Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (23 page)

‘Yes,
dear, which was quite ridiculous, because he looks nothing like Bigfoots. Or
are they Bigfeet?’

‘So
you know what Bigfoot looks like?’ I asked, chuckling.

‘Of
course, dear, we stayed with some for a few days. They’re very nice, if a bit
smelly.’

Once again my view of the world had widened.
Of course, it was possible she was having me on but I didn’t think so, being
quite astute about such things. I’m not sure which concept my brain found it
hardest to accept: Hobbes in a Hollywood movie, or the old girl staying with
Bigfoot. Thinking about it gave me a headache and I turned in early.

I
was enjoying the picnic with Violet, lying next to her in a sun-drenched
clearing, when she stood up, saying she was hot and needed to cool off in the
lake, the lake that had mysteriously replaced the trees. As I watched her walking,
naked, into the water, wondering where my own clothes had gone, I ran forward,
my feet becoming entangled in delphiniums, and fell, splashing and thrashing. When
I was able to stand upright, I hugged her, amazed how strong and hairy she’d
become, appalled to see it wasn’t her anymore. Somehow, I’d got hold of Bigfoot
and, pushing the beast away, I fled towards the shore, only running into deep
water, where green-skinned girls licked up flies and croaked. Hobbes appeared in
the trees riding an elephant, while Dregs snarled as he gnawed on a rotting
corpse he’d dragged from a hole in the ground.

I
woke up, refreshed if confused by the vivid dream, got up and drew back the
curtains. Since brittle sunlight filled the room, it looked as though the
weather forecasters had got it right; not that I relied on them, for Hobbes’s
predictions were far more accurate. Looking out on the day, my stomach lurched
as hope, excitement and terror collided, remembering that, in only a few hours,
Violet was going to take me on a picnic.

Still,
a few nerves, the odd butterfly in my stomach, were not enough to put me off
breakfast. Going down, I discovered Hobbes had eaten hours ago, and Mrs G was preparing
scrambled eggs for me, scrambled eggs as yellow as primroses, as light and
fluffy as … in truth, I doubted I’d ever eaten anything so light and delicious,
except possibly her cheese soufflé, which, in my opinion, she didn’t make often
enough. Mind you, I thought that about all of her meals.

The
problem was that, as soon as I’d finished, I began to feel twitchy, unable to
work out how I’d fill the time until the picnic. Mrs G was already preparing
food but refused my offer of help. Normally, I’d have felt relieved to have
asked and got away with it, but I needed something to occupy my mind. I was
saved by Hobbes appearing in his smart suit.

‘Are
you going anywhere nice?’

‘Henry
Bishop’s funeral.’

‘Can
I come?’ I asked, thinking it would at least get me out for a couple of hours.

‘If
you want to,’ said Hobbes, sounding surprised, ‘but get a move on, I’m going in
five minutes. Make yourself respectable and don’t wear the blazer you brought
down last night.’

‘I
wasn’t intending to,’ I said, running upstairs and scrambling into Mr
Goodfellow’s dark-grey suit, a suit I’d never worn before but which, as I’d
expected, fitted uncannily well. I checked its pockets for money, finding, to
my regret, that they were empty, apart from a neatly pressed silk handkerchief,
which I requisitioned, even though orange is not really my colour.

‘You
took your time,’ said Hobbes, glancing at his watch, ‘so we’ll have to hurry, I’m
glad to say. Excellent.’ Clapping his hands, he grinned like a maniac.

‘I
wasn’t that long,’ I said, already regretting what I’d let myself in for.

‘Long
enough. Now let’s move … not you, Dregs, you’re staying.’

The
dog’s ears and tail drooped.

‘There’s
no use you looking like that. You can’t go until you learn how to behave with
decorum.’ Turning away, opening the front door, he led me to the car and drove
to Henry Bishop’s funeral in the manner of a man hurtling to his own. So much
for decorum, I thought.

We
arrived in time, parked outside and walked respectfully into the chapel. The
funeral turned out to be a cremation.

‘Mrs
Bishop’s taking no chances,’ Hobbes whispered, as we took our seats at the
back.

Despite,
or because of my shock at his lack of respect, I sniggered.

‘Now
then, Andy,’ he said with a frown.

It
made things worse. I chuckled. Hobbes, shaking his head, trying to look stern, despite
his lips twitching into a grin, failed to prevent a guffaw bursting from me and
resorted to clamping his great hairy paw over my mouth. Though it dammed the
stream of laughter, the build-up continued, with little snorts escaping from my
nose, until that too was blocked. Tears welled up, overflowing down my cheeks,
while my body shook with helpless laughter, though, with both nose and mouth
blocked, I feared I would die laughing. Fortunately, Hobbes, knowing his stuff,
managed to regulate the air supply, keeping me alive and (relatively) quiet.

A
man in a black suit, one stinking of mothballs, leaned over the pew. ‘Is he
alright?’

‘He’s
very upset,’ said Hobbes.

‘Did
he know Mr Bishop well?’

‘Not
especially, he’s just very sensitive.’

The
organ music starting, I regained some control and he released me, though occasional
titters and smirks still found their way out, some turning into strangled
chuckles or broad grins. Several disapproving stares were directed my way, even
though I was doing my utmost to avoid eye contact, aware the slightest stimulus
might set me off again. As sanity returned, I was astonished how many had
turned up to see the end of Henry. Some I recognised as local farmers and
traders, yet there was also a number of smart, tough-looking young men in sharp
business suits, suggesting Henry had enjoyed a wider circle of friends than I
would have believed.

Mrs
Bishop, her face concealed behind a black veil, the only representative of her
sex, appeared grief-stricken, though I’d have thought she’d have been glad to
get rid of the old bastard. Despite the manner of his death, I felt scant
sympathy for him. The service began, dragging on, while my grins abated and
gave way to yawns. The chapel was small and white, with a purple carpet and
wooden pews, a coffin, presumably filled with Henry Bishop, at the front,
beside a gold-coloured lectern, from where a bored-looking vicar spouted his
stuff.

At
length, it was Mrs Bishop’s turn. Rising slowly, she approached the lectern and
addressed us. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘to all of you for coming to mourn my poor
darling Henry. Of the people you meet, only one or two enter your life, touching
you so deeply that forever after they remain a part of you. Some are but brief
candles that flicker and blow out in the storms of life but Henry was like a
bonfire, a beacon of warmth and light in my life. I hoped he would burn
forever. He was my husband for nigh on thirty years and I don’t regret a single
day of it.’

My
mouth dropped open in disbelief; Hobbes clumped it shut with the back of his
hand as Mrs Bishop carried on eulogising her late husband in the same vein for
several minutes, almost making me believe we’d gone to the wrong service. She
told of meeting Henry in Portsmouth, when he was an able seaman, she a barmaid,
saying it had been love at first sight. By the time she finished, I was
blinking back tears. Human relationships were obviously far deeper and more
complex than I’d have believed. Even so, I was glad when the coffin slid behind
the curtains and we’d seen the last of Henry, and even more glad when the
service ended.

Hobbes
and I made our escape as the congregation began to disperse.

‘Alas,
poor Henry,’ said Hobbes, grinning.

‘I’m
sorry about sniggering,’ I said. ‘I think it was nerves.’

‘It
did suggest a lack of respect for the dear departed, but I wouldn’t worry about
it; I think we covered it up.’

‘What
did you make of Mrs Bishop’s spiel?’ I asked.

‘It
was interesting and puzzling, yet I’m sure she’ll get over him and see him in
his true colours. I’d like to hope she’ll soon be a merry widow.’

I
nodded, wondering whether there’d been a hint of disappointment in his voice.
My suspicion that he’d murdered Henry hadn’t quite gone away. A puff of smoke billowed
from the crematorium’s chimney, and a faint whiff like cooking bacon made my
mouth water, until a sudden suspicion the two were connected, nearly made me
sick. My suit felt suddenly too heavy and restrictive, sweat trickled down my
back.

‘I
wonder,’ I said, trying to break my chain of thought, ‘what’s happened to the
panthers. Have there been any more sightings?’

‘Not
that I’m aware of,’ said Hobbes, strolling towards the car. ‘Yet, perhaps it’s
not surprising. They’re very good at hiding and it’s been raining heavily.’

‘Don’t
they like the rain?’

‘I’ve
no idea but people are less inclined to go out in it and so there are fewer
eyes to see them.’ He paused, staring at something. ‘Of course, it’s possible
they have gone away.’

‘I
see,’ I said.

He
shook his head. ‘No, you don’t, you’re not looking in the right place.’

‘What
do you mean?’ I asked turning to where he was looking.

‘Mice,’
he said, pointing to a rubbish bin where three or four brown mice were
scurrying and squeaking over a discarded packet of sandwiches.

‘Fascinating,’
I said. I’ve never been keen on rodents since a hamster savaged my ear.

He
raised his eyebrows. ‘But don’t you see what it means?’

‘No.’

‘While
the cat’s away, the mice will play.’

‘That’s
just a saying.’

‘There’s
often truth in old sayings.’

‘Yeah,
I know. But … really?’

He
fixed me with an expression of such total innocence I knew he’d been playing
with me. Probably.

The
congregation was leaving the chapel, heading for the cars. Hobbes, raising his
hand to shut me up, watched with hunter’s eyes. I watched too, with no real
interest, although one of the mourners, one of the tough-looking young men I’d
noticed earlier, seemed familiar.

‘The
man in the dark suit,’ I said, ‘I’ve seen him before.’

‘Nearly
everyone’s wearing dark suits, except Mrs Bishop,’ said Hobbes, ‘and you saw
them all in the chapel.’

‘That
guy getting into the grey BMW – I saw him yesterday at the Greasy Pole and I
was sure I’d seen him before.’

‘There
were many people at the Greasy Pole yesterday, and Sorenchester is such a small
town it’s not surprising you see the same ones now and again.’

‘I
know, but I’m sure he’d gone before you sorted it all out.’

‘So
did others. Some people are busy, you know?’

I
didn’t think the remark was directed at me, since he’d never hinted that he might
consider me a freeloader, but it hit hard. I was probably feeling a little
vulnerable, for it had crossed my mind that Violet might think me a loser. After
all, she was holding down a responsible job, at least so I assumed, not
actually knowing what she did, she was wealthy, she was gorgeous, she was
sophisticated, she was intelligent. Surely I thought, she would tire of me,
sooner or later and, though I hoped it would be later, I had an idea getting
dumped would hurt more as time passed. Perhaps I’d have to enter a monastery to
get over her: or an asylum, if such things still existed.

‘Where
do you go?’ asked Hobbes, dragging me back to the present.

‘What?’

‘Where
do you go when that vacant expression appears on your face?’

‘Nowhere,
really … I was just thinking.’

‘About
your young lady, I’ll be bound.’

I
nodded. Sometimes he could be quite astute.

‘Right
then, now you’re back, I’m going to offer Mrs Bishop a lift.’

Henry
Bishop’s friends, who obviously held the poor woman in as much regard as Henry,
had commandeered all the transport, leaving her stranded. I wondered how she’d
react to Hobbes’s offer but she smiled, getting into the car as he opened the
door for her. ‘You’re very kind, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Of course, I didn’t
expect to be offered a lift by those bastards he called mates, but I’d got my
bus fare ready.’ She sighed. ‘Thank God that’s all over. Did you enjoy my
performance?’ She pushed the black veil from her face.

‘It
was very moving,’ I said, getting into the back seat.

She
turned to look at me as Hobbes introduced us. Her eye, though still bruised, was
concealed beneath make-up and I was surprised to see no trace of tears.

‘Moving?’
she said and laughed. ‘God knows, I should have been an actress. I might have
been, too, if Henry hadn’t banged me up. You should have seen him in his
uniform, back in the day.’

‘Was
he good looking, then?’ It seemed unlikely.

‘Hard
to believe, eh, seeing what he turned into, but that’s what the drink did to
him and he wasn’t always so bad. He did do the right thing after getting me in
the club. At least, we thought it was right at the time but it’s a pity you can’t
see how things will turn out. We had our fair share of problems, not least poor
little Mikey getting run over, and then the foot-and-mouth disease doing for
his dad’s farm that he was going to inherit. Still, he didn’t have to deal with
them by boozing and taking it out on me, did he?’