The Fourth Bear полностью

“Bisky-Batt won’t know yet.”

“Mary, assuming the authority of an officer while suspended is impersonation. Add that to stealing evidence and perverting the course of justice, and I’m going to go to prison for a very long time.”

“We’re NCD,” said Mary, remembering something that Jack had told her not that long before. “This is what we do. We get suspended, battered, beaten and almost arrested. But the bottom line is we hunt for the truth and bring justice to the nursery world. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” repeated Jack as he switched on the engine.

“Want to know what I found out on door-to-door?”

They pulled into the road and headed off toward QuangTech.

“Tell me.”

“Men in Green. Three of them. They were here an hour before we arrived moving ‘rolls of carpet’ into a red van. They must have killed him and taken his cucumbers—all of them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. But I think Bisky-Batt has some talking to do.”

“Yes, that was the 1979 cucumber growers’ national championships,” he said with a smile. “I remember it well.”

Somehow it wasn’t the reaction they were hoping for. Evasive, difficult, unpleasant—any of those might have given some sort of hint that Bisky-Batt knew more than he said, but he was none of those things. As usual, he was helpful, open and pleasant. They turned up unannounced, and he agreed to see them without a murmur.

“And why were you there?” asked Jack.

“I was giving out the trophy on behalf of the Quangle-Wangle. The QuangTech trophy for overall winner has been a mainstay for a number of years now.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Just one of many associations and organizations that QuangTech supports, Inspector. Can I help with anything else?”

Jack and Mary looked at each other. This wasn’t going at all well.

“Your Advanced Weapons Division,” said Jack, frantically clutching at straws. “Is it possible that you were developing some sort of thermal heat bomb?”

“As I think I told you,” replied Bisky-Batt with infinite patience, “the QuangTech weapons division has been disbanded for over a decade.” He smiled. “It sounds as though you have been talking to someone on the fringes of science over at that Obscurity blast. No matter what we say, there will always be others who promote a conspiracy. I suggest that these people have a yeti-shaped hole in their lives that needs to be filled in some manner, whether sensible or not. We at QuangTech are concerned more with tangible realities.”

“Like Project Supremely Optimistic Belief?”

“Canceled, as I told you. The Quangle-Wangle saw the light after McGuffin’s unhappy tenure.”

“What about the Gingerbreadman?”

“What about him?”

“He’s popping up with a regularity that I find disturbing,” said Jack. “I wonder if he had ever contacted you or the Quangle-Wangle?”

“Absolutely not,” replied Bisky-Batt emphatically. “If he had, I would have been straight on the phone to the police. Really, Inspector, I have to say that your line of questioning seems very haphazard. Can I assist with anything else?”

“GM experiments on cucumbers,” said Jack, getting desperate. “Unable to do your own experiments, you had McGuffin clandestinely conduct them on cucumber growers here in the UK.”

“This is ridiculous,” snapped Bisky-Batt, his patience suddenly wearing out. “If we wanted to conduct GM experiments, we most certainly would, in one of the many nations where it is legal. McGuffin, quite aside from being dead, was an expert in physics. Genetics is an entirely different discipline. Do you have any more wild accusations, or do I have to complain about your conduct to the Chief Constable?”

“That’s all the wild accusations we have for now,” said Jack loftily, attempting to pull some remnant of dignity from the wreckage. “Is it possible to speak to the Quangle-Wangle?”

“The answer is still no, Inspector. Good day to you.”

Jack and Mary mumbled something about “ongoing inquiries” and were seen firmly to the door.

“He knows,” said Jack as soon as they were outside the QuangTech Building.

“Knows what?”

“Knows that we’ve been suspended. But he’s doing nothing about it. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Jack looked back at the huge industrial complex. Somewhere within, safe from prying eyes, was the Quangle-Wangle.

Mary’s cell phone rang.

“Yes, sir,” she said, flicking a glance at Jack. “I’ll be sure to find him and tell him.”

“Developments?” he asked as she snapped the phone shut.

“You could say that. Briggs wants us both at the Bob Southey immediately. Bartholomew’s holed up inside, and the bears won’t give him up.”