—yet fly in the face of established scientific thought, which states that a nail and hot water should be no more nutritious than hot water with a nail in it, which isn’t nutritious at all. I have to admit it’s got us stumped.” Despite the confusion of the scientific community, the tasty snack continues to find favor with young and old alike, many of whom have improved upon the original recipe with a few garnishings of their own, such as salt, pepper, potatoes, cabbages, leeks, carrots, lentils and chopped bacon.

  —Extract from the Reading Mercury, January 4, 1984

  Randolph wasn’t at the factory that day, he was at home. And “at home” for the Sponggs meant only Castle Spongg, the extraordinary neosurrealist building constructed in the thirties by the brilliant yet certifiable Dr. Caligari. Many people argued over the artistic merits of Castle Spongg, but there was one descriptive word that everyone agreed upon: “bizarre.”

  Jack and Mary slowed to a stop outside the ornate wrought-iron gates of the main entrance. The gatehouse looked ordinary enough, but it was designed to give the illusion that it had sunk into the earth. The lodge was tilted at thirty degrees and was submerged to the top of the front door; the upstairs window served as the entrance and exit. They pulled through the open gates onto the drive, which was straight and flat but seemed to be a crudely mended patchwork of concrete and asphalt.

  “You’d have thought he’d maintain it a bit better,” said Mary as the tires rumbled and squeaked on the different road surfaces.

  “It’s not in poor repair,” said Jack, who had been to visit the Castle Spongg grounds on a few occasions. “If you drive at precisely twenty-nine miles per hour, the rumble strips play ‘Jerusalem’ on the car tires. Listen.”

  Mary slowed to the correct speed and listened as they drove along. It did sound like “Jerusalem.” A low, rumbling tune, heavy and brooding, like distant thunder.

  “…in ancient times!” sang Jack.

  They drove on through the immaculately kept gardens with not a blade of grass looking out of place. “They call Castle Spongg the ‘jewel of the Thames Valley,’” said Jack. “The landscaped park was designed by the less-well-known ‘Incomprehensible’ Greene. See that reservoir?”

  Mary looked to her left, where a footprint-shaped lake stretched away from them. Groves of silver birches grew where the soft, undulating parkland met the water. “Yes?”

  “Greene installed large hydraulic rams in the lake bed that move up and down to give the effect of an Atlantic storm in winter. There is a sailing ship complete with torn sails and broken rigging down there—also on hydraulic rams—that can be made to founder and sink at the flick of a switch.”

  “For what purpose?” asked Mary.

  “To entertain Lord Spongg and his guests. In the twenties and thirties, Spongg’s was the wealthiest company in Reading—bigger even than Suttons Seeds or Huntley and Palmers—and consequently had the most lavish parties.”

  “I think I’d be bored looking at a sailing ship sink all the time.”

  “So was Lord Spongg. The ship can be retracted and replaced by a seventeen-ton Carrera marble fountain depicting Poseidon doing battle with a sea monster. Just over there was the pitch where they played aerial polo with Gypsy Moths. It was quite a lark, apparently.”

  They drove on in silence for some minutes, staring at the strange wonders that met them at every turn. As the road smoothed and the last strains of “Jerusalem” faded on the car tires, they rounded a corner and came within sight of the bizarre and incongruous Castle Spongg.

  The word “surreal” might have been invented for the Spongg residence. Everything about it flew in the face of aesthetic convention. It was impossible to say how many stories Castle Spongg had, for the windows were of varying sizes and shapes and placed randomly in the walls. The five towers all leaned precariously—some in, some out, three of them spiraling as they reached skywards, two of them even entwining at the top. The roof was decorated in seven different shades of slate, and the zinc guttering channeled water through gargoyles modeled on all the British prime ministers since 1726. Part of the roof was supported by flying buttresses, some Gothic, others smooth and looking like living branches of a tree. One buttress stretched seventy feet down, only to stop less than a yard from the ground.

  They slowly motored up to the front door and parked where a silver-haired servant in a frock coat and white gloves was waiting to greet them.

  “Good afternoon,” said the butler, bowing stiffly from the waist,

  “my name is Ffinkworth. I am the Spongg retainer. If you would follow me?”

  They all walked towards the main door, which was the shape of a collapsed trapezoid. Strangely, there seemed to be a gap between the
two circular brass strips that ran round the perimeter of the house. Stranger still, the house appeared to be rotating.

  “Castle Spongg is built on a turntable,” explained Ffinkworth with a hint of pride. “Powerful electric motors in the basement rotate the house to any point of the compass so his lordship might look out of his study and view the rose garden, or the lake, or whatever he wishes. Given less inclement weather,” added Ffinkworth,

  “we could even track the sun and ensure that the morning room was naturally illuminated all day long.”

  They stepped onto the turntable, which had been so precisely engineered it was impossible to be sure you were moving at all. The butler stood back so they might enter first, and they walked past a pair of giant bronze anteaters that guarded the lopsided front door.

  Inside, the hall’s high ceiling was supported by a varied muddle of columns. Some were Ionic, some Corinthian, some Doric and some Egyptian. Others were a mixture of all four. The floor was checkered with white and black marble, but each piece was differently shaped. They swirled around the floor with no discernible pattern, and if you looked at it too long, you could become disorientated.

  “I wonder—” said Jack, turning to speak to Ffinkworth, but the butler had vanished.

  “It’s a bit creepy, isn’t it?” said Mary, listening to the house utter gentle creaks and groans to itself as it flexed slightly on the turntable. Jack was just tilting his head to one side to try to view the paintings, which were hung upside down, when a familiar voice made them turn.

  “Inspector!” said Randolph with a smile. “How nice to see you again! And Sergeant Mary. I trust the corn on the second toe of your left foot is not hurting you too much?”

  “How did you know about that?”

  He smiled modestly. “I am a fully trained and highly experienced chiropodist, Sergeant. I can tell by the way you walk. Is this your first time inside Castle Spongg?”