“Aha!” said Jack with a triumphant cry.

But Caliban wasn’t so easily dispossessed of his property, and with an “AHA!” he jumped up and grabbed it back, then ran off as fast as his short legs would carry him. Jack yelled, “Stop!” and ran after the small figure. The farce could end in only one way. The creature tripped over a fold in the carpet, fell flat on his face and dropped the vase, which then rolled toward the head of the stairs. Caliban put a paw to his mouth as he watched the vase escape him, and Jack, more concerned now for the vase than with capturing the ugly little ape, raced past the creature, took a running leap, fell headlong on the carpet and just managed to touch the vase as it rolled out into space, bounced on the second stair, smashed on the fifth and scattered pieces of gold-painted porcelain all over the hall downstairs. Jack lay on his stomach at the top of the stairs and watched the pieces settle on the floor below.

“Crap,” he muttered. The vase was Madeleine’s, and it had been until very recently a priceless and much-loved family heirloom.

Caliban walked up to where Jack was lying at the top of the stairs and looked forlornly at the remains of the vase.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “Was it valuable?”

Jack closed his eyes as he heard a door open behind them.

“More than you know,” he answered in a low voice.

“Who did this?” asked Madeleine as soon as she realized what had happened.

“He did,” replied Caliban and Jack in unison, each pointing an accusing finger at the other.

“What?!” said Jack in outrage. “You stole the vase, pal.”

“I wouldn’t have dropped it if you hadn’t been chasing me.”

“I wouldn’t have been chasing you if you hadn’t stolen it!”

“I wasn’t stealing it.”

“What then?”

“I was borrowing it.”

“You—”

Madeleine interrupted them both. “I don’t care who’s to blame; you can both clear it up. My grandmother gave me that vase before she died.”

Caliban giggled at the non sequitur but tried to make it sound like a cough when Madeleine glared at him.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he replied meekly.

Madeleine walked angrily back to the bedroom and shut the door with a bang.

“Thanks a bunch,” said Jack to the misshapen ape as they both sat on the top step, “you troublemaking ignoramus.”

“I’m not an ignoramus,” retorted Caliban crossly. “Ask me anything.”

“All right, smart-ass. Who owns Bart-Mart?”

“QuangTech,” said the ugly little ape without a pause. “Everyone knows that.”

18. Early Morning

Jack didn’t get back to sleep at all that night and eventually got up at six. He had a bath, then went downstairs to have a cup of coffee and listen to the early news, which didn’t carry any bulletins about the Gingerbreadman, so he figured he must still be at large. He thought of going to speak to Madeleine but decided against it, took his keys off the hook and glared at Caliban, who had somehow overcome his initial shyness and was sitting on the windowsill, picking his nose and staring out the window.

“Hey,” said Jack, “you better be out of the house by the time I get back.”

“Yeah, right,” replied Caliban with a reproachful sneer, “and what if I’m not?”

Jack jabbed a finger in his direction but for the life of him couldn’t think of anything either vaguely threatening or even intelligent. “Oh, nuts to you,” he said, and made for the door.

“Nuts to you, too,” murmured Caliban, and continued to stare out the window.

Jack got into his car, slotted the ignition key in, then stopped. Where was he going to go? His department wasn’t his anymore, and Briggs would almost certainly have something to say if he turned up there. He sighed. He wanted to stay out of Madeleine’s way, but he didn’t actually have any work to go to. He thought for a moment, tuned the radio to something mindless and settled back to think about Goldilocks. They had a victim but no obvious cause of death, no suspect, no motive and no particular leads apart from the mysterious Mr. Curry and QuangTech, who seemed to be cropping up a lot. NS-4 was somehow interested, and it seemed as though Goldy had been doing a story about unexplained explosions. Then there was the Gingerbreadman, and Vinnie Craps, who seemed to think he was above the NCD’s jurisdiction. And it was with thoughts like these that Jack drifted off to sleep, a lot more successfully than he’d been able to in the spare bedroom. He was just dreaming about the Dungeness nuclear power station and his Aunt Edith when the plaintive trill of his cell phone roused him to confused wakefulness.

“Yuh?” he said.

“It’s me,” said Mary.

“What’s the time?”

“Ten past nine.”

Jack rubbed his face. He’d been asleep for over two hours, and now he noticed that Ben had written “Working hard, Dad?” on the driver’s-side window as he’d slept. Madeleine must have seen him sleeping, and he half hoped he’d have a message from her, too—but he didn’t.

“What’s the news?”

“Positive ID from Mrs. Singh—it’s Goldilocks all right.”

“What did Briggs have to say about it?”

“He said he wasn’t going to elevate this to a full-level NCD murder inquiry without some sort of proof that she was killed unlawfully, but that I should continue ‘rigorous inquiries’ with my current level of resources.”

“Which is you and Ashley,” observed Jack, “a woeful lapse of responsibility, even for Briggs—he must be stretched thin with the hunt for the Gingerbreadman. Have you spoken to Josh?”

“I’ve just told him. He’d been expecting it, but the confirmation was still a shock. I showed him the list of Mr. Currys to see if he knew which one Goldilocks had been having dinner with the night before she died.”

“And?”

“He didn’t even look at the list. He said it was a code name—and that Goldilocks had made him swear not to reveal who it was.”

“I’ve a feeling this is seriously bad news.”

“You’d be right. ‘Mr. Curry’ was… Bartholomew.”

Jack was suddenly wide awake.

“Bartholomew? Sherman Bartholomew?”

“The very same.”

“Why the secrecy? Was she investigating him?”

“Josh said we should ask Bartholomew.”

“He’s right,” said Jack. “We will.”

“Shouldn’t I okay it with Briggs first?” asked Mary nervously. “This could be a very hot potato.”

“I’ve had hotter,” said Jack. “Besides, Briggs said this wasn’t an all-out murder inquiry yet.”

They agreed to meet at the council offices where Bartholomew was holding a surgery that morning. But Sherman Bartholomew wasn’t a doctor. He was Reading’s representative in the House of Commons. The Right Honorable Sherman Oscar Bartholomew, MP.