The Fourth Bear

20. Taking Stock

“Ash,” said Jack as he and Mary walked into the NCD offices, “see if you can get an address for a car salesman called Dorian Gray and someone named Angus McGuffin.”

“Will do,” replied Ashley cheerfully. “I faxed that request off to Bart-Mart, and they said I could go around anytime. They were very keen to assist but had to confess they’d not appreciated how big a problem elephant theft was these days.”

“You didn’t take the elephants out, did you?”

“I took some of them out.”

Jack shook his head and sat down. If they got hold of the security tapes, it didn’t really much matter about elephants anyway. He leaned back on his chair and thought about what they knew, which wasn’t much, and what they didn’t know, which was a lot. Then he remembered about the upset with Madeleine last night and suddenly felt guilty that he hadn’t thought of it all morning. He hastily dialed home but got only the answering machine. He didn’t know what he was going to say to her anyway. He took a deep breath. He was what he was—a PDR—and wasn’t going to feel ashamed of it. He’d have to argue it out with her that evening.

“Okay,” he said, standing up, “this is what we’ve got so far: Henrietta Hatchett, a.k.a. Goldilocks and a Friend to Bears, was talking to Stanley Cripps the Monday before last about cucumbers. At 10:37 P.M. that night, a fireball rips through Obscurity, killing Cripps but not before he’s called Goldilocks and left a message about something being ‘full of holes.’"

“Are you suggesting Cripps was killed for his cucumber?” asked Ashley.

“Vegetable growers are not generally noted for being violent,” observed Mary.

Jack nodded his agreement and continued. “Goldilocks returns to Obscurity to investigate and calls her brother to say she’s onto something ‘big.’ On Friday she meets up with her lover, Sherman Bartholomew, but doesn’t mention explosions at all and instead tells him that her story involved cucumbers. She names Angus McGuffin as someone with ‘information to impart’ and is last contacted by Bartholomew shortly after midnight.”

“There was a call to her cell phone at 0604 the following morning,” said Mary, “and the caller blocked his or her number. Sherman said it wasn’t him.”

“I’m not convinced Bartholomew is our man,” replied Jack slowly. “It’s an easy shot to always assume the worst of politicians. I say we keep an open mind. Okay: She parked up in Andersen’s Wood at around 0730 and wandered into the three bears’ house at approximately 0800, after they had left for their morning walk. There is then the regrettable incident with the chair and the porridge, and she goes to sleep in baby bear’s bed. At 0830 the three bears return, she runs off into the wood after trying to explain herself, and then—”

“The test firing at SommeWorld was at 0900,” said Mary. “A hundred percent efficiency for one hour. As Haig told us, ‘I’d not like to think what might happen to someone caught in that.’”

“Right. And we find her six days later. Mrs. Singh can’t put a clear estimate on her time of death or tell if she was dead when the barrage started or whether it killed her.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“And that’s pretty much all we know. Any questions?”

“Yes,” said Ashley. “Can you make ‘lightning’ into a verb? I mean, it doesn’t really sound right, does it? ‘It was lightninging.’”

“I meant about the inquiry.”

“Oh.”

“Why not suicide?” suggested Mary. “The fact that she was working for The Toad and not The Owl shows she wasn’t an A-one reporter. She’d been there for a number of years with nothing more remarkable than a few pro-bear articles to show for herself. And every journalist on the planet claims to have a world-beating story in his desk drawer.”

“What are you saying?”

“She may not have had any stories at all,” replied Mary, “and just up and legged it rather than have to face the reality of her own failings. She could have been walking along the perimeter fence at SommeWorld, saw the barrage going on, found the gap in the fence and just… wandered in.”

“It’s possible,” said Jack, “but her bag was destroyed with her. She would have had to take it off her shoulder to get through the gap and then put it back on again to walk in. No, I’d have left the bag at the fence.”

Mary nodded. Jack’s scenario was the more feasible of the two.

“I’ve got another question,” said Ashley, raising his hand.

“A proper one?”

“Yes. What’s the deal with QuangTech and the Quangle-Wangle? They seem to be popping up a lot in this inquiry, and so far we don’t know anything about them at all.”

“Good point,” said Jack. “I’ll tell you both what I know, since QuangTech does fall under the NCD’s jurisdiction: It’s the biggest corporation run entirely by PDRs.”

“I never knew that,” said Mary.

“It’s not generally known. They don’t spread it around in case it affects the stock values. James Finlay Arnold Quangle-Wangle was the brains behind a group of nine undergraduates who all left Oxford in 1947. Each one contributed to the Quang business empire, and all aside from Horace Bisky-Batt fell out of favor as time went on. They all made a fortune, of course, but nothing approaching the net worth of the Quang himself.”

“These nine,” said Mary, “anyone we know?”

“All movers and shakers in the world of high finance and business. Mr. Attery-Squash owns The Owl and several publishing companies. He and the Quangle-Wangle had a bust-up in the early eighties over copyright disagreements. The Quangle-Wangle gave Mr. Attery-Squash Crumpetty Tree Publishing as a payoff.”

“Who else?”

“Aside from Horace Bisky-Batt, they all left under a cloud. The Dong with the Luminous Nose looked after their finance division and now lives near Oxford. He’s under a cloud of his own most days—an alcoholic one. Mr. and Mrs. Canary run a chain of hotels in the Far East, the performer and record producer Blue Baboon lives in Los Angeles, and George Fimble-Fowl, who ran the QuangTech weapons division, shot himself. The computing arm of QuangTech and the responsibility for the hugely successful Quang-6000 series of personal computers was Roderick Pobble, who now lives the life of a hermit on his own island off the Hebridean coast. Finally, the textile designer known only as ‘the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute’ died in a car accident three years ago.”

“Did you ever meet the Quangle-Wangle?” asked Ashley.

“Several times,” replied Jack. “He used to be very visible in the town. Always somber, always philanthropic. As he grew older, he went out less and less, until he just stopped going out altogether. I’ve heard he lives in the QuangTech facility. Never had any family, just devoted his life to making money—and did pretty well at it, too, which is why I suppose he can afford to spend nearly two hundred million on SommeWorld.”

“Are you still here?” said a voice from the door. It was Briggs.

“I was just going over my Scissor-man testimony with DS Mary, sir.”

“Sure you were,” replied Briggs, clearly not believing a word.

“Did you talk to Dr. Kreeper?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Funny—she hasn’t spoken to me about it.”

Jack breathed a silent sigh of relief. Kreeper was keeping her promise. He still had a few days to prove that the Allegro was self-mending before the metaphorical straitjacket began to tighten.

“Any news on the Gingerbreadman, sir?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, Copperfield cornered him in the menswear section of Marks & Spencer.”

“And?”

Briggs looked at the floor for a moment. “He fought his way out using extreme levels of concentrated violence, then returned ten minutes later because he wanted to exchange the zip-up cardigan he’d stolen for a gray mackintosh with removable liner. He leaped through a plate-glass window to escape and ran into the Oracle Center, where we lost him in the parking lot. I thought the newspapers would tear into us at the press conference, but that Josh Hatchett fellow asked how he and his readers could help. How strange was that?”

“Very,” replied Jack. Hatchett, also true to his word, was supporting an NCD inquiry. If only it had been one that Jack was on, Jack might have cause to thank him.

“Right,” said Briggs, “off you toddle, then—I’ve got to speak to the head of the NCD.”

He said it without malice, but it didn’t sound good, or right. Jack left the office, but he didn’t go far—he just locked himself in the NCD annex next door, the one they used for additional filing and that was too small even for the cleaners. He needed the peace and quiet to make a few inquiries of his own. Stuart Haig of SommeWorld was first on the list. Jack wanted to know why they had chosen that particular sector for the test-firing on Saturday morning. Haig told him it was chosen automatically by the central QuangTech mainframe, based on a simple algorithm to ensure that the park was pulverized equally all over, ostensibly to keep the soil soft for the air mortars to work effectively. Jack thanked him and hung up. Vinnie Craps was next, but his voice mail told Jack he was in Cologne on business. Jack then called QuangTech to make an appointment to see the CEO and was politely informed that no one saw the Quangle-Wangle—not even members of the board. He then asked for an interview with the vice president and was told to “drop in at any time.”

“So, Acting NCD Head Mary, what have we got?” asked Briggs, who had taken a sudden and unhealthy interest in the Goldilocks inquiry, given the absence of progress on the only other case gaining the public’s attention at the time.

“Very difficult to say,” replied Mary, not thinking she’d mention the bits about McGuffin, Bartholomew or the explosions—or anything at all, in fact. “We have a positive ID, but with Goldilocks’s body in such a fragmented state, it’s impossible to tell whether she was dead before the barrage or whether it killed her—or even to establish a cause or specific time of death at all.”

“On reflection it might be a good idea to find out that she was murdered,” said Briggs matter-of-factly, “and for you to then foul it all up. I’ve got a PR disaster over the lack of progress on the Gingerbreadman case, and I was hoping a bit of well-publicized incompetence by the NCD might draw the flak, so to speak.”

“I’ll see what we can arrange,” said Mary agreeably, trying to act how she thought Jack might.

“Splendid, splendid.”

He gathered up his papers and prepared to leave.

“Goodness gracious me!” he exclaimed as Ashley walked in.

“What’s that?”

“That’s Constable Ashley,” replied Mary. “He’s part of the Alien Equal Opportunities Program.”

“PC Ashley is a real alien?” echoed Briggs incredulously. “I thought he was just from Splotvia or something. What sort of misguided lunatic puts little blue men in the police force?”

“The Chief Constable,” replied Mary, hiding a smile.

“Fine idea,” said Briggs, in a volte-face that was rapid even by his own exacting standards. “Does it talk?”

“It talks very well, thank you,” said Ashley indignantly, offering his hand for Briggs to shake.

Before Mary could stop him, Briggs’s hand had been enveloped by Ashley’s warm and sticky digits. Mary had shaken hands with Ashley once before, and his inner thoughts had transferred to her—a slimy embrace in an alien marsh, if memory served.

“Oh!” said Briggs in a shocked tone as Ashley stared at him and blinked his large eyes twice. “No, I didn’t realize that, I’m sorry.”

Ashley relaxed his grip and released Briggs, who stood up straight and strode from the room without another word.

“What did you say to him?” Mary asked.

“The truth. Do you know what his greatest fear is?”

“I’ve got a feeling I shouldn’t know. Promotion? His budget?”

“Neither,” replied Ashley. “He worries… that his wife doesn’t love him.”

“Agatha?” mused Mary. “I wonder where he gets that idea. Still, I suppose it softens him a bit, don’t you think?”

Mary gave her first NCD news conference at ten-thirty to a hushed response from Reading’s journalists. There were no questions, just a comment from Hector Sleaze that Mary could expect to receive all help and cooperation from everyone present. There was a chorus of approval to this sentiment, and Mary asked anyone who knew what stories Goldilocks was working on to contact her. No one did. Later on she fielded a call from Jeremy Bearre of the Ursine Chronicle, who wanted some facts for an obituary but at the same time confirmed that yes, Goldilocks had written several pieces for the Chronicle in the past, mostly about issues regarding the iniquity of the quota system, the urgent need to protect wild bears and advocating stricter controls over marmalade availability. Her Friend to Bears status had been conferred upon her over a year ago.

“It’s a very special honor and one not given lightly,” explained Jeremy. “It bestows protection on the holder from any bear, without question, even unto the Forest.”

“The Forest?”

“When bears die, it is known as ‘returning to the Perpetual Forest.’ The magnificence of that unsullied Forest can be yours, too—but you have to be friendly to bears to find it.”

“That’s very lyrical,” said Mary.

“Forests are like that,” answered Jeremy.

“Oho!” murmured Ashley a few minutes later. He knocked twice on the wall, and Jack emerged shortly after, looking about warily for Briggs.

“What have you got?”

“I just found Angus McGuffin,” said Ash, staring at his monitor, “and he’s in Reading: municipal cemetery plot 100101001-B1001.”

“He’s dead?”

“Killed in a lab accident 10000 years ago,” continued Ashley.

“I’ve got a copy of his death certificate.”

“10000? That’s… sixteen years. 1988. Was he big in cucumbers?”

“No, he was big in physics. He was Professor McGuffin, and he died in a lab accident at QuangTech.”

“QuangTech,” muttered Jack, “again. What kind of lab accident?”

“A violently explosive one. There weren’t any parts big enough to identify, so the coroner had to pronounce death without a body.”

“How convenient. See if you can’t get a full transcript of the inquest.” He turned to Mary. “Why do you suppose Goldilocks would tell Bartholomew that she’d be meeting a dead man for lunch on Saturday?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Me neither. Ash, I want you to find out more about McGuffin. In particular his work and the possibility that he’s not dead—and any news of Dorian Gray?”

“None, sir.”

“Keep on it.”

“What now?” asked Mary.

“We retrace her steps. Start at the very beginning.”

“The three bears’ cottage?”

“Earlier.”