Fourth Bear (27 page)

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

“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 cooperation from everyone present. There was a chorus of approval to this sentiment, and Mary asked anyone who knew what stories Goldilocks was working on to contact her. No one did. Later on she fielded a call from Jeremy Bearre of the
Ursine Chronicle
, who wanted some facts for an obituary but at the same time confirmed that yes, Goldilocks had written several pieces for the
Chronicle
in the past, mostly about issues regarding the iniquity of the quota system, the urgent need to protect wild bears and advocating stricter controls over marmalade availability. Her Friend to Bears status had been conferred upon her over a year ago.

“It’s a very special honor and one not given lightly,” explained Jeremy. “It bestows protection on the holder from any bear, without question, even unto the Forest.”

“The Forest?”

“When bears die, it is known as ‘returning to the Perpetual Forest.’ The magnificence of that unsullied Forest can be yours, too—but you have to be friendly to bears to find it.”

“That’s very lyrical,” said Mary.

“Forests are like that,” answered Jeremy.

“Oho!” murmured Ashley a few minutes later. He knocked twice on the wall, and Jack emerged shortly after, looking about warily for Briggs.

“What have you got?”

“I just found Angus McGuffin,” said Ash, staring at his monitor, “and he’s in Reading: municipal cemetery plot 100101001-B1001.”

“He’s dead?”

“Killed in a lab accident 10000 years ago,” continued Ashley.

“I’ve got a copy of his death certificate.”

“10000? That’s… sixteen years. 1988. Was he big in cucumbers?”

“No, he was big in physics. He was
Professor
McGuffin, and he died in a lab accident at QuangTech.”

“QuangTech,” muttered Jack, “again. What kind of lab accident?”

“A violently explosive one. There weren’t any parts big enough to identify, so the coroner had to pronounce death without a body.”

“How convenient. See if you can’t get a full transcript of the inquest.” He turned to Mary. “Why do you suppose Goldilocks would tell Bartholomew that she’d be meeting a dead man for lunch on Saturday?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Me neither. Ash, I want you to find out more about McGuffin. In particular his work and the possibility that he’s not dead—and any news of Dorian Gray?”

“None, sir.”

“Keep on it.”

“What now?” asked Mary.

“We retrace her steps. Start at the very beginning.”

“The three bears’ cottage?”

“Earlier.”

Largest unexplained explosion (UK):
Unofficial sources credit the sixteen separate explosions at the QuangTech facility in Berkshire between 1984 and 1988 as the largest
series
of unexplained explosions, the last and strongest of which resulted in the death of the supposed instigator, Professor Angus McGuffin. The blast was heard all over Reading, broke windows in a two-mile radius and even disturbed the peace at the Reading Gentlemen’s Club, where they responded by penning a stiff letter of reproach, which was then forwarded to the Quangle-Wangle.

—
The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records
, 2004 edition

“
Welcome to Obscurity,”
said the Vicar kindly, shaking their hands.

Jack and Mary had arrived at the village—after becoming hopelessly lost—two hours after leaving the NCD offices. The damage to Obscurity was readily apparent before they even reached the village. Fallen trees and hedges blackened by fires guided them the last half mile or so.

“As you can see, not many buildings were spared the damage of that night,” explained the Vicar, waving his arm in the direction of the vicarage. The windows had been boarded up, and blue plastic tarpaulins were draped across the roof. “I’m five hundred yards from Stanley’s house, and this is the result. Would you like some tea and a scone?”

“Maybe later.”

“They’re very good scones.”

“I’m sure they are. But this is a matter of some urgency.”

“Then I’ll show you around.”

They walked past the church, which had lost the top of its steeple and all its windows. The yew in the churchyard had burned where it stood, as had most of the surrounding trees, hedges and crops. This and the blackened texture of the stone walls and buildings gave the whole area a scorched, hell-on-earth look to it.

“Large graveyard,” observed Jack as he peered over the wall.

“You’d be surprised by the number of people who die in Obscurity,” observed the Vicar. “The gravediggers are rarely out of work.”

“What was Stanley Cripps like?” asked Mary.