Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (41 page)

‘Did
Les kill him?’ I blurted out.

Hobbes
scowled. ‘If you don’t keep quiet, I’ll send you outside.’

Bullimore,
ignoring me, carried on. ‘Though Bishop was grumpy and miserable, he wasn’t too
bad at first and seemed harmless. Then he offered to buy the upper field, the
one next to Loop Woods. We refused to sell, though the money would have been
handy, but you don’t just sell your heritage to get over being broke. Besides,
it was such a ridiculously low offer, we reckoned he must have found out we were
in a mess and tried to take advantage. It wasn’t nice, it was business.

‘After
we rejected his offer, he turned nasty, objecting and complaining about
everything, even the festival, though he’d made no complaint when we first told
him. Not that it was anything to do with him – it wasn’t going to have any
impact on him or his land.

‘Things
took a turn for the worse when he took a pot shot at Les, though he claimed it
was an accident and he was only after rabbits. We almost believed him until he
had a go at the young ’uns. We had to ban them from anywhere he could see them.’

‘I
see,’ said Hobbes nodding. ‘You should have told the police.’

‘We
didn’t want any more trouble. They aren’t all like you, Mr Hobbes.’

‘You’re
absolutely right there,’ I said.

‘Thank
you,’ said Hobbes, baring his great yellow teeth in a grin that would have
terrified anyone without my experience.

‘Things
have been getting really bad, lately,’ Bullimore continued. ‘We’ve had tough
men in suits come round here, causing trouble.’

‘That’ll
be the Mormons,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood.

‘I
warned you,’ said Hobbes, grabbing my collar and the seat of my trousers,
shoving me out the front door into the farmyard and shutting me out. Only by
pressing my ear to the keyhole, could I hear.

‘They’ve
been offering a pittance, trying to force us to sell up. They said if we didn’t
accept their terms and get out there’d be trouble.’

‘Do
you know who they were?’

‘Hired
muscle, working for a bloke called Felix King, a developer, apparently.’

‘That,’
said Hobbes, ‘doesn’t entirely surprise me.’

‘You
know him? He’s got a sister who’s nearly as bad as him, a pity because she’s a
fine-looking lass. They say her name’s Violet. We think it’s short for Violent.’

Feeling
a rush of fury that the fat, old farmer dared talk about her like that, I stood
on the doorstep puffing, clenching and unclenching my fists. Though I knew my
reaction was stupid, and despite being sure it was all over between us, I
couldn’t just stand there and let her be insulted. Actually, that was all I
could do. That and fume.

Bullimore
carried on. ‘We hoped things would be better after Bishop died, assuming at
first he was behind it; he turned out to have been just a pawn and the threats
got worse. The truth is, Mr Hobbes, that we became suspicious of you, or,
rather, of your friend. Les was trying to find out what they were up to and,
having seen him with her at your house, followed them to the arboretum, where
he hid in the woods, watching and listening. Your friend seemed very pally with
them at first but it soon became very clear he was not one of King’s cronies.
In the end, Les, feeling sorry for him, kept an eye on him when he was going
home after the accident.’

‘So
it was Les,’ said Hobbes. ‘I suspected so.’

‘How
did you guess?’

‘I’d
been hunting the panthers when I picked up a trail I didn’t recognise. I was a
little concerned when I became aware it was closing in on Andy, until I
remembered the scent of werewolf.’

‘Did
you find the panthers?’

‘No.
I keep coming across their scent but it’s usually blocked by something and,
more puzzling, it often just stops. I think someone must be transporting them.’

‘That’s
possible. I heard King used an elephant to break the guy who owns the Greasy
Pole. He wants his land as well.’

‘I’d
suspected that. Mr King’s driver was in the crowd when it happened and fitted the
description of the man who’d released the creature. Unfortunately, he was
murdered before I could interview him.’

‘I’ll
bet King did that … or his sister. They’re ruthless.’

‘It’s
likely,’ said Hobbes. ‘Anyway, I think that’s enough history. What’s been going
on tonight?’

‘King and his henchmen came round this
afternoon, when I was on stage. He made another offer, worse than previous ones
and, when Les told him where he could stick it, he received a beating for his
trouble. I hope that’s why you found the blood on the rug. When King left, he
said Les would regret not getting out when he had the chance.’

Someone
screamed. Across the field I could see people running.

Bullimore
was still talking. ‘They said they’d be back after dark. Les was going to bolt
the door – it’s really strong – but I feared it was only a matter of time
before they tried the windows. Although they’re not easy to reach, they’re
still the weakest part. That’s why I went out with my shotgun. I thought I’d
scare them off. I didn’t mean to shoot at you.

‘But
now my family has gone, I’ve got to find them.’

At
that point, I sort of forgave Mr Bullimore for shooting at us.

Something
was happening in the field. Another tent flaring up, people were panicking and
shouting, though I couldn’t see what the problem was at first, for the fire
brigade was still on site and could easily cope with a burning tent. I made out
Mrs Goodfellow and Arnold’s dad on the edge of the crowd, brandishing big
sticks, for some reason. Then, I understood. Silhouetted, in the glare of yet
another burning tent, I caught a glimpse of the dark, heart-stopping shape of a
panther.

I
banged on the door, yelling for Hobbes.

The
door opened and Hobbes stepped out. ‘What’s up?’

‘There’s
trouble again,’ I said. ‘I saw a panther and I think it’s setting fire to
tents.’

‘Panthers
aren’t known as arsonists, but someone is out to cause trouble.’

An
idea came to mind. ‘Do you think it could be Felix?’

‘I
wouldn’t be surprised. Violet, too, I’m afraid.’

‘No,
she can’t be; she’s not like him.’ I still believed in her, despite what I’d
heard.

‘I
hope you’re right,’ he said, gazing into the field. ‘I’d better find the
Bashems before it’s too late.’

‘Why?
What do you think will happen?’

‘Nothing
good.’

‘But
what about all that?’ I pointed to where chaos reigned.

‘The
lass is in charge and will sort it out with her boys – that’s what they’re here
for – and the fire brigade can deal with the fires. I expect someone has
thought to call the police by now.’

‘Umm
… can I do anything?’

‘Stay
with Mr Bullimore, and don’t let him out of your sight. You should be safe
here.’

‘OK,’
I said, thinking it didn’t seem a very heroic role but, then, I wasn’t feeling
very heroic. One glimpse of panther had turned my muscles to water.

Hobbes
was already loping down the lane, shoulders hunched, knuckles nearly grazing
the cobbles, the twisting light of the fires casting a monstrous shadow on the
stone wall. Though I almost wished I’d gone with him, I wouldn’t have kept up
with his pace for long, and the thought of being alone in the darkness with
panthers and werewolves prowling, chilled me to the core. Shivering, I stepped
into the house.

Mr
Bullimore, still slumped in his seat, looked up through reddened eyes and I
felt sorry for the old guy.

‘Where’s
Mr Hobbes?’ he asked.

‘He’s
gone to look for your family.’

He
nodded. ‘He’s a good man. There’s something about him though …’

‘You’re
right there.’

‘He
reminds me, well, of us. In a way.’

‘What
d’you mean by us?’ I asked, suddenly wary.

‘I
mean he’s not the same as other policemen, or other people. He’s not like you.’

‘That’s
true. But why did you say us? What are you trying to say?’ My nerves were
jangling.

‘Les,’
said Mr Bullimore, with a strange smile, ‘isn’t the only werewolf in the
family. I’m part werewolf myself, on my mother’s side. Maybe that’s why I’m
such a son of a bitch.’

‘Oh
yes?’ I said, trying to ignore the urge to back away.

‘Yes,
though I can’t change like Les can. About all I can do is to grow hair where I
don’t want it and fetch sticks. Not much use really.’

‘But
what about your daughter?’

‘Just
the sticks, but the young ’uns take after their dad; they’re as fine a pack of
werepups as you’ll ever see. I hope Mr Hobbes finds them.’

He
sniffed, looking at me with such a hangdog expression that it made me say
something silly. ‘Umm … I suppose we could go and help him.’

‘He
told me to stay here, but you’re right, I can’t just sit around when they might
be in danger. Let’s go.’

‘OK,’
I said, ‘if you’re quite sure. Or perhaps it would be better to wait? In case
they come back. What d’you think?’

‘Let’s
go.’ He stood up, looking resolute and strong, putting on a battered tweed
jacket, and striding towards the front door. Opening it, he glanced back. ‘Are
you coming?’

‘I
suppose so,’ I said, already regretting my careless talk, hoping it wouldn’t
cost lives, particularly my own life, ‘though I think we’d better stick
together.’

As
he stepped into the night, he nodded, which was some comfort as we marched
along the lane, following in Hobbes’s footprints – if he’d left any.

‘Any
ideas where to look?’ I asked when Mr Bullimore halted by the gate.

‘It
depends if they’re free or if King has kidnapped them.’

‘Isn’t
the word dognapped?’ I said unthinkingly, cringing as soon as the words were
out.

Mr
Bullimore stared hard as I apologised, before drawing a deep breath. ‘We’ll try
the woods. Werewolves feel secure in woods.’

He
stepped into the fields, walking quickly, not like Hobbes when he was in the
mood, but fast enough to get me panting as I struggled to keep up. Ahead of us,
deep within the shadow, loomed Loop Woods, and who knew what lurked within? A
twig cracked and, at the same moment, catching my foot on something and
stumbling, I thought I saw a movement on the edge of the wood. By the time I
regained my balance, I’d lost sight of it.

‘What
was that?’

‘What
was what?’ asked Mr Bullimore, walking on regardless.

‘I
… umm … think I saw something. Perhaps we should go back to the house and get
torches?’

Turning
back, he pushed an object into my hand. ‘Take this. I always carry a couple in
my pocket, just in case.’

For
all its diminutive size, the torch had a powerful, if narrow, beam. Though it
provided some reassurance, I’d much rather have returned to the farmhouse,
despite it not feeling nearly so safe once Hobbes had left. However, it had
thick, stone walls, a stout door and, most importantly, electric lights.

‘Hurry
up,’ called Mr Bullimore.

All
of a sudden his voice was too far away. Running towards it, I found I was on
the edge of Loop Woods, becoming aware of a strange sort of stillness, as if
someone was hiding, holding their breath, waiting to leap out with a yell and
scare me half to death.

I
glanced back over my shoulder seeing that the fires appeared to have been
extinguished and that hundreds of torches were flashing, looking as far away as
the stars. The headlights of a fire engine were reflecting on a stone wall,
illuminating the still-smoking remains of a tent, as a bulky, dark-suited man
appeared in the beam, brandishing a baseball bat at the frail, skinny figure
advancing on him. It was Mrs Goodfellow, wagging her finger, as if telling him
off. I felt sick and entirely helpless as he raised his club, yet, before he
could bring it down, she, darting forward, appeared to tap him on the chin. As
he toppled over backwards and Arnold sat on him, I felt enormously proud of the
old girl.

‘Did
you see that?’ I asked Mr Bullimore.

There
was no reply, just a flicker of his torch beam between the black trunks.
Hastening towards it, I realised I was entering a quite different part of the
woods to where Hobbes had taken me, for, where there’d been wide spaces between
massive trees, soft leaf litter beneath my feet and the odd thorn bush to break
up the pattern, this place was crammed with massive, old conifers with few
paths. Though I struggled to catch up, I was always being forced out of my way,
my torch beam seemingly feeble beneath the dark ceiling, as if the thick,
resinous carpet was absorbing all light. My feet sinking into the litter, sharp
needles found their way into my shoes, forcing me to stop, take them off and
shake them out. When I’d finished, having no idea where Mr Bullimore had got
to, I gave up following him, concentrating instead on not getting lost,
reasoning that I couldn’t go far wrong so long as I didn’t lose sight of the
glimmer of light seeping in from the edge of the wood behind me.