The Fourth Bear nc-2 Page 4

  He lowered his cherry eyes and sighed, giving off another whiff of ginger. They all sensed that the interview was at an end, said their good-byes and filed away. Dr. Vômer was the first to say anything, when they were safely out of earshot.

  “I think I speak for all of us when I say how remarkable your rehabilitation of the Gingerbreadman has been,” he began. “Perhaps you would like to give the keynote speech at LoopyCon next year?”

  The other delegates nodded their agreement, and Mandible tried to look abashed and surprised by this sudden honor. He allowed himself a brief twinge of pride. Next year LoopyCon would echo with the praises of the Mandible technique for treatment of violent serial offenders. It would be a short leap, he thought, from there to having his name indelibly linked to the other great names of psychology: Freud, Jung, Skinner, Chumley—Mandible! He shivered as he thought of it.

  The Gingerbreadman had returned to his roses after the small party left. He looked about him to make sure no one was watching, then cupped his hands around a small flower just coming to life. After thirty seconds or so, he took his hands away and smiled to himself. The small rose had undergone a transformation within his hands. Where before it had been alive and beautiful, now it was withered and brown. Dead, dried and decayed, rotten as the evil soul of the Gingerbreadman.

  4. The Robert Southey

  First (and only) bear relocation: Mr. and Mrs. Edward Bruin, 1977. With the passing of the 1962 Animal (anthropomorphic) Equality Bill, all talking animals won the right not to be exploited or hunted and instead live in the designated safe haven of Berkshire, England. Bears were fully expected to take up residence in small cottages in the middle of woods and eat porridge in a state of blissful quasi-human solitude, but they didn’t. Most bears instead preferred to remain urbane city dwellers and shunned the notion of foraging in the countryside. Ursine elders deplore the situation but secretly admit that Reading’s proliferating coffee shops, theaters and shopping opportunities are not without their attractions.

  The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

  Jack was being driven through Reading by Mary and was studying that morning’s copy of The Mole with a frown etched deeply on his brow. Despite the success of the Scissor-man capture six weeks earlier, and the Humpty triumph four months before that, a few well-publicized failings had set them back to the pre-Scissor/Humpty days of thankless obscurity but, annoyingly, without the obscurity.

  “How’s it looking?” asked Mary.

  “Not exactly favorable,” replied Jack, showing her a newspaper that sported the banner headline DOUBLE DEVOURING SHOCKS READING.

  “I thought that was one of the better ones,” commented Mary, holding up a copy of the Reading Daily Trumpet which had NCD OVERSIGHT: WOLF EATS TWO emblazoned in large type across the front page. The Reading Daily Eyestrain had been no better, with RED-CLOAKED TOT IN SWALLOWING DRAMA. But The Toad had been the most scathing, under a headline that read JACK SPRATT: INCOMPETENT BONEHEAD? and went on to list several well-argued reasons as to why he was.

  “The Toad?” asked Mary. “Must be our old friend Josh Hatchett.”

  “Who else?”

  Josh Hatchett was one of the Nursery Crime Division’s more outspoken critics. He called himself “the loyal opposition” whenever they met, but to Jack and Mary he was more simply “that troublemaker.” It was he alone who had raised several questions over the ethical use of children as bait during the Scissor-man capture. The fallout from that hadn’t been comfortable, and Jack had received an official reprimand.

  Jack shook his head sadly as he read. The Riding-Hood investigation had admittedly gone a little off the rails, and okay, a few people had been eaten. The critical spotlight of the press had been swung brightly in Jack’s direction, and the hard-won prestige of the Humpty affair and everything else negated in less time than it takes to say “What big eyes you have.” Jack sighed. The press had lauded him to the skies and now looked set to condemn him with equal enthusiasm. Mary shifted down a gear as Jack threw the newspaper onto the backseat.

  “Our friend Hatchett isn’t being very helpful, is he?” commented Mary.

  “That’s putting it mildly. What does he expect? The NCD isn’t governed by the same rules as conventional police work—if it were, there’d be no need for us.”

  “It’s all about readership and power, Jack,” observed Mary.

  “They want the readers to know that they can break heroes just as easily as they can make them.”

  “It’s not as though it’s even current news,” grumbled Jack.

  “How long’s it been since the wolf gig? A month?”

  “A week.”

  “Right—a quarter of a month, then.” He thought for a moment.

  “Speaking of which—heard anything about Red Riding-Hood and her grandmother?”

  “Still catatonic. Fixed features, glazed eyes, no visible signs of mental activity. Post-traumatic stress, the doctors say—not surprising, being swallowed whole like that.”

  “It wasn’t a pretty sight,” agreed Jack, shuddering at the thought.

  “What about you?” asked Mary. “What did the quacks say when you saw them?”

  “A completely clean bill of health.”

  “You didn’t go, did you?”

  “No. Listen, I’m fine.”

  “I thought Superintendent Briggs said—”

  “Never mind what Briggs said. I’m NCD. I can handle this kind of surreal weirdness. Okay, so we screwed up a bit and a few people got swallowed. I mean, it’s not as though they’re dead, right?”

  “‘We screwed up a bit’?”

  “Okay, I screwed up a bit. I just got sidetracked by the suppressed sexual overtones regarding predatory wolves and a little girl in a red cape lost in the forest. So I missed a few opportunities.”

  Mary was silent. She had some opinions on the subject but decided to keep herself to herself. If she’d been there, she knew, things might have been different.

  Instead she said, “I still think you ought to go and see the counselors. Delayed shock can be dangerous. My cousin Raymond was in line at a bank when armed robbers ran in. Very stressful. He thought he was fine, but less then two hours later he was stone-cold dead.”

  “Of shock?”

  “No. He got hit by a truck crossing the road.”

  Jack thought for a moment. “I’ll see the quacks next week. Did I tell you our request for extra funding has been refused?”

  “It figures. What about increased manpower?”

  “The same. It’s you, me and Ash unless we get a big show on.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  Jack said nothing, but Mary was right. Despite the trammeling they had received in the past few weeks, the division’s record through the years had been sound. The closing down of Rumpelstiltskin’s straw-into-gold dens, the Cock Robin murder inquiry, arresting notorious serial wife killer Bluebeard, the detaining of the “emperor’s clothes” confidence tricksters, the capture of the Gingerbreadman and the Scissor-man, the Humpty murder inquiry—it had all been good, solid, unconventional police work. Good and solid—until the Riding-Hood debacle. There had been other repercussions from the case that he hadn’t told Mary about. The Most Worshipful Guild of Detectives had withdrawn its offer for him to join on the grounds of “suitability issues.” It was good and bad news. He didn’t want to join their stupid guild, but he liked their asking.

  Jack stared out the window. In the countryside the hot weather was glorious, but here in the city the heat served only to make people bad-tempered, the streets dusty and the pollution worse. A Ford transit van pulled up next to them at the light. It was driven by a large figure in expensive Ferrucci sunglasses. Within a few seconds, the lights changed and the van turned left without the driver’s having looked at them.

  “Wasn’t that Tarquin?” asked Jack, swiveling his head to follow the van.

  “I didn’t see.”

  “I’m sure it was.
Let’s follow. I want to see what he’s up to.”

  Mary pulled into the left-hand lane, ignored the glares of the other motorists and caught up with the van as it turned off toward the imposing art deco—style residential tower block that was the Robert Southey. She stopped the car, and they watched as Tarquin’s van drove down the ramp into the underground parking lot.

  “What do we do?” asked Mary.

  “What do you think? We take a look.”

  “In the Bob Southey? Are you sure?”

  Mary’s reticence was not without foundation. Ever since the passing of the Animal (anthropomorphic) Equality Bill, Berkshire had become home to a growing band of talking animals who had sought refuge from persecution around the globe. The vast majority of these were bears, who had much to gain from moving to a designated safe haven, even if it was only Berkshire, a place not particularly noted for gushing mountain streams and countless acres of trackless pine forests. Not that this bothered the bears much; they had discovered to their chagrin that freedom to forage for wild honey and flick salmon from mountain streams was actually a bit tedious and might lead to multiple bee stings and wet feet, so they had banded together their substantial fortunes and built the Robert Southey Tower. A luxury dwelling of almost two hundred separate apartments, it was strictly for nonhumans unless by special invitation, something that suited the bears no end, as humans had not been particularly charitable to their species in the past, and if small cottages in the middle of woods weren’t for them, then an apartment with views of the Thames and a well-appointed health spa, solarium, medical center and gym would do equally well.

  The conventional police gave the Bob Southey a wide berth, as Nursery matters confused them, and even Jack thought twice before venturing in. Bears had a profound sense of unity and tended—like most animals, and with good reason—to treat humans with a degree of suspicion, especially with the very real threat of bile tappers and illegal hunters still very much in evidence.

  “If Tarquin is dealing in his garbage again, I want him stopped.”

  “Okay,” said Mary, hardly relishing the idea. Her lack of enthusiasm could be understood. Tarquin wasn’t human, even if he acted like one. He was a bear and, in the strict hierarchical ranking of bear society, was one of lowly importance—an Ursa Minor. On the outer edges of ursine society, and eager to build a reputation, he and other bored minors dabbled in matters of dubious legality—and this was where Jack and Mary reluctantly entered the equation.

  They got out of the car and walked down into the gloominess of the underground parking lot. It was used mainly for storage, as bears generally drive only motorcycles, if they drive anything at all, and as they searched, they moved among the packing cases belonging to the many dispossessed bears of the world. Some were from aristocratic families that went back generations, but most were ex-dancers, circus performers and farm escapees who were only too glad to be away from exploitation and in many cases escaped with just the barest of possessions and a photograph album or two.

  Mary and Jack trod silently through the crates and vintage Rolls-Royces beneath dust sheets until they found the transit van, tucked away in a corner beneath the up-ramp and illuminated by the harsh glow of strip lights, one of which flickered annoyingly. They moved close enough to hear and see what was going on but remained hidden downwind.

  The van’s doors were open, and several bags of contraband were heaped in the back, all taped up in clear plastic bags. A few of them had already been transferred to a waiting wheelbarrow. Tarquin was looking around furtively as another bear wearing faded Levi’s and a BEARZONE T-shirt cut open a packet of the contraband and carefully drew out a spoonful. He sniffed it suspiciously, mixed it with milk and heated it over a lighter before adding some brown sugar and salt, then sipping the result.

  “This is good,” he said at last in a deep voice, making a few lip-smacky noises. “How much you got?”

  “Forty keys for now,” said Tarquin, his voice also a low baritone, “plus as much as you can shift in the future. It’s nine-fifty a key, Algy—nonnegotiable.”

  The bear named Algy laughed and scratched his head. “Hey, Tarq, it’s good but not that good. I can get this from Safeway for half that price.”

  “And who’s going to march up to the checkout and buy it? You?”

  “Sure. It’s easy to pass for human. Just act like you own the place.”

  “You wish it were that easy. Listen, you pay me nine-fifty for this and everything I can get in the future and I’ll give you six pounds of honey just for you and the missus. Call it a sweetener.”

  The second bear thought for a moment. “Comb or jar?”

  Tarquin opened his arms wide and smiled, displaying a mouthful of sharp white teeth. “Algy! Who do you think I am? Comb of course.”

  Algy licked his lips and rapidly came to a decision. “Then you’ve got a deal. Ninety-five pence times forty is—let me think—thirty-eight pounds.” He pulled a wallet from his back pocket. “Have you got change for two twenties?”

  Jack told Mary to stay put and then stepped out from behind the concrete pillar. The two bears stared shortsightedly in his direction, flicked their ears down flat on their heads and growled until they recognized who it was, then looked around innocently and tapped their claws together. If they could have whistled, they would have.

  “Hello, Tarquin,” said Jack as he approached. “Up to your old tricks again?”

  Tarquin winced and nodded a polite greeting. “Private sale, Inspector. Nothing for you here.”

  “Oh, yes?” replied Jack, taking a handful from the opened bag. “Planning a party?”

  “For private consumption only,” replied Tarquin unconvincingly.

  “Not even you could eat this much porridge,” said Jack as he let the rolled oats spill through his fingers onto the ground.

  “Where did you get all this? Porridge dot com?”

  “It’s not for porridge,” announced Tarquin with a defiant air.

  “We’re going to use it to make… flapjacks.”

  Jack looked into the van. Forty kilos of rolled oats was a reasonable-size pile. Not huge, but enough. “That’s a lot of flapjacks.”

  “I like flapjacks.”

  Jack paused for thought. This was a new approach. Porridge was a restricted-quota foodstuff for bears, along with honey, marmalade and buns, but rolled oats weren’t classified at all. They were merely something the NCD called “porridge paraphernalia,” along with bowls, spoons, brown sugar and so forth. Legal to buy and sell, but generally used for only one purpose.

  “Flapjacks, eh?”

  “Yes, Inspector,” replied Tarquin innocently. “Heaven forbid I would try and flog cheap porridge to Reading’s bears.”

  “Well, okay then,” said Jack cheerfully, “let’s make flapjacks. How much honey you got?”

  “What?” asked Tarquin, suddenly wary.

  “Honey,” replied Jack as he opened the front door of the van and found half a dozen jars and six honeycombs. “We’re going to make flapjacks. Rolled oats and honey. Let’s mix it all up here and now.”

  Algy and Tarquin looked at each other in horror.

  “Mix it… up?”

  “Yeah. Come on, guys, you said it was for flapjacks!”

  The bears watched with mounting horror as Jack picked up a two-kilo bag of oats and made to open it over Algy’s wheelbarrow.

  Algy muttered, “Oh, lawks!” and put a paw over his eyes.

  “WAIT!” shouted Tarquin. Jack stopped. “Okay,” he said with a sigh, “you’ve got me. Bloody NCD. You’d never try this if I was an Ursa Major.”

  “If you were a major, you’d know better than to peddle porridge. So… where did you get this? Safeway? Somerfields? Waitrose?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Have it your own way,” said Jack as he begun to tear open the bag of oats over the wheelbarrow.

  Tarquin put up a paw to stop him. “Okay, okay. I buy it wholesale from this person
I’ve never met over in Shiplake.”

  “How can you have never met him in Shiplake?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tarquin with a confused look. Like many bears he could be dense at times. “You’re going to have to ask me that question again.”

  “What’s their name?”

  “I don’t know. I pick the stuff up from a warehouse and leave the money in a cookie tin.”

  “I get it. How do they contact you?”

  “By phone. About eight months ago. Said they needed to shift some merchandise and could I help them out. I’ve never met them.”

  “Ursine?”

  “No. Human.”

  “Old, young, male, female? What?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tarquin with a shrug. “You all sound pretty squeaky to me.”

  “If you’re lying to me…”

  “On my cub’s life,” said Tarquin earnestly, crossing his chest, stamping one foot and then clicking a claw on one of his canines.

  “I can give you the address and the code to get in.”

  “Okay,” said Jack as he handed him his notepad. Tarquin jotted down an address and handed it back. “Good. Now you—what’s your name?”

  “Algernon. Algy.”

  “Okay, bear-named-Algy, Tarquin here is going to sell you these oats for sixty pence a kilo. Give him the money.”

  Tarquin threw his arms in the air, opened his eyes wide and growled dangerously. Blabbing to the cops was one thing, but taking a loss on an oat deal was quite another. He took a pace toward Jack and stared at him in the sort of way he’d stare at a leaping salmon, if he’d ever done such a thing, which he hadn’t. Jack stood his ground.

  “You are so out of order!” yelled Tarquin.