The Fourth Bear

Jack examined the thirty-four names closely. Sadly, none of them were bears—which would have been a long shot, but worth a look nonetheless. He dialed Josh Hatchett’s number, but it was busy.

“I called the Bart-Mart superstore about the security tapes,” said Ashley, “and they told me they’d be happy to release them as long as we sent them a letter of request—it’s for the QuangTech lawyers, apparently.”

“QuangTech? What have they got to do with Bart-Mart?”

“They own them,” remarked Ashley. “Everyone knows that.”

“It’s not common knowledge, Ash.”

“I think it is. Mary?”

“Yes?”

“Who owns Bart-Mart?”

“QuangTech,” she replied without thinking. “Everyone knows that.”

“They do not,” replied Jack, reflecting upon the Quangle-Wangle’s heavy financial cloak that seemed to have fallen over most of Berkshire. “It was a fluke, you both knowing.”

Ashley handed him a sheet of paper.

“This was the request I was going to send. As you can see, not one pirate. What do you think?”

Jack quickly read it. “Fine,” he said handing it back, “just leave out the bit about the elephants. And I need some info on Goldilocks’s car. An Austin Somerset, registration 226 DPX. And we should consider tracing her cell phone—and look through these explosions and see if you can find a link.”

Jack tossed the file marked “Important” across the desk to him. Ashley picked it up and said:

“Somerset… cell phone… link explosions… lose the elephants. Got it.”

He took the draft letter and walked up the wall to the ceiling, where he sat cross-legged and upside down at his workstation. It was an efficient use of space in the small office, and by the ingenious use of Post-its and Velcro and a telephone screwed to the ceiling, usually quite safe.

Jack tried to dial Josh Hatchett again, but his phone was still busy. He looked at his watch. He could still make his appointment at the shrink’s, show them he wasn’t a wild-eyed loon and be back on active duty by teatime. But something else was bothering him.

“Mary, can I show you something?”

They walked down to the garage beneath the station where Jack’s Allegro was parked. As they approached the car, they could see someone on his hands and knees peering intently at the pristine front fender of the car.

“What are you doing, Marco?”

Ferranti jumped up guiltily. He was a pale man with thin lips and very little hair covered by a bad wig. He was not in the force but worked for it—as a claims assessor who looked into any damage inflicted by the police in the course of their duties. He strove to have any claims dealt with quickly and efficiently, sometimes irrespective of fault—lawsuits were in nobody’s interest. He wasn’t generally liked, for obvious reasons.

“My phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning, Spratt. I’ve had fourteen claims for damages. One car wrecked, three with fender damage and another eight with broken side mirrors. I’ve got a demolished wall and a smashed garage door. It could come to over eight thousand pounds. Eight thousand more than Reading can afford, Inspector.”

“The garage door I can explain. I was thrown through it.”

Ferranti grunted and conceded that perhaps that one wasn’t entirely Jack’s fault. He looked at Jack’s spotless car suspiciously.

“Several witnesses attest to your damaging a lot of property with this car, Inspector. It seems they were mistaken.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m not convinced. How many other people chase gingerbreadmen in silver Allegro Equipes?”

“Probably dozens, Ferranti. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Who owns Bart-Mart?”

“QuangTech,” he said. “Everyone knows that. Do you have another Allegro, identical to this one but covered in dents and scratches?”

“No.”

The assessor grunted, made a few disparaging remarks under his breath and then departed.

“What did you want to show me?” asked Mary.

“This car. I completely wrecked it, and now… well… it’s better again.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, not having seen Dorian Gray demonstrate the power of his unique warranty the day before.

“Yes. All that damage Ferranti claimed—it was me. I wrote the car off, but then, as soon as my back was turned, it was all perfect again.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “That sounds kind of crazy, Jack.”

“Sounds, yes. But—”

“A car that can repair itself?” said a voice behind them. “You should sell that idea to Ford.”

They turned to find Virginia Kreeper, who had been watching them from the shadows.

“Miss Kreeper,” said Jack without much enthusiasm, “what a delightful surprise. Here to help some poor victim formulate a really good complaint against the service?”

“Not today, Inspector.”

“Having a break from trouble stirring?” he asked sarcastically. He hadn’t liked her the evening before at the Deja Vu, and he didn’t like her now.

“No,” she replied, staring back at him coldly, “I’m here to do an independent psychiatric evaluation.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Jack with a laugh. “And what poor cluck are you going to slap your snake-oil, leech-sucking, voodoo magic on today?”

“Someone the doctors think might be suffering some form of delusional psychosis.”

“Such as?”

“Such as… cars that mend themselves.”

There was a pause.

“Bollocks,” said Jack in a quiet voice. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

14. Virginia Kreeper

Most confusing word-association examinee: Jean Dim-mock of Leicester, UK, holds the record for the most random answers in a routine word-association test. Among her many utterly haphazard responses were such gems as: “Bird? Kneecap,” “Banana? Bowling trophy” and “Great crested grebe? Disraeli.” Her responses are spontaneous and unrehearsed and make for much interesting study. She also holds the record for the most bizarre interpretations of a Rorschach inkblot test, variously describing the meaningless and largely discredited test patterns as “a dog doing push-ups with an ant in attendance” and “Coco the clown in conversation with the Pope.”

The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

“Of course, I was only kidding about that voodoo comment,” said Jack as soon as he was sitting in the Police Medical Officer’s room. It was cold and sterile and cheerless and not somewhere you’d really want to be. It was here that officers were frequently told bad news about their failing health. Or, in the hypochondriac Baker’s case, bad news about his excessive good health. Kreeper was behind the desk looking through Jack’s medical records and making annoying aha and hmm noises.

“And the leech stuff was admittedly a bit infantile.”

“Your comments just now, although insulting and uttered with intent to demean my profession,” muttered Virginia without looking up, “have no relevance to your mental health, and neither did our conversation yesterday at