Jack tossed the file marked “Important” across the desk to him. Ashley picked it up and said:
“Somerset… cell phone… link explosions… lose the elephants. Got it.”
He took the draft letter and walked up the wall to the ceiling, where he sat cross-legged and upside down at his workstation. It was an efficient use of space in the small office, and by the ingenious use of Post-its and Velcro and a telephone screwed to the ceiling, usually quite safe.
Jack tried to dial Josh Hatchett again, but his phone was still busy. He looked at his watch. He could still make his appointment at the shrink’s, show them he wasn’t a wild-eyed loon and be back on active duty by teatime. But something else was bothering him.
“Mary, can I show you something?”
They walked down to the garage beneath the station where Jack’s Allegro was parked. As they approached the car, they could see someone on his hands and knees peering intently at the pristine front fender of the car.
“What are you doing, Marco?”
Ferranti jumped up guiltily. He was a pale man with thin lips and very little hair covered by a bad wig. He was not in the force but worked for it—as a claims assessor who looked into any damage inflicted by the police in the course of their duties. He strove to have any claims dealt with quickly and efficiently, sometimes irrespective of fault—lawsuits were in nobody’s interest. He wasn’t generally liked, for obvious reasons.
“My phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning, Spratt. I’ve had fourteen claims for damages. One car wrecked, three with fender damage and another eight with broken side mirrors. I’ve got a demolished wall and a smashed garage door. It could come to over eight thousand pounds. Eight thousand more than Reading can afford, Inspector.”
“The garage door I can explain. I was thrown through it.”
Ferranti grunted and conceded that perhaps that one wasn’t entirely Jack’s fault. He looked at Jack’s spotless car suspiciously.
“Several witnesses attest to your damaging a lot of property with this car, Inspector. It seems they were mistaken.”
“Obviously.”
“I’m not convinced. How many other people chase gingerbreadmen in silver Allegro Equipes?”
“Probably dozens, Ferranti. Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Who owns Bart-Mart?”
“QuangTech,” he said. “Everyone knows that. Do you have another Allegro, identical to this one but covered in dents and scratches?”
“No.”
The assessor grunted, made a few disparaging remarks under his breath and then departed.
“What did you want to show me?” asked Mary.
“This car. I completely wrecked it, and now… well… it’s better again.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, not having seen Dorian Gray demonstrate the power of his unique warranty the day before.
“Yes. All that damage Ferranti claimed—it was me. I wrote the car off, but then, as soon as my back was turned, it was all perfect again.”
Mary raised an eyebrow. “That sounds kind of crazy, Jack.”
“Sounds, yes. But—”
“A car that can repair itself?” said a voice behind them. “You should sell that idea to Ford.”
They turned to find Virginia Kreeper, who had been watching them from the shadows.
“Miss Kreeper,” said Jack without much enthusiasm, “what a delightful surprise. Here to help some poor victim formulate a really good complaint against the service?”
“Not today, Inspector.”
“Having a break from trouble stirring?” he asked sarcastically. He hadn’t liked her the evening before at the Déjà Vu, and he didn’t like her now.
“No,” she replied, staring back at him coldly, “I’m here to do an independent psychiatric evaluation.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Jack with a laugh. “And what poor cluck are you going to slap your snake-oil, leech-sucking, voodoo magic on today?”
“Someone the doctors think might be suffering some form of delusional psychosis.”
“Such as?”
“Such as… cars that mend themselves.”
There was a pause.
“Bollocks,” said Jack in a quiet voice. “It’s me, isn’t it?”
14. Virginia Kreeper
Most confusing word-association examinee: Jean Dim-mock of Leicester, UK, holds the record for the most random answers in a routine word-association test. Among her many utterly haphazard responses were such gems as: “Bird? Kneecap,” “Banana? Bowling trophy” and “Great crested grebe? Disraeli.” Her responses are spontaneous and unrehearsed and make for much interesting study. She also holds the record for the most bizarre interpretations of a Rorschach inkblot test, variously describing the meaningless and largely discredited test patterns as “a dog doing push-ups with an ant in attendance” and “Coco the clown in conversation with the Pope.”
The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition
“Of course, I was only kidding about that voodoo comment,” said Jack as soon as he was sitting in the Police Medical Officer’s room. It was cold and sterile and cheerless and not somewhere you’d really want to be. It was here that officers were frequently told bad news about their failing health. Or, in the hypochondriac Baker’s case, bad news about his excessive good health. Kreeper was behind the desk looking through Jack’s medical records and making annoying aha and hmm noises.
“And the leech stuff was admittedly a bit infantile.”
“Your comments just now, although insulting and uttered with intent to demean my profession,” muttered Virginia without looking up, “have no relevance to your mental health, and neither did our conversation yesterday at the Déjà Vu. I get that sort of treatment a lot, so it is hardly indicative of your psychiatric state.”
“Ah!” said Jack, highly relieved.
“My evaluation will be based on objective and unbiased observation.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“But,” she said, staring at him over her spectacles, “give me any more of your sarcastic backchat and I’ll recommend enforced retirement. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“Good,” she said, putting aside his file and picking up a pencil. “I’ve been asked to conduct this appraisal, as your commanding officer is concerned that too much exposure to unusual policing situations in a department requiring an open mind and imaginative thought processes might be aggravating a long-held psychosis, which may render you incapable of distinguishing between reality and fantasy and thus seriously compromise your abilities to conduct meaningful investigations.”
Jack frowned and said nothing for a few moments. “Run that by me again?” he asked at last.
“Briggs thinks you might be bananas.”
Jack leaned back in his chair and put his hands in his pockets.
“Now, that I understand. Listen, Kreeper, I’m as sane as the next man.”
“Then I fear for the next man,” she said, tapping his record with an index finger. “I am here to report on whether you are mentally fit enough to continue to work as an effective officer of the law.”
“Great!” said Jack, looking at his watch. “Let’s get to it.”
Kreeper stared at him again. “Okay. I understand you are head of what you call the ‘Nursery Crime Division.’ Is this true?”
“Spot on.”
“And you were swallowed, alive, by a wolf a week ago?”
“Right again.”
“And this doesn’t strike you as unusual?”
“Not at all. It’s all pretty much standard operating procedure within the division. I’ve been in tighter spots than the swallowing, I can tell you.”
“Such as?”
“Probably the incident with the troll—or the attack by Dr. Quatt’s genetic experiment. Or the Gingerbreadman. Or arresting King Midas—and Rumpelstiltskin didn’t take my closing down of his straw-into-gold dens too well.”
“And
did any of these make you feel anxious or worried?”
“Of course.”
“Feelings of delayed shock?”
“Nope.”
“Guilt?”
“Only on a failed conviction—guilty that I didn’t present a robust enough case.”
Kreeper looked mildly disappointed and tried another tack. “Your marriage is good?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“How do you feel when you think of beautiful Pippa in the control room?”
“That she’s very pretty and young enough to be my daughter.”
“And who do you think she’s going out with?”
“Is this part of the test?”
“No, I was just interested like everyone else.”
“She showed an interest in Sergeant Pickle, but I’m not sure how far it’s gone.”
Virginia held up a picture of an inkblot.
“What does this look like to you?”
“It looks like a vagina. No, just kidding—it looks like a Rorschach inkblot test.”
“And what about this?” she asked, showing him another.
“It looks like the one you just showed me.”
“And this?”
“Ditto.”
“O-kay. Word association. I want you to tell me the first word that comes into your head. Ready?”
“Steady.”
“We haven’t started yet. Okay, here we go: Jack?”
“Yes?”
“No, we’ve started now. Jack?”
“Jill.”
“Dish?”
“Spoon.”
“Boy?”
“Blue.”
“Baa, baa?”
“Black sheep.”
“Ring around the rosies?”
“All fall down.”
“Porridge?”
“Bear.”
“Nursery?”
“Crime.”
“Bluebeard?”
“Crime.”
“Humpty?”
“Crime.”
“Crime?”
“Nursery.”
Kreeper wrote another note, leaned back in her chair and then asked, “Being swallowed. What did it feel like?”
“Constricting to begin with, then quite warm and womblike.”
“Aha!” muttered Virginia triumphantly, leaning forward again.
“How do you get on with your mother?”
“She’s a monumental pain in the ass, but I love her—I suppose.”
“When you were a little boy, did you ever walk into your parents’ bedroom when they were making love?”
“No!”
“Beaten as a child?”
“No.”
“Humiliated? Other siblings favored over you?”
“No.”
“Potty trained too late?”
“No.”
“Potty trained too early?”
“No!”
“Shame,” she said a little sadly. “That would have made it all a lot easier. This car of yours. You say it mended itself?”
“No, I don’t think I ever said that.”
“I distinctly heard you tell Sergeant Mary.”
“I meant it in… in… an ironic manner.”
“What sort of ironic manner?”
“I’m not sure,” said Jack, beginning to get a trifle annoyed and wanting to skip to the “clean bill of health” part. “Listen: I sleep well, eat well, have no problems with anyone except for people who… want to stop me from doing my job.”
“Eat well?” asked Virginia, consulting Jack’s medical records.
“That’s what you said? ‘Eat well’?”
“Ye-e-es,” replied Jack, trying to figure where this was going.
“And your name is Jack Spratt?”
“You know it is.”
“Who eats no fat?”
“A lot of people don’t eat fat,” replied Jack defensively, suddenly realizing what Kreeper was up to. The interview had started out quite innocently, but now she was probing right under the skin, and he didn’t like it—not one little bit.
“And your wife—your first one—she ate no lean, is that correct?”
“Do you have to bring my first wife into this?” said Jack, rubbing his hands together because they had begun to itch. “You know she died?”
“I’m sorry, Inspector, but it might be important.”
“Yes, she only ate the fat. Only ever ate fat. What of it?”
“So together,” said Kreeper in a meaningful tone, “you licked the platter clean?”
“Metaphorically speaking—you could say that,” snapped Jack, rubbing his brow. The room had suddenly grown hot, and he pulled at his collar to try to stop his shirt from sticking to him.
“Are you feeling okay, Inspector?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t want to stop and carry on another time?”
“No.”
“And none of that ‘eat no fat / eat no lean / platter clean’ stuff strikes you as unusual?”
“Not at all.” replied Jack. He looked down at his hands and noticed a slight tremor. He tried to smile and clasped his fingers together, then felt an itch on his neck that he had to scratch but didn’t in case Kreeper thought he was acting strangely. If this was a test to see if he would crack and admit his PDRness, it was a good one.
“Have you heard of the Jack Sprat nursery rhyme?”
“Never,” he replied angrily. “Is there one?”
“Yes. Do you want to hear it?”
Jack felt his heart thump heavily in his chest, and his scalp prickled. “No, I don’t.”
“I see,” replied Virginia with infuriating calm. “So, Jack, what is the meaning of all this… GIANT KILLING?”
Jack jumped to his feet. “Station tittle-tattle!” he exclaimed, more forcefully than he had intended. “Yes, yes, there were three of them, but only one was technically a giant; the rest were just tall. I was cleared of wrongdoing on every occasion.”
He found himself pacing the room, stopped, gave a wan smile, then seated himself with his hands under his thighs to keep them from fidgeting.
“Is that all you need to know?”
“I’m only just beginning,” replied Kreeper with a unpleasant smile. “Tell me about the beanstalk.”
“What beanstalk?”
“The one that grew in your mother’s garden. The one that grew after you swapped the Stubbs cow for the ‘magic’ beans. The one you chopped down to destroy that giant… thing.”
“Oh, that beanstalk.”
“Yes, that one. Doesn’t the whole scenario ring with even the slightest familiarity to you?”
“What do you want from me, Kreeper?”
“Nothing,” she replied evenly. “I’ve just been asked to do a psychiatric evaluation to see if you are mentally fit enough to continue your duties, and I think it’s important to understand why it is that you are so suited to nursery crime work.”
He stared at her, and she stared back. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. Something about her manner wasn’t right. She had brought her own selfish agenda to the meeting. This wasn’t an evaluation; it was simply a hurdle in the narrative. And as soon as he realized that, he knew he could go on the attack. He remembered some advice that DCI Horner had given him when he had passed the NCD reins across to him. “Remember, m’boy,” his old boss had said, eyes twinkling, “that if anyone tries to get the better of you, stand up straight and say to yourself in an imperious air, ‘I am the new Mrs. de Winter now!’ You’ll find it works wonders.” Jack stared at Kreeper and narrowed his eyes.
“Mrs. de Winter,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing. In answer to your question as to why I’m so suited to NCD work: After many years working among the nursery characters living in Reading, I have grown to have an affinity with their way of thinking. Call it intuition if you like, but there it is, and I can’t explain it.”
Kreepe
r’s face fell at Jack’s recovery. She thought she’d gotten him. “Nothing else?”
Jack felt his heart stop thumping and was suddenly calmer.
“Nothing at all. Tell me, what kind of parents named Kreeper give their daughter a name like Virginia?”
She scratched her chin and looked away.
“Virginia Kreeper is a plant, isn’t it?”
“Possibly. But this interview isn’t about me, Inspector.”
“You’re wrong. It’s about us, And since you have to stand in judgment of me, I think I’m entitled to know just what sort of a person I’m dealing with and where you fit into the grand scheme of things. A tall, thin, beaky appearance with colored-frame spectacles. Pointlessly aggressive, doubtlessly single and seemingly without a clue as to the proper procedure for a psychiatric evaluation. From where I’m sitting, you look like a poorly realized stereotype, a one-dimensional character without backstory or future—and a name to match your bearing and position within the bigger picture.”
It was Kreeper’s turn to be flustered. She ran a hand through her lank hair, trembled for a moment and then said, “I… I… don’t know what you mean, I’m sure. A stereotype? Bigger picture? What are you suggesting?”
“Let’s put it this way,” said Jack, suddenly feeling a lot more self-assured. “You and I have perhaps more in common than you think. And you sitting behind that desk questioning my motivations smacks of the very worst kind of hypocrisy. Essentially, you’re nothing but a vehicle for a series of bad psychiatric jokes and a plot device to stop me from getting to the truth. A threshold guardian, whose only purpose in existence is for me to circumvent—which I’m doing right now, if you haven’t noticed.”
Kreeper stared back at him, trying to adopt a bemused air of condescension to disguise her sudden nervousness.
“A one-dimensional threshold guardian? No, no, you’re quite wrong. Look, here!” She opened her purse and passed him a picture of a teenager in pigtails and wearing glasses. “It’s my niece,” she explained. “I take her out on her birthday to all kinds of places. Last year we went to the Natural History Museum. So you see I’m not poorly realized at all—I’m flesh and blood and fully in command of my own destiny—and having a recollectable past proves I’m not one-dimensional.”
She glared at him hotly, but Jack had enough experience of PDRs and incidental characters to know one when he saw one.
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