The Fourth Bear полностью

Ashley was waiting for them at the NCD offices when they walked in. His uniform had been freshly pressed and his transparent skin buffed up to a high shine. He looked expectantly at Mary, who smiled uneasily in return. It was the evening of their date, and Mary had yet to think up a believable excuse.

“What’s that smell?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s Windex,” explained Ashley cheerily. “It shines up my outer skin quite nicely.”

“What did you do?” asked Jack. “Bathe in it?”

“If only,” replied Ashley wistfully, adding, “Bartholomew’s still not been found, and Briggs wants you to meet the press first thing tomorrow to discuss Bartholomew and the Goldilocks case.”

Jack picked up the phone and asked to be put through to the Super. “Hello, sir, it’s Jack…. No, I’m not doing the press. I’m taking sick leave as requested…. Yes, I know I’m already on sick leave, but now I’m really on sick leave. I’ll be gone for three months—perhaps longer. Maybe I’ll retire…. Yes, really…. The head of the NCD can take the press conference tomorrow.”

He looked up at Mary and raised an eyebrow. Mary shook her head.

“No, she’s not here…. Yes, I agree the situation is not at all favorable…. Good night, sir, and if you’re thinking about getting me a gold watch, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Jack put the phone down and looked up at Ashley and Mary, who were staring at him incredulously.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not retiring—that was for Briggs’s benefit. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“About what?”

“About finding Goldilocks’s killer.”

“I thought you said Bartholomew murdered her?”

“If you believed all that crap I was spouting up at Andersen’s Wood,” said Jack unhappily, “you’ll believe anything.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“I had to say something. NS-4 is in this up to their armpits, and I needed them to think we’re as stupid as they believe.”

Mary thought for a while, trying to figure out what she’d missed—Jack’s explanation of Goldilocks’s death and Bartholomew’s porridge pushing seemed plausible.

“But we’re not, are we?” she said, a mite confused.

“Not at all,” he said, trying to force a smile. “I know that Bartholomew didn’t have a hand in it, but I’m really not sure who did. I need to sleep on it. Better than that, I need to sleep.”

“Wait!” said Mary. “If Bartholomew is innocent, why have you got half the force out looking for him?”

“To give me some breathing space—and quite probably save his life.”

“Jack,” said Mary, “are you sure you’re all right? You seem to be acting a bit… weird.”

“I’m fine, Mary. But listen: If it all goes pear-shaped, I’ll accept full responsibility. Have a pleasant evening.”

He took a deep breath, managed a tired smile and walked out the door, leaving Mary and Ashley staring at each other.

“Mary?” murmured Ash, whose taut and usually expressionless face seemed to be in the vaguest semblance of a frown. “I’m completely and totally confused.”

“Join the club,” she retorted. “Either he’s fantastically brilliant or he’s gone completely off the rails. I hope it’s the former—I really don’t think I can handle the NCD on my own.”

Ashley looked at her and blinked.

“Sorry, I really don’t think we can handle the NCD on our own.”

“If we have to, I suppose we just will,” he replied with commendable optimism.

“It must be a double or triple bluff or something,” mused Mary, “a plot device the reason for which we probably won’t figure out until tomorrow morning.”

“A what?”

“Never mind. The thing is—business as normal.”

“What’s all this about a self-healing Allegro?” asked Ashley, who thought it sounded like a lot of fun.

“Exactly,” said Mary, trying to stall the inevitable date with Ashley. “I think Jack’s in danger. Get on to vehicle licensing and bring up the details of every single car that has ever been registered to Dorian Gray or had him as previously recorded keeper. I know that might take a while, but if it means we have to cancel our date, then so be it. Duty first, Ash.”

“Duty first,” he agreed, and scuttled off to tap in to the computer while Mary put her feet up on the desk. Dorian would doubtless have sold thousands of cars, and the two of them could be wading through the list for hours. Ashley was right about running the NCD. It would be tricky, but they’d get the hang of it eventually. She leaned forward and logged in her username on Jack’s computer in order to start a report for Briggs on—

“Done it!” interrupted Ashley. “How about dinner?”

“You can’t have,” said Mary with a sinking feeling. “How many were there?”

“Five.”

“Five?”

“Yes. I don’t think he was that good at selling cars.” He showed her the list, and Mary scanned the details carefully.

“One every three years, regular as clockwork,” she murmured.

“And,” said Ashley, who was more adept at spotting patterns,

“every single one was scrapped between two to nine weeks after purchase. How does all this fit into the Goldilocks inquiry?”