“JUST LIE FACEDOWN ON THE GROUND!”
“No,” said the Gingerbreadman simply. “I’ve been locked in St. Cerebellum’s for twenty years, and I’m not going back. If you want to stop me, you’re going to have to fire.”
Mary’s finger tightened on the trigger. She was in no doubt that the Gingerbreadman would have killed her after he had dealt with Jack and would kill again, given the chance. There was no decision to make. She would shoot him. In the back, if necessary—and to hell with procedure.
The Gingerbreadman, despite his resigned attitude, was not out of tricks. He turned and jumped to one side, leaped back again and then ran away, zigzagging crazily. He knew, as Mary soon found out, that a heavy elephant gun wasn’t designed to follow a fast-moving object, and by the time Mary had him in her sights, he jinked out again. Mary gave up following him and held the gun still, waited for him to leap back into her sights, and then she squeezed on the trigger.
There was a concussion like a thunderclap, and for a moment Mary thought the gun had exploded. She was pushed violently backward, caught her foot on a tree root and fell over in an untidy pile. When the smoke had cleared, the forest was empty. She had missed; the Gingerbreadman had escaped.
“You all right, sir?”
“Fine,” said Jack, rubbing his shoulder and standing up as the distant wail of sirens brought the outside world once more into the forest. “What about you?”
“Pissed off I didn’t kill him, sir.”
“I can understand that.”
Mary reloaded the rifle from the cartridge belt the Gingerbreadman had discarded and walked slowly up the road to make sure that he wasn’t wounded and lying out of sight. She looked around carefully, satisfied herself that he was long gone and then picked something up from the ground before she returned to Jack.
“I didn’t miss after all,” she announced, showing Jack what she’d found. In her hand was a single gingerbread thumb.
26. Jack’s Explanation
Most coincidence-prone person: Mrs. Knight (née Day) of Wargrave, Berkshire, holds several world records for the quantity and quality of the coincidences that assail her every waking hour. “It’s really more of a burden,” she replied when interviewed. “Every wrong number I get turns out to be a lost relative or something. I can’t walk in the street for fear of bumping into an endless parade of long-forgotten school friends.” Her powers of coincidence question the very dynamics of time, leading some scientists to theorize that cause and effect are actually two sides of a cosmic scale that have to be in balance—and that Mrs. Knight may be a beacon of effect where orphaned causes flock, like moths to a lamp.
—The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition
“You better have a good explanation for this, Spratt—how many times do I have to tell you the Gingerbreadman is not your inquiry?”
Briggs wasn’t in a terribly good mood. True, he was never really in a good mood, but right now he was less so than usual. He liked to think that there existed a strong feeling of trust between his officers and that they wouldn’t go against what he had told them. He had trusted Jack more than most, which annoyed him especially.
“I know this might seem a bit hard to swallow, sir, but this is a coincidence as well.”
“Oh, yes?” replied Briggs, “And give me one good reason why I shouldn’t arrest you for working while suspended?”
“Because you like me and I’m good and I’m the only chance you’ve got to catch the Gingerbreadman.”
Briggs fell silent. He’d begun to think exactly the same. They were standing outside the three bears’ cottage. The trauma team from the Bob Southey Medical Center had turned up promptly and without getting lost; they were an immediate blur of action upon arriving at the scene, successfully stabilizing Ed and Ursula before gently transferring them into ambulances and vanishing back to Reading in a blare of sirens.
The human contingent took a little longer to get there, as they did get lost, but wasted no time as soon as they arrived: Police photographers covered every angle of the two shootings as the white-overalled SOCO officers went through the small cottage to find anything that might show either where the Gingerbreadman was going or where he had been. Jack sat and glowered at all the activity; if the Gingerbreadman hadn’t been involved, then Mary would have had to go begging to Briggs for resources, as usual.
As if the whole thing weren’t bad enough already, NS-4 had turned up in a shiny black Ford Scorpio, and Agent Danvers insisted her “associates” have a good look around. Even more annoyingly, Danvers also wanted to hear Jack’s appraisal of the situation. Briggs declared that this was a police matter but was swiftly overruled by Danvers, who called the Chief Constable personally.
“How is the attempted murder of two bears a national security issue?” asked Jack.
“It just is,” replied Danvers shortly. “Mr. Demetrios himself has requested that we attend.”
“No good can come of squabbling,” announced Briggs, “so why don’t you tell us what you know, Jack, and we can take it from there. Let’s face it, this is one hell of a mess. Berkshire has the best record of Ursidae equality in the European Union. When the Animal Equality Federation gets hold of this, the shit’s really going to hit the fan.”
“At least you know who did it.”
“I suppose so. What were you doing out here anyway?”
“Ed Bruin called me. He said he wasn’t happy and needed to talk.”
Jack felt Danvers’s eyes bore into him but pretended not to notice.
“About the Gingerbreadman?” asked Briggs.
“About Goldilocks.”
“Her death wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“No, sir.”
“Sir,” said Mary as she walked up and handed Jack two clear plastic envelopes. One had a note handwritten in highly distinctive ursine-styled cursive script, the other a photograph. “I thought you’d better see these—I found them on Ed Bruin’s desk.”
Briggs and Copperfield leaned over his shoulder to read the note.
“‘Mr. Curry, Sat., 8:15 A.M., Andersen’s Wood,’” read Briggs. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” said Jack slowly, thinking carefully, “that ‘Mr. Curry’ was to meet Goldilocks the morning she died.”
“And who’s Mr. Curry?” asked Copperfield.
“It was a code name for Goldilocks’s boyfriend. A man named…Sherman Bartholomew.”
Briggs started as though stuck with a cattle prod, and Danvers beckoned to one of her minders and whispered something in his ear.
“Are you nuts?” asked Briggs. “That’s one of the least likely things I’ve ever heard.”
“I thought so, too,” replied Jack, “but it’s true—they’d been seeing each other for more than a year.”
“Why meet here?”
Jack showed Briggs the photograph Mary had just passed him. It was of Mr. and Mrs. Bruin with baby bear as a cub-in-arms. They were outside the cottage with a grinning Sherman Bartholomew. It had been taken over ten years ago, and beneath was written “Feb. 4th 1993, the Ursine Suitable Housing Bill gives us a home shortly after adopting Junior. L–R: Ed, Ursula, Nigel, Bartholomew.”
“Sherman was their barrister in his pre-parliamentary days, sir. It was hardly any wonder they let him use their house for his little trysts. They owed him.”
“Okay, you’ve got a link with the Bruins and a note from father bear without Bartholomew’s name. That’s not a burning bush, Jack.”
“There’s more, sir. Bartholomew can’t account for his movements until nine-thirty on Saturday morning, and then there’s Ed Bruin’s note on the floor in his own blood. ‘SOB dnt trst.’ Sherman Oscar Bartholomew.”
Briggs rubbed his temples. Bartholomew was close with the Mayor and the Chief Constable, and if there was any sort of error, the repercussions would ripple down the ranks like dominoes.
“So…how does the Gingerbreadman fit into all of this?” asked Copperfield, who wa
sn’t pleased that Jack’s inquiry had significantly progressed while his hadn’t.
“Bartholomew defended him at his trial. Perhaps he felt he was indebted in some way.”
“He got four hundred years without parole,” said Briggs. “How would you thank your barrister for that?”
“Bartholomew had the sentence reduced from five hundred. It’s not much, but Ginger must have taken it to heart.”
“Okay,” said Briggs, “you’ve got a dying bear who etched Bartholomew’s initials in blood, a note placing him in the forest at the same time and a cake who owed him favors—it’s a bit circumstantial, and you know how the the prosecutors have trouble understanding NCD cases. Give me something concrete, Jack—like a motive.”
Jack sighed and thought quickly. Danvers’s eyes were still riveted on his.
“It’s all about…porridge quotas, sir. Uncooked rolled oats, if you want to get technical. We found two kilos in Goldilocks’s apartment that were part of a shipment we chanced across two days ago. Bartholomew had been aggressively pro-bear almost his entire career. He argued the Ursine Suitable Housing Bill and tried and failed to secure the right to arm bears. His pro-bear leanings took him beyond the law, and he took it upon himself to buy oats from the family discount store where he has an even more generous staff discount, repackaged them at a warehouse in Shiplake and then sold them to a middlebear who flogged it all down at the Bob Southey. Bartholomew and Goldilocks might have been lovers, but Goldilocks was going to blow the whistle on his pro-bear overquota porridge pushing. The scandal would have destroyed his career. So…she had to go.”
Briggs, Copperfield and Danvers said nothing, so Jack continued. “He arranged to meet her that Saturday morning, but it all went wrong—the bears came back early, and Goldilocks ran from the house. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what happened up at SommeWorld, but you can see the results. He knew that Goldilocks had been investigating cucumber sabotage and spreads it around that this was her ‘big story.’ It all seems to be going fine, and I’m chasing my tail around scorched areas of Berkshire when Ed Bruin gets an attack of conscience. He knew that Bartholomew was due to meet Goldilocks that morning, and he felt bad about it. Goldilocks has been a good friend to bears, too—her exposure of the illegal bile tappers sent shivers of relief among the bear community. Bears despise lies and deception, so Ed had to see me. Bartholomew gets wind of this, and he calls in the Big Bad Cookie.”
“Isn’t he a cake?” asked Danvers.
“I thought so,” muttered Copperfield.
“And me,” added Briggs.
“Cookie or cake, he attempts to kill Ed and Ursula and tries to make it appear that hunters did it. If Mary and I hadn’t got here as fast as we did, no one would be any the wiser.”
Danvers broke the silence that followed. “This is a very serious accusation,” she murmured, “and even if you’re wrong, the investigation will destroy Sherman’s career. He has much good work still to do.”
“No one is above the law,” said Jack pointedly. “No one.”
“I’m forced to agree,” replied Danvers. “This is now a police matter, and I leave it, with reluctance, in your capable hands. If you will permit me, I would like to be present at Bartholomew’s questioning. Good day to you, gentlemen.”
Danvers climbed into her car, and it bumped out of the clearing.
“Well,” said Briggs, “you’d better pull Bartholomew in—but be warned. There’s going to be a shitstorm over this.”
“Not from NS-4, sir,” said Jack, taking his cell phone out of his pocket. “Looks as if they just dropped him like a hot potato. And besides, when it comes to shitstorms, I think I’m something of an expert.”
He dialed a number and stepped away from the small group to make one of the hardest phone calls of his life. If he was wrong, there really would be a shitstorm—and he’d be right at the center of it. The call made, he dialed again, then returned to the group.
“Done,” he said. “Uniform are on their way to Bartholomew’s house right now.”
The light of the dying sun was filtering low through the trees as the last squad car drove away. The forensic examination had finished, and quiet had once more descended into the forest. Jack and Mary stood at the door and watched as the pool of dried blood went from dark red to black in the failing light.
“Not fair, is it?” said Mary.
“No,” replied Jack, deep in thought. “Just ordinary bears trying to lead a life of peaceful solitude. Ed should have spoken out when he could. Any news?”
“Ursula’s stable and out of danger, but Ed’s still critical. The surgeon told me that if he can survive the next forty-eight hours, he’s got a chance. Baby bear is staying with relatives in the Bob Southey.”
It was nearly two hours after Jack had given the order for Bartholomew’s arrest, but he wasn’t yet in custody. When the uniformed officers arrived to pick him up, Sherman Oscar Bartholomew, member of Parliament for Reading and prime suspect in a murder investigation, was gone.
The news had filtered back to everyone waiting at the cottage. Briggs blamed NS-4, something that Jack encouraged. Briggs had returned to Reading after telling Jack that the search for Bartholomew was far too important for the NCD, and the multiforce hunt could be better managed by an officer with more experience—such as himself. Clearly there were headlines to be had, and in Reading, positive headlines were in short supply.
“It’s not good,” said Mary, shaking her head sadly.
“Yes. Who’d be a bear?”
“No, I mean it’s not good that the last squad car has gone—how are we going to get back into town?”
“In the Allegro.”
“It’s a wreck.”
“Trust me.”
They walked down the grassy road to the logging track, where Jack’s car, as predicted, was as pristine as the day it had been built.
“I’m sorry I doubted you,” said Mary as Jack showed her the fine oil painting in the trunk, a picture of the car that now resembled a barely recognizable heap of scrap. She looked at the Allegro suspiciously.
“Seems a bit…well, diabolical, doesn’t it?”
“Nah,” replied Jack reassuringly, “every car should be made this way.”
“I’ll write a report out for Kreeper explaining that the Allegro does heal itself. You’ll be back on the active list in a jiffy.”
“Do you think she’d believe you?”
“No,” conceded Mary.
Mary got into the car a little anxiously and glanced around at the interior as though she thought it might bite her, then took a surreptitious look at the odometer, which now read only thirty-eight miles. The car started on the first turn, and Jack drove slowly out of the forest, the approaching night changing the face of the wood from arboreal beauty to insufferable gloom. The forest was once more exclusively the domain of its children.
27. What Mary Did That Night
First extraterrestrial marriage: Although there have been a few instances of alien-human dating, no actual marriage or civil union has so far taken place. Although it has been preemptively condemned by all the world’s leading religions as “abhorrent to nature” and “an affront to all social values,” pro-alien sympathizers were quick to point out that visitors from distant worlds are not covered by any divine texts, which was an interesting omission by the Almighty and leads to all manner of theological debate over galactic deity jurisdiction. But if such a union comes to pass, The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records will faithfully record it.
—The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition
Ashley was waiting for them at the NCD offices when they walked in. His uniform had been freshly pressed and his transparent skin buffed up to a high shine. He looked expectantly at Mary, who smiled uneasily in return. It was the evening of their date, and Mary had yet to think up a believable excuse.
“What’s that smell?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“It’s Windex,” explained As
hley cheerily. “It shines up my outer skin quite nicely.”
“What did you do?” asked Jack. “Bathe in it?”
“If only,” replied Ashley wistfully, adding, “Bartholomew’s still not been found, and Briggs wants you to meet the press first thing tomorrow to discuss Bartholomew and the Goldilocks case.”
Jack picked up the phone and asked to be put through to the Super. “Hello, sir, it’s Jack…. No, I’m not doing the press. I’ m taking sick leave as requested…. Yes, I know I’m already on sick leave, but now I’m really on sick leave. I’ll be gone for three months—perhaps longer. Maybe I’ll retire…. Yes, really…. The head of the NCD can take the press conference tomorrow.”
He looked up at Mary and raised an eyebrow. Mary shook her head.
“No, she’s not here…. Yes, I agree the situation is not at all favorable…. Good night, sir, and if you’re thinking about getting me a gold watch, I’d rather you didn’t.”
Jack put the phone down and looked up at Ashley and Mary, who were staring at him incredulously.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not retiring—that was for Briggs’s benefit. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
“About what?”
“About finding Goldilocks’s killer.”
“I thought you said Bartholomew murdered her?”
“If you believed all that crap I was spouting up at Andersen’s Wood,” said Jack unhappily, “you’ll believe anything.”
“Then why did you say it?”
“I had to say something. NS-4 is in this up to their armpits, and I needed them to think we’re as stupid as they believe.”
Mary thought for a while, trying to figure out what she’d missed—Jack’s explanation of Goldilocks’s death and Bartholomew’s porridge pushing seemed plausible.
“But we’re not, are we?” she said, a mite confused.
“Not at all,” he said, trying to force a smile. “I know that Bartholomew didn’t have a hand in it, but I’m really not sure who did. I need to sleep on it. Better than that, I need to sleep.”
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