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“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.