The Fourth Bear

11. Goldilocks (Absent)

Twenty minutes later Jack’s Allegro pulled up outside a large Georgian house that had once been a single residence but was now carved up into a number of uninspiring flats. Jack and Mary walked down the alley at the side of the house and, using the key that Josh had supplied, opened the door to Goldilocks’s basement flat. The door opened against four days’ mail and a lonesome cat. It entwined itself around Mary’s legs and purred so loudly it almost choked.

“Josh asked us to feed it. It’s not like a cat owner to go away and leave it unattended.”

“Poor puss,” muttered Mary as she tickled it behind the ears.

“Let’s see if we can’t find you some dinner.”

At the mention of dinner, the cat darted off, and Mary followed it into the kitchen. There was a rancid smell of rotting food, and Mary cautiously opened the fridge. Her nose wrinkled as the smell grew stronger. She rummaged among the contents and picked out the stuff that was going off—mostly milk that had turned to yogurt. She washed the remains down the sink, then fed the cat, who was rubbing itself against the cupboard where its food was kept.

“Check her bedroom, see if there’s anything out of the ordinary,” called Jack as he picked up the mail from off the floor.

“Y’know, girls’ things—anything to point to a prolonged absence.”

Mary disappeared into the bedroom as Jack went through Goldy’s mail. There were letters from a disgruntled consumer wanting her to do an exposé on dishwashers, another from her bank complaining about her overdraft and several not-to-be-missed direct-mail offers that seemed almost nostalgically warming compared to the barrage of spam e-mails that Jack received every day.

He dumped the mail on the living room table and looked around. The entire flat was meticulously tidy and—if Goldilocks was the Goldilocks—exactly as Jack supposed it might appear. From the cushions on the sofa to the tins in the kitchen cupboard and the pictures on the wall to the books on the bookshelf, everything was arranged in threes and, where possible, in descending order of size.

A workstation was to one side of the open-plan living room. There was space for a laptop, and a power cable lay loose on the desk with a printer cable. Her laptop, Jack decided, must be either with her or at The Toad’s newsroom. There were several snaps of Goldy and companions stuck on a bulletin board along with some Post-its. The top one grabbed his attention, and he pulled it from the board. It was from someone named Mr. Curry and was an invitation for dinner the previous Friday, the day after Josh had last heard from her. The drawers of the desk yielded nothing of interest, just personal matters regarding financial concerns and her membership in the Austin owners’ club. Jack noted the number of Goldy’s Somerset: 226 DPX.

“She’s not away on a trip, Jack,” said Mary on her return from the bedroom. “All of her suitcases and toiletries are still here. It’s a single woman’s flat, but she has a boyfriend who stays on a casual basis. There’s a second toothbrush and a pair of boxer shorts in the laundry.”

Jack showed her Goldy’s passport.

“Not out of the country, then.”

“Well, well,” came a crackly unfiltered-Camels voice from the doorway. “Detective Inspector Spratt.”

They both turned to see a middle-aged woman in a black suit. Her features were pinched and pale to the point of cadaverous, and her clothes hung loosely on her bony body. She stared at them with the ease of someone who was used to giving orders and used to having them taken. She wasn’t alone. Her companion was a man who was twice as big and eight times the volume. He was dressed in an identical black suit that seemed too small for his bulk. He had a shaved head, a badly broken nose and shoulders that sloped at forty-five degrees from just below his earlobes. Jack could see a curly earpiece barely visible running up from his collar. They looked like bouncers with poor fashion sense on a day trip.

“Detective Chief Inspector,” corrected Jack.

“Congratulations, Spratt—have you met Agent Lunk?”

Jack nodded a greeting in his direction.

“Mnn,” said Lunk.

“Mary, I want you to meet Agent Danvers,” explained Jack,

“NS-4’s finest. Remember the goose we gave to National Security after the Humpty inquiry? Well, it went through Agent Danvers here.”

“Oh,” said Mary, “did you discover exactly how the goose laid all those golden eggs?”

Danvers’s face fell. “If I ever find out that you swapped the goose,” she growled at the pair of them, “you’ll both be finished.”

“Mnn,” said Lunk.

“We were just chatting with Vinnie Craps,” said Jack. “He told us he’d been in contact with NS-4. Is that the reason you’re here?”

“Never heard of him. NS-4 is a big department. We bully and intimidate a lot of people, so it’s hard to keep track of names. What’s your interest in Miss Hatchett?”

“It’s a potential missing-persons inquiry.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“No, that’s what the ‘missing’ in ‘missing persons’ means.”

Danvers bridled slightly, but Jack didn’t care. He’d had dealings with Danvers and National Security before, and he’d always come off worse. Most people did.

Jack asked, “Why do you want to know where she is?”

Danvers beckoned to Agent Lunk, who moved into the flat and started to look through the drawers and bookshelves in a half-assed display of searching.

“What was the story she was working on?” asked Danvers.

“I’ve no idea.”

“Don’t lie to me, Inspector,” she replied, removing her dark glasses to reveal two red-rimmed, unblinking eyes. “I’m the good side of NS-4. If you prefer, I can ask Mr. Demetrios to speak to your commanding officer. Do you want me to make you tell us?”

“If you want me to repeat myself with Briggs present, be my guest. Now: What’s your interest in Miss Hatchett?”

“NS-4 is a one-way conduit of information, Inspector. I’ve told you too much already.”

“Too much? You haven’t told me anything!”

“I’ve told you I don’t know who Vinnie Craps was,” said Danvers. “Consider yourself fortunate to get even that.”

“Really?” replied Jack sarcastically. “Thanks for nothing—and you guys should get a better tailor.”

Danvers said nothing, Lunk reappeared empty-handed, and they both left without another word.

“Spooks,” murmured Mary as soon as the door had shut behind them. “I hate spooks. Who was the Mr. Demetrios she was talking about?”

“The grand fromage at NS-4. Not a pleasant chap, apparently. The story goes he’s got so much dirt on everyone that no one dares fire him.”

“I see. It’s a shame we didn’t get anything out of them.”

“We did. Lunk was only searching for our benefit. They’ve already been through the flat.”

“So what’s National Security’s interest in Goldilocks?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know, but they seem anxious to learn about the story she was working on. Intriguing, isn’t it?”

They returned to the task at hand. It was possible that Goldilocks was on a road trip somewhere, but no cat owner ever leaves a moggy with no one to feed it. Something was wrong, and Jack and Mary were by profession inclined to think the worst. Jack was nosing through the kitchen when he came across two unopened packets of Bart-Mart value-pack porridge oats as Mary walked back in. He held up the packages.

“Gifts for visiting bears, do you think? What have you got?”

“I found these,” said Mary, holding out several items. The first was a curt letter from the Department of Environment and Heritage in Australia denying that any sort of weapons tests—nuclear or otherwise—had been conducted on the Nullarbor Plain since 1963. The second item was more intriguing: a padded envelope that contained a small piece of what looked like a very rough-fired mass of pottery with a thick layer of fused glass on one side. It smelled of freshly fired terra-cotta. Jack frowned and put the glassy mass back into the envelope.

“From the explosion?” asked Mary.

“Could be. Anything else?”

“This,” replied Mary, holding up a Dictaphone. She rewound the tape a couple of seconds and then pressed “play.” There was a beep and a message from Goldilocks’s garage about her car being ready.

“Her answering machine,” said Mary. “But listen to this.”

The next message was that of a breathless and elderly man, who sounded as though he were hurrying somewhere.

“Hello?” said the voice. “This is Stan Cripps and—Wait a moment.” There were more sounds of shuffling, the creak of a door opening, then a crackle on the tape, a pause, then the voice again, this time in breathless wonder: “Good heavens. It’s… full of holes!” There was then a sudden blast of static and a constant tone.

Jack looked at Mary. “Hardly famous last words, but last words nonetheless. Find out who is conducting the Cripps inquest and give it to him after making a copy. Where did you find all this?”

“Down the back of the sofa and wrapped in a handkerchief.”

“She wouldn’t hide anything in her own flat unless she thought someone might break in and steal them. Best hang on to them.”

Mary carefully wrapped the items in the handkerchief. “Do I enter this as evidence?”

“We’re not sure there’s been a crime,” replied Jack, “but Danvers makes me suspicious. Have a word with anyone living in the other flats—and check for any bears in residence close by. Most bears live in the Bob Southey, but you never know. I’m going to call Ash and see if he can’t get a lead on Goldy’s friend Mr. Curry—he had a date with her the night she vanished.”

Mary walked around to the front door and read the names below the doorbells. One was marked “Rupert” and the other “Winston.” Not necessarily bears’ names, but all the same…. She rang the doorbell marked Rupert, but there was no answer, so she peered in through the mail slot. The shared hall was deserted. She paused for a moment and then rang the doorbell marked “Winston.” Again there was no answer, but she took a few steps back and saw the lace curtains on the upstairs window fall. She returned to the door and pressed both buttons simultaneously and continuously for about five seconds, then released them. After a moment’s pause and without a sound from the intercom, the lock buzzed. She pushed the heavy door open and entered. The communal hall led to the ground-floor and first-floor flats, the latter reached by climbing the open stairwell, at the top of which was another closed door. It stayed closed. No one came out, and not a sound reached her. She sniffed the air. Was that the faintest smell of honey, or was she imagining it? The bears involved in NCD investigations were wholly anthropomorphized and not generally violent, but even so, a five-hundred-pound bear with a bad attitude—quasi-human or not—could be quite a handful. She thought of fetching the tranquilizer gun but instead moved quietly to the bottom of the stairs and said in a loud voice, “Hello?”

Mary’s voice came out with a twinge of apprehension in it that triggered the hairs on the back of her neck to prickle, and she shivered. The hot, sweet smell was stronger, and she took a deep breath and slowly climbed the stairs. When she reached the tenth step, it creaked ominously, and she stopped to listen. There was silence for a moment and then a strange sound of destructive tearing, as though someone were undertaking some form of localized demolition. Then silence—followed by the noise of water escaping under pressure. She frowned. This definitely wasn’t right. While she stood on the stairs undecided whether to return to Jack or continue forward, the door upstairs exploded off its hinges as a cast-iron bathtub full of water was thrown through it. It was hurled with such force that the tub, taps, soap and several loofahs all sailed clean over her head and landed in the hall below with a teeth-jarring crash as the iron bathtub shattered, unleashing a flood of water across the parquet flooring. She was not so lucky with the bidet that quickly followed. It caught her on the shoulder and pitched her on a painful and untidy tumble down the stairs, where she ended up, bruised, winded and mildly concussed in a pool of cold, soapy bathwater. She looked up, but her vision was blurred and all she could see was a large brown object at the top of the stairs. Her assailant bounded down the stairs four at a time, landing with one large foot on Mary’s hand. She winced, expecting pain, but none came. The foot that had landed on her hand was soft and spongy. And the smell. Hot and sweet, but not honey—ginger.

Jack was sitting in the Allegro, speaking on his cell phone.

“How many?”

There was a pause.

“100010 °Currys in Reading,” repeated Ashley. “Now what?”

“That’s sixty-eight,” Jack muttered to himself. “Okay, we need to eliminate a few. Find out their ages and take out anyone under sixteen and over sixty-five. Sorry, that’s—let me think—anyone under 10000 and—Whoa!”

A movement in the house caught his eye, and a second later the Gingerbreadman came bounding out and with a single stride from the middle of the front garden cleared both the garden gate and the Allegro. He landed in the street in front of a car that swerved violently and hit a mailbox. He then ran off down the road in a series of large, powerful strides.

Jack started the car and tore off in pursuit, shouting into the phone to Ashley, “Tell Copperfield I’m following the Gingerbreadman west down Radnor Road!”

Jack accelerated rapidly, the Allegro’s more-powerful-than-usual-but-still-a-bit-crappy engine howling enthusiastically. The Gingerbreadman was running up the middle of the road at an incredible rate; Jack was hitting forty and still wasn’t catching up. The Gingerbreadman didn’t stop at the next road junction, and Jack chanced it likewise. The Gingerbreadman was lucky, Jack less so. A car was approaching the junction at speed and clipped Jack’s Allegro in the rear, causing him to careen sideways; he overcorrected and slewed the other way, bounced along a row of parked cars with the sound of tearing metal and the clatter of broken sideview mirrors. He yanked the wheel hard over and recovered, dropped down a gear and floored the accelerator as the Gingerbreadman ran off around the corner.

“Turning left into Silverdale Road!” shouted Jack as he cornered hard, the tires screeching in protest as they desperately tried to cling to the asphalt. The Gingerbreadman ducked down an alley, and Jack followed, oblivious to any damage that he might possibly inflict on the car. He caught a post on the way in and bent a suspension arm; the car vibrated violently as he turned left toward a block of garages and drove over a low brick wall that tore the front wheel off, shattered the windshield and pushed the engine back into the scuttle with a metallic crunch. The car came to a halt over the rubble of the demolished wall, one rear wheel in the air. The engine died with a shudder. Ahead of him the Gingerbreadman had stopped running and just stood with his hands on his hips, with a detached curiosity regarding the wreck of the car teetering on the broken masonry. There was an unnatural silence after the sudden excitement; the only sound to be heard was the hiss of the radiator and the tick-tick-tick of the engine as it cooled.

Jack fumbled with his phone and yelped into it, “Garages behind Crawford Close, and get a car to 7 Radnor Road for—Ahhh!”

The Gingerbreadman had lunged forward, plucked the handset from Jack and crushed it between a massive thumb and forefinger. Jack looked up as the Gingerbreadman loomed over him. He was seven feet tall, broad at the shoulder and massively powerful, despite being less than four inches thick. His glacé cherry eyes burned with unhinged intellect, and his licorice mouth curled into a cruel smile. He was enjoying himself for the first time in a quarter of a century and had no intention of returning to St. Cerebellum’s.

“Hello, Inspector,” said the Gingerbreadman, his voice a low, cakey rumble. “How are things with you?”

“At this precise moment? Not terrific,” replied Jack, his hand feeling for the nightstick he always kept hidden between the seats. “What about you?”

“Prison? Oh, I can take it or leave it.”

“So I see.”

“Aren’t you going to arrest me?” asked the Gingerbreadman with a chuckle.

“Would there be any point?”

“Not really. You—”

Jack pulled out the nightstick and made a wild, desperate swipe in the direction of the psychopath’s head. The blow stopped short as the Gingerbreadman caught it in midair, wrenched it from Jack’s grasp and snapped it like a breadstick. He was fast—astonishingly so.

“Any other bright ideas?” inquired the Gingerbreadman, raising his licorice eyebrows questioningly and giving out a whiff of ginger.

Jack scrabbled across the passenger seat, kicked the door open, rolled out and made a run for it. He wasn’t quick enough. The Gingerbreadman bounded across the car, grabbed Jack’s arm and twisted it around into a half nelson.

“Although I swore to do unsfzpxkable things to you twenty years ago when you caught me,” he whispered in Jack’s ear, the pungent smell of his gingery breath almost overpowering, “I’m not going to.”

“Why not?” grunted Jack.

“Only the Sicilians know how to do vengeance properly,” he said. “The rest of us are really just groping in the dark, to be honest. Random homicide, on the other hand, has a wonderful arbitrary feel to it, don’t you think? The choice between giving or taking life is the ultimate exercise of power, and for you, today, here and now, I choose… life. Cross my path again and you won’t find me so charitable.”

He then picked Jack up as though he weighed nothing at all and threw him bodily through the wooden doors of a nearby garage. He smiled again, gave a cheery wave and with a short run and a single leap cleared a nearby wall, then ran through the next five gardens as though they were a series of hurdles, vanishing over the last with a stylish Fosbury flop.

“Are you all right?” asked a kindly lady who had come out to see what the commotion was all about. Jack sat up among the remains of the garage door and blinked. He rubbed his neck and winced as his fingers discovered a painful cut at the back of his head.

“I’ll be all right—thank you.”

The kindly lady smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.”

The first of the squad cars arrived two minutes later as Jack emerged from the garage. It had been empty, which was perhaps just as well.

“Where did he go, sir?” asked Sergeant Fox.

“He’s long gone,” murmured Jack, leaning on a corner of his Allegro. “There’s nothing here but a bruised DCI.”

He carefully unclipped his tie and threw it onto the backseat of the Allegro, then executed a neat double take. The car didn’t have a single scratch on it. The front wheel was back on, the windshield mended, and the side that had scraped down the line of parked cars had miraculously mended itself. The car was perfect in every detail, with no evidence at all of the grueling punishment it had received not more than five minutes before. It seemed that Dorian Gray’s “guarantee” hadn’t been an idle boast. Jack was looking at the oil painting in the trunk—that of the even more wrecked Allegro—when Copperfield drove up with two other squad cars that disgorged police marksmen in a seemingly never-ending stream.

“You look as though someone insane just threw you through a door,” said Copperfield without any sense of irony.

“Funnily enough,” said Jack, shutting the trunk and sitting on the broken wall, “that’s exactly what he did.”

Copperfield whistled. He had read the reports about the Gingerbreadman’s phenomenal strength, but it had to be seen to be believed. He started to arrange a search pattern in nearby streets, but Jack wasn’t confident of any success. He had seen the Gingerbreadman run at speeds of up to forty miles an hour and not even be out of breath.

“I thought you were on sick leave?” said Copperfield. “And undergoing psychological assessment?”

“No secrets in the station, are there? It’s called counseling. And I just happened to be in the area with Mary.” He suddenly remembered and sat bolt upright. “Mary…?”

Jack jumped into the Allegro and made his way back to Radnor Road, where he found her sitting in the back of an ambulance with a red blanket draped across her shoulders.

“You all right?”

She nodded. “Bruised. He chucked a bathtub full of water at me.”

“How can he chuck a tubful of water?”

“With the bath still surrounding the water on most sides, quite easily. You?”

“He threw me into a lockup garage.”

“Lucky the doors were open.”

“They weren’t. I lost him a mile away.”

He sat down next to her as she related what had happened.

“The owner of the flat?”

“She’s dead—wallpapered over in the spare room. Good job, too. Despite the lumpiness, all the pattern matched up, and he’d bothered to line it first. No one does that anymore—not even the really class decorators.”

“Another one for the Gingerbreadman,” sighed Jack. “That makes one hundred and eight victims.” He thought for a moment.

“Any bears living here?”

“None—not even a small one. If Goldilocks was the Goldilocks, she kept herself to a conventional neighborhood.”

“Listen,” said Jack, “where NS-4 is involved, we can’t trust anyone. We keep the Goldilocks thing to ourselves. I was cadging a ride, and you were here checking on a potential ursine residential license infringement. You didn’t find anything.”

“Got it.”

She shook her head sadly. “Not really fair, is it?”

“How do you mean?”

“Getting the stuffing kicked out of us when it’s not even our investigation.”