The Fourth Bear

by Jasper Fforde

  “Spratt?” said a familiar voice behind him. It was Superintendent Briggs, Jack’s immediate superior. A middle-aged man with a well-developed paunch, he had kindly eyes and one of those anachronistic comb-over hairstyles to disguise the fact he was going bald, but it fooled no one. Although Jack was head of the NCD, Briggs acted as his liaison with the rest of the force and had the power to tell him to drop any case he didn’t feel was worth pursuing. Their relationship usually swung between hot and cold, and Briggs had made it his sworn duty to suspend Jack at least once during any investigation, more for dramatic effect than anything else.

  “Good morning, sir, we came as quick as we could,” responded Jack, noticing that Briggs was with DI Copperfield, a contemporary of Jack’s who worked CID at Reading Central.

  “We?” asked Briggs, looking around.

  “Mary’s not too good with bodies, sir—I think she’s honking up in the bushes. Good morning, David.”

  “Jack,” replied Copperfield cheerily. He was the same age as Jack but looked younger than their shared forty-five years. His boyish good looks and absence of gray meant he could easily pass for thirty, and frequently did.

  “You caught him the last time,” Briggs said to Jack. “Your experience in this matter might be invaluable.”

  “When did he escape?”

  “Ninety-seven minutes ago,” replied Copperfield. “Killed two male nurses and his doctor with his bare hands. The other three orderlies who accompanied him are critical in the hospital.”

  “Critical?”

  “Yes. Don’t like the food, beds uncomfortable, waiting lists too long—usual crap. Other than that they’re fine.”

  This was big. Bigger than anything Jack had handled. The last time the Gingerbreadman was at large, Jack was partnered with Friedland Chymes. But ex-DCI Chymes was now gone—retired under accusations of cowardice. This was up to Jack and Jack alone. Or so he thought. He took a deep breath.

  “I’m going to need more manpower,” he began, counting off the items on his fingers, “more than we’ve ever had on an NCD inquiry. Plus forensic resources, overtime and…”

  His voice trailed off as he saw Briggs stare at the ground. He knew then why they hadn’t called him.

  “Jack,” said Briggs slowly, “this won’t be your investigation.”

  Jack looked at Briggs, then at Copperfield, who looked away, faintly embarrassed.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Which part of ‘not your investigation’ don’t you understand?” asked Briggs with well-practiced acerbic wit. He was learning it at night school.

  “The ‘not your investigation’ part. I’m Nursery Crime Division. This is the Gingerbreadman. My jurisdiction. The NCD has much experience in these matters.”

  “Unarguably,” replied Briggs uncompromisingly, “which is why I want you to give Copperfield all the help you can.”

  “David is leading this?” asked Jack, the incredulity in his voice making the remark a question about ability. Copperfield was a nice guy and a good officer, but he couldn’t hack this sort of investigation, and Jack knew it. David gave a wan smile. He didn’t want to play the political game and liked Jack personally, so wasn’t going to make an issue of the lack of confidence. Secretly, he probably agreed with him, but he’d never run a murder investigation before and liked the sound of it—especially the vague possibility of promotion if he was successful.

  “If I’ve anything to ask after I’ve seen the Gingerbreadman’s original arrest report,” said Copperfield with a certain degree of vagueness, “I’ll be sure to get in touch.”

  “Perhaps,” said Jack pointedly, “you should be asking yourself why the Gingerbreadman was being driven around unsecured in a minivan rather than prison transport.”

  Copperfield stared at Jack for a moment. Fully aware of his intellectual shortcomings, David compensated by doing everything by the book. Even reading the book he did by the book. Everything was orderly and logical and procedure based in his world. He understood intuition and wild improbable hunches that turned out to be right, but he never used them—they were the tools he always left in the box during an investigation. Conversely, they were the ones that Jack used most. In the hazily preordained world of the NCD, it was almost obligatory. Even so, Copperfield made a mental note of what Jack said. He was right: The Gingerbreadman was a category A+++ patient and he hadn’t even been handcuffed.

  Jack rubbed his brow. Copperfield as the investigating officer was madness even by NCD standards, which were by definition pretty broad.

  “He’s dangerously insane,” said Jack, “but there are vague patterns to his behavior. He usually violently ingratiates himself into someone’s house or flat and stays there for as long as he thinks he can. His ‘hosts’ generally don’t survive the visitation, although he always makes a point of paying for any food he eats, does the laundry and then wallpapers the front room.”

  “Pattern or plain?”

  “Pattern—and lined, too. You might like to stake out DIY stores.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “He kills because that’s what he does best,” said Jack. “Don’t take any chances.”

  “We don’t plan to. The SAS are on stand-by and armed to the teeth. They’ll be called in the moment he’s spotted.”

  “The use of unnecessary and wholly unreasonable force,” added Briggs, “has been approved. We’re not planning for capture or containment.”

  There was a pause and Jack stared at Briggs and Copperfield in turn, then at the crime scene, which was, he had to admit, far worse than anything he had seen either inside the NCD or out. Mr. Wolff’s scalding to death hadn’t been pretty, and Wee Willie Winkie’s evisceration wasn’t exactly Sunday lunch conversation. But three at one go was something quite new even by Gingerbreadman standards. He had an annoying habit of raising the ante every time he drew breath. But Jack still wasn’t satisfied.

  “Sir—”

  Briggs shook his head, took him by the arm and steered him toward a quiet spot.

  “It’s no use, Jack,” he said once out of earshot. “Copperfield is running the hunt. And it’s not just me. The Chief Constable has been on the phone already. With Friedland out of the picture and you busy getting citizens eaten, we need somebody to put Reading back on the detecting map.”

  “But the Humpty case—!”

  “Humpty’s tumble is past history, Jack. We’ve all got to think of the future—and with that Red Riding-Hood fiasco still ringing in our ears, you need to be on your best behavior. Josh Hatchett is just itching to stick the knife in deeper.”

  “Okay,” said Jack, “so I screwed up. The bedroom was dark—how was I meant to know it was the wolf and not Red’s gran? Besides, the woodsman’s timely intervention saved the day.”

  “With no thanks to you,” replied Briggs. “And strictly speaking you should be on sick leave—have you seen the shrinks for some counseling?”

  “All that weird shit goes with the NCD turf—it’s business as usual.”

  “Maybe to you,” returned Briggs with a sidelong glance to make sure no one could possibly be listening to this insanity, “but I’ve got a grandmother and a small girl in traumatic shock. They’ll probably sue the pants off us—if they ever come to their senses.”

  Briggs lowered his voice.

  “Jack, there’s no easy way to say this, so I won’t try. Your judgment has been called into question over the unconventional use of children as bait in the Scissor-man capture, and answers are already being sought about the Riding-Hood inquiry. The bottom line is that we need to be able to demonstrate that all our departmental heads are fully able to acquit themselves in difficult situations without any unpredictable or detrimental decision making.”

  “You think I might be insane?”

  “I know you’re insane, Jack—it’s a question of whether you’re too insane to run the NCD. It’s a directive from on high. You’re going to have to take a psychiatric evaluation to e
nsure you are still able to function properly as head of the NCD.”

  “Sir—!” said Jack, knowing it would be almost impossible to get a doctor to say he was sane. In conventional policing a streak of madness could get you retired; in the NCD it was almost impossible to function without it. But Briggs was having none of it.

  “The answer’s still no, Jack. You’ve been doing a lot of very strange stuff for far too long. I’m worried that it’s affecting your health, and judgment. DS Mary can be acting head of the NCD while you take it easy for a bit. Go home—put your feet up.”

  “Sir,” replied Jack tersely, “I should be out hunting for a seven-foot cookie with a bad attitude—not watching reruns of Columbo on the telly.”

  Briggs raised an admonishing finger. “Don’t underestimate Columbo, Jack—you might be interested to know that it’s being used for training at police college, along with Hawaii Five-O and Murder, She Wrote. And…I think you’ll find the Gingerbreadman is a cake.”

  “Cookie, sir.”

  “Cake, but never mind. It’s only because the Humpty gig was good PR that we’re not seeing the NCD disbanded out of hand. Right now you’ll do as you’re told.”

  There was a pause. Jack stared at the ground, unsure of what to say.

  “And if I find you hunting for the Gingerbreadman on your own,” added Briggs, waving the admonishing finger, “I’ll, I’ll…”

  He paused for a moment, trying to figure out whether it was technically possible to suspend someone who was already on sick leave. And it wasn’t as though he could be sent anywhere lower than the NCD, anyway.

  “I’ll not be happy,” he said at last. “Give Copperfield all he asks for, would you?”

  He tipped his hat, mumbled, “So long, Jack,” and rejoined DI Copperfield, who was directing proceedings from a “murder procedure” checklist he had fortuitously brought with him.

  7. Nursery Crime Division

  Most-dumped boyfriend: It is reliably reported that Arnold Westlake (originally of Basingstoke, UK) has been dumped a grand total of 973 times in the past five years. Despite his being a self-confessed “sweet guy” and “good husband material” with a “fondness for starting a family,” Mr. Westlake’s serial dumpings continue to surprise and confuse him, especially as 734 of those dumpings were from the same woman, a Ms. Mary Mary of Reading, Berkshire. When asked to confirm figures, Ms. Mary angrily inquired who the other women dumping him were, and added, “No one dumps Arnold but me—it’s all over between us.”

  —The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

  Jack found Mary, and they drove back into Reading. He was silent for most of the journey, trying to think which was worst: being consistently trashed by the press, having a superior who didn’t trust his judgment, having a prime NCD case allocated away from him or enduring the ignominy of having a psychiatrist ask him pointless questions and then going “Aha” in a quasi-meaningful manner.

  He explained the news to Mary, who said, “How about if we do a plot device number twenty-six and pretend not to look for him?”

  “So you’re suggesting we look for him against orders, catch him, cover ourselves with glory, and the by-the-book officers look like idiots?”

  Mary nodded enthusiastically. “Pretty much.”

  “No, we’re going to follow plot device number thirty-eight.”

  Mary narrowed her eyes. “Which one is that again?”

  “We wait until they beg for our assistance, then save the day. For now we follow orders. After all, do you think we’d get the support Copperfield is getting if it was an NCD inquiry?”

  Mary thought about the forty or so officers milling around the Gingerbreadman crime scene. The SOCO crew, the incident vehicles, the tracker dogs, the armed-response group, the catering facilities. Somehow she doubted it. The largest quantity of officers on an NCD inquiry could be counted on the fingers of Ashley’s hands, and he was a tridactyl—if you didn’t count his four thumbs.

  They arrived at the Reading police station, parked the car in the underground lot and walked toward the elevators. As they approached, the doors opened and Agatha Diesel walked out. Jack groaned inwardly. Not because Agatha was Reading’s most aggressive and efficient parking attendant, and not because she happened to be married to Briggs. No, it was because Agatha and Jack had once, many years ago, had something of a fling together, and Agatha seemed intent that years, grayness, gravity or current marital status should not be a barrier to conjoining themselves in a tight knot of adulterous passion.

  “Jack!” said Agatha in delighted surprise. “I haven’t seen you for a while—have you been avoiding me?”

  “Why ever would I do that?” asked Jack as he walked past and pressed the elevator call button repeatedly.

  “Because,” she said, with something that might once have passed for a coquettish smile, “you have feelings, too—but you’re in denial.”

  “I could only be living in de Nile if I was in de Egypt.”

  “Eh?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Listen,” said Mary as she hid a smile, “if you guys want to talk, I can take the stairs—”

  “NO! I mean no, I need to discuss something with you.”

  “Well, listen,” said Agatha, moving closer to Jack, who backed away until he was pressed against the elevator doors, “you know you can always rely on me if you get bored.”

  “The answer’s NO, Agatha,” said Jack. “It was NO twenty years ago, it was NO yesterday, it’s NO now, and it’ll be NO tomorrow and for the rest of recorded history. Get it?”

  She laughed and tweaked his chin. “You’re such a tease!” she cooed. “Anytime. I’ll be waiting. Whenever.”

  The doors opened, and Jack almost fell inside. Agatha was still waving at him as the elevator doors closed.

  “I’d get a restraining order on her if she weren’t married to Briggs,” said Jack, rubbing his neck.

  “Now you know how difficult it is with Arnold.”

  “Perhaps we should introduce them to each other.”

  “She’d have him for breakfast,” said Mary with a laugh, “and spit out the bones.”

  The elevator ascended in silence for a few moments, stopped, and the doors opened.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” said a shapely, doelike vision of uniformed loveliness who was waiting to get into the elevator. “Good morning, Sergeant.”

  “Hello, Pippa,” replied Jack with a smile. “How are you settling in?”

  “Everyone’s being so nice to me,” she said, giving out a radiant smile to both of them. “The control room here is a simply wonderful place to work.”

  And she got into the elevator and the doors closed.

  “People that good-looking shouldn’t be officers,” said Jack as they walked down the corridor. “It makes the rest of us look like gorgons. Isn’t Baker making a play for her?”

  “I think it would be safe to say he’s in the queue—and it’s a long line. Constable Pepper took her out for a drink, I understand, but I don’t know how serious it was.”

  They walked along the corridor in silence for a moment.

  “You said earlier there was some good news?” asked Mary.

  “You’ve been promoted. You’re acting head of the NCD while I’m on sick leave awaiting a mental-health appraisal.”

  “Does this mean I get to sit in your chair?”

  “Incorrect response, Mary. I was hoping for something more along the lines of ‘They can’t do this to you, sir!’”

  “Only joking. They can’t do this to you, sir.”

  “They just have. Briggs thinks I’m too disturbed to head up the NCD.”

  “He should be worried about you not being disturbed enough.”

  “Thanks for that—I think,” replied Jack doubtfully.

  “Tell me,” said Mary slowly, “despite your sick-leaveness, will I be able to consult you freely on matters regarding nursery crime at any time of the day or night and invite you along to i
nquiries in the capacity of observer or expert witness?”

  Jack smiled as they stopped outside the office. “I’m counting on it.”

  When Mary first arrived at the Nursery Crime Division, she was astonished at just how small the offices were. Barely room enough for a desk, let alone three chairs, among the filing cabinets and stacks of papers. The walls were adorned by framed newspaper cuttings, a map of Reading and several corkboards but without the needless extravagance of a window. The filing cabinets were so full the metal bulged, and any available space that couldn’t be more usefully employed for other purposes—such as standing or sitting—was stacked high with reports, notes and files. Case histories were still on index cards, something that excited Ashley’s innate filing instincts no end but was generally a source of embarrassment to everyone else. There was another room next door, which the cleaners had rejected on the grounds of “too small, even for us” and this was also full of unfiled papers, a chair, a small desk and a coffee machine. They had computers and access to e-mail and the national crime database, but the NCD database seemed to have been forgotten in the rush to centralize all police records. It didn’t really matter, as Berkshire was the only county with a Nursery Crime Division—travel beyond the county boundaries placed all PDRs outside the protection of the law, so few troubled to do so.

  It was no surprise to anyone that with Gretel and Baker on an inquiry, the division spilled out into the corridor, even with Ashley working from his usual position, stuck to the ceiling. Mary had got used to the size and chaotic nature of the office as soon as she figured out Jack’s “freestyle” approach to filing, and Jack had been right about another thing: After a few months, she could barely detect the smell of boiled cabbage that wafted in from the canteen next door.

  Luckily, Gretel and Baker were engaged on other duties, and Ashley was the only incumbent, which made it feel positively roomy—sort of.

  “Good morning, Ash,” said Jack.

  “It is indeed,” replied the small alien with a joyous ripple of blue from within his semitransparent body. “I’ve got some good news for you both.”