The Fourth Bear

“I’ve got another question,” said Ashley, raising his hand.

“A proper one?”

“Yes. What’s the deal with QuangTech and the Quangle-Wangle? They seem to be popping up a lot in this inquiry, and so far we don’t know anything about them at all.”

“Good point,” said Jack. “I’ll tell you both what I know, since QuangTech does fall under the NCD’s jurisdiction: It’s the biggest corporation run entirely by PDRs.”

“I never knew that,” said Mary.

“It’s not generally known. They don’t spread it around in case it affects the stock values. James Finlay Arnold Quangle-Wangle was the brains behind a group of nine undergraduates who all left Oxford in 1947. Each one contributed to the Quang business empire, and all aside from Horace Bisky-Batt fell out of favor as time went on. They all made a fortune, of course, but nothing approaching the net worth of the Quang himself.”

“These nine,” said Mary, “anyone we know?”

“All movers and shakers in the world of high finance and business. Mr. Attery-Squash owns The Owl and several publishing companies. He and the Quangle-Wangle had a bust-up in the early eighties over copyright disagreements. The Quangle-Wangle gave Mr. Attery-Squash Crumpetty Tree Publishing as a payoff.”

“Who else?”

“Aside from Horace Bisky-Batt, they all left under a cloud. The Dong with the Luminous Nose looked after their finance division and now lives near Oxford. He’s under a cloud of his own most days—an alcoholic one. Mr. and Mrs. Canary run a chain of hotels in the Far East, the performer and record producer Blue Baboon lives in Los Angeles, and George Fimble-Fowl, who ran the QuangTech weapons division, shot himself. The computing arm of QuangTech and the responsibility for the hugely successful Quang-6000 series of personal computers was Roderick Pobble, who now lives the life of a hermit on his own island off the Hebridean coast. Finally, the textile designer known only as ‘the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute’ died in a car accident three years ago.”

“Did you ever meet the Quangle-Wangle?” asked Ashley.

“Several times,” replied Jack. “He used to be very visible in the town. Always somber, always philanthropic. As he grew older, he went out less and less, until he just stopped going out altogether. I’ve heard he lives in the QuangTech facility. Never had any family, just devoted his life to making money—and did pretty well at it, too, which is why I suppose he can afford to spend nearly two hundred million on SommeWorld.”

“Are you still here?” said a voice from the door. It was Briggs.

“I was just going over my Scissor-man testimony with DS Mary, sir.”

“Sure you were,” replied Briggs, clearly not believing a word.

“Did you talk to Dr. Kreeper?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Funny—she hasn’t spoken to me about it.”

Jack breathed a silent sigh of relief. Kreeper was keeping her promise. He still had a few days to prove that the Allegro was self-mending before the metaphorical straitjacket began to tighten.

“Any news on the Gingerbreadman, sir?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, Copperfield cornered him in the menswear section of Marks & Spencer.”

“And?”

Briggs looked at the floor for a moment. “He fought his way out using extreme levels of concentrated violence, then returned ten minutes later because he wanted to exchange the zip-up cardigan he’d stolen for a gray mackintosh with removable liner. He leaped through a plate-glass window to escape and ran into the Oracle Center, where we lost him in the parking lot. I thought the newspapers would tear into us at the press conference, but that Josh Hatchett fellow asked how he and his readers could help. How strange was that?”

“Very,” replied Jack. Hatchett, also true to his word, was supporting an NCD inquiry. If only it had been one that Jack was on, Jack might have cause to thank him.

“Right,” said Briggs, “off you toddle, then—I’ve got to speak to the head of the NCD.”

He said it without malice, but it didn’t sound good, or right. Jack left the office, but he didn’t go far—he just locked himself in the NCD annex next door, the one they used for additional filing and that was too small even for the cleaners. He needed the peace and quiet to make a few inquiries of his own. Stuart Haig of SommeWorld was first on the list. Jack wanted to know why they had chosen that particular sector for the test-firing on Saturday morning. Haig told him it was chosen automatically by the central QuangTech mainframe, based on a simple algorithm to ensure that the park was pulverized equally all over, ostensibly to keep the soil soft for the air mortars to work effectively. Jack thanked him and hung up. Vinnie Craps was next, but his voice mail told Jack he was in Cologne on business. Jack then called QuangTech to make an appointment to see the CEO and was politely informed that no one saw the Quangle-Wangle—not even members of the board. He then asked for an interview with the vice president and was told to “drop in at any time.”

“So, Acting NCD Head Mary, what have we got?” asked Briggs, who had taken a sudden and unhealthy interest in the Goldilocks inquiry, given the absence of progress on the only other case gaining the public’s attention at the time.

“Very difficult to say,” replied Mary, not thinking she’d mention the bits about McGuffin, Bartholomew or the explosions—or anything at all, in fact. “We have a positive ID, but with Goldilocks’s body in such a fragmented state, it’s impossible to tell whether she was dead before the barrage or whether it killed her—or even to establish a cause or specific time of death at all.”

“On reflection it might be a good idea to find out that she was murdered,” said Briggs matter-of-factly, “and for you to then foul it all up. I’ve got a PR disaster over the lack of progress on the Gingerbreadman case, and I was hoping a bit of well-publicized incompetence by the NCD might draw the flak, so to speak.”

“I’ll see what we can arrange,” said Mary agreeably, trying to act how she thought Jack might.

“Splendid, splendid.”

He gathered up his papers and prepared to leave.

“Goodness gracious me!” he exclaimed as Ashley walked in.

“What’s that?”

“That’s Constable Ashley,” replied Mary. “He’s part of the Alien Equal Opportunities Program.”

“PC Ashley is a real alien?” echoed Briggs incredulously. “I thought he was just from Splotvia or something. What sort of misguided lunatic puts little blue men in the police force?”

“The Chief Constable,” replied Mary, hiding a smile.

“Fine idea,” said Briggs, in a volte-face that was rapid even by his own exacting standards. “Does it talk?”

“It talks very well, thank you,” said Ashley indignantly, offering his hand for Briggs to shake.

Before Mary could stop him, Briggs’s hand had been enveloped by Ashley’s warm and sticky digits. Mary had shaken hands with Ashley once before, and his inner thoughts had transferred to her—a slimy embrace in an alien marsh, if memory served.

“Oh!” said Briggs in a shocked tone as Ashley stared at him and blinked his large eyes twice. “No, I didn’t realize that, I’m sorry.”

Ashley relaxed his grip and released Briggs, who stood up straight and strode from the room without another word.

“What did you say to him?” Mary asked.

“The truth. Do you know what his greatest fear is?”

“I’ve got a feeling I shouldn’t know. Promotion? His budget?”

“Neither,” replied Ashley. “He worries… that his wife doesn’t love him.”

“Agatha?” mused Mary. “I wonder where he gets that idea. Still, I suppose it softens him a bit, don’t you think?”

Mary gave her first NCD news conference at ten-thirty to a hushed response from Reading’s journalists. There were no questions, just a comment from Hector Sleaze that Mary could expect to receive all help and