“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.”

34. Return to the Bob Southey

It took them almost half an hour to get to the Bob Southey, and by then the building was surrounded by police officers, cars, vans and marksmen. At the head of all this razzmatazz and next to the mobile control post was Briggs. He glared at Jack and Mary as they approached.

“You’re here because they asked for you. Don’t ask me why, but they did—you, too, Mary.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“We don’t know. Tip-off from someone inside the Bob Southey. They said they would surrender Bartholomew at seven o’clock, and they wanted NCD personnel to be on hand. But the Bob Southey residents’ committee denied they had called us and are asking for forty kilos of porridge and a dozen jars of honey as a goodwill gesture.”

Jack looked at his watch. It was a quarter to seven. “I have experience with bears,” he said. “Do you want me to speak to them?”

“Not yet,” growled Briggs, who was clearly not too happy about Agatha’s behavior the previous night, “but hang around—out of my sight. Mr. Demetrios of NS-4 turned up, and he’s threatening to take the whole shebang out of our hands.”

“Is he here?” asked Jack, looking around.

“No, he and Danvers had to speak to someone at QuangTech on another matter.”

“Hmm,” said Jack, “I’d expect them to be here.”

“I’m very glad they’re not,” said Briggs grumpily, and he went back into the mobile control room. Jack sighed and walked past the police cars, army personnel and onlookers toward Mary. As he did so, his phone rang. It was Vinnie Craps.

“What’s happening, Spratt?” he asked.

“You tell me, Vinnie. Where are you?”

“Look up.”

Jack did as he was bid, and high up on the building, looking out of a window, was a well-dressed figure in a tweed suit. He waved a paw.

“There was a fourth bear in the house the morning of Goldilocks’s death,” Jack told him. “Any ideas?”

“Nope,” came the reply after a short pause. “There’s not a single bear in Reading that would knowingly harm a hair on her head. All that work she did on the right to arm bears and the illegal bile tappers. Goldilocks was a bear icon.”

“I see. Have you got Bartholomew with you?”

“Yes.”

“Put him on.”

“What’s going on, Jack?” asked Sherman in a worried tone.

“You said twelve hours and you’d have found out who killed Goldy—I trusted you about my life being in danger, and now I’ve made things ten times worse for myself!”

“It’s taking longer than I thought,” replied Jack. “Trust me. What’s the deal over this surrender?”

Jack heard an audible sigh at the other end of the phone.

“I don’t know anything about it. If there was an offer of surrender it didn’t come from anyone in here. Bears are trustworthy and honest, and I have Friend to Bears status. They’d all fight to the death to protect me. But that won’t happen. I’ll give myself up before a single bear is harmed.”

“Keep that to yourself for the moment, sir. Are you sure there’s no one there who would give you up?”

“Positive.”

“You could be mistaken. There was a fourth bear at the Bruins’ house that morning. A bear not like other bears. A bear who is willing to kill—his own kind, if necessary. Keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll call you as soon as I have any information.”

He put the phone back in his pocket and threaded his way toward where Mary was waiting for him. She had been joined by Ashley, who was showing her some photographs of hideously crushed vehicles.

“Jack, we’ve traced all the previous owners of Dorian Gray’s car sales—”

“Mary, I hardly think that’s important right now.”

“No, but I really think you should listen—every single one of them has died in a horrific traffic accident.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

She showed him the pictures. Every car was a crumpled heap of scrap on the road.

“All of these were sold by Gray, and each was totaled shortly after the sale—and there was never any other vehicle involved.”

“What are you saying?”

“I did some research on Dorian Gray,” said Ashley, “and I could only find one person with this name, born in 1878.”

“You told me this already. It can’t be the same person—it would make him one hundred and twenty-six. The Dorian I met was barely thirty.”

“I thought it couldn’t be the same person either,” replied Ashley. “There wasn’t a death certificate. I did some more research and found a photograph from 1911. It’s… well, see for yourself.”

He handed over the picture, and Jack felt the hairs rise on his neck. The reason was clear: The Gray in the picture was the same one who had sold him the car. The smile was the same, even the mole on his left cheek.

“And from 1935,” said Ashley, passing him another, “and here, in 1953.”

They were all of the same man. Jack handed back the pictures and stared at the Allegro suspiciously. All of a sudden, it didn’t seem quite so pristine. The rubber windshield surround looked a bit faded, and there was a small discoloration on the front bumper.

“Every recipient of a Gray-‘guaranteed’ car died in it, you say?”

Ash nodded, and Jack looked between the two of them. If what Ashley was saying was true, this was bad—worse, it was evil.

“Forget face creams and all that ‘laboratoire’ crap you see on the telly,” he said slowly. “There’s only one tried and tested way to stay young, and that’s a pact with the Dark One. Damn. I knew there was a reason he had me sign the buyer’s agreement with red ink.” He shook his head sadly. “He must have been using some kind of suspended automotive decrepitude to channel a few luckless souls to Mephistopheles—and all for a few more years of his own miserable youth. What a louse.”

“It explains the reverse-running odometer,” said Mary.

“Just goes to show that if a deal looks too good to be true, it generally is. Thanks, Ash. I think this car is going to stay right where it is….”

His voice trailed off as he caught sight of someone familiar in the sea of heads.