The Fourth Bear полностью

“The Home Office’s report has the explosion as an undiscovered wartime bomb set off by Cripps himself with a rototiller or something.”

“It’s not likely that he’d be using the rototiller at night, Inspector.”

“You never know,” mused Jack. “They’re all a bit funny in that area of Berkshire. Do you have any suspicion as to what’s become of her?”

“Jack,” Josh sighed, “I don’t know anything. It could be the Easter Bunny for all I know.”

“It’s not likely to be her,” replied Jack after a moment’s thought. “Kidnapping was never her MO. Did your sister have a car?”

“A green 1950s Austin Somerset,” replied Hatchett. “It’s not outside her flat or at The Toad’s offices. I don’t know the number. This is her address, and these are her spare keys.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Josh, but don’t expect miracles. There’s just one thing I’d like from you.”

“Anything.”

“Lay off the NCD, hey?”

“I’ll give DI Copperfield my full support.”

That wasn’t precisely what Jack had in mind, but to say so would have sounded disloyal, so he gave Josh a half smile, passed him his empty glass and went to find Madeleine. He caught her eye across the crowded room, and she beckoned him to her.

“I want you to meet Mr. Attery-Squash, my publisher. He’s on our side, so play nice, sweetheart.”

She steered him toward a large, friendly-looking man who seemed to be trying to avoid the many unpublished writers who milled around him like bees to a honeypot, hoping to be discovered. Attery-Squash was a sprightly octogenarian with a center part in his white hair and a matching beard decorated with a single red ribbon. He wore a suit in large checks of decidedly dubious taste and had a jolly red face that reminded Jack of Santa Claus. He had run Crumpetty Tree Publishing since he bought it from QuangTech in the sixties, and was reputed to be one of the few people who knew the Quangle-Wangle personally.

“Hello, Mr. Spratt,” said Attery-Squash kindly, “good to finally meet you. We were just discussing Reading by Night. Do you like it?”

“I love all Madeleine’s work, but no one seems to want to buy photographic books these days.”

Mr. Attery-Squash took a sip from his champagne.

“Publishing photography is a tricky game, Mr. Spratt. Much as I love Madeleine’s work, I’d be a whole lot happier if she’d start concentrating on the bread and butter of the photography world—celebrities misbehaving themselves and kittens in beer mugs.”

“Kittens in beer mugs?” echoed Jack.

“Yes,” continued Attery-Squash, eager to get Jack on board and somehow sway Madeleine away from her doubtlessly artistic but wholly unprofitable images, “babies with spaghetti on their heads, ducklings snuggling up to kittens. That’s where the real money is—that and puppies, lambs and calves shot with a wide-angle lens to give them big noses and make them look cuter, and chimpanzees dressed up as humans sitting on the toilet.”

“Babies with spaghetti on their heads?” said Jack, thinking of a typical mealtime with Stevie. “Sounds like you might have something there.”

He nudged Madeleine, who said, “Yes, I’ve often considered spreading my creative wings. I thought swans during sunset might be a good idea, too.”

“Mr. Ottery-Squish?” inquired a young man dressed in a faded sports jacket and a necktie that looked as though it would have been better tied by his mother.

Attery-Squash smiled politely, despite the interruption.

“Yes?”

“My name’s Klopotnik. Wendell Klopotnik. I have a novel that I’ve just written, and I’ve chosen you to publish it for me.”

“That’s very kind of you,” replied Attery-Squash, winking at Madeleine.

“I have a résumé somewhere,” Klopotnik muttered, rummaging through his pockets. “It’s called Proving a Point—a psychological thriller set in an all-night bakery.”

Jack and Madeleine excused themselves and walked off to find their table.

“What did Hatchett want?” whispered Madeleine as they threaded their way through the crowded ballroom.

“Help. His sister’s gone AWOL.”

“I hope you told him to get lost.”

“On the contrary. Politically it could be a good move. I’ll make a few inquiries and see what I can dig up—metaphorically speaking, of course.”

She shook her head and smiled at him. Jack rarely bore a grudge. It was one of his better features.

They sat down at their table, and Jack introduced himself to his neighbor, a shabby-looking individual named Nigel Huxtable. He was, it transpired, another Armitage Shanks finalist, and he jumped when Jack spoke, as he had been trying to hide two bread rolls in his jacket pocket.

“So what’s your book about?” asked Jack brightly.

“It’s called Regrets Out of Oswestry,” he said, fixing Jack with an intelligent gaze that was marred only by a slight squint. “It traces one woman’s odyssey as she returns to the place of her childhood in order to reappraise the relationship with her father and perhaps reconcile herself with him before he dies of cancer.”