Simpson sat before him, handcuffed, with a constable standing at his shoulder. A second constable stood against the wall, ready to take notes on the interview. Jack was taking no chances with this one.

"Let's start with your name."

The man smiled at him. "Francis Simpson."

"Your real name," Jack elaborated, only to be met with silence. "Mr. Simpson, let me be clear. As we speak, arrangements are being made to circulate your photograph, description, and details of your known offences to every police station in Australia, as well as the constabulary in a number of other port cities worldwide. I will learn your real name, and I will see you hanged under it."

'Simpson' leaned forward, still smiling. "I should have shot you and fucked your whore when I had the chance."

Jack forced himself to remain impassive, but something of his feelings must have shown in his expression, because Simpson's smile became, if it was possible, even filthier.

"Or, I'm sorry, was she your sweetheart? Not that it matters; they're all whores anyway, and I'm sure she would have enjoyed everything I did to her. At least, none of them ever complain afterwards."

His eyes never leaving Simpson's, Jack said levelly. "Constable, make a note that the suspect has just admitted to the sexual violation by rape of a female or females unknown."

"Yes, sir."

He raised his gaze to the other constable, the one guarding Simpson. "Escort Mr. Simpson back to his cell and leave him there. I can see there's nothing to be gained by continuing this interview."

"Yes sir." The constable laid a heavy hand on Simpson's shoulder. "Let's go."

Jack Robinson was not a violent man. He had committed his fill of violent acts during the war. But he was a man who had spent much of his life surrounded by violent men, and he had a certain understanding of their nature. So he rose when Simpson did and, as the murderer was escorted past him, turned and drove his fist, backed by the full weight of his body, into his solar plexus. Simpson folded up almost silently, and Jack bent so that their faces were level, being careful to stay just out of range of any attempted head-butt. He smiled beatifically at the man as he struggled for breath.

"You are going to spend the rest of your life in a gaol cell, Simpson. And then you are going to hang. And you are never going to know the touch of a woman's body ever again."

For a long moment he allowed the killer to look him straight in the eye, remembering as he did so that this man would have turned his vile attentions on Phryne given even half a chance. That thought was all he needed to make his gaze as cold and merciless as the grave, and he was gratified to see Simpson's eyes widen in understanding and something akin to fear. Then he straightened and gestured to the constable to lead the prisoner away.

...

Phryne Fisher was not waiting anxiously by the phone for a man to call her, she told herself firmly. No, she was waiting anxiously by the phone for an update on an important case. The fact that the man who would be delivering it was... 'was what?' she wondered, but stopped that train of thought in its tracks. Was Jack Robinson, she continued firmly, was immaterial.

The first ring startled her so much that she almost spilled her whisky, but she made herself walk into the hallway with a measured pace.

"Phryne Fisher speaking."

"Miss Fisher, Detective Inspector Robinson here."

Always so formal, she thought with amusement. "Jack. So you made it back in one piece then?"

"I did indeed."

"Did you find my drunken informant?"

"Perhaps fortunately for him, no." He had examined all the prisoners carefully, Phryne's detailed and idiosyncratic description ('nose like a ripe plum, and eyebrows like two caterpillars fighting for the first bite' was a line that had particularly stood out) foremost in his mind, but hadn't found their man.

She paused. "And Simpson?"

"In custody."

"Did you get anything out of him?"

"Nothing useful." He was trying to keep his tone neutral, but he must have failed, because Phryne's own tone suddenly became concerned.

"Jack? Is everything alright?"

He sighed. Whilst he wasn't about to repeat Simpson's exact words to her, there was little point in pretending that he hadn't found the interview disturbing. "He and Murdoch Foyle are two cuts from the same cloth. Fortunately, Simpson lacks Foyle's intellect and finesse. With the witness statements from tonight we already have enough evidence to hang him. I doubt we'll ever establish the full extent of his crimes, but I'm confident we'll have a compelling case put together in no time."

He heard the shift in Phryne's tone at the comparison to Murdoch Foyle. Once upon a time, he had dismissed her fear of the man as mere feminine hysteria, a mistake that had almost cost them all dearly, and he knew that the comparison had made his point as nothing else could.

"Exactly how worried should I be?" she asked, in a voice that contained only the very slightest tremor.

"It took Foyle nearly twenty years to engineer his escape, and that was only with the assistance of accomplices on the outside. Based on what I've seen tonight, Simpson doesn't have that kind of support, and he certainly doesn't have that much time. You're quite safe." And if Simpson did escape, he would not underestimate the risk. No, he would be on Phryne's doorstep, armed, as fast as was humanly possible, and to Hell with the speed limit.

She smiled at his tone. Jack being reassuring was, she was discovering, a reassurance all in itself. "Well then, I'd better get to bed. We're going to be busy tomorrow."

"Goodnight, Miss Fisher."

"Goodnight, Jack."

...

Once again she waited until lunchtime before arriving at the station, but one look at Jack and she was sure she needn't have bothered. He looked as though he hadn't slept at all, and his usually immaculate appearance had degenerated into a definite air of dishevelment. He didn't even look up as she entered, too preoccupied with whatever it was he was reading on his paper-littered desk. It was only when she placed the picnic hamper firmly in front of him that he noticed her.

"Miss Fisher!"

"Since I suspect it would take a crowbar to pry you out for lunch, I brought lunch to you."

At her words his stomach growled audibly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten more than a couple of sandwiches since the previous night.

"That's very thoughtful of you."

"It's very thoughtful of Dot. She insisted on doing one up for the men as well. I've left it with Hugh. Now." She seated herself opposite him as, with hunger overcoming manners, he opened the hamper. Something – several somethings – within smelt delicious, and he was determined to find out what. "What's the latest on our case?"

"You already know most of it from last night. I've had a call from Port Augusta: a man matching Simpson's description was accused of raping a young woman there six months ago. Townsville want a copy of his photograph for confirmation, but suspect he fatally shot a police officer there last year. Sydney and Wollongong have been on the phone; I've even had a telegram from Darwin. It seems Simpson – whatever his real name might be – has indeed had a long and violent career."

Phryne shuddered. "Poor Lucky Parsons. He really didn't stand a chance."

"Mmm." They sat in silence for a moment, until Jack roused himself and dug into the hamper once again, coming up with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He shouldn't really, not on duty, but this had been an exceptional case and he felt justified in allowing himself a small – a very small – exception to the rules. He poured for each of them, and offered one glass to Phryne. "And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges."

"Twelfth Night, Inspector?"

"Just for a change."

...

Phryne frowned thoughtfully at the stage, and checked her playbill. Yes, Antony was definitely being played by Mr. Charles Grey, and Cleopatra was equally definitely Mrs. Cynthia Wade, the wife, presumably, of the director, Mr. Stephen Wade. She smiled wickedly and leaned closer to Jack, tapping the names in front of her meaningfully.

"You do realise our leads have taken method acting to its logical extreme?" she whispered and, at his confused glance, elaborated. "They're lovers, Jack."

He looked startled and glanced back at the stage before returning his attention to her. "Or they're simply very good actors."

She gave him a withering stare. "No-one's that good." She tilted her head to one side in consideration, and smiled. "Except maybe us."