The Fourth Bear Page 4

  “How…how did you know it was me?” stammered Strait, taken aback at the Gingerbreadman’s powers of observation.

  “That’s easily explained.” The Gingerbreadman smiled. “Your picture is on the book jacket.”

  “Ah. Well…what did you think?” asked Strait, his voice high and tremulous with suppressed fear.

  “I’ll be frank with you, Frank,” replied the Gingerbreadman, adding hastily, “May I call you Frank?”

  “I’d prefer Professor Strait.”

  “Very well. I’ll be straight with you, Strait. I wasn’t that impressed. The prose was dull, the research patchy. I thought that perhaps you had given over your time to listing case histories rather than proposing specific methods of treatment. It smacked of voyeurism. In a less enlightened age, people like you would be given guided tours around lunatic asylums with people like me as the star attraction. Not that it’s like that anymore, eh, Alan?”

  He winked at Dr. Mandible as he said it, then gave out a cakey chuckle and another whiff of ginger.

  Professor Strait twitched and raised an eyebrow, wondering how to reply to hearing his life’s work so comprehensively trashed. He paused too long; the Gingerbreadman’s attention had moved on.

  “Dr. Lacrimal?” he asked, his cherry eyes flicking onto the German, who stood as straight as a poker to show that he was not in the least afraid, which he transparently was.

  “I am,” Lacrimal answered. “But there is no picture on my book jacket. How did you know?”

  The Gingerbreadman chuckled another deep, cakey laugh. “Because you are the leading German expert on criminal insanity. Alan doesn’t insult me by dragging along students; your bearing was unmistakably German, and it seemed the most likely. On the same criteria, I suspect that is Dr. Maxilla behind you; Dr. Vômer is the one cowering in the distance; and I have at least a sixty percent certainty that the lady is Professor Palatine, head of the Jordanian mental institute and as brilliant as she is beautiful.”

  He gave another short bow, and his licorice lips rose into a radiant smile. The delegates all returned his bow and wrote more notes.

  “I see you are surprised,” observed the Gingerbreadman, “surprised that an evil spirit such as I, famed for my sadistic and murderous exploits, stands before you as an intelligent entity!”

  Dr. Mandible placed his hand on the Gingerbreadman’s shoulder—which he had to reach up to do—and addressed the small group.

  “When the Gingerbreadman first arrived here, he was so violently deranged we had to invent a new category just for him—A-plus-plus-plus: ‘throw away the key.’ He was brutal, dangerous and without a shred of human decency. He was—and I will beg your indulgence to use an unscientific term—a fiend. Unhelpful at first and contemptuous of authority, in the past twenty years he has shown a remarkable change. Quite apart from utilizing his not-inconsiderable mental agility to become an expert on roses, he has also written several books on the criminal tendency, speaks seven languages and has a degree in philosophy and ethics from the Open University. So you see before you, lady and gentlemen, not the monster that was but a useful asset to the society he once terrorized.”

  The Gingerbreadman looked embarrassed and stared at his feet.

  “Alan is too kind,” he said at last in a low voice, “but what he neglects to tell you is that even though this is a hospital and not a prison, it is a confusion in words only. I will never be released despite the good doctor’s work, because punishment and incarceration are but aspects of the penal system. We live in a society that values revenge, revenge for the victims and their families. It is for their sake that I must remain here.”

  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 ab
out 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.