“Humpty’s tumble is past history, Jack. We’ve all got to think of the future—and with that Red Riding-Hood fiasco still ringing in our ears, you need to be on your best behavior. Josh Hatchett is just itching to stick the knife in deeper.”

“Okay,” said Jack, “so I screwed up. The bedroom was dark—how was I meant to know it was the wolf and not Red’s gran? Besides, the woodsman’s timely intervention saved the day.”

“With no thanks to you,” replied Briggs. “And strictly speaking you should be on sick leave—have you seen the shrinks for some counseling?”

“All that weird shit goes with the NCD turf—it’s business as usual.”

“Maybe to you,” returned Briggs with a sidelong glance to make sure no one could possibly be listening to this insanity,

“but I’ve got a grandmother and a small girl in traumatic shock. They’ll probably sue the pants off us—if they ever come to their senses.”

Briggs lowered his voice.

“Jack, there’s no easy way to say this, so I won’t try. Your judgment has been called into question over the unconventional use of children as bait in the Scissor-man capture, and answers are already being sought about the Riding-Hood inquiry. The bottom line is that we need to be able to demonstrate that all our departmental heads are fully able to acquit themselves in difficult situations without any unpredictable or detrimental decision making.”

“You think I might be insane?”

“I know you’re insane, Jack—it’s a question of whether you’re too insane to run the NCD. It’s a directive from on high. You’re going to have to take a psychiatric evaluation to ensure you are still able to function properly as head of the NCD.”

“Sir—!” said Jack, knowing it would be almost impossible to get a doctor to say he was sane. In conventional policing a streak of madness could get you retired; in the NCD it was almost impossible to function without it. But Briggs was having none of it.

“The answer’s still no, Jack. You’ve been doing a lot of very strange stuff for far too long. I’m worried that it’s affecting your health, and judgment. DS Mary can be acting head of the NCD while you take it easy for a bit. Go home—put your feet up.”

“Sir,” replied Jack tersely, “I should be out hunting for a seven-foot cookie with a bad attitude—not watching reruns of Columbo on the telly.”

Briggs raised an admonishing finger. “Don’t underestimate Columbo, Jack—you might be interested to know that it’s being used for training at police college, along with Hawaii Five-O and Murder, She Wrote. And… I think you’ll find the Gingerbreadman is a cake.”

“Cookie, sir.”

“Cake, but never mind. It’s only because the Humpty gig was good PR that we’re not seeing the NCD disbanded out of hand. Right now you’ll do as you’re told.”

There was a pause. Jack stared at the ground, unsure of what to say.

“And if I find you hunting for the Gingerbreadman on your own,” added Briggs, waving the admonishing finger, “I’ll, I’ll…”

He paused for a moment, trying to figure out whether it was technically possible to suspend someone who was already on sick leave. And it wasn’t as though he could be sent anywhere lower than the NCD, anyway.

“I’ll not be happy,” he said at last. “Give Copperfield all he asks for, would you?”

He tipped his hat, mumbled, “So long, Jack,” and rejoined DI Copperfield, who was directing proceedings from a “murder procedure” checklist he had fortuitously brought with him.

7. Nursery Crime Division