Chapter Ten
Around midday, the door of Jack's cell opened again, and in walked Alastair Warren.
"Jack – how are you feeling?" he asked, noting the change of clothes and the picnic basket. The early visitor he'd been informed of had clearly made good use of the intervening hours. "How's the head?"
"Responding well to an ice pack, but I doubt it's improving my good looks much," Jack responded ruefully.
"Come through to the interview room, would you?" Warren requested. "We've got your statement typed up, so I need you to read it and sign it if you're happy with it."
Jack reflected that "happy" had taken on a rather different guise in the last twenty-four hours, but followed the Chief Inspector out of the cell, and up the corridor to the front of the station. There, the interview room door stood wide; the duty sergeant was waiting by the table, on which lay a single sheet of paper and a pen.
Jack took his seat, and scanned the words carefully; then, uncapping the fountain pen, scribbled a signature and date at the foot. Warren held out his hand for the pen.
"Thanks Jack," he paused. "You're free to go – though I'd rather you didn't leave the country quite yet, if you don't mind."
Jack looked up sharply, wincing as he was reminded that rapid head movements were a bad idea. "Go?"
Warren smiled grimly.
"We got the details from the post mortem this morning," he said. "It's plain that the pitch fork was driven in slightly from the left, probably by someone whose left hand was higher on the shaft than his right – that's the way we found your prints and it ties in with the evidence we have. We're looking primarily, therefore, for a left handed person. You were always, despite the evidence, an unlikely candidate for this murder, and you've just signed your statement with your right hand. I take it you are right handed?"
Jack nodded wordlessly.
"That being the case, we have to assume that whatever your involvement in last night's business, you didn't murder that lad. As I say, I'm asking you not to leave the country – in fact, if you could stay around London, that would be best. For now, I'm happy to have one of my men drive you back there. By the look of that head, I don't think Miss Fisher would forgive me for making you try to navigate the journey on your own."
Given that Jack's legs when he stood appeared slightly cotton-wool, he owned that Warren's assessment was correct. The sergeant was standing at the door, with the battered suitcase and picnic basket at his feet.
"Oh, and Jack?" he turned back at Warren's call.
"I know it's too much to expect you and Miss Fisher to keep out of my investigation – but please, if you find anything, will you keep me informed? And do try to avoid any more felonies – I will have to lock you up if you accidentally come into possession, say, of stolen bank documents."
At this, Jack did smile; and was still smiling as the police car drew away from the station, carrying him back to Chelsea. And hopefully, before long, Phryne.