The Fourth Bear

by Jasper Fforde

  “Flapjacks, eh?”

  “Yes, Inspector,” replied Tarquin innocently. “Heaven forbid I would try and flog cheap porridge to Reading’s bears.”

  “Well, okay then,” said Jack cheerfully, “let’s make flapjacks. How much honey you got?”

  “What?” asked Tarquin, suddenly wary.

  “Honey,” replied Jack as he opened the front door of the van and found half a dozen jars and six honeycombs. “We’re going to make flapjacks. Rolled oats and honey. Let’s mix it all up here and now.”

  Algy and Tarquin looked at each other in horror.

  “Mix it…up?”

  “Yeah. Come on, guys, you said it was for flapjacks!”

  The bears watched with mounting horror as Jack picked up a two-kilo bag of oats and made to open it over Algy’s wheelbarrow.

  Algy muttered, “Oh, lawks!” and put a paw over his eyes.

  “WAIT!” shouted Tarquin. Jack stopped. “Okay,” he said with a sigh, “you’ve got me. Bloody NCD. You’d never try this if I was an Ursa Major.”

  “If you were a major, you’d know better than to peddle porridge. So…where did you get this? Safeway? Somerfields? Waitrose?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Have it your own way,” said Jack as he begun to tear open the bag of oats over the wheelbarrow.

  Tarquin put up a paw to stop him. “Okay, okay. I buy it wholesale from this person I’ve never met over in Shiplake.”

  “How can you have never met him in Shiplake?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Tarquin with a confused look. Like many bears he could be dense at times. “You’re going to have to ask me that question again.”

  “What’s their name?”

  “I don’t know. I pick the stuff up from a warehouse and leave the money in a cookie tin.”

  “I get it. How do they contact you?”

  “By phone. About eight months ago. Said they needed to shift some merchandise and could I help them out. I’ve never met them.”

  “Ursine?”

  “No. Human.”

  “Old, young, male, female? What?”

  “I don’t know,” said Tarquin with a shrug. “You all sound pretty squeaky to me.”

  “If you’re lying to me…”

  “On my cub’s life,” said Tarquin earnestly, crossing his chest, stamping one foot and then clicking a claw on one of his canines. “I can give you the address and the code to get in.”

  “Okay,” said Jack as he handed him his notepad. Tarquin jotted down an address and handed it back. “Good. Now you—what’s your name?”

  “Algernon. Algy.”

  “Okay, bear-named-Algy, Tarquin here is going to sell you these oats for sixty pence a kilo. Give him the money.”

  Tarquin threw his arms in the air, opened his eyes wide and growled dangerously. Blabbing to the cops was one thing, but taking a loss on an oat deal was quite another. He took a pace toward Jack and stared at him in the sort of way he’d stare at a leaping salmon, if he’d ever done such a thing, which he hadn’t. Jack stood his ground.

  “You are so out of order!” yelled Tarquin.

  “No,” said Jack, “you are out of order. This is what happens to bears who smuggle over quota. I’ve got nothing against moderate porridge use, but I don’t take to bears like you seeking to capitalize on ursine weaknesses. I’ll ignore the forty kilos this time, but if I catch you with so much as an ounce in the future, you’ll be making license plates as a career.”

  “License plates?”

  “It’s a euphemism for prison. Take the money.”

  “No,” said Tarquin, as he moved closer. “What if I tell you to go take a running jump into a mountain lake somewhere?”

  Jack stared at him and didn’t waver for a moment.

  “Listen here, Boo-Boo,” he said slowly, “you’ve been busted good and proper. Take it like a bear or I’ll spread it around that you’ve been cutting the oats with Maltex.”

  “They’d never believe you,” he growled.

  “Wouldn’t they? Take a step closer and my associate hiding over there will tranq your fuzzy butt, and then we can talk it over at the station. Me with a cup of tea and an Oreo, and you with a splitting headache and a numb ass. Your choice.”

  Tarquin thought for a moment, sighed and then relaxed. “Okay, Inspector,” he said with a forced smile, “we’ll play it your way.”

  Greatly relieved at this, Algy gave Tarquin the reduced price and started to load the bags of oats into his wheelbarrow. He paused for thought and then asked, “Do you really cut it with Maltex?”

  “Of course not.”

  “But I still get the honey, right?”

  “NO!”

  “Here’s to the day when they repeal Porribition,” said Jack as they walked out of the garage and into the sunshine. “The associated criminal element of supply far outweighs the harm that it does to the bear population.”

  “What’s the alternative?” said Mary. “Unregulated porridge use? We’d have trippy, spaced-out bears wandering around the town, hallucinating who-knows-what in the Oracle Center.”

  “If I made the laws, I’d let them,” said Jack. “Porridge is a great deal less harmful than alcohol—and we seem to embrace and promote the sale of that almost everywhere.”

  “I agree it doesn’t make much sense,” replied Mary, adding, “I thought calling Tarquin ‘Boo-Boo’ was a bit daring. You know how sensitive they can get on the whole Yogi issue.”

  “Bears are big on dominance—I had to insult him. Besides, you had a tranquilizer aimed on Tarquin’s ass the whole time, right?”

  “The dart gun?” said Mary with surprise as she started the engine. “Not me. I thought you had it. Where now?”

  “Next time we’re tackling bears,” pleaded Jack, who had suddenly turned a little pale, “please make sure you’ve got the tranquilizer gun. And we’re off to Charvil. I need to buy a new car.”

  5. The Austin Allegro Equipe

  Feeblest British car of the seventies: It was a close call between the Morris Marina and the Austin Allegro, but the latter finally won out. Although originally designed as sharp and sporty, the Allegro (1973–82) was a victim of design and manufacturing compromises that conspired to dilute the original concept until the resultant car was utterly lacking in appeal, and the buying public responded in a lukewarm manner. When production was eventually shelved, there were—tantalizingly—plans in the design office for a 420-horsepower V12 “Muscle” Allegro, a stretch “Allegrosine” and an RB-211 turbofan-powered version, with which it was proposed to break the land speed record.

  —The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

  Jack’s last car, a very reliable Austin Allegro Estate, had been written off when he ignored a complicated and little-understood—at least to him—procedure for setting the torque on the rear wheel bearings. The cost of repairing it far outstripped the value, so it had been scrapped. On reflection he should have just rebuilt it at any price, but at the time he hadn’t realized how much he liked it. For all his sneering at other detectives for owning classic cars, such as Moose’s Jaguar, Chymes’s delightful old Delage-Supersport and Miss Lockett’s wonderful pair of Bristols, he had begun to like the Allegro in a strange sort of way. It was his hunt for another in showroom condition that had led them here to Charvil on the eastern edge of the town.

  They pulled up outside a shabby used-car lot that was exactly the sort of place you might expect to buy a used Allegro. It was decidedly low-rent and displayed about a dozen well-used cars of dubious provenance. Faded bunting fluttered from light standards at the four corners of the yard, and Jack rechecked the address before getting out of the car. Mary, passionately disinterested in Allegros, like most other people on the planet, picked up the paper from the backseat and started to read the sports pages. Her cell phone rang. She took one look at the screen and then put it back in her pocket, where it trilled plaintively to itself. Despite several subtle hints and a r
aft of unsubtle ones, her ex-boyfriend, Arnold, still hadn’t figured out the “ex” part of their relationship.

  Jack walked up between the ranks of the cars, being careful not to touch them, as they were all covered with a thin film of dust; it didn’t seem the dealer sold that many. He was looking around for the Allegro when a young man stepped out of the office. He was impeccably dressed in a morning suit, bow tie, high collar and starched cuffs. From the bloodred carnation in his buttonhole to his shiny patent leather shoes, the young man carried with him the haughty air of undeniable superiority—and incongruity. He looked as though he were dressed for a society party, not selling cars. He regarded Jack with suspicion and then forced a smile onto his thin lips.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I hope so,” replied Jack. “I called yesterday. You had an Allegro—”

  The car salesman’s manner changed abruptly, and a genuine smile supplanted the bogus one. “Detective Chief Inspector Spratt?”

  Jack nodded, and the salesman put out a well-manicured hand for him to shake.

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said excitedly, giving off wafts of expensive aftershave as he moved. “I followed the Humpty case with enthusiasm. Extremely impressive. My name is Gray, Dorian Gray—but you must call me Dorian. I for one do not believe a word when Josh Hatchett refers to you as ‘a bad joke’ or ‘a stain upon the good name of the Reading police force.’”

  “You’re very kind,” said Jack a bit uneasily.

  “Think nothing of it!” replied Dorian happily. “I’ve wanted to meet you for such a long time, but my diary is so very full. It was lucky, in fact, that you caught me when you rang. Society is such a drain on one’s energy. Would you follow me?”

  He led Jack through the collection of battered wrecks that had nothing over two hundred pounds written on their windshields and on to a small lockup garage at the back of the lot. Dorian smiled again, carefully donned white gloves and pulled the doors open with a loud sqraunch of long-forgotten hinges.

  Gray must have seen Jack looking doubtful, for he added quickly, “It has been in storage for a number of years, yet I don’t believe it has aged significantly.”

  The garage opened to reveal an immaculate 1979 Allegro Equipe two-door sedan. It was painted silver with orange and red stripes down the sides and had alloy wheels and twin headlamps at the front. The paintwork glistened as though it had only just rolled off the production line. Dorian got in, started it at the first attempt and drove it into the sunshine.

  “Remarkable!” said Jack after a pause.

  “Isn’t it just?” answered Dorian as he got out, unlatched the hood and revealed an engine bay that didn’t have a spot of dirt or oil on it anywhere.

  Jack smiled and got into the car. He could smell the freshness of the factory, and the orange velour seats still had the fuzz on them. He looked at the odometer. It had only 342 miles recorded.

  “Where did you find it?” asked Jack incredulously. “This belongs in a museum. None would take it, of course, but it does.”

  Dorian Gray looked to left and right and lowered his voice. “It’s not quite so strange as you think, Inspector. You see, every now and then I sell a car to a favored customer with my own…ahem… unique guarantee.”

  Jack sensed a scam of some sort and narrowed his eyes. “Guarantee?”

  “Yes. I guarantee that this car will never rust or even age significantly.”

  “Waxoil and underseal, eh?”

  “Better than Waxoil, Inspector. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  They walked around to the back of the car, and Dorian opened the trunk. Inside was a finely painted oil of the same car, but in much shabbier condition. The car in the picture had rust holes showing up through the bodywork, a peeling vinyl roof, the trim was missing, and there was an unsightly scrape on the left rear, which had taken the bumper off. In short, a bit of a wreck. Jack looked at Dorian quizzically.

  “See the rear windshield in the painting, Officer?”

  Jack looked. It seemed normal enough. Dorian smiled again, removed the wheel brace from the trunk and shattered the rear window of the Allegro with one strong blow. Jack took a shocked step back at this apparently motiveless act of vandalism. Dorian, however, merely smiled.

  “Look at the painting, Mr. Spratt.”

  Jack frowned. He was certain that the car in the picture had not had a broken rear windshield before, but now it did. His frown deepened, but Dorian had another surprise for him.

  “Look at the car.”

  The rear window was intact.

  “How…?”

  Dorian Gray put the wheel brace away, shut the trunk and smiled the enigmatic smile of a conjuror who has just caught a speeding bullet in his teeth and no way on hell’s own earth was going to let on how he did it.

  “Everything you do to the car happens to the picture, Inspector. It never needs cleaning, repairing or servicing. It will stay new forever. You may want to have rear seat belts fitted and replace the AM push-button radio, but I feel those are small inconveniences when you consider the vast savings this car has to offer.”

  “Forever?”

  Dorian stared absently at his perfectly manicured nails. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said carelessly, “but yes, for the foreseeable future.” He smiled disarmingly. “I’ve offered this warranty to only six other people, and do you know I’ve not had a single complaint?”

  “How much?”

  “Eight hundred guineas.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Dorian was quite happy to accept a check and moved several cars so Jack could drive out, the engine purring like a kitten brought up on cream. Jack was just signing a buyer’s agreement, in Dorian’s red pen and thinking he had gotten the bargain of the century, when Mary knocked on the window in a state of some agitation. She was holding her cell phone and waved it at him.

  “I need to speak to you as a matter of some urgency, sir.”

  “Don’t worry.” Jack smiled. “I won’t insist you drive it all the time.”

  “It’s not the Allegro. It’s the Gingerbreadman.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s escaped.”

  Jack laughed.

  “Sure he has. I do this joke to Madeleine all the time, and she…”

  He stopped talking as he noticed that Mary was doing everything but laughing and that Dorian Gray had turned on the television, where a news bulletin was under way. The volume was off, but it didn’t matter; the grim face of the anchorman with a stock picture of the gingery lunatic said it all. Jack felt a heavy hand fall on his heart. Not again. He and Friedland Chymes had captured him the first time around. Jack and Chymes had survived, Wilmot Snaarb had not. Jack could still see Snaarb’s look of agony as he had his arms torn from their sockets, his cries of pain and terror mixed with the maniacal cackle of the psychopathic snack. If Jack hadn’t tricked him into a shipping container, the Gingerbreadman would have stayed at liberty for longer. He was delivered to prison still inside the container, and it took fourteen men in riot gear to subdue him. It was nursery crime at its very worst.

  “Who called you?” asked Jack, suddenly alert.

  “Ashley,” replied Mary. “He said the whole station was in an uproar; Briggs was running around barking orders at people—and sometimes just barking.”

  “And that’s what worries me,” said Jack, thanking Dorian and walking briskly from his office.

  “That Briggs is rusty when it comes to panic?”

  “No. I was the original arresting officer. The Gingerbreadman is clearly NCD—why didn’t they call us first?”

  6. The Gingerbreadman Is Out

  Most dangerous baked object: A hands-down win for the Gingerbreadman, incarcerated at St. Cerebellum’s secure hospital for the criminally deranged since 1984. He is currently serving a four-hundred-year sentence for the murder and torture of his 104 known victims; his crimes easily outrank those of the second-most-dangerous baked object, a fruit
cake accidentally soaked in weed killer instead of sherry by Mrs. Austen of Pembridge, then served up to members of the Women’s Federation during a talk about the remedial benefits of basket weaving. The final death toll is reputed to have been 62.

  —The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

  Jack insisted they take his new Allegro, and a few minutes later they were heading out of town to the south and the little village of Arborfield. Mary tuned in the wireless and heard a news bulletin on RadioToadReading informing everyone exactly why they should be panicking and what form this panicking should take. The broadcasts were uncannily successful, and in a few short hours a state of fear had descended on the town, with normally sensible citizens running around like headless chickens and generally behaving like idiots.

  Because of this the roads and streets were spookily empty. Mary and Jack passed almost no one until they arrived at a police roadblock just outside the village, from where they parked the car and walked past TV-network vans and police mobile-incident trucks. They ducked under a Do Not Cross barrier and after a few hundred yards were met by such a scene of unrestrained violence and aggression that Mary, with never the strongest stomach, had to do a rapid about-face and tell Jack she’d see him later.

  The St. Cerebellum’s van that had transported the Gingerbreadman was lying on its side with the rear doors torn off. The bodies of the three who died instantly were still there, uncovered, being photographed. Already SOCO had started to record everything at the crime scene. The Gingerbreadman had undertaken the gruesome attack with a ferocity at least equal to or even greater than when he was last at liberty. A torn-off arm lay in the street, and the body of a man in a suit lay in an awkward position, half out of the passenger seat of the van. It looked as though he had been twisted until he broke.

  “Shit,” muttered Jack under his breath. It was worse than he imagined. The memories of twenty years came back in a flurry of painful, unwanted images.