The medical center was one of the most modern Jack had ever seen, a reflection on the colossal wealth the bear fraternity had amassed over the years with wise long-term investments, well-planned trust funds and top-notch stock portfolios. Ed Bruin was in his own room, where a small army of medical staff was giving him minute-by-minute care. He seemed to have more tubes going into him than Charing Cross Station, and a vast array of high-tech equipment played an almost symphonic melody of bleeps, pings, chirps and whistles, while several monitors spewed out long strips of paper full of meaningful ink traces.

“He’s a long way from being out of danger,” said a small bear with a stethoscope draped around his neck, “but he’s getting the best care we can give him.”

Ursula was in a separate room and had only a plasma drip and a heart monitor. She was lying on her back on a sturdy wooden bed with a crocheted bedspread, and a large flower arrangement in a vase was sitting atop a table nearby. Sun streamed through the open window, and sitting opposite her with his chair against a bookshelf was the baby bear. It was the first time Jack had seen him, and he was baby in name only. Medium-size and wearing baggy trousers and a hoodie emblazoned with a flaming skull, he looked like any other teenager you might find in Reading—only with a lot more hair.

“She’s very weak,” said the bear with the stethoscope. “Try not to tire her too much.”

“Mrs. Bruin?” inquired Vinnie softly.

Her eyes flickered open, and she stared weakly in their direction.

“This is Inspector Spratt,” continued Vinnie. “He’s friendly to bears, and he needs to ask you a few questions.”

She blinked twice and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“I know about the fourth bear,” began Jack. “I know that he was there in the cottage the morning Goldilocks came around, and whatever you think about him, you must know that he killed Goldilocks and attempted to have you and your husband murdered to keep you quiet. You don’t owe him a thing, and I need to know who he is and where I can find him.”

Ursula closed her eyes for a moment, and two tears welled up in her small brown eyes. She looked at Jack, then raised a wobbly claw and pointed it… at Vinnie.

“Oh, I get it now,” said Jack, jumping to his feet. “All the time you pretend to be on our side, but actually, while using the League of Ursidae as cover, you—”

But then he stopped, because Vinnie was pointing at Ursula. Her wavering claw was no longer directed at Vinnie; she was pointing it across the room to… baby bear.

“Oh, I get it now,” said Jack, turning to face the youngest Bruin. “Adopted when a cub, you grew resentful of your father’s authority and—”

“Jack,” said Vinnie in a kindly tone, “calm down. I think you’re suffering a temporary excess of resolutions.”

Jack took a deep breath to compose himself. Vinnie was right. And Ursula was pointing not at baby bear but at the bookcase behind him.

“She means a book,” muttered Vinnie, running across to the bookshelf and gathering up an armful of volumes, which he then proceeded to show to Ursula one by one. By the time they’d got to the third shelf, they’d found what she meant. It was the authorized biography of the Quangle-Wangle, and most households in Reading had a copy.

Jack opened it to the first page and sat on the bed to show Ursula the list of chapters. She indicated the appendix, Jack rapidly flicked to the back of the book, and Ursula pointed to a popular ballad that described in broadly lyrical terms the formation of the characters who came together to form the Quang’s business empire.

"‘The Quangle-Wangle’s Hat’? asked Jack, and Ursula nodded. She then closed her eyes and relaxed, her energy spent. Jack cleared his throat and read:

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” murmured Jack.

“Maybe it picks up further on,” suggested Vinnie.

“I suppose that must refer to Mr. and Mrs. Canary who now run the Quang’s hotel chain in the Far East,” murmured Vinnie. “They were the first to join the Quangle-Wangle. Who arrived after them?”

Jack put the book down and looked up at Vinnie. "‘The Small Olympian Bear,’" he said in a quiet voice. “The SOB we can’t trust that Ed warned us about. Who is he?”

Vinnie shook his head. “I’d never thought he’d do something like that,” he said sadly, his tone tinged with anger, “after he had done so much and risen so high. Killing a friendly and ordering the Bruins’ death. He’ll never make it to the Perpetual Forest with those on his conscience.”

“I really don’t think he cares, Vinnie—who is he?”

“Nick,” he said slowly and with infinite sadness. “Nick… Demetrios.”

“Demetrios?” repeated Jack incredulously. “The head of NS-4? Danvers’s superior? A bear?”

Vinnie took the book out of Jack’s hands, flicked to the picture section in the middle and showed him a group portrait taken at the opening of QuangTech in the sixties. Standing between Pobble and Bisky-Batt was a short bear. While everyone in the photograph was smiling, the bear just glared sullenly into the camera.

“Demetrios,” said Vinnie, tapping the picture with a claw. “He’s slippery and ambitious and for many years has been the poster bear for what ursines can achieve, even in this human-dominated world. Ever wonder why no one gets to see the boss of NS-4? Well, now you know.”

This new piece of information whirled in Jack’s head. Demetrios—the fourth bear. He was in with QuangTech from the beginning and must have known all about McGuffin’s work with cuclear energy. As head of NS-4, he was best placed to guard the nascent technology—until Goldilocks got wind of it and was about to go public. If she did, then thermocuclear energy in the public domain would net Demetrios, Bisky-Batt and QuangTech the sum total of zip—the secret had to be protected at all costs.

Jack pulled out his phone and called Briggs. He needed to have him arrest Demetrios and then have some officers sent over to the Quangle-Wangle’s facility to do the same to Bisky-Batt and seize all the QuangTech files. But, unsurprisingly, Briggs didn’t quite see it that way.

“You’re certifiably insane,” he told Jack unkindly, “and the only thing I want to hear from you is that you’re surrendering. If you’re not out of the Bob Southey in an hour, we’re going to storm the building.”