Jack walked out of the house and met Mary on the garden path.
“Hello, sir,” she said. “Any luck?”
“Goldilocks was here on Saturday morning—but ran away into the forest at about eight-thirty.” He turned back to Mr. Bruin, introduced Mary and then said, “Can you show me the bed you found her in?”
Ed shrugged a bit despondently and took Jack and Mary up the narrow stairs to the single bedroom, which was in the roof space. He nodded toward three beds of varying sizes.
“This one,” he said, pointing at the smallest.
“Did you wash the sheets?”
“Of course,” he said, shocked at the suggestion that they might not have.
Jack looked around. There didn’t seem much more to be gained for the moment. They walked back downstairs.
“Baker, I’d like you to take statements from Mr. and Mrs. Bruin and wait for their son to come home, then do the same with him.”
Baker wrinkled his nose.
“Problems?” asked Jack.
“They’re bears, sir.”
“I can see that.”
“Animals, sir.”
“So are we.”
“They’ve probably got fleas.”
Jack pulled him aside and whispered in his ear, “Listen, Baker, I’ve been in there for half an hour and I’m not scratching. Tell the others and heed this yourself: If I hear of any ursism in my division, I’ll have you up on disciplinary charges. Do you understand?”
Baker nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Which way did Goldilocks go?” asked Jack. Ed pointed a claw toward a small path leading up the hill to a ridge.
“Gretel?”
“Sir?”
“You and Baker should follow us up when you’re done. Mary and I are going on ahead.”
They walked out of the clearing and back into the forest, this time following the path Ed had indicated. The trees were younger and smaller, letting in enough light to permit a thick carpet of grass to grow.
“How did you find me?” Jack asked Mary.
“A woodsman told me he saw you over here. The bear’s house is only five hundred yards from Goldy’s Austin.”
Jack shook his head. He must have been walking in circles.
They followed the path up to the top of the ridge, where they found a high and very sturdy wire-mesh fence. Beyond this was a muddy landscape, a thousand acres of churned earth and stunted, shattered trees. A quarter of a mile away in the muddy wastes, the remains of a small church nestled in a slight hollow near some leafless trees. On the hillside below the church, the zigzag pattern of a trench was readily apparent, the web of rusty barbed wire an impenetrable barrier in front of it. Behind this first trench was a support trench, and beyond this a battery of guns sat in supposed readiness. Behind them was the visitors’ center, unfinished and of modern brick and steel. The wasteland was totally incongruous to the green setting of Berkshire and an ugly scar on the land. Its construction had been fought at every step, but the theme park had gone ahead regardless. Jack and Mary looked up and read the threatening notice board that faced them. The message was clear:
“SommeWorld,” muttered Jack. “That’s all we need.” They walked slowly along the perimeter until Mary noticed a gap in the fence. She went and had a closer look as Jack went on ahead.
“Jack, I think you better look at this.”
“It’s probably kids,” he said, retracing his steps, “wanting to have a look at the park before it opens.”
“Look,” said Mary, pointing at a small scrap of cloth stuck on the chain-link fence. “It’s a scrap of blue-patterned dress.”
“Goldilocks wore a dress of that sort,” murmured Jack as they both stared into the silent park. It wouldn’t open for another three months. “Thinking what I’m thinking?”
Mary nodded, and they carefully climbed through the hole and looked around. The pockmarked damage of the shelling began about thirty yards in from the fence. The First World War theme park had been a major news story over the past six years, and the biggest problem the designers faced was to make the park “guests” undergo a two-hour-long artillery barrage, but with zero danger. No one knew how they managed it, but they had been testing for a number of months, and all, apparently, was well. Jack and Mary picked across the freshly tossed earth and came across a large crater with battle debris scattered about and the remains of some barbed wire. The wire was real, and it tore a hole in Jack’s trouser leg. He was just surveying the disjointed landscape and thinking that perhaps Goldilocks was sunning herself on a foreign shore somewhere when Mary reached down and pulled something from the freshly pulverized earth.
“What do you make of that?” she asked.
It was not from the First World War, or even close. It was a small piece of white plastic the size of a Scrabble tile with the letter M printed on one side. But it wasn’t a Scrabble tile. It was a computer key.
“Her laptop?”
“Could be.”
They had both started to search the ground for anything more when there was a loud whompa! noise and a plume of earth shot high in the air less than thirty feet away. They ducked as the soil and debris fell around them and coughed in the cloud of dust that drifted across.
“What was that?” said Mary, rubbing her eyes.
Before Jack could answer, there were two more dull thuds and two more plumes of earth shot skyward, this time with greater force—and closer. The search momentarily forgotten, they dashed for the fence amid a barrage of increasing violence, with earth, roots and small stones cascading down around them.
Jack reached the fence first and threw himself through the gap.
“Well, Mary, that was—”
He stopped. Mary wasn’t with him. He stared back into the barrage, the rising column of soil and the pebbles bouncing on the ground in front of him and the dry dust in the summer heat drifting like a smoke screen, making him blink and hiding the scene from his view. He had run over his previous sergeant with his wife’s Volvo and killed him. It was an accident, of course, but to lose one sergeant is a misfortune. To lose two would be considered…
He was just about to dash back toward the destruction to look for her when a small figure stumbled from the barrage, which even now was beginning to wane. She was covered in dirt, her hair was sticking almost straight up, and she had lost a sleeve off her jacket. She fell to the ground quite out of breath, but with a smile on her face.
“What happened to you?”
“I… saw… this,” said Mary in between breaths. She passed him a large section of broken laptop. “I… thought… it… important!”
Jack turned the casing over. Written on the bottom, in indelible marker, were Goldilocks’s name and phone number.
16. SommeWorld
Most pointless loss of life in the First World War: The Somme Offensive makes a good claim to this title, but competition is pretty stiff. Begun along a fifteen-mile sector of the Western Front at dawn on July 1, 1916, the attack followed a weeklong artillery bombardment of an unprecedented 1.5 million shells that achieved little except warn the German High Command of the impending attack. There were 19,240 British dead on that first day—for a gain of only a thousand yards. Despite numerous “pushes” to effect a breakthrough, little was accomplished aside from more loss of life, and the battle was abandoned three months later. There had been a Franco-British gain of five miles for a total casualty list on all sides of 1.3 million. An obscenely profligate waste of human life? Undoubtedly. Totally pointless? Maybe not. Historians agree that the German army never recovered from the losses, and it is likely that “the foundations of the final victory on the Western Front were laid by the Somme offensive of 1916.”
The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition
Jack and Mary drove into the car park at SommeWorld a half hour later and parked in front of the theme park’s buildings. Most of the visitors’ center was finished, but the roof had yet to go on to the auditorium, and the can
teen hadn’t even been started. Builders were toiling around the clock in order for the construction to be over by Christmas. That was four months away, but there was still a lot to do. Two years behind schedule and ten years in the planning, the bizarre theme park was the longtime personal dream of the Quangle-Wangle, the reclusive industrialist, computer and shipping billionaire whose own experiences on the Somme had been the basis of what he called “the only safe real-life war experience in the world.”
They parked the car, entered the impressive dome-roofed visitors’ center and were directed up the stairs to the park operations center. They walked along the partially finished corridors until they found the correct door, and Mary pressed the entry buzzer. She stuck an index finger in her ear and waggled it.
“I don’t know how those explosions work, but the concussion is for real. One went off a couple of yards from me, and I felt my ears pop like a champagne cork.”
The door opened to reveal a young man of about twenty with a goatee and matching SommeWorld T-shirt and baseball cap. He looked at them both in turn.
“Can I help you guys?”
“Police,” said Mary. “We want to see whoever’s in charge.”
“Sure,” said the young man, leading them into the spacious control room perched on the upper floors of the visitors’ center.
“What’s this all about? Someone complaining about the noise again?”
Inside the room were a dozen or so Quang-6000 computers with technicians hunched over them, doubtless trying to debug whatever problems with which SommeWorld was beset. In front of the consoles, a large window assured the operators an unimpaired view across the battlefield. As they watched, a flight of low-flying Sopwith Camels buzzed across the smoking battlefield and three separate explosions went off near the ruined church.
“No, no, no,” said the supervisor into a microphone. “We can’t get away with a simulated bombing run unless we actually drop something. Land and we’ll try something else.”
“Mr. Haig?” said Jack and Mary’s guide quite timidly. “The police would like a word.”
Haig looked up and strode over. His manner was abrupt but helpful.
“Good afternoon, Officers.” He caught sight of Mary’s tattered state. “My goodness! What happened to you?”
“I’m DS Mary Mary, head of Reading’s NCD, and this is Inspector Spratt. I want you to shut down the park.”
Haig knew better than to ask why. The park was a legal nightmare over public liability, and everyone had been told to cooperate fully with authority. He turned to the operators. “Code-red shutdown, disarm all air mortars.”
Within a couple of moments, the operators were leaning back from their terminals and stretching. To them this was a welcome break from a long and tiresome day.
“As simple as that,” said Haig, the impromptu emergency procedure a deft display of safety. “My name is Stuart Haig, overall supreme commander of control operations. We’re in the middle of a test firing. Is there a problem?”
“I need to search your park where it borders Andersen’s Wood.” Mary walked over to a large map that was hanging on the wall and tapped it where she’d found Goldy’s laptop. “Just about here.”
Haig did not display any emotion one way or the other. “Can I ask why?”
“We believe,” said Jack slowly, “that someone might have wandered into the park last Saturday morning.”
Haig frowned and tapped a few keys on a nearby keyboard. “Saturday?” he echoed, staring at the screen. “There was a test firing that morning at nine. An hour’s barrage at one hundred percent efficiency. I’d not like to think what might happen to someone caught in that.”
“We were caught in one ourselves over there not more than an hour ago.”
Haig scowled angrily, seemingly more concerned about the future of the park than their safety. “Didn’t you see the signs? How did you get in?”
“The fence has been breached. We were looking for someone when the barrage began.”
His manner abruptly changed. “I’m sorry about that, Officer. Thank heavens you’re unharmed. I can see we are going to have to increase perimeter security. I’ll take you out there, and we’ll have a look around.”
He picked a Motorola radio out of a rack, handed them each what looked like a large wristwatch and a hard hat, then led them out of the control room, back down the corridor and out through the turnstiles, which led them through a farmhouse, ingeniously built to look half shelled and with a camouflage net over the badly damaged roof. On the dusty road outside was the debris of battle. Old guns, shell cases, rolls of barbed wire, scrap dumps, wood, cart wheels, everything. The whole park had been dressed with meticulous care and the smallest attention to detail. Even the road signs had been made out of wooden shell crates. Haig jumped into a mud-spattered Daimler and invited them up. The car started easily, and they were soon driving along the bumpy road toward the bombed-out church.
“Kind of an odd idea for a theme park, isn’t it?” asked Jack.
“‘Unusual’ is more the word I would choose, Inspector,” replied Haig. “It’s been a personal dream of the Quangle-Wangle for quite some time now. As you probably know, he served with the Kent Fusiliers on the Somme, and the experience never really left him. ‘If this facility allows people to really understand what war was about,’ the Quangle-Wangle once told me, ‘then we are one step closer to a peaceful planet.’"
“Very noble words,” commented Jack, “but won’t a theme park dedicated to the Battle of the Somme just attract those wanting to glamorize war?”
“Those are precisely the people we want to attract, Inspector,” replied Haig with a smile. “It will be a sobering experience. All of our visitors are dressed in uncomfortable and badly fitting standard-issue British uniforms and sent up to the front with a full pack of supplies and an Enfield rifle. They are accompanied by a regimental sergeant major and two officers. We shell their position for two hours and then send them over the top. Nobody ever comes back wanting to glamorize that.”
“I see your point. What does the Quangle-Wangle say about it?”
“As far as I know, he’s pleased. We often send him videotapes of the progress here, but to my knowledge he has never visited. The Quangle-Wangle is an intensely private man. The joke goes that a group of recluses start to talk and one of them says, ‘Hey, has anyone seen the Quangle-Wangle recently?’" Haig laughed at his own joke and then added, “I’ve been working for him for fifteen years and only seen him once.”
“How do you do the artillery barrages?” asked Mary, who now had some firsthand experience and wanted to know just how dangerous it had been.
“We use air mortars,” replied Haig. “A sort of large funnel pointing straight up with an air reservoir attached. The whole battlefield is networked with high-pressure air pipes. We arm the mortar by filling up the reservoir with compressed air at anything up to five hundred atmospheres, then release the mortar as we wish. We can control the blast almost infinitely, calculating the pressure against the size of the blast required and the weight of soil over the mortar. Don’t be fooled by the fact that it’s just air,” added Haig grimly. “A ten-atmosphere mortar can take your arm off.”
“How do you stop fatal accidents, then?” said Mary, looking around nervously.
Haig smiled and drove on. “The wristwatch thing I gave you is a proximity alert. No air mortar will arm or fire with one of these within fifteen feet. It means that you can be in the front lines under heavy fire, be showered on by soil, smell the cordite, experience the battle yet be in no real danger.”
The Daimler drove past the abandoned church and on up the hill to the area where Mary and Jack had been earlier. The terrain had changed since they were there, and several new craters had opened up. At the bottom of one, they could see the air mortar itself, a cylindrical iron tube half filled with soil.
“Do you have any idea who wandered into the park?”
“We have some ideas. We’re going t
o have to sift through this soil, Mr. Haig. It may take some time.”
Haig seemed unperturbed. It wasn’t his theme park, after all.
“I’d better alert QuangTech,” he said, taking out his cell phone and pressing a few keys. “They like to know what’s going on.”
He turned away to speak on the cell phone, and Jack and Mary started to look around for anything of Goldilocks. After twenty minutes Jack made the first discovery. It was a woman’s shoe, with the foot still inside it.
Mary called Briggs, and he reluctantly agreed to send in the whole forensic machinery. Within an hour the area was crawling with paper-suited Scene of Crimes officers, who divided the ground into sections and started a minute search while Jack and Mary stood by and watched. In two hours they had found several parts of her bag, assorted scraps of clothing, eighty-seven parts of her laptop and sixty-two pieces of gristly bone, the only recognizable parts of which were her foot, a finger and half a jaw, all of which were sent to the labs.
“Will you be in early tomorrow?” asked Jack as he and Mary prepared to part for the evening.
“At sparrow’s fart,” she replied. “I’ve asked Mrs. Singh to expedite that identification, and I’d like to have the news as soon as possible.”
“Will you tell Josh as soon as you have confirmation?”
“Of course.”
“In charge of your first NCD murder inquiry. How does it feel?”
“We don’t know it was murder, Jack.”
“It’s murder all right,” he replied. “Take my word for it. Grown women don’t wander into well-posted and extremely hazardous theme parks accidentally.”
“Do you think the three bears have told us the truth?”
“Yes. It’s all turned out pretty much as expected. I wasn’t sure if she was the Goldilocks to begin with, but I was in good company: Neither did she. One thing’s for certain, though: The moment she entered the three bears’ house, everything just started to slot into place. She couldn’t have stopped the trail of events even if she’d wanted to. Her visit could only end in one way: with her running out of the bears’ house and into the forest, never to be seen again.”
The Fourth Bear nc-2 Page 16