by Neil Mach
‘Er, I don’t understand any of that, can I show you some photos?’
‘That’s probably best,’ Moondog said. He pulled his chair closer.
The Sergeant looked into his Home Office briefcase and produced two reddish brown dockets. He opened one and found out the first photograph. He turned it around so Moondog could see. The close-up image was of a severed head. Moondog closed his eyes tight and shook his head in disgust.
‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ said the policeman.
‘Let me see...’ Hopie shouted. She snatched the file to twist the image round to see. It was the head of a dog. A foxhound, she supposed. It had soft, drooping ears, smooth hair, and a tongue that fell from a cheerful mouth. Just a head. A head that had been surgically removed from a dog’s body.
‘There’s another...’ the policeman said as he pulled the file back and found another page. ‘This one is more disgusting because the head was full of worms when we took the photo.’
Hopie decided she wouldn’t look at that picture.
‘And the third?’
‘This...’ the Sergeant showed Moondog the last image.
‘What makes you think this relates to the others?’
‘The head is separated from the body in the same way, and it happened during the same week, about half a mile from the other two.’
‘But this one’s a cat!’
‘Cats, dogs, horses, it’s all the same thing, isn’t it? We have a crazy on the loose, don’t we? And the Chief doesn’t want a repeat of the ‘Croydon Cat Killer’ — you know him. He dismembered and decapitated over 200 pets in Surrey...’
‘I’m familiar with the case — but they were cats and what you have here are two dogs. And anyway, their assailant was probably a fox.’
‘Well, maybe this crazy isn’t so choosy. Don’t you think the cat is connected?’
‘Black all over was it? We need to look for a mojo bag...’
‘A mobo what?’
‘Let’s go back to the hounds for a moment — what did the witnesses say?’
‘Everything is in this report,’ the Sergeant handed over a second docket. Just then their drinks and sandwich arrived. There was not enough space for everything, so Hopie cleared the sugar bags, votive candle, and menu card and placed the unused items on the floor.
‘I don’t read...’ Moondog said abruptly.
‘What? We saw you on the iPad,’ Hopie said.
‘Instagram.’
‘Insta what?’ muttered Sergeant Moyes
‘It’s a photo-sharing site,’ Hopie offered.
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he told her. ‘But how will he manage to investigate a crime if he can’t read?’
‘I didn’t say I can’t read. I said I don’t…’ interjected Moondog. ‘There’s a delicate difference. Anyway, pet felony and wildlife crime are not my thing, to be frank. My business is probing unfathomable and incomprehensible things. I thought I already told you. My specialty is otherworld entities… lonely spirits, fundamental sprites, exotic apparitions, and supernatural animals… that sort of stuff. What you have here, as far as I can make out, is a classic case of anti-social behavior. Not my speciality.’
Sergeant Moyes waved a hand of dismissal through the air then leant back into the bench. ‘The Chief said you might be able to help, although he gave me the option to pull out if I wanted. Obviously, you can’t help — so we’ll leave it. Thanks anyway.’
Hopie sipped her tea in silence, then decided she ought to get the conversation back on track.
‘The Chief has another problem that needs looking into...’
‘I’m sure Mister Moon Dog can’t help with that either...’ the Sergeant muttered. He bit into his sandwich with a cross expression on his face. Then he jogged his left knee impatiently under the table while he gave the young man returned a confrontational stare.
‘We could try, it’s another image, no reading required,’ Hopie said.
‘I’m eating my snack,’ Sergeant Moyes said as he made a grumpy face. ‘You can do it if you want.’
Hopie directed her eyes back to Moondog. ‘The dog mutilations are what brought you here. But the Chief thinks something else might be significant. He thinks something that he witnessed might link to the severed dog heads. He thinks it’s also possibly related to black magic. Isn’t that your field of specialism? I do hope so because that’s why he called you up here to help.’
‘What sort of thing?’ asked Moondog.
‘Something more up your street...’
The Sergeant stuck a corner of his sandwich into his fat gob, then leant and found another docket, this time in a dusty-pink file. He flipped over the front cover with one hand and showed them an enlarged snapshot.
‘What is it?’ asked Moondog.
‘The Chief saw it for himself. He saw it at Garendon Farm. That’s a place on the outskirts of the town, near the remains of the old Abbey near Groby…’ Hopie said. ‘He says he took this picture on his phone.’
‘Mmm? But what is it?’ Moondog repeated.
The Sergeant finished his sandwich and wiped crumbs away with his fist. ‘He claims he saw a beast.’
‘Like the Big Cat of Cumbria or the Creature of Cornwall. Maybe a runaway circus puma or something...’ Hopie added.
‘Right,’ said Moondog. He tapped a finger on the photograph and wrinkled his nose. ‘This photo doesn’t tell us anything. Didn’t he get a long hard look at the hypothetical beast? This photo is worthless…’
‘Yes, he did. He gave me a statement the next day. I wrote it down word for word. But you don’t read, do you? So that’s why I showed you the picture.’
Moondog took the photo again. He squinted at it. ‘This image is of a shadow. Not very reliable.’
‘He’s an officer’ suggested the Sergeant. ‘Maybe we should allow him latitude because he’s a trained officer — this is good evidence.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Hopie.
‘If it’s a big cat, as you suggest, then the poor creature’s dead already…’ Moondog said in distinctly flat tones. ‘If it’s something else entirely, a mystical creature that’s connected with black magic, then it is definitely up my street.’ Moondog sniffed, although he added, ‘I’d better dig around anyway…’
‘You’ll take the case?’ Hopie said, her eyes glinted.
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
‘By the way, she ain’t an officer,’ Sergeant Moyes specified. He lifted an eyebrow and shook his head slowly. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘What is she then? Why is she here? This is a police matter...’
‘She’s an admin support worker. She’s a civilian member of police staff. A strawberry mivvi, as we call them.’
‘A bloody civvie,’ Hopie added.
‘Excellent, really excellent...’ Moondog said, not put-off by the news. ‘That’s very good. It puts an entirely different complexion on things. I’ll let this lady know what I need. I’ll discuss the case with her; she’ll be my liaison.’
‘I will?’ yammered Hopie. She couldn’t believe what she just heard.
‘How will she contact you?’ asked Moyes. ‘You haven’t given us your number yet. I need some particulars from you first: full name, date, and place of birth, full postal address, that sort of thing. We need to run a few basic checks before we get started.’
But Moondog stood and focused his bright eyes on Hopie. She returned a smile. He moved back to his original table and laid down a crisp twenty-pound note. He collected his satchel then exited the teashop. The little bell pinged as he vanished from view. The slapdash waitress rushed over to pick up the generous tip.
‘Well I never did,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Did you see his nose? Extraordinary…’
‘Indeed,’ said Hopie with a grin.
*
‘What did your mystery man look like?’ Sarah-Jane started to quiz, at the very instant the office door flung open and Hopie and the Sarge barged through. She’d apparently spent her time alone ref
reshing nail varnish and studying the latest issue of OK! The magazine was spread across her keyboard as she rested her fingertips on the mouse mat.
‘Oh God, babes, you should’ve seen him,’ replied Hopie as she stepped over. ‘Crikey, he shook me to pieces! He’s totes bewitching in every way. He has amazing hair, wavy curls, but also, he’s very manly in a sexy way. With strong arms, big muscles, beautiful skin, and the most breath-taking eyes I’ve ever seen. He kind of had me spellbound...’
‘Did she tell you he’s got a bullring?’ the Sarge shouted over. ‘You should have seen it… a piercing right through his wossname. Painful, huh? I’d hate to have a piercing right through my wossname.’
‘God Missy, you got that close?’ laughed Sarah-Jane. ‘Did see his pierced wossname? Did he whack it out for you in the middle of the tea-room?’
Hopie jerked with oncoming laughter. But Sergeant Moyes didn’t appear to get the joke. He merely rubbed his forehead and looked at the girls, ‘Settle down...’ he barked.
‘Seriously though — he’s amazing,’ Hopie said as she blew her nose into a Kleenex and gave Sarah-Jane a knowing glance. ‘He’s ace.’
‘Even with a ring through his wossname?’
‘Shuddup will you?’ Hopie swallowed-back another giggle ‘You’ll get me going.’ She wiped a tear from her eye.
‘Did Hopie tell you he’s a New Age traveler?’ asked the Sergeant. ‘He had almost no clothes on, nothing at all. Nothing under his sleeveless jacket — naked arms. Hairy chest. And no socks. What kind of man walks around with no socks? ‘
‘I don’t think there’s anything New Age about him, Sarge...’ corrected Hopie.
‘What? What do you mean by that?’
‘I don’t think he’s a New Age traveler, not at all...’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Did you see the colour of his skin? Did you see his eyes? They were as blue as a kingfisher’s wing?’ Hopie directed the last part to Sarah-Jane. She nodded approvingly.
‘I’m with you,’ the Sergeant muttered. He collapsed into his scruffy office chair, and it groaned under his weight. ‘What do you mean there’s nothing New Age about him? I remember that lot when they came up here, in their bloody campervans, bloody hundreds of them. I can still spot a New Age hippie at ten yards. Don’t tell me I can’t. I can whiff out a traveler, and your Mister Moon Dog is certainly one of them. Tatty vans, loud music — sex and drugs. That’s what that type is all about. We had plenty of trouble with travelers back in the mid-nineties. A bunch of hairy-assed, drug- ponging, hunt saboteurs they were… they came up here to disrupt the Quorn. We had to put a stop to it right away, I can tell you. The gents in my Lodge were unhappy. We had waves of unwashed ratbags coming up here to do their anti-road protests and squatting. They were dirty, filthy, louse-ridden, lazy, communist, lowlife... But that’s just my opinion.’
‘Where are the hippies now?’ Sarah-Jane asked.
‘They’re living a life of luxury in Glastonbury and bloody Brighton. Some stayed in Surrey. They got jobs in the city. They bought Porsche Macans and made piles of money in recycling centres and on solar farms.’
‘That’s my point.’
‘Still not with you,’ Sergeant Moyes said. He looked around the office, and his eyes settled on Sarah-Jane. ‘You going to make coffee?’ She shrugged. ‘Either of you?’
‘I think he’s a real one,’ blurted Hopie.
‘A real one what?’
‘Gypsy.’
‘Nah. I’ve seen real gypsies — they’re nothing like your Mister Moon Dog,’ Sergeant Moyes eyed the girls. ‘Mister Moon Dog is much too glamorous to be a gypo. Haven’t you seen them on Big Fat Gypsy Wedding? Real gypsies are flabby, loud-mouthed, grease-balls, with hairy fists, leery kids and ugly women. They’re chunky, obnoxious fighters. Your Mister Moon Dog is nothing like them. I reckon he’s the son of a rich Surrey stockbroker. Or the local rector…’ The Sergeant stood, to deliver his judgment, ‘Do you remember, last Easter, when tinkers camped at Stonewell lay-by? We went to evict them, didn’t we? We had to send three carriers — that’s thirty cops armed with shields and dressed in riot gear. Why? Because that lot are bloody awful. Genuine gypsies are revolting. They left tons of rubbish and caused a massive crime-wave all over the parish. And that was only four families.’ He collapsed back into his chair.
‘Listen to yourself — not very politically correct, are you?’
‘I have the guts to say what I think —if my observations sound unfair, then I’m sorry. But those people lack simple basic decency. Everyone agrees.’
‘Not all Irish travelers are tinkers,’ Sarah-Jane offered, ‘Is your man Irish?’
‘Not a trace of an accent. But he spoke weirdly. As if he came from the past, somehow...’ Hopie explained.
‘They all make money scrap dealing, fighting, drinking, and tax dodging,’ continued Sergeant Moyes. ‘Your lad didn’t look like a scrapper. That’s why I wouldn’t put him down as gypsy. Nah, he’s New Age.’
‘Basically, he’s a hairy hunt saboteur? Is that what you’re saying?’ Hopie moved towards the office kettle and delivered a sigh.
‘That’s about it,’ concluded the Sergeant.
‘Anyway, news update...’ Sarah-Jane cried, mainly to get everyone’s attention and break a grouchy mood that seemed to be fermenting. ‘Your man’s agent rung in from London. The woman left a message.’
Hopie gave a pocket-sized yelp and pressed her palms to her cheeks. ‘Really? Already?’
‘Mooned Dog? Is that his name? He sounds like a Red Indian...’
‘Mooned Dog… I ask you,’ muttered Sergeant Moyes. He raised a hairy eyebrow. ‘he’s obviously New Age…’
But Sarah-Jane was keen to read the message out: ‘His agent said that Mooned Dog wants to meet you. He has planned a rendezvous with you at somewhere called Whitwick’s Oak. U think it’s near Burleigh. I wrote it down.’
‘What time?’
‘He says tomorrow morning — ten o’clock.’
‘What about me?’ Sergeant Moyes asked.
‘Just Hopie actually...’ Sarah-Jane replied. ‘The agent was very strict about it. She stipulated only Hopie would meet Mooned Dog. And the meeting must be in the open by Whitwick Oak. His agent specified she must come alone. I wrote it down.’
The Whitwick Oak
The next day Hopie prepared to meet the paranormal private detective called Moondog at the place he had chosen. Their meeting place was a good six miles from the centre of Hugh-Lupus, so Sergeant Moyes advised her that they ought to assign a patrol car to get her to the drop-off point on time.
‘The driver may not wait, mind,’ the Sergeant told her. ‘If a call comes through, he’ll have to respond. Do you understand? If he goes off on a call, give us a tinkle, and we’ll arrange a pick-up some other way.’
‘Sure,’ said Hopie. She fanned her face with a collision report form because she felt hot.
‘I asked the Chief if you could borrow a police radio. He said no, you wouldn’t need it. He explained you should not treat Mr. Moon Dog as if he’s an adversary — you should treat him as if he’s a fellow police worker.’
‘I was going to do that anyway…’
‘Well, I thought you might have misgivings… because I know I have. If I’m honest I will admit he’s not what I thought; he’d be like. I thought psychics were old men with white hair and smelly socks…’
‘Did you give the boss the benefit of your wisdom? Your thoughts about New Age travelers, tinkers, and so forth?’
‘I think I may have mentioned those ideas, as it happens.’
She bounced from foot-to-foot then grabbed the old Sergeant’s arm, ‘What if he asks me to go on a stakeout with him? Or asks me to take out a band of armed hoodlums? What will I say? What will I do?’
‘Just politely say no. Insist you are a civilian and you do not possess a police warrant card. Make sure he understands you are merely a liaison officer. And tell him you are not
real police. Repeat that bit for me...’
‘What?’
‘Repeat that last bit...’
‘I’m just liaison —not real police.’
‘Good. I called the communications centre and assigned a car for you. The unit will arrive outside the nick at twenty-to.’
‘Cutting it fine, isn’t it?’
‘I’m sure Mister Moon Dog can wait in a field if you’re a teensy-bit late.’
‘I’m not so sure. He doesn’t seem that type of guy.’
‘Oh? I got the distinct impression he was bloody fabulous. In fact, I think you used the word amaze-balls when you described him to Sarah-Jane for the umpteenth time.’
‘I think he might not be the patient type. Just an inkling.’
‘Do you have any other inklings I should know about?’
‘No Sarge.’
*
Hopie left the police station via her normal route, down the back stairs, and through the fire exit. She ducked under the traffic barrier and entered the street without crashing into you-know-who. She waited at the front of the building, near the blue lamp. She checked her phone three times to check on the time. She waited ten minutes before a patrol car arrived.
‘I might have guessed,’ she muttered as the car got closer. She could see, through the screen, that the police driver was the twatcock, Jimmie Lavery. He produced a distant, unfocused smile when he drew up outside the nick. He gestured her to get in the front, with him. She settled into the car-seat as the police radio blared. She managed to resist the temptation to flick on the blues lights and tamper with the siren.
Jimmie Lavery took a long, gratified sigh and said, ‘What's this about Hopie? You on a secret errand? You didn't tell me anything about it when I saw you yesterday.’
‘That’s the nature of secrets,’ she said. ‘I don’t spread them.’
