The Fourth Bear

10. Porridge Problems

The day broke clear and fine. A light breeze in the night had cleared away the haze, and the morning felt crisp and clean and sunny—the sort of morning that is generally reserved only for breakfast cereal commercials, where members of a nauseatingly bouncy nuclear family leap around like happy gazelles while something resembling wood shavings and latex paint falls in slow motion into a bowl.

No one was bouncy in the Spratt household that morning, but Jack dragged himself up and was out of the house at eight, telling Madeleine he was off to see the counselor first thing. She’d replied, “You’re a lying hound. Good luck on the Goldilocks hunt, and invite Mary and Ashley around for dinner one evening.”

Twenty minutes later he was driving down the unpaved road to the lake where Mary lived. There were many flooded gravel pits dotted around the area, but only one had people living on it. Several boat-minded individuals had settled here in the thirties and begun a precedent that couldn’t easily be broken. Until Mary started living on the lake, Jack hadn’t known that residential moorings existed here at all. It was quiet at the lakeside, and the houseboats, moored on the ends of pontoons to stop them from running aground, barely moved at all in the placid waters. The first boat was a converted Great War naval pinnace, her decks covered in plastic and in a constant state of conservation. She had been a Dunkirk little ship, so the enormous effort being expended in her rebirth, thought Jack, was quite justified. Beyond this was a Humber lighter, sunk at its moorings three winters earlier and abandoned by its owners. Next was the Nautilus, an ancient riveted-iron submarine designed by its owner, an eccentric and reclusive millionaire by the name of Nemo, who was spending his retirement in the rusting hulk writing his memoirs and redefining the classification of sea creatures after a lifetime’s research. The Nautilus was resting on the gravelly bottom with its large viewing windows on the waterline. No one knew how he’d gotten the submarine into the lake, and he never gave anyone a straight answer when they asked.

Mary lived on the next mooring to Nemo in an old Short Sunderland flying boat, an ex-civilian version that she had bought from a bankrupt theme restaurant in Scotland, dismantled and shipped to the lake on the back of two flatbed trucks. She spent her spare time converting the inside to a comfortable home and had recently managed to get the number-three engine started, the only one still in position. Madeleine and the children had come down for a barbecue that day and cheered as the old radial burst into life, belching clouds of black smoke, frightening a flock of geese and straining the old airplane at its moorings until Mary feathered the prop.

“Anyone home?” shouted Jack through the open door.

“I’m on the flight deck!” said a voice that echoed down through the flying boat.

Jack stepped inside the hull and picked his way over the heaps of building materials and rolls of insulation that were piled up inside the cavernous hull. She had as yet converted only the prow. Jack climbed the spiral staircase to the navigator’s office that Mary used as a kitchen.

“There’s some coffee on the stove!” she called out. He helped himself and joined her on the flight deck, a large room roofed in sun-clouded Plexiglas. Mary was sitting in the left-hand seat with her feet up on the remains of the instrument panel.

“Good morning,” said Jack. “How’s the acting head of the NCD?”

“She’s fine,” replied Mary with a smile. “How’s the NCD’s unofficial full-time consultant?”

“He’s all right.”

Jack sat down on the copilot’s seat and balanced his mug on the throttle quadrant. They were at least twelve feet above the water level and were afforded a good view of the lake. To the left of them they could see Captain Nemo hanging up his socks on a makeshift washing line strung between the conning tower and tail of his rusty craft, and to their right was the lake, a full mile of open water, the glassy surface interrupted only by the marker buoys for the dinghy racing. It was quiet and peaceful, and Jack could see why people would forgo the luxuries of land-based dwelling for a life on the water.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” murmured Mary. “I wouldn’t live anywhere else for all the money there is.”

Jack took a swig of coffee. “I think you’re right. Me, I’d worry about the kids falling in the drink.”

“If you brought them up to regard water the same way as they regard roads, I don’t think you’d have a problem.”

“I suppose so.”

“Everything okay at the office?” asked Jack.

“Fine. We were sorting through the statements for the Scissor-man’s pretrial hearing after you left. The prosecution has asked for more witnesses and the thumbless victims of previous scissorings to try to create a cast-iron case against him.”

“Anything else?”

“I think Ashley was serious about that date.”

Jack shrugged. “So? It only has to be a drink or something.”

“Do aliens drink?” she asked, not really knowing much about Rambosians, never having really considered them at all. “I mean, what if he tries to kiss me or something?”

“Then call it off. After all, you’re something of an expert when it comes to wriggling out of dates.”

Mary smiled. “I am, aren’t I? So… what’s with this early visit, Jack?”

“I bumped into Josh Hatchett at the Déjà Vu last night.”

She made a face. “What joy. I hope you wished him all the worst.”

“He has a missing sister.”

“If I were his sister, I’d post myself missing, too.”

“And we’re going to find her.”

Mary stared at him. “We’re going to help the person instrumental in your enforced sick leave and effective demotion? Who got you reprimanded over the Scissor-man case? Are you nuts?”

“Yes, yes and quite possibly, in that order. Look upon it as a long-term strategic operation to bring about a quantum change in press relations as regards the continuing effectiveness of the NCD.”

“We’re cozying up to Josh to get better press coverage?”

“More or less. I think it might be an NCD case. Her name’s Goldilocks.”

“So? She could be a Goldilocks, not the Goldilocks. There’s probably hundreds of people with that name.”

“We have a vague bear connection—and she’s fussy.”

“Ah. A not-too-hot-not-too-cold-just-right sort of fussy?”

“In one. She may have found out some answers about the blast at Obscurity and three other unexplained explosions around the globe.” He handed her the manila folder that Josh had given him.

“Hmm,” she said, looking at the “Important” written on the front, “this could be important.”

“I did that joke already.”

“Sorry.”

She opened the folder. It contained newspaper clippings. The most recent explosion was at Obscurity, and it had attracted a lot of competing theories from news sources of varying reliability. The Obscurity “event” had been catnip for conspiracy theorists, who generally liked things going bang for no clearly explained reason. Mary flicked through the clippings to find an article about a detonation in the Nullarbor Plain, a lonely area in the vast emptiness of the Australian desert.

“September 1992,” she observed, “twelve years ago.”

“The Australian government denied that any tests had been undertaken,” said Jack, who had been reading the clippings the previous evening, “and no explanation was forthcoming.”

Mary turned over another clipping to reveal a faxed extract from the Pasadena Herald dated March 1999. It, too, described an explosion, this time in a neighborhood on the edge of town. The detonation had shattered windows up to three miles away and tossed debris over a thousand feet into the air. The owner of the house, who died, had been retired mathematician Howard Katzenberg. There were more clippings about a blast in Tunbridge Wells, where someone named Simon Prong had perished in an unexplained fireball, and that was it. Four explosions with no link that they could see other than that they were all reported as “strange” or “unexplained.”

“What do you think?” asked Mary.

“No idea. Josh seemed to think she was looking for a link between them.”

“And how is this related to bears?”

“I’m not sure. On Monday she meets up with Cripps in Obscurity. Six hours later he’s dead in the blast. She tells her brother she’s onto something big, and he last hears from her Thursday afternoon.”

Mary shrugged. “She might be on holiday.”

“And she might not.”

They both sat in silence and watched a pair of swans attempt a long and slow takeoff from the surface of the lake. As soon as they were airborne, they landed again with a flurry of spray. It seemed a lot of effort to travel three hundred yards.

“I don’t like station politics,” said Mary a half hour later. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Listen: The longer that twit Copperfield is playing hunt-the-cookie, the more victims there will be. Look upon it as a back door to the natural order of things.”

“I don’t like it, Jack.”

“It’s NCD, Mary. It’s what we do.”

“No, I mean I don’t like your car.”

They were driving across Reading toward Shiplake and the industrial unit that Tarquin had told them was the place where he had picked up the porridge oats. It was the first time that Mary had driven the new Allegro.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Couldn’t I explain what’s right with it? It’ll take a lot less time. Why don’t you get a proper car?”

“A car without porous alloy wheels that let the tires go flat overnight?” asked Jack, smiling. “A car whose drag coefficient is better forward than in reverse? A car whose rear window doesn’t pop out when you jack up the back tires?”

“Anything. I’d prefer to be seen in a wheelbarrow.”

“It could be arranged.”

They picked up Ashley, who was waiting for them at a prearranged street corner. He wished Mary a very good morning and inquired meticulously after her health, and Jack smiled to himself. Quite unlike Mary, Ashley was dead impressed with his new Allegro, and since he had memorized all the chassis numbers of every British car built between the years 1956 and 1985, he could proudly announce that the car came off the production line at Long-bridge on September 10, 1979.

“Really?” said Jack, amazed at Ashley’s ability to recall utterly pointless facts. “How do you remember all this stuff?”

“Very easily,” he replied with a shrug. “Humans rely on a pattern of charged neurons to build up a picture that is revived by association. If the memory is not recalled now and again, it fades—if it is retained at all. Our memory works quite differently. Every image, fact or sound is translated to binary notation and then stored in molecular on/off gates within the liquid interior of our bodies. Since each teaspoon of rambosia vitae contains more molecular gates than there are visible stars, the extent of our memory is extraordinarily large. Best of all, we can erase what we don’t need. Important memories are stored near our core, but the boring stuff migrates to the extremities. If we run out of memory, we simply reformat an arm.”

“You best be careful not to delete the wrong arm,” said Jack with a smile.

“Even if I did,” replied Ashley without seeing the joke, “I’d be okay—I’ve got my core memories backed up at home in a jar.”

They pulled up outside the Shiplake industrial estate office a few minutes later.

“I’ll have a word with the site manager,” said Mary, and she climbed out of the car. Jack and Ashley sat there in silence for a while, Jack thinking about how he was going to pass the psychological appraisal that he’d arranged for that afternoon. He’d only have to outline a typical case to a police shrink to be branded B-4: “unfit for duty on mental grounds.”

Ashley, on the other hand, had no particular worries—few Rambosians ever did. He was amusing himself by calculating the cube root to eight decimal places of every number under a million, and when he’d done that, he said, “Sergeant Mary is very attractive in a pink, fleshy, hairy, forgetful sort of way.”

“I never thought of Mary as hairy,” admitted Jack.

“Oh, it’s strictly relative,” said Ashley, whose own skin was totally hairless, pliant and shiny, a bit like a transparent beach ball.

“Do you think she’s really over this Arnold chap?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that he doesn’t seem to be able to understand no and she doesn’t seem to be able to stop wanting to tell him.”

“It all sounds very complicated,” said the alien. “Where I come from, we just agree to a mutual memory erasure, and neither of us knows we’ve even met. In fact, it’s possible to fall in love with someone you once hated—several thousand times.”

“Ash,” said Jack, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

“Yes?”

“How do aliens… do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know. It. Thing. Have babies.”

“We don’t have babies. Humans have babies.”

“You know what I mean—reproduce.”

“We swap egg and sperm sacs,” he said matter-of-factly and without the slightest trace of embarrassment. “We can do it by mail if we wish, and the sacs will keep in a dry airing cupboard for anything up to nine centuries—it’s very convenient.”

“It must be,” replied Jack.

“What about you?” asked Ashley. “How do mammals propagate?”

As Jack told him, the few features Ashley did have scrunched into the vague semblance of a frown. When Jack had finished, Ashley gave out a laugh that was something very like the noise a squeaky toy makes when someone heavy sits on it, and he said, “Get out of here! What utter nonsense—you think I was hatched yesterday?”

“It’s true.”

“It is?” replied Ashley, his eyes opening wide in a mixture of wonderment and shock. “And the baby comes out where?”

Luckily, Mary had returned to the car.

“Rented to a company named Three Monkeys Trading. A ‘Mr. Guy Gorilla’ signed a three-year contract eighteen months ago.”

“Much traffic?”

“For all he’s seen of them, he said, it might as well be the Tooth Fairy who leased it.”

“It won’t be her,” said Jack after giving the matter some thought. “She’s doing four years in Holloway over that regrettable incident with the pliers.”

“What do you want to do?” asked Mary.

“We’ll take a look.”

They drove on into the industrial estate. Unit sixteen was sandwiched between a cut-price carpet showroom and a motorcycle-repair specialist. The windows were grimy and unwashed, and even up close it was difficult to see inside. Jack consulted the entry-code numbers Tarquin had jotted down and punched them into the keypad. There was a soft click and a buzz, and the door swung open.

They stepped into the gloom, and Jack hit the switch. The strip lights flickered on to reveal a lot of not very much at all. The unit was deserted apart from a Dumpster full of rubbish.

“If this is used as a distribution warehouse, they’re a bit low on stock,” murmured Jack.

“But they were here,” replied Mary, showing him a couple of rolled oats that had been trodden into the dust on the floor, “so Tarquin wasn’t lying.”

“Does this mean anything?” asked Ashley, who had been poking in the Dumpster.

“No, that’s just a bathtub—to wash in, you know?”

“I know what a bathtub is for,” said Ashley, “but why would anyone want to throw away a perfectly good one?”

“People do that sort of thing all the time.”

“Can we take it?”

“No.”

“Look at this, Jack,” said Mary, who had also been looking in the Dumpster.

“A sink?”

“No—empty porridge-oat bags.”

Mary handed Jack a Bart-Mart plastic bag with “1Kg Value Porridge Oats” printed on the side. Jack looked into the Dumpster, which held hundreds of similar bags. Either there had been a big shipment or someone had been doing this for a while. Next to the Dumpster was a trestle table laid out with empty plastic bags and rolls of tape, presumably for repacking the rolled oats to disguise provenance.

Suddenly a shadow fell across the open door, and a deep baritone boomed, “Everyone turn around really slowly.”

They all slowly turned to look at the newcomer. He was a fully grown brown bear dressed in a well-tailored three-piece tweed suit. He was wearing a trilby hat, had a shiny gold watch chain dangling from his waistcoat, and white spats covered the top of his shoeless feet. And he was holding a gun.

“Police,” said Jack. “DCI Spratt of the NCD.”

“ID?”

Jack very carefully retrieved it from his pocket and passed it across.

The bear looked at the card, raised an eyebrow and lowered his gun. His small brown eyes flicked among them. “Then you must be Officers Mary and Ashley. Which one of you is the alien?”

“That would be me,” replied Ashley, putting up his hand.

“Right,” said the bear, returning the weapon to an elegantly tooled shoulder holster.

“Who are you?” asked Jack.

“Sorry about the weaponry,” said the bear without answering or even appearing to hear him, “but I don’t know who to trust these days. Since the bile tappers got active in the area, we members of the phylum Chordata, class Mammalia, order Carnivora, family Ursidae are not going to take any chances.” He walked over to the Dumpster and looked in. “Hmm,” he said.

“It’s a bathtub,” remarked Ashley. “They’re used for washing in.”

The bear looked at Jack. “Is he for real?”

“I’m afraid so. Again: Who are you?”

The bear took a calling card from a large wallet and handed it to Jack. “The name’s Craps, Vincent Craps. Folks call me Vinnie.”

Jack read the card and pocketed it. “And the gun?”

“Licensed by NS-4,” replied Vinnie. “I’m an investigator for the League of Ursidae. We take attacks on bears and ursine substance abuse very seriously.”

Jack wasn’t convinced. “I’m NCD, Mr. Craps, and I’ve never heard of any League of Ursidae.”

“Then the NCD don’t know shit, do they?”

He walked up close to Jack and towered over him in a very obvious display of dominance. He had a just-washed-dog smell about him, laced with aftershave and just the vaguest hint of tomcat.

“Listen,” said Vinnie, tempering his overwhelming physical presence with a kindly fireside voice, “I’d be happier if you left porridge problems to those who really understand them. Your well-intended but undeniably clumsy attempt to contain the problem yesterday does no one any favors at all. Do you understand my meaning?”

Jack thought for a moment. Then the penny dropped. “Tarquin is one of yours?”

“We have operatives on the ground looking after things, Inspector. Bullying Tarq into selling the flake cheap to a bear named Algy was a classy move. But if you’d tried to shake him down, I’d have… Well, put it this way, the League of Ursidae doesn’t generally consider the courts either efficient or fair in matters regarding bears.”

“I’ll take that as a threat.”

“Come, come!” said Vinnie with a smile, taking a few paces back to make himself appear less threatening. “The NCD does an excellent job, but bears are better policed by bears. Take it as a request to let us keep our own house in order without outside interference.”

“I’ll leave you alone if you keep me in the loop, Craps. What’s going on here?”

Vinnie thought for a moment and looked around the empty factory unit.

“This little setup is nothing too special. Bears like porridge in the same way that humans like alcohol. Unhappily, the law regards porridge not as a harmless recreational pursuit but as a potentially dangerous habit and regulates it with ration books.”

“I know how the system works, Vinnie.”

“Bears tend to blow their quotas in the first few days of each month. What you see here is a porridge ‘taster’ undertaken by a couple of humans who see themselves as friendly to bears. They take forty kilos or so and dump it on the bear market midmonth through Tarquin. It’s well-meaning and pretty harmless, but we like to keep an eye on this stuff rather than shut it down, just in case.”

“Who’s doing it?”

“We cooperate closely with National Security and don’t wish to jeopardize a good working relationship. I can’t tell you.”

“Then why Bart-Mart and not, say, Waitrose or Somerfields?”

“I think we’re about done here,” said Vinnie after a pause. “I hope I can rely on your good sense to leave this up to us?”

“I won’t ignore any lawbreaking, Craps.”

“No one’s asking you to, Inspector. It’s a question of priorities. I’m just asking you to put porridge on a… low priority. Be seeing you.”

And without another word, he walked briskly out of the factory unit and straddled a Norton motorcycle that was parked outside.

“Wait!” said Jack. “What about—”

But he might as well have been talking to himself. Vinnie kicked the bike into life, revved the engine, clonked it into first and tore off up the road with a screech of tire.

“You know what this means?” said Jack as Vinnie Craps vanished from view around a bend in the road.

“That the singular ‘screech of tire’ looks and sounds wrong even if it’s quite correct?”

“No. It means there’s a higher authority in ursine-related Nursery Crime than us.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind, but I’d like to have known about them.”

“So we cool off on the porridge thing?”

“Do we hell,” replied Jack. “Ash?”

“Yes?” replied Ashley, who was still staring wistfully at the bathtub in the Dumpster.

“I want you to get back to the office and call the biggest Bart-Mart in Reading and ask to view the security tapes covering the checkouts for the past five days. If the manager wants to know why, don’t mention porridge or bears. And if you have to make up a story, make it a little less outlandish this time.”

“How much less outlandish?” asked the alien, whose understanding of the average human’s perception of reality was patchy at best.

“One that doesn’t involve pirates and treasure,” said Jack.

“Just tell them we’re looking for some thieves active in the area.”

“Right,” said the alien, and scampered off, only to return a few moments later.

“What am I looking for in the security pictures?”

“Anyone with a cart full of rolled oats.”

“Okay,” said Ash, “and no pirates.”

He dashed off again, and Jack and Mary returned to the car.

“Where now?” asked Mary.

“It’s time we found out a little bit more about… Goldilocks.”