by Neil Mach
‘But why tell people that a beast attacked them?’
‘How could they explain their injuries to relatives and friends in church? It seems common knowledge around Hugh-Lupus that a large cat is on the rampage, so it became a handy excuse. Also, I think they are suffering from psychological disorders, possibly brought about by poisoning...’
‘Crikey, Moses. Poison? Who poisoned them?’
‘Oh, I do not think anyone poisoned them. At least not deliberately. I think something has been contaminated, though. Something they ate. I’m going to get to the bottom of it.’
The arrived at the Holiday Inn. Moondog handed over a keycard tucked into a cream envelope. ‘It is room number eighty-four. I hope you like it. I’ll see you back here at eight tomorrow morning, if not before. Go and relax. I paid for a spa treatment; everything on account. If you need room service, call reception.’
‘You’re very generous. I’d like to go with you on your investigation, but I dare say you know best. Will you promise you’ll come and see me when you get back though?’
‘Oh yeah.’
She turned her head to kiss him on the lips, but he moved his head to pass a tip to the taxi driver.
‘Later then,’ she said as opened the door for her.
She got out of the car and smiled and waved.
But the taxi pulled away and then she couldn’t see Moondog any longer.
*
Hopie had a super-smart idea while she wallowed in the aerated water of the Holiday Inn Jacuzzi. She would help Moondog with his investigations. She toyed with the notion of doing a night-time stakeout at Groby Pool, then discarded the idea quickly. She would be useless at that sort of thing, especially without him there to guide her. No, what she needed to offer was a good deed that he could not do himself. Maybe she could go somewhere that he couldn’t. Then the penny-dropped, of course, what a splendid idea, she would go somewhere with a C.C.T.V. system. Moondog would be over-the-moon if she did that. And he would be especially pleased. He’d accept her as a team-member, and maybe they would start to get closer.
After a sweaty roast in the sauna, she came up with a perfect assignment. She would gather the low-down on the Voodoo Vet he mentioned. Now, what was his name? Stephen something? Stephen Rees? She was sure it was something like that. She resolved to interrogate the Criminal Intelligence System in the morning. She’d also conduct a secret undercover mission, go into to his surgery probably, to get salient facts. Her fingers twitched, her eyelids fluttered, and she imagined how Moondog would reward her when she broke the case.
Oh, yes, he’d seize her in those strong arms and probably tug her top off… then he would use all his vital strength to thrust his hunky body against hers. Yum! She laid back on the whitewashed boards and enjoyed a buzzing sensation that went into her toes. Then she flopped for another ten minutes, hot and healthy. It did her good.
*
Adair Bradigan
Moondog knocked on the door of a house on the outskirts of Hugh-Lupus about mid-evening. ‘Hello, Adair Bradigan?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘You recognise me, don’t you? From the allotments? I have been helping on some plots. Do you know what moxibustion is Mister Bradigan?’
‘Sod off pikey. I’m not talking to you.’
‘I want to come in and discuss moxibustion with you.’
‘If you don’t get off my doorstep, I’ll call the old bill, and have you nicked...’
‘I don’t think you’ll do that.’
‘Try me.’ Bradigan began to squeeze his door shut. But Moondog put his boot in the crack.
‘Listen to me.’
‘Why?’
‘Look at that black car over there. The one with darkened windows. See the back door, how it slid open?’
‘What about it?’
‘That’s the press. They want a story. It’s why they followed me to your place. They have a long lens in the back. And an increased response microphone. Do you know what that is?’
‘Who cares? What’s it got to do with me? Get your foot out of my door.’
Moondog tilted his head back and gave Bradigan a playful smile. ‘Aren’t you just a little curious why they’ve got eavesdropping equipment trained on your door? Or why they have their ultra-long lens video cameras pointed at your window? Or why they are willing to wait hours and days to get a story? Don’t you want to know why they will follow you for months, or why they will do forensic searches on your finances, or why they will interview your friends and relations, or why they will doorstep your neighbours, and generally make your life a living hell?’
‘All that doesn’t concern me. Go away.’ But Adair Bradigan raised an eyebrow and gazed at the car that parked opposite his home, with a back door open.
‘I’ve told them to go ahead with their exposé if I’m not invited inside to talk to you...’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Just answers, Mr. Bradigan. Then you will never see me again. I’ll call off the hounds too.’
‘Why should they listen to you?’
‘Because they trust me,’ said Moondog. ‘That’s the deal I struck with them.’
‘Why should they trust you? What is all this?’ Moondog allowed his arms to fall by his sides, then shrugged. ‘Look, it’s your choice, Mister. I haven’t got all day. I’d rather that lot ripped your life apart. And they will. They will dig into your privacy like wolves. That’s why they call them a press pack. You’ll have to move away. Your wife will lose her job. Your kids will change schools. All very distressing. You’ll need to start a new life. Get new allotments. Make new business connections. And even if you do all that, some nosy little hack will find you all over and start nosing about again, and the nightmare will never end...’ Moondog yawned. Then he pulled his fingers through his hair and turned to leave. ‘He’s all yours, guys...’ He said as he winked at Bradigan. ‘They can hear me, of course, with the long-distance microphones.’
Adair Bradigan coughed loudly and said, as clear as he could, ‘Yes, sir. Please come in to discuss things.’
‘That's the spirit. Thank you,’ replied Moondog. ‘I appreciate your cooperation in this matter.’
Bradigan closed the door behind and led Moondog to his back room. He offered a seat at the dining table. ‘Make this quick, pikey. My wife and kids will be back soon. I don’t want them to find out you here — or that lot outside. You understand?’
‘Oh, yes, completely. That’s why I don’t want fuss. It would be most unfair to your family; they are innocent.’
‘What do you know?’ asked Bradigan. He gave Moondog a fake smile as he narrowed his eyes.
‘I know you cultivated wild rye on your allotment... An ancient strain.’
‘What about it? That’s not an offence...’
‘An old cereal strain, yes?’
‘So?’
‘I’ll get to that in a moment, but first I want to ask you about moxibustion, do you know what it is, Mr. Bradigan?’
‘It’s traditional Chinese medicine; there’s nothing wrong with it, no law against it...’
‘Have you been supplying Artemisia to the local Chinese community? Grown on your plot? ‘
‘Well, yes, I have. But as I say, there is no law against it.’
‘Why are you so defensive, Mister Bradigan, if you’ve got nothing to hide?’
Bradigan sucked his cheeks and put a hand to his lower jaw to give it a rub. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Have you been supplying mugwort to Stephen Ruis? The local vet?
‘What if I have?’ Bradigan shrugged then examined his palms. ‘There’s no law against it. Why do you care?’
‘You know what he does with the herb, don’t you?’
Bradigan shuddered and swallowed, ‘No. Why would I?’
‘Because you are a talented gardener. You are a gifted herbalist. You have studied stories about the use of such crops. For example, I know you grow old and magical gr
ains on your plot. You take great interest in all that spooky stuff.’ Moondog looked around the room and saw shelves of books. ‘I bet those pages are about magic potions and ancient remedies.’
‘Maybe.’
‘For example, I suppose you know that a few twigs of mugwort hidden under a pillow at night will provoke wild dreams...’
‘So what? There’s no law against it...’
‘You keep saying that Mister Bradigan...’ Moondog raised his voice a fraction. ‘As if you are quite certain of it. Although I hate to disappoint you, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. There are laws against it. People get compensation every day because they ate contaminated food. Local solicitors guide folks through food compensation claims every hour. And there are general food law regulations that need to be followed too: The Food Safety Act, Safety and Hygiene Regulations. Need I go on? Foodstuffs that are injurious to health or unfit for human consumption are controlled by tight legislation. Food business operators are required by law to keep records of where they sourced food, so you won’t be surprised if I tell you that Tony Marr’s take-away in Town and Nan Pantan’s Health Food Shop both recorded and reported that you provided foodstuffs to them. Are you registered to do that Mister Bradigan?’
Bradigan pulled at his collar. ‘Maybe I need to contact my solicitor. Maybe I shouldn’t answer any more of your stupid questions.’
‘I’m not the law, sir. As you are keen to point out, I’m merely a pikey. Those hounds out there —they’re something else entirely. When they get back to their offices with the story, do you know what their editor will say?’
Bradigan shrugged and moved his feet.
‘The editor will say, have the police been informed? Because we can’t run a story until the law has investigated it. And we need to make it clear to our readers that we handed our findings to the constabulary.’
‘All that pre-supposes I am in the food business. And I’m not. I grow a few herbs on my allotments, for personal use. It’s a hobby.’
‘How many allotments do you have on Charleyhall Avenue? How many cold frames?’
‘Er?’
‘Have you forgotten? I’ve been there. I’ve seen them. I’ve counted. I can tell you if you want because I got the exact information from the society. Ten poles, yes?’
‘Yes, something like that.’
‘Oh, come on, Mister Bradigan, don’t be reticent about the size of your holding. Ten poles is the size of one allotment isn’t it? It’s been that way since the Anglo-Saxons hasn’t it? A man is allowed ten poles. But you haven’t got one plot, have you? You run eight plots, that’s eighty poles, or two hectares if you want to be precise. With twenty cold frames...’
‘So what?’
‘Don’t you think that amounts to commercial enterprise?’
‘It would have to be proved. And anyway, as I say, I grow herbs and unusual cereals as a hobby. Mainly for medicinal purposes. I’m not in the food game...’
‘Well, that could be argued, Mister Bradigan. But I’m not here to do that. Although I ought to warn you that you don’t want to go down the ‘medicinal purposes’ road... the legislation governing medicinal herbs are twice as strict as food hygiene laws. You do not want to tell people you cultivate medicines on your plot, Oh no.’
‘Why?’
‘Just think about it. Are you a licensed chemist? What will the local constabulary do when they find out you have been growing ‘herbs’ on your small-holding and selling them to local dealers. You can expect an early morning knock, and then your house will be trashed by the boot-boys in blue. They might even find something interesting, mightn’t they?’
‘No. of course they won’t. They wouldn’t find anything.’
Moondog wandered to the French windows. He peered into Bradigan’s back garden. He could make out a line of sacks that stood by a garden wall. ‘What’s in those bags?’
‘Nothing. You need a warrant to look around my place. I think I will phone my solicitor after all...’
‘Why are you getting nervous, Mister Bradigan?’ Moondog gave a large grin. ‘I thought you said the police wouldn’t find anything.’
‘Well, they won’t...’
‘What’s on those drying racks, Mister Bradigan?’ Moondog turned his attention to a rack in the corner. Strips of bark hung from plastic prongs.
‘That’s dried barking.’
‘Mmm. Is it oak bark? Did you strip it from a tree, dry it here and intend to supply it to the Voodoo Vet? He’ll stuff it inside the skull of a dog, won’t he? He’ll sell it to an overseas user. They use it for magic, don’t they?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Because, as I said, you know about such things. Come on, Mister, it’s your business to know. I’d bet we’d find dried chamomile here, and yarrow, and Valeria, and horsetail. Should I go on?’
‘So what?’
‘Just admit it; you provided local businesses with these herbs... yes or no?’
‘So what?’ Bradigan licked his top lip.
‘Yes or no?’
‘Yes, yes. Are you satisfied? Get out, get out. Leave me alone. Take the press-pack with you...’
Moondog made his way to the front door and nodded. ‘See, not difficult at all, is it Mister Bradigan? Being honest? Why do you make things so hard for yourself?’
‘I still don’t get what’s in this for you. Why get involved?’
‘I’m just trying to establish the truth. That’s all. I like to sort out myth from fact. That’s all I care about. Oh, and the health of the local community. That brings me to my final point, Mister Bradigan. I have one more thing to clear up before I call off the hounds and we leave you forever.’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Your rye crops? Have you ever noticed how some kernels are black or dark purple?’
Bradigan rubbed his nose and lowered his chin, ‘Er? What if they are?’
‘You know what I’m talking about don’t you. Look me in the eye, Mister Bradigan, you know what I mean don’t you? You know you’ve got ergot-infected grain, don’t you? You’ve been reading-up on the problem, haven’t you? You know that ergot poisoning was common in the Middle Ages, and that’s why the monasteries stopped growing their rye. The stopped it because of the terrible symptoms. Because of the plagues… The plagues of vampires, necromancers, and wraiths. You know what ergot poisoning does, don’t you? And yet you sold it to the Health Food Shop, and the Chinese take-away?’
‘I, er...’
‘The symptoms of ergot poisoning include wild hallucinations, right? Ingestion of the grain causes people to think they can fly. It causes seizures and allergic reactions, yet you knowingly sold ergot infected grain to local food outlets… including the health-food shop. You should be ashamed of yourself Mister Bradigan...’
‘What will you do?’
‘Like I already told you, I’ll do nothing — I’m just a pikey. I just wanted to know the truth. Good evening Mister Bradigan. I will see myself out.’
*
Moondog arrived at Cyril Calcedon’s bungalow much later. The old man opened his door.
‘Hello, do you remember me?’ Moondog said.
‘Oh, yes you’re with the police. The fellow from Natural England.’
‘Mind if I come in?’
‘No, sure, come in. But it’s late, this will not take long, right?’
‘Surprised to see me?’ asked Moondog, as the door was closed.
‘A bit, yes.’
‘I have come for your resignation.’
‘I’m sorry, I do not understand.’ Cyril Calcedon led Moondog into the main room and offered him a seat.
‘I need your written resignation. You will resign from the seat of the Sapcote and Burbage wildlife group tonight.’
‘Oh, no. I won’t do that. The wildlife group is my whole life. Can I offer you tea?’
‘No thanks, no tea. No time. I’m a busy man Mister Calcedon so I will get straight to the point. Either I receive your resign
ation tonight, or we will close the wildlife group.’
‘Close it? Can you do that?’
‘Well, you can run it if you want to, but the group won’t be formally recognised by Natural England. We’ll make sure your group is cut off from all other groups, nationally and internationally...’
‘Oh dear, but why? What has happened?’
Moondog opened his satchel and pulled a large photographic print out. The picture showed a male figure, probably of Han Chinese descent, and aged about thirty. The figure had a scar on his left cheek. ‘Have you ever seen this man before?’ Moondog asked.
‘No, never.’
‘That’s strange, because he knows you...’
‘Does he? Do tell.’
Moondog cleared his throat, ‘This man was picked up by the R.S.P.B. wildlife crimes unit this afternoon. He was on his way back home in Argyll. Travelling from Hugh-Lupus. That’s a coincidence, huh? When they searched the fellah, under the Countryside Act, they found certain papers. Papers that implicate you...’
‘Me? Well, he probably found them I expect. Like I said, I’ve never seen the man before.’ Calcedon fidgeted with the sleeves on his threadbare cardigan.
‘When interviewed, the man mentioned your name...’
‘Oh my God.’
‘He told the crime team that he’d been in Hugh-Lupus searching for a big cat... Do you have any idea where he got that information?’
‘I can explain.’
‘You should.’
‘I met the man through a mutual friend. That was two years ago. He seemed interested in wildlife and he made a substantial cash contribution to our treasury fund. He gave the donation on the understanding that if we ever came up with anything exciting, chiefly the sighting of an exotic creature, I should let him know right away... I hardly know him other than that. I never saw him again.’
‘And that mutual friend was Stephen Ruis was it? The local vet?’
