Fourth Bear (34 page)

Jack sighed and thought quickly. Danvers’s eyes were still riveted on his.

“It’s all about… porridge quotas, sir. Uncooked rolled oats, if you want to get technical. We found two kilos in Goldilocks’s apartment that were part of a shipment we chanced across two days ago. Bartholomew had been aggressively pro-bear almost his entire career. He argued the Ursine Suitable Housing Bill and tried and failed to secure the right to arm bears. His pro-bear leanings took him beyond the law, and he took it upon himself to buy oats from the family discount store where he has an even more generous staff discount, repackaged them at a warehouse in Shiplake and then sold them to a middlebear who flogged it all down at the Bob Southey. Bartholomew and Goldilocks might have been lovers, but Goldilocks was going to blow the whistle on his pro-bear overquota porridge pushing. The scandal would have destroyed his career. So… she had to go.”

Briggs, Copperfield and Danvers said nothing, so Jack continued. “He arranged to meet her that Saturday morning, but it all went wrong—the bears came back early, and Goldilocks ran from the house. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what happened up at SommeWorld, but you can see the results. He knew that Goldilocks had been investigating cucumber sabotage and spreads it around that this was her ‘big story.’ It all seems to be going fine, and I’m chasing my tail around scorched areas of Berkshire when Ed Bruin gets an attack of conscience. He
knew
that Bartholomew was due to meet Goldilocks that morning, and he felt bad about it. Goldilocks has been a good friend to bears, too—her exposure of the illegal bile tappers sent shivers of relief among the bear community. Bears despise lies and deception, so Ed
had
to see me. Bartholomew gets wind of this, and he calls in the Big Bad Cookie.”

“Isn’t he a cake?” asked Danvers.

“I thought so,” muttered Copperfield.

“And me,” added Briggs.

“Cookie or cake, he attempts to kill Ed and Ursula and tries to make it appear that hunters did it. If Mary and I hadn’t got here as fast as we did, no one would be any the wiser.”

Danvers broke the silence that followed. “This is a very serious accusation,” she murmured, “and even if you’re wrong, the investigation will destroy Sherman’s career. He has much good work still to do.”

“No one is above the law,” said Jack pointedly. “No one.”

“I’m forced to agree,” replied Danvers. “This is now a police matter, and I leave it, with reluctance, in your capable hands. If you will permit me, I would like to be present at Bartholomew’s questioning. Good day to you, gentlemen.”

Danvers climbed into her car, and it bumped out of the clearing.

“Well,” said Briggs, “you’d better pull Bartholomew in—but be warned. There’s going to be a shitstorm over this.”

“Not from NS-4, sir,” said Jack, taking his cell phone out of his pocket. “Looks as if they just dropped him like a hot potato. And besides, when it comes to shitstorms, I think I’m something of an expert.”

He dialed a number and stepped away from the small group to make one of the hardest phone calls of his life. If he was wrong, there really
would
be a shitstorm—and he’d be right at the center of it. The call made, he dialed again, then returned to the group.

“Done,” he said. “Uniform are on their way to Bartholomew’s house right now.”

The light of the dying sun was filtering low through the trees as the last squad car drove away. The forensic examination had finished, and quiet had once more descended into the forest. Jack and Mary stood at the door and watched as the pool of dried blood went from dark red to black in the failing light.

“Not fair, is it?” said Mary.

“No,” replied Jack, deep in thought. “Just ordinary bears trying to lead a life of peaceful solitude. Ed should have spoken out when he could. Any news?”

“Ursula’s stable and out of danger, but Ed’s still critical. The surgeon told me that if he can survive the next forty-eight hours, he’s got a chance. Baby bear is staying with relatives in the Bob Southey.”

It was nearly two hours after Jack had given the order for Bartholomew’s arrest, but he wasn’t yet in custody. When the uniformed officers arrived to pick him up, Sherman Oscar Bartholomew, member of Parliament for Reading and prime suspect in a murder investigation, was gone.

The news had filtered back to everyone waiting at the cottage. Briggs blamed NS-4, something that Jack encouraged. Briggs had returned to Reading after telling Jack that the search for Bartholomew was far too important for the NCD, and the multiforce hunt could be better managed by an officer with more experience—such as himself. Clearly there were headlines to be had, and in Reading, positive headlines were in short supply.

“It’s not good,” said Mary, shaking her head sadly.

“Yes. Who’d be a bear?”

“No, I mean it’s not good that the last squad car has gone—how are we going to get back into town?”

“In the Allegro.”

“It’s a wreck.”

“Trust me.”

They walked down the grassy road to the logging track, where Jack’s car, as predicted, was as pristine as the day it had been built.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” said Mary as Jack showed her the fine oil painting in the trunk, a picture of the car that now resembled a barely recognizable heap of scrap. She looked at the Allegro suspiciously.

“Seems a bit… well,
diabolical,
doesn’t it?”

“Nah,” replied Jack reassuringly, “
every
car should be made this way.”

“I’ll write a report out for Kreeper explaining that the Allegro
does
heal itself. You’ll be back on the active list in a jiffy.”

“Do you think she’d believe you?”

“No,” conceded Mary.

Mary got into the car a little anxiously and glanced around at the interior as though she thought it might bite her, then took a surreptitious look at the odometer, which now read only thirty-eight miles. The car started on the first turn, and Jack drove slowly out of the forest, the approaching night changing the face of the wood from arboreal beauty to insufferable gloom. The forest was once more exclusively the domain of its children.

First extraterrestrial marriage:
Although there have been a few instances of alien-human dating, no actual marriage or civil union has so far taken place. Although it has been preemptively condemned by all the world’s leading religions as “abhorrent to nature” and “an affront to all social values,” pro-alien sympathizers were quick to point out that visitors from distant worlds are
not
covered by any divine texts, which was an interesting omission by the Almighty and leads to all manner of theological debate over galactic deity jurisdiction. But if such a union comes to pass,
The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records
will faithfully record it.

—
The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records
, 2004 edition

Ashley was waiting
for them at the NCD offices when they walked in. His uniform had been freshly pressed and his transparent skin buffed up to a high shine. He looked expectantly at Mary, who smiled uneasily in return. It was the evening of their date, and Mary had yet to think up a believable excuse.

“What’s that smell?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s Windex,” explained Ashley cheerily. “It shines up my outer skin quite nicely.”

“What did you do?” asked Jack. “Bathe in it?”

“If only,” replied Ashley wistfully, adding, “Bartholomew’s still not been found, and Briggs wants you to meet the press first thing tomorrow to discuss Bartholomew and the Goldilocks case.”

Jack picked up the phone and asked to be put through to the Super. “Hello, sir, it’s Jack…. No, I’m not doing the press. I’m taking sick leave as requested…. Yes, I know I’m already on sick leave, but now I’m
really
on sick leave. I’ll be gone for three months—perhaps longer. Maybe I’ll retire…. Yes, really…. The head of the NCD can take the press conference tomorrow.”

He looked up at Mary and raised an eyebrow. Mary shook her head.

“No, she’s not here…. Yes, I agree the situation is not at all favorable…. Good night, sir, and if you’re thinking about getting me a gold watch, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Jack put the phone down and looked up at Ashley and Mary, who were staring at him incredulously.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not retiring—that was for Briggs’s benefit. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“About what?”

“About finding Goldilocks’s killer.”

“I thought you said Bartholomew murdered her?”

“If you believed all that crap I was spouting up at Andersen’s Wood,” said Jack unhappily, “you’ll believe
anything.
”

“Then why did you say it?”

“I had to say
something.
NS-4 is in this up to their armpits, and I needed them to
think
we’re as stupid as they believe.”

Mary thought for a while, trying to figure out what she’d missed—Jack’s explanation of Goldilocks’s death and Bartholomew’s porridge pushing
seemed
plausible.

“But we’re not, are we?” she said, a mite confused.

“Not at all,” he said, trying to force a smile. “I know that Bartholomew didn’t have a hand in it, but I’m really not sure who did. I need to sleep on it. Better than that, I need to
sleep.
”

“Wait!” said Mary. “If Bartholomew
is
innocent, why have you got half the force out looking for him?”

“To give me some breathing space—and quite probably save his life.”

“Jack,” said Mary, “are you sure you’re all right? You seem to be acting a bit… weird.”

“I’m fine, Mary. But listen: If it all goes pear-shaped, I’ll accept full responsibility. Have a pleasant evening.”

He took a deep breath, managed a tired smile and walked out the door, leaving Mary and Ashley staring at each other.

“Mary?” murmured Ash, whose taut and usually expressionless face seemed to be in the vaguest semblance of a frown. “I’m completely and
totally
confused.”

“Join the club,” she retorted. “Either he’s fantastically brilliant or he’s gone completely off the rails. I hope it’s the former—I really don’t think I can handle the NCD on my own.”

Ashley looked at her and blinked.

“Sorry, I really don’t think
we
can handle the NCD on
our
own.”

“If we have to, I suppose we just will,” he replied with commendable optimism.

“It must be a double or triple bluff or something,” mused Mary, “a plot device the reason for which we probably won’t figure out until tomorrow morning.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. The thing is—business as normal.”

“What’s all this about a self-healing Allegro?” asked Ashley, who thought it sounded like a lot of fun.

“Exactly,” said Mary, trying to stall the inevitable date with Ashley. “I think Jack’s in danger. Get on to vehicle licensing and bring up the details of every single car that has ever been registered to Dorian Gray or had him as previously recorded keeper. I know that might take a while, but if it means we have to cancel our date, then so be it. Duty first, Ash.”

“Duty first,” he agreed, and scuttled off to tap in to the computer while Mary put her feet up on the desk. Dorian would doubtless have sold thousands of cars, and the two of them could be wading through the list for hours. Ashley was right about running the NCD. It would be tricky, but they’d get the hang of it eventually. She leaned forward and logged in her username on Jack’s computer in order to start a report for Briggs on—

“Done it!” interrupted Ashley. “How about dinner?”

“You can’t have,” said Mary with a sinking feeling. “How many were there?”

“Five.”

“
Five?”

“Yes. I don’t think he was that good at selling cars.” He showed her the list, and Mary scanned the details carefully.

“One every three years, regular as clockwork,” she murmured.

“And,” said Ashley, who was more adept at spotting patterns,

“every single one was scrapped between two to nine weeks after purchase. How does all this fit into the Goldilocks inquiry?”

“It doesn’t. I’ve just had a hunch.” She tapped the most recent name on the list. “We can interview this Mr. Aldiss fellow right now. No time to lose.”

“No time to lose,” repeated Ashley, reading the address.

“Good—it’s on the way to my parents’ place.”

“Oh, rats,” said Mary with a sigh, finally resigning herself to the inevitable. “Okay, okay, you’re on—listen, you don’t eat bugs or anything, do you?”