The Fourth Bear

“You said earlier there was some good news?” asked Mary.

“You’ve been promoted. You’re acting head of the NCD while I’m on sick leave awaiting a mental-health appraisal.”

“Does this mean I get to sit in your chair?”

“Incorrect response, Mary. I was hoping for something more along the lines of ‘They can’t do this to you, sir!’'

“Only joking. They can’t do this to you, sir.”

“They just have. Briggs thinks I’m too disturbed to head up the NCD.”

“He should be worried about you not being disturbed enough.”

“Thanks for that—I think,” replied Jack doubtfully.

“Tell me,” said Mary slowly, “despite your sick-leaveness, will I be able to consult you freely on matters regarding nursery crime at any time of the day or night and invite you along to inquiries in the capacity of observer or expert witness?”

Jack smiled as they stopped outside the office. “I’m counting on it.”

When Mary first arrived at the Nursery Crime Division, she was astonished at just how small the offices were. Barely room enough for a desk, let alone three chairs, among the filing cabinets and stacks of papers. The walls were adorned by framed newspaper cuttings, a map of Reading and several corkboards but without the needless extravagance of a window. The filing cabinets were so full the metal bulged, and any available space that couldn’t be more usefully employed for other purposes—such as standing or sitting—was stacked high with reports, notes and files. Case histories were still on index cards, something that excited Ashley’s innate filing instincts no end but was generally a source of embarrassment to everyone else. There was another room next door, which the cleaners had rejected on the grounds of “too small, even for us” and this was also full of unfiled papers, a chair, a small desk and a coffee machine. They had computers and access to e-mail and the national crime database, but the NCD database seemed to have been forgotten in the rush to centralize all police records. It didn’t really matter, as Berkshire was the only county with a Nursery Crime Division—travel beyond the county boundaries placed all PDRs outside the protection of the law, so few troubled to do so.

It was no surprise to anyone that with Gretel and Baker on an inquiry, the division spilled out into the corridor, even with Ashley working from his usual position, stuck to the ceiling. Mary had got used to the size and chaotic nature of the office as soon as she figured out Jack’s “freestyle” approach to filing, and Jack had been right about another thing: After a few months, she could barely detect the smell of boiled cabbage that wafted in from the canteen next door.

Luckily, Gretel and Baker were engaged on other duties, and Ashley was the only incumbent, which made it feel positively roomy—sort of.

“Good morning, Ash,” said Jack.

“It is indeed,” replied the small alien with a joyous ripple of blue from within his semitransparent body. “I’ve got some good news for you both.”

“Briggs just called to change his mind about the Gingerbread inquiry?”

“No—much better. I’ve finally managed to complete my beer-mat collection. I’ve got them all. Every single one.”

“That’s… wonderful news,” said Jack in an absent sort of way. Ashley was best humored, and since he didn’t really get sarcasm, he never took offense. “Any messages?”

“Of course. You’ve got one from the Force Medical Officer requesting that you attend a hearing with an independent psychiatric evaluator tomorrow, then another, also from the FMO, informing you that you shouldn’t be at work to receive these messages and suggesting you go home and watch a few reruns of Kojak.”

“Anything else?”

“No,” replied Ashley, “but I think the FMO is wrong.”

“That’s very good of you to say so, Ash.”

“Not at all. Kojak is entirely the wrong show to be watching for relaxation. We watched your TV a lot back home on Rambosia, and Kojak was never our thing.”

“No?” replied Jack without humor.

“No. All that lollipop and ‘Who loves ya, baby?’ stuff—and the singing career? What was that all about? No, we always preferred Jim Rockford—especially Noah Beery, who played his father. I suggest you watch The Rockford Files.”

“You and Briggs should have a chat,” said Jack, glaring at the small alien. “He thought I should be watching Columbo.”

“That’s good, too,” mused Ashley. “A bit unusual for a whodunit, since we always knew in the first five minutes who had done it. Perhaps it should be called a ‘howcolumbofindsoutwhodunit’—”

“What about my other messages?” interrupted Jack before Ashley gave him a rundown of every single U.S. cop drama of the seventies, a subject on which he was something of an expert.

“Nothing else. These are all for Mary.” He passed a large stack of yellow message slips to her and added, “They’re from Arnold.”

“Blast,” murmured Mary. She had been trying to dump Arnold for several years now, but without success, despite trying almost everything from feigned death to pretending she had the bubonic plague, for which she was grateful to Baker for being able to furnish a complete list of symptoms. “I thought I had it once,” Baker had said, mildly disappointed.

“Do you want me to speak to him again?” asked Jack.

“No thanks,” replied Mary, recalling the mess he had made of it the last time.

“Are we on the Gingerbreadman hunt?” asked Ashley.

“No.”

“Are we going to do a plot device number 11010?”

“No.”

“Would you like to see my beer-mat collection?” asked Ashley, in a state of some excitement. “It might cheer you up.”

“You wouldn’t get them all in here, would you?” asked Jack, looking around at the diminutive offices.

“On the contrary,” replied Ashley, blinking laterally and producing a shoe box from under the table. “They’re in here.”

“How many do you have?” asked Jack, suddenly suspicious.

“100100001.”

“One hundred and forty-five?”

“Yes. Every single one different—except an Arkley’s Bitter 2003 Drunk-Driving Warning Special, of which I have two.”

“You tell him, Mary,” said Jack wearily. The phone rang, and he picked it up. “Spratt, NCD.”

He listened for a moment and then sat back and twiddled absently with his tie.

“Yes, there is some good news, Mrs. Dish. Your daughter has turned up in Gretna Green…. Gretna, yes, as in Green. Are you sitting down?… Good. Well, she’s married to Wallace Spoon.” Jack winced and held the receiver a little farther from his ear before continuing. “No, there are no grounds for criminal proceedings unless you can prove to us that she was forced into marriage, which she personally told me she wasn’t…. No, Mrs. Dish, I’m afraid not. The police have stopped ‘teaching people a lesson’ for quite some time now…. This isn’t a police matter, Mrs. Dish…. Yes, I’m sure the cow will be over the moon. Good day, Mrs. Dish.”

He put the phone down and shook his head sadly.

“How many different ones?” asked Ashley in a shocked tone.

“Perhaps more,” explained Mary apologetically, “probably tens of thousands.”

Ashley opened his eyes so wide you could see the greens.

“But that could take years!”

Jack passed Mary the address that Tarquin had scribbled out for him. “Check this out. See if it’s for real and