The Fourth Bear

Goldilocks except a few disgruntled hunters and bear farmers. He regarded the notion that she might have committed suicide or ignored warning notices to wander over SommeWorld as “laughable” and described her as “fussy” and methodical but quite obsessive and single-minded.

“You’ve been very helpful,” said Jack finally. “I may ask you some more questions when we know more. I’ll let you get back to your constituents.”

Bartholomew rolled his eyes skyward. “More complaints about the roads and hospital waiting lists, I shouldn’t wonder. If you ever think you might want a career in politics, Inspector, think again. It’s merely a continuous and mostly vain attempt to keep several groups of people with opposing needs and agendas happy, and knowing in your heart of hearts that you cannot, and being lambasted for your hard work in the bargain.”

He paused for a moment before continuing.

“Please keep me informed, Inspector—she meant a great deal to me.”

Jack drove a circuitous route back to the office. He still wanted to get Dorian Gray to explain to Kreeper the nature of the Allegro’s guarantee. On the way there, Mary said, “Bartholomew genuinely seemed to have cared about Goldilocks.”

“I agree. It also explains NS-4’s interest. They must realize that his days as an MP are numbered if even a whiff of his straightness gets out, and are trying to protect him.”

“I’d like to know the story she was working on,” mused Mary.

“So would I.”

“Sorry to trouble you,” said a young officer who had just waved them down at another police checkpoint, “but I wonder if you have seen this person anytime recently?” He showed them a picture of the Gingerbreadman.

“We’re NCD, Officer,” said Mary, holding up her ID.

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” said the officer, who saluted and waved them on. As they drove off, they could see that the armored car parked next to the road was full of heavily armed troops. Copperfield was clearly trusting in superior firepower to bring the Gingerbreadman down.

They fell silent until they reached Dorian Gray’s used-car lot, or to be more precise, Dorian Gray’s ex—car lot. He had done a runner. There was a mini-Dumpster full of old brochures and letterhead notepaper, cheap furniture and a few old Leyland posters. The lockup where Gray had kept the Allegro was open—and empty. On the forecourt, where the cars had stood less than two days before, a smattering of oil stains was the only evidence that there had even been a used-car lot there at all. Of the cars, Dorian Gray himself and even the bunting, there was no sign.

“Blast,” said Jack, “another missing person.”

20. Taking Stock

Most (and only) successful alchemical experiment: The experiments undertaken by Rumpelstiltskin in Reading between 1997 and 1998 have been the only successful transmutation in recorded history, where straw was spun into gold using a technique that is still not fully understood. Rumpelstiltskin, who is currently serving ten years in Reading Gaol for his part in the illegal undertaking, has so far refused to divulge how the dried stem of a common form of wheat made chiefly of cellulose could be transmuted to one of the most valuable metals on the planet. For other unlikely gold-related records, see: Midas, King.

The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

“Ash,” said Jack as he and Mary walked into the NCD offices, “see if you can get an address for a car salesman called Dorian Gray and someone named Angus McGuffin.”

“Will do,” replied Ashley cheerfully. “I faxed that request off to Bart-Mart, and they said I could go around anytime. They were very keen to assist but had to confess they’d not appreciated how big a problem elephant theft was these days.”

“You didn’t take the elephants out, did you?”

“I took some of them out.”

Jack shook his head and sat down. If they got hold of the security tapes, it didn’t really much matter about elephants anyway. He leaned back on his chair and thought about what they knew, which wasn’t much, and what they didn’t know, which was a lot. Then he remembered about the upset with Madeleine last night and suddenly felt guilty that he hadn’t thought of it all morning. He hastily dialed home but got only the answering machine. He didn’t know what he was going to say to her anyway. He took a deep breath. He was what he was—a PDR—and wasn’t going to feel ashamed of it. He’d have to argue it out with her that evening.

“Okay,” he said, standing up, “this is what we’ve got so far: Henrietta Hatchett, a.k.a. Goldilocks and a Friend to Bears, was talking to Stanley Cripps the Monday before last about cucumbers. At 10:37 P.M. that night, a fireball rips through Obscurity, killing Cripps but not before he’s called Goldilocks and left a message about something being ‘full of holes.’'

“Are you suggesting Cripps was killed for his cucumber?” asked Ashley.

“Vegetable growers are not generally noted for being violent,” observed Mary.

Jack nodded his agreement and continued. “Goldilocks returns to Obscurity to investigate and calls her brother to say she’s onto something ‘big.’ On Friday she meets up with her lover, Sherman Bartholomew, but doesn’t mention explosions at all and instead tells him that her story involved cucumbers. She names Angus McGuffin as someone with ‘information to impart’ and is last contacted by Bartholomew shortly after midnight.”

“There was a call to her cell phone at 0604 the following morning,” said Mary, “and the caller blocked his or her number. Sherman said it wasn’t him.”

“I’m not convinced Bartholomew is our man,” replied Jack slowly. “It’s an easy shot to always assume the worst of politicians. I say we keep an open mind. Okay: She parked up in Andersen’s Wood at around 0730 and wandered into the three bears’ house at approximately 0800, after they had left for their morning walk. There is then the regrettable incident with the chair and the porridge, and she goes to sleep in baby bear’s bed. At 0830 the three bears return, she runs off into the wood after trying to explain herself, and then—”

“The test firing at SommeWorld was at 0900,” said Mary. “A hundred percent efficiency for one hour. As Haig told us, ‘I’d not like to think what might happen to someone caught in that.’”

“Right. And we find her six days later. Mrs. Singh can’t put a clear estimate on her time of death or tell if she was dead when the barrage started or whether it killed her.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“And that’s pretty much all we know. Any questions?”

“Yes,” said Ashley. “Can you make ‘lightning’ into a verb? I mean, it doesn’t really sound right, does it? ‘It was lightninging.’”

“I meant about the inquiry.”

“Oh.”

“Why not suicide?” suggested Mary. “The fact that she was working for The Toad and not The Owl shows she wasn’t an A-one reporter. She’d been there for a number of years with nothing more remarkable than a few pro-bear articles to show for herself. And every journalist on the planet claims to have a world-beating story in his desk drawer.”

“What are you saying?”

“She may not have had any stories at all,” replied Mary, “and just up and legged it rather than have to face the reality of her own failings. She could have been walking along the perimeter fence at SommeWorld, saw the barrage going on, found the gap in the fence and just… wandered in.”

“It’s possible,” said Jack, “but her bag was destroyed with her. She would have had to take it off her shoulder to get through the gap and then put it back on again to walk in. No, I’d have left the bag at the fence.”

Mary nodded. Jack’s scenario was the more feasible of the two.