“Our friend Hatchett isn’t being very helpful, is he?” commented Mary.
“That’s putting it mildly. What does he expect? The NCD isn’t governed by the same rules as conventional police work—if it were, there’d be no need for us.”
“It’s all about readership and power, Jack,” observed Mary.
“They want the readers to know that they can break heroes just as easily as they can make them.”
“It’s not as though it’s even current news,” grumbled Jack.
“How long’s it been since the wolf gig? A month?”
“A week.”
“Right—a quarter of a month, then.” He thought for a moment.
“Speaking of which—heard anything about Red Riding-Hood and her grandmother?”
“Still catatonic. Fixed features, glazed eyes, no visible signs of mental activity. Post-traumatic stress, the doctors say—not surprising, being swallowed whole like that.”
“It wasn’t a pretty sight,” agreed Jack, shuddering at the thought.
“What about you?” asked Mary. “What did the quacks say when you saw them?”
“A completely clean bill of health.”
“You didn’t go, did you?”
“No. Listen, I’m fine.”
“I thought Superintendent Briggs said—”
“Never mind what Briggs said. I’m NCD. I can handle this kind of surreal weirdness. Okay, so we screwed up a bit and a few people got swallowed. I mean, it’s not as though they’re dead, right?”
“‘We screwed up a bit’?”
“Okay, I screwed up a bit. I just got sidetracked by the suppressed sexual overtones regarding predatory wolves and a little girl in a red cape lost in the forest. So I missed a few opportunities.”
Mary was silent. She had some opinions on the subject but decided to keep herself to herself. If she’d been there, she knew, things might have been different.
Instead she said, “I still think you ought to go and see the counselors. Delayed shock can be dangerous. My cousin Raymond was in line at a bank when armed robbers ran in. Very stressful. He thought he was fine, but less then two hours later he was stone-cold dead.”
“Of shock?”
“No. He got hit by a truck crossing the road.”
Jack thought for a moment. “I’ll see the quacks next week. Did I tell you our request for extra funding has been refused?”
“It figures. What about increased manpower?”
“The same. It’s you, me and Ash unless we get a big show on.”
“Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
Jack said nothing, but Mary was right. Despite the trammeling they had received in the past few weeks, the division’s record through the years had been sound. The closing down of Rumpelstiltskin’s straw-into-gold dens, the Cock Robin murder inquiry, arresting notorious serial wife killer Bluebeard, the detaining of the “emperor’s clothes” confidence tricksters, the capture of the Gingerbreadman and the Scissor-man, the Humpty murder inquiry—it had all been good, solid, unconventional police work. Good and solid—until the Riding-Hood debacle. There had been other repercussions from the case that he hadn’t told Mary about. The Most Worshipful Guild of Detectives had withdrawn its offer for him to join on the grounds of “suitability issues.” It was good and bad news. He didn’t want to join their stupid guild, but he liked their asking.
Jack stared out the window. In the countryside the hot weather was glorious, but here in the city the heat served only to make people bad-tempered, the streets dusty and the pollution worse. A Ford transit van pulled up next to them at the light. It was driven by a large figure in expensive Ferrucci sunglasses. Within a few seconds, the lights changed and the van turned left without the driver’s having looked at them.
“Wasn’t that Tarquin?” asked Jack, swiveling his head to follow the van.
“I didn’t see.”
“I’m sure it was. Let’s follow. I want to see what he’s up to.”
Mary pulled into the left-hand lane, ignored the glares of the other motorists and caught up with the van as it turned off toward the imposing art deco–style residential tower block that was the Robert Southey. She stopped the car, and they watched as Tarquin’s van drove down the ramp into the underground parking lot.
“What do we do?” asked Mary.
“What do you think? We take a look.”
“In the Bob Southey? Are you sure?”
Mary’s reticence was not without foundation. Ever since the passing of the Animal (anthropomorphic) Equality Bill, Berkshire had become home to a growing band of talking animals who had sought refuge from persecution around the globe. The vast majority of these were bears, who had much to gain from moving to a designated safe haven, even if it was only Berkshire, a place not particularly noted for gushing mountain streams and countless acres of trackless pine forests. Not that this bothered the bears much; they had discovered to their chagrin that freedom to forage for wild honey and flick salmon from mountain streams was actually a bit tedious and might lead to multiple bee stings and wet feet, so they had banded together their substantial fortunes and built the Robert Southey Tower. A luxury dwelling of almost two hundred separate apartments, it was strictly for nonhumans unless by special invitation, something that suited the bears no end, as humans had not been particularly charitable to their species in the past, and if small cottages in the middle of woods weren’t for them, then an apartment with views of the Thames and a well-appointed health spa, solarium, medical center and gym would do equally well.
The conventional police gave the Bob Southey a wide berth, as Nursery matters confused them, and even Jack thought twice before venturing in. Bears had a profound sense of unity and tended—like most animals, and with good reason—to treat humans with a degree of suspicion, especially with the very real threat of bile tappers and illegal hunters still very much in evidence.
“If Tarquin is dealing in his garbage again, I want him stopped.”
“Okay,” said Mary, hardly relishing the idea. Her lack of enthusiasm could be understood. Tarquin wasn’t human, even if he acted like one. He was a bear and, in the strict hierarchical ranking of bear society, was one of lowly importance—an Ursa Minor. On the outer edges of ursine society, and eager to build a reputation, he and other bored minors dabbled in matters of dubious legality—and this was where Jack and Mary reluctantly entered the equation.
They got out of the car and walked down into the gloominess of the underground parking lot. It was used mainly for storage, as bears generally drive only motorcycles, if they drive anything at all, and as they searched, they moved among the packing cases belonging to the many dispossessed bears of the world. Some were from aristocratic families that went back generations, but most were ex-dancers, circus performers and farm escapees who were only too glad to be away from exploitation and in many cases escaped with just the barest of possessions and a photograph album or two.