Fourth Bear (30 page)

“We never found the
laboratory,
Inspector.”

“Might he have escaped somehow?”

“No. We had closed-circuit TV of him right up until the moment of the blast; it was all played at the inquest. It wasn’t just him, you know. He took three lab assistants with him. He cost us over thirty million pounds, and all for nothing. Project Supremely Optimistic Belief was abandoned soon after.”

“What else was Miss Hatchett asking about?”

“I think that was pretty much it.”

“Did she mention other explosions she was looking at?”

Bisky-Batt thought for a moment. “No. It was McGuffin she was after. We get a lot of requests for information about Angus, so I have most of it at my fingertips. I understand he’s become the patron saint of the conspiracy movement.”

“And what about Obscurity?”

“Somewhere the Quangle-Wangle shall never be, Inspector.”

“I meant the village.”

“You’re not the first to ask. Yes, I can confirm that we were requested by the Home Office to do a detailed examination of the site. The results were sent on to NS-4 and published the same day—a wartime bomb, detonated accidentally.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“Tell me,” said Jack, “does QuangTech have an interest in genetically modified foodstuffs?”

“Owing to the almost blanket ban here in Europe,” replied Bisky-Batt after considering the question briefly, “GM foodstuffs are not a market worth the very great expenditure and stringent regulations. However, we do have a cross-pollination seed division that does generate a good deal of income. High-yield crops are big business. Unlike many of our competitors, we have a rigorously applied ethical policy, so that we are not exploiting those least able to defend themselves. It’s a contentious subject, and despite our very best intentions we are still lambasted for our efforts. Sadly, globalization and multinational business are seen as a great evil in many people’s eyes, despite the good that we do.”

“What about cucumbers?”

Bisky-Batt raised an eyebrow. “In what respect?”

“Genetically modified or cross-pollinated oversize vegetables to—I don’t know—feed the hungry masses or something?”

“With
cucumbers?
” asked Bisky-Batt, a lean smile crossing his impassive features. “The most remarkable thing about cucumbers is that they have the
least
caloric value of any vegetable. Good for the crunch in a salad, but otherwise pretty useless. We concentrate on those foodstuffs that are
themselves
a staple—such as rice, maize, oats, wheat and so forth.”

“I see,” said Jack thoughtfully, “so the financial sense in breeding a giant cucumber is…?”

“Not very high, although there may be value to the competitive veg-growing industry. Cucumbers are technically a fruit and in the same family as pumpkins, melons and squash, so it may benefit those markets, although, to be honest, giant melons don’t strike me as potentially that commercial. But it’s not something we go in for, so my knowledge is a little sparse on the subject. May I ask why?”

“Just something that has come up in the course of our inquiries.”

There was another pause. Annoyingly, Bisky-Batt was being disarmingly candid.

“Can we interview the Quangle-Wangle?”

“I can certainly ask him, but I shouldn’t hold your breath. He grants me an audience every morning. I am, to all intents and purposes, his arms and eyes and voice. The Quangle-Wangle is old and frail. He has fought in two world wars and built an empire that straddles the globe. His body is wasted, but his mind is still keen. He told me once, although I think he was paraphrasing Carnegie, that a man who dies rich dies without honor. He has spent the last ten years of his life giving away more than fifty million pounds to needy institutions through his various charitable trusts. All requests are considered on their own merits by a table of eight consultants, but the Quang makes the final decision. A request for a new scout hut in Wantage is taken with the same seriousness as a diphtheria-inoculation program in Splotvia. As I recall, both were approved.”

“And SommeWorld?”

Bisky-Batt smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Ah yes, SommeWorld. The Quangle fought as a foot soldier in the Great War and was in the third wave at the Battle of the Somme. He knows more than most the horrors of war. The theme park was an idea he had been toying with for a while. He wanted to demonstrate to the world the hideous conditions and pointless loss of life in warfare but didn’t want to be seen as a hypocrite, so he sold QuangTech’s weapons division and poured the proceeds into SommeWorld. What did you think of it?”

“Very impressive—but none too cheap, I should think.”

“Too true. The land alone cost over a hundred million. Can you imagine trying to buy a single two-thousand-acre tract in the Home Counties? He had to purchase an entire village to make it. The park itself cost another hundred million to build. Even with five hundred thousand visitors a year, it will take seventy years to break even.”

“Hardly good business.”

Bisky-Batt shrugged. “The Quang’s like that. But even with the vast cost of SommeWorld, he’s still one of the wealthiest men on the planet.”

There was more small talk, but nothing of any relevance, and after another twenty minutes Jack and Mary rose to leave. They had heard enough for the moment and could easily return. Bisky-Batt showed them back to the entrance lobby and shook them once again by the hand. He was the vice president of a major corporation and had given them an hour of his time without being the least bit obstructive. He had supplied straight answers and volunteered information. QuangTech’s ethical policy was well known, and perhaps, thought Jack, his own prejudices against big corporations were clouding his judgment. Then again, if someone’s behavior is too good to be true, it generally is.

“What do you think?” asked Mary as they walked back to the car.

“He seemed straight enough,” replied Jack, “but I’d still like to have interviewed the Quangle-Wangle personally.”

“By the way he spoke, you’d think it would be easier to have an audience with the Easter Bunny.”

“Almost certainly. Why, do you think it would help?”

“No, Jack—I mean, aren’t you taking all this missing-scientist and mysterious-explosions stuff a little bit too seriously?”

“How do you mean?”

“Okay, devil’s advocate here. We have a dead journalist, with no sign
whatsoever
that it was anything but an accident. She was trying to link—as the conspiracy theorists have been doing for years—a doubtlessly insane and almost certainly dead scientist with unexplained explosions around the globe, which on the face of it appear to have no link at all. QuangTech is a big corporation, sure, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad. The Quangle-Wangle has built SommeWorld as a graphic lesson in the horrors of war, and they haven’t indulged in any sort of weapons development in over a decade. I just think it all sounds a little far-fetched—even by NCD standards.”

“I see your point,” replied Jack slowly, “but what about the nature of the blast at Obscurity?”

“Jack,” said Mary, “Parks based his
entire theory
on that one piece of baked ceramic. It could have come from
anywhere.
He could have sent it to Goldilocks himself.”

“And the radioactivity?”

“The radium from an old watch would have done the trick.”

“Is that likely?”

“Why not? It won’t be the first time that an overly keen journalist has been given the runaround by a source more eager to receive fifteen minutes of fame than deliver facts. Conspiracy nuts are always looking for mainstream outlets for their rantings. Perhaps Goldilocks was just being
used.
”

“And her death?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible we’re not even
close
to the real reason.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Jack with a sigh. “I always tend to look for the more bizarre aspects of a case. Perhaps I should take a page from Copperfield’s book and concentrate on purely objective, relevant and sensible matters.”

There was a pause.

“Right, done that. Let’s drop in on Hardy Fuchsia and learn something about giant cucumbers.”

Mary laughed. “You’re the boss, boss.”

Largest cucumber:
The official heavyweight in the cucumber world is the 49.89-kilo monster grown by Simon Prong in 1994. Cultivated after many years of patient crossbreeding and nurturing, Prong’s champion might have grown even larger were it not for the attentions of a gang of murderous cucumber nobblers who destroyed the cucumber two days after the record was officially set, an attack that tragically cost Prong his life.

—
The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records
, 2004 edition

Mr. Hardy Fuchsia
was editor, publisher, proprietor and founder of
Cucumber World
, all rolled into one. They found him in the greenhouse of his modest semidetached house in Sonning. The day was hot, and the greenhouse’s vents were all open to keep down the heat inside. Hardy Fuchsia was a cheery man with a limp; he was about eighty, retired, and he obviously thought cucumbers were the be-all and end-all. He came out of the greenhouse, mopped his brow with a handkerchief and shook them warmly by the hand.

“Tragic,” was all he could say when they mentioned Stanley Cripps. “Tragic, tragic, tragic.”

“Had you spoken to him recently?”

“The evening… um, before he died,” said Fuchsia. “He was wildly excited over this year’s possible champion. We might be competitors, but we still talk a great deal. Premier-league cucumbering is a lonely pursuit, Inspector, brightened only by the arrival of another with a similar high level of skill. I hope… ah, you appreciate that?”

“Of course. What did you talk about?”

“His challenger for the nationals. He and I were the only competitors in the cucumber extreme class—for anything weighing over twenty-five kilos. If he beat me, he’d automatically win the world championship. His champ was about to pass the magic fifty-kilo mark; not even I’ve managed that, although size isn’t everything. A fine curve can speak volumes—and a smooth, unblemished skin is worth thirty percent of the judge’s… ah, marks alone. Would you care to have a seat?”

He indicated an upturned water barrel for Mary and a garden roller for Jack.

“How long have you known Mr. Cripps?” asked Mary.

“Well, that is to say, I… oh, over thirty years. We both worked in the same department, although he is my senior by… er… well… um, more years than he would have cared to remember. Would you like to see Cuthbert and the family?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh! An… um, petty foible of mine. Quite… er, childish. Cuthbert… well, and the family — my cucumbers, you see.”

He led them into his ancient wooden greenhouse, the wood almost black with layers of creosote and the roof curved downward in the center with age. The reward in cucumbers, Jack noted, was not of the monetary sort. Mr. Fuchsia led them past radishes the size of basketballs, then some tomatoes and a few parsnips growing in a length of downpipe. His champion cucumbers were green monsters about six feet long and the thickness of a small barrel. The plant that had spawned the beasts was seemingly quite small and forlorn next to them. Even though there were seven of similar size, it wasn’t hard to figure out which one was Cuthbert. The others were excellent, but this one was
perfect.
The skin was smooth and shiny and blemish-free. It was quite a vegetable—or fruit, if you want to be pedantic.

“Very nice,” murmured Jack. “What do they taste like at this size?”

Mr. Fuchsia looked shocked. “Taste like? You don’t
eat
them, Inspector. These are for… um,
showing.
”

Mary pointed to a passive infrared alarm in one corner. “You take this seriously?” she asked.

“I certainly do,” replied Fuchsia. “Many cucumberistas have suffered loss and damage at the hands of”—he looked around and lowered his voice—“the
Men in Green.
”

“You’re kidding, right?” said Mary, somewhat rudely.

“Well, I’ve never seen them
myself,
” conceded Fuchsia,

“but the cucumber world is awash in stories of mysterious men turning up at night to steal prize cucumbers and to conduct…
experiments.
”

“What sort of experiments?”

“Bizarre and unseemly experiments of a horticultural nature. Core samples and cuttings taken, probes inserted, skin removed—that sort of thing. Have you ever seen a flayed cucumber, Inspector? It’s not a pretty sight. The Men in Green are rarely seen, but when they are, they seem to wear nothing… but green.”

“That’s quite far-fetched, if you don’t mind me saying so,” said Mary.