The Fourth Bear

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 ma

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 inquiries 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 i

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.”

“Briggs just called to change his mind about the Gingerbread inquiry?”

“No—much better. I’ve finally managed to complete my beer-mat collection. I’ve got them all. Every single one. ”

“That’s… wonderful news,” said Jack in an absent sort of way. Ashley was best humored, and since he didn’t really get sarcasm, he never took offense. “Any messages?”

“Of course. You’ve got one from the Force Medical Officer requesting that you attend a hearing with an independent psychiatric evaluator tomorrow, then another, also from the FMO, informing you that you shouldn’t be at work to receive these messages and suggesting you go home and watch a few reruns of Kojak .”

“Anything else?”

“No,” replied Ashley, “but I think the FMO is wrong.”

“That’s very good of you to say so, Ash.”

“Not at all. Kojak is entirely the wrong show to be watching for relaxation. We watched your TV a lot back home on Rambosia, and Kojak was never our thing.”

“No?” replied Jack without humor.

“No. All that lollipop and ‘Who loves ya, baby?’ stuff—and the singing career? What was that all about? No, we always preferred Jim Rockford—especially Noah Beery, who played his father. I suggest you watch The Rockford Files .”

“You and Briggs should have a chat,” said Jack, glaring at the small alien. “He thought I should be watching Columbo .”

“That’s good, too,” mused Ashley. “A bit unusual for a whodunit, since we always knew in the first five minutes who had done it. Perhaps it should be called a ‘howcolumbofindsoutwhodunit’—”

“What about my other messages?” interrupted Jack before Ashley gave him a rundown of every single U.S. cop drama of the seventies, a subject on which he was something of an expert.

“Nothing else. These are all for Mary.” He passed a large stack of yellow message slips to her and added, “They’re from Arnold.”

“Blast,” murmured Mary. She had been trying to dump Arnold for several years now, but without success, despite trying almost everything from feigned death to pretending she had the bubonic plague, for which she was grateful to Baker for being able to furnish a complete list of symptoms. “I thought I had it once,” Baker had said, mildly disappointed.