Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (6 page)

I sighed. I’ve never been very good at
keeping friends, or making them for that matter. In fact, by then, my best
friend was either Hobbes, or Dregs, something I didn’t like to dwell on. Nevertheless,
hope was prevailing over experience and, having recently seen a film clip on
telly about Woodstock, the idea of sitting in a sunny field with a few beers
amidst friendly, peace-loving fans appealed and, maybe, my lovely woman would turn
up.

Waking
next morning, after a sweaty night of broken sleep and hot dreams, I washed,
dressed and strolled down to the kitchen. Hobbes was already up. His eyes had
lost their strawberry look, though they still retained a delicate pink tinge.
He was growling to himself, eating Sugar Puffs straight from a large bowl with ‘DOG’
written on the side. Sometimes I wondered how much of his weird stuff was done
for effect.

‘Morning,’
he said, still snuffling.

I
felt some guilt at my relief when he didn’t mention the stink of smoke or fly spray
or bleach. ‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Yes,
thank you and thanks for helping out yesterday. I really should take more care
with camels.’

‘You
should.’ I nodded. ‘Umm … what was in the vial? It seemed to have a terrible
effect.’

‘Mysterious
herbs from the East: Norfolk, I think. The lass makes it, and it does me a
power of good, though it tastes vile.’

‘It
didn’t appear to do much good.’

‘You
haven’t seen what I’m like without it. You should see what happens to my …’ He
paused.

‘To
your what?’

‘You’re
sure you want to know?’

‘Yes
… umm … probably.’

He
shook his head. ‘I think it best that you don’t.’

After
breakfast, he led Dregs and me to the car. I’d climbed into the back and put on
my seat belt before it struck me that it shouldn’t have been there.

‘How
did this get back?’ I asked

‘I
expect the car fairy brought it,’ he said, with a strange grin.

I
think he was joking but I wasn’t entirely sure. One day, I probably would meet
a car fairy and many things would become clear. The thought had occurred more
than once that I was stuck in a dream, for there was no way someone like Hobbes
could exist and, yet, there he sat, as solid as a pile of bricks.

We
left town, heading roughly in the direction of Skeleton Bob’s place, but Hobbes
said he was planning to ask around some of the farms and cottages in that area
and see if they’d noticed anything out of the ordinary.

‘Are
you still worried about the panther?’ I asked.

‘I’m
not worried. I want to know if there is any truth in Bob’s story – and I still
need to find out what happened to those missing pheasants.’

The
odd thing was that, though he was driving, I could talk with him, look about and
enjoy the ride since he was driving safely, within the speed limit, keeping an
eye on the road. In a way, I almost found it more disconcerting than his usual
maniac style.

We
stopped at several farms and homes in the area; no one claimed to have seen any
big cats or, indeed, anything unusual at all, most regarding the suggestion
with amused scepticism. I, for one, didn’t feel in the least surprised.

Then,
a couple of miles beyond Bob’s place, we visited a small farm bordering the
woods where he’d claimed his sighting. It was Loop’s Farm, according to a blue
enamelled sign by the entrance. Rattling over a cattle grid, we bumped along a
dusty drive towards the lichen-encrusted walls of an old stone farmhouse, where
two men were leaning against a gate into a field, dotted with Sorenchester Old
Spot pigs. We pulled up next to them.

The
younger man nodded. ‘G’day.’ A length of orange twine substituted for a belt
round his mud-spattered moleskin trousers, his bare chest was nearly as hairy
as Hobbes’s and he was wearing a tatty, broad-brimmed straw hat.

‘Good
day,’ said Hobbes as he got out.

The
older man smiled. He was dressed like the first one, except for a red-checked
shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He gave the impression of being even muddier,
as if he’d been rolling in muck with the pigs. ‘What can we do you for?’ he
asked.

Hobbes
was introducing himself as I slithered from the car. Dregs, who had fallen
asleep with his bottom half on the front passenger seat, his top half in the
footwell, awoke with a resounding woof and bounded into the yard, upending me
as he sprang towards the farmers. I sprawled in the dust, fearing he was going
to attack, but his tail span like a propeller as he danced around them, as if
meeting old friends.

‘Nice
doggie,’ said the older man, patting him. He held out a big, grey-haired hand
towards Hobbes. ‘Bernie Bullimore and this is my son-in-law, Les – Les Bashem.
Now, how can we help you?’

Hobbes
shook hands. ‘I have a few routine questions.’ He hauled me to my feet. ‘There
have been reports of pheasant poaching in these parts and I wondered if you’d
had any problems?’

‘No,
not really,’ said Les, ‘but, then, we’re not a shooting estate and there’s not
much for ’em to take. Bob Nibblet takes the odd rabbit now and again but we don’t
object to that.’

‘Does
he have permission to be on your land?’

‘Not
as such but we know he does it and he knows we know and we know he knows we
know, if you know what I mean. It’s an informal arrangement. Old Skelly Bob don’t
do much harm.’

Hobbes
nodded and I brushed the dust and dung from my trousers. Dregs was rolling on
his back at Les’s feet, like an excited puppy.

‘Funny
you should mention Mr Nibblet,’ said Hobbes, ‘because he reported seeing what
might have been a big cat in Loop Woods. I don’t suppose you’ve seen anything
out of the ordinary?’

‘No,’
said Bernie, shaking his head so emphatically that his hat spun away like a
Frisbee. I thought he glanced at his son-in-law.

‘Mind
you,’ said Les, ‘we was wondering what’d killed that sheep, ’cos we ain’t seen
no stray dogs around here, not this year anyhow. And it was found on Henry
Bishop’s land and that’s right close to Loop Woods. Of course, Henry’s not the
sort to let dogs get at his beasts. He’s always ready with his shotgun – a bit
too ready if you ask me.’

‘That’s
right.’ Bernie nodded. ‘He damn near blew my head off once, when I was picking
nuts in the woods by his hedge.’

‘Why?’
asked Hobbes.

‘Because
I like nuts.’

Hobbes
chuckled. ‘No, why did he shoot at you?’

‘He
said he mistook me for a stray dog.’

‘But
dogs don’t pick nuts.’

‘That’s
what I told him.’

‘How
did he respond?’

‘He
said, “Get off my land” and popped in another couple of shells. Of course, I wasn’t
actually on his land, but Henry’s not one to let facts get in the way of a good
catchphrase. He enjoys having something to moan about.’

Hobbes
looked stern. ‘Did you report the incident to the police?’

‘No.
The way I saw it, there was no harm done, but I make sure the kids keep well
away from him.’

‘That’s
right,’ said Les. ‘The nippers can go where they like on the farm, except near
that old bugger’s place. It’s best for everyone. He’s not the easiest of
neighbours.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, he might say the same about us when we hold
our festival.’

Only
then did the recognition circuits in my brain connect. ‘I know you!’ I said, ‘I
saw you talking to that twerp on the telly last night before I set f …’ I
glanced at Hobbes. ‘That is … umm … before I … umm… set the table for my tea.’

Bernie
took a bow. ‘That’s right. Me and Les are celebrities now. You can have our
autographs for a fiver.’

I
smiled. ‘I’ll remember that when I’ve got one. I would like to see the festival
though. Unfortunately, I’m skint.’

‘Quiet,
Andy,’ said Hobbes. ‘We’re here on police business, if you remember?’

‘Sorry.’
I shut up.

The
festival’s appeal was growing, though money would be a problem. Since losing my
job at the
Bugle
, I’d been unemployed, except for a disastrous two weeks
as stand-in waiter at the Black Dog Café. They gave me a uniform but the
trousers, being very much on the tight side, I’d had to wear them with caution
and much stomach sucking. Though the memory was as painful as the trouser
squeeze, by the end of the second week, I’d believed I was getting the hang of
things. Then, one busy lunchtime, came a moment of explosive release, a feeling
of freedom, which lasted until a lady started making a fuss about flies in her
soup. Since the teeth of my zip were grinning up from her bowl and my
predicament was obvious, there’d been no point in denying ownership. I hadn’t
regarded it as my fault but the manager, taking a different view, had sent me
on my way.

I could perhaps have got another job since
then, but Hobbes seemed to need my help and, despite everything, I enjoyed
being out with him and Dregs. It was far more exciting than working as a not-very-good
journalist or as a waiter and, thanks entirely to Hobbes’s and Mrs Goodfellow’s
generosity, I lived better and healthier than ever before. I just wished I had
some money.

Hobbes
and the farmers were now discussing the forthcoming event. ‘So,’ he said, ‘it’s
all happening over the last weekend in July? What’s your security like?’

‘It
should be fine,’ said Bernie. ‘It’s not as if we’re trying to compete with
Glastonbury or anything, we’re just getting in a bunch of local acts and the
Kung Fu club are willing to act as stewards. We were willing to pay normal
rates but the lady I spoke to didn’t want paying, so long as we allowed her to
keep any teeth she found.’

Hobbes
nodded with a grin that almost made him look human. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘I
think I know the lady.’

Of
course he knew her. Mrs Goodfellow, besides looking after us and collecting
teeth, taught Kung Fu and gave instruction (as a result of a printing error) in
the marital arts.

‘It
sounds like you’ve got it sorted,’ said Hobbes, ‘but I think it would be a good
idea for me to be here, in an unofficial capacity. It’s not the big cat that
worries me so much as Henry Bishop’s short temper and shotgun.’

Bernie
smiled. ‘I really don’t think it’s necessary but we’d be happy to have you
here.’

‘I’ll
want Andy and the dog with me, if that’s alright,’ said Hobbes.

‘Fine
by us, Inspector,’ Les said. ‘He’s a fine dog.’

‘We’ll
bring a tent,’ said Hobbes, ‘mingle with the crowd and I’ll keep myself
inconspicuous.’

I
suppressed a grin. Hobbes in a crowd was about as inconspicuous as a gorilla in
the ballet. Still, he had solved my problem of how to get in, though he was not
a regular fairy godmother.

‘That’s
sorted then,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Will I know anyone taking
part?’

‘We’re
expecting No One You Ever Heard Of,’ said Les.

‘Excellent.
I read about the jig they did at the Feathers.’

‘The
gig
they did,’ I corrected. He knew of course; it was all an act, almost
certainly. And it had, reportedly, been some gig: never before in Sorenchester
had a band generated so much raw emotion, never before had so many instruments
been smashed in such a short time. The band really should have asked ‘Featherlight’
Binks, the landlord, before starting to play. If they had, he wouldn’t have
said no; he’d have said a whole lot more, though the meaning would have been much
the same, but asking would have saved a great deal of suffering. Featherlight
had only got away with it because the magistrates refused to believe the band’s
injuries had been caused in a brawl and assumed they must all have been in a
car crash or two. Presumably, since the band had been booked, they’d been discharged
from hospital.

Les
continued. ‘There’s gonna be all sorts of bands and singers for every taste. So
far we’ve booked Tiny Tim Jones, Mad Donna, the Delius Myth, Lou Pole and the
Lawyers and Stink – you might remember him – he used to be in the police.’

Hobbes
nodded. ‘Yes, I know him. He wasn’t, in fact, a police officer. He worked in
the canteen for a while, but never quite mastered basic hygiene.’

‘There
are more bands and singers that haven’t yet confirmed and we’re also going to
have fire-eaters and jugglers and magicians and lots of things.’

‘I
can see you’ve got it all running smoothly,’ said Hobbes, touching his forehead
in salute. ‘Well, you must be busy so we’ll leave you to get on with it. If you
do see any big cats, you know where to find me. Goodbye.’ He turned away. ‘C’mon
you two.’

Dregs
was reluctant to leave but I managed to coax him into the car with half a
biscuit I found in the glove compartment. As we pulled away, I looked back. Les
and Bernie had returned to business. Leaning on gates must have been a vital
part of farming.

Our
next stop was at Henry Bishop’s overgrown smallholding, outside the house, a
house that looked as if it was still in the process of falling on hard times.
So did Henry Bishop who burst from his tumbledown barn, an open shotgun over
the crook of his arm, his unshaven face as red and as dirty as the handkerchief
round his short, thick neck. His nose might have been mistaken for a giant
blackberry.