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

by Martin, Wilkie

  ‘Promise you won’t laugh?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure, but I think I saw … something I haven’t seen before.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Look, I’ve kind of felt something out there before, but last night was the first time I saw it proper. I was out setting my traps, trying to get ’em done before the rain came down, ’cause I could see we was in for a stinker.’

  ‘And you were right, but what did you see?’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Bob, taking a slow sip and sighing. ‘This is a lovely cuppa, love.’

  Mrs Nibblet smiled.

  He continued. ‘I’d just got going when I felt the wood was … watchful, a bit like it is when the big cats come out, but not quite the same. It was sort of like the feeling when a fox is out, except this seemed more like curiosity than fear. I knew something was up, so I hid in a culvert and waited. I could feel it coming and then I saw it by a tree, cocking its leg like a dog.’

  ‘What was it?’ I had to ask.

  ‘A werewolf.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Mrs Nibblet.

  ‘No, really.’ Bob glanced at Hobbes. ‘You saw it too, didn’t you?

  ‘I did, and so did Andy. The creature saved him from the panther, only it got its paw snagged in one of your snares.’

  ‘You see, Fenella?’ Bob turned to her in triumph. ‘They saw it too. Now what do you say?’

  ‘That you’re all soft in the head.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Unfortunately, that’s the reaction you’ll get if you tell anyone. They’ll never believe you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bob, his head nodding as if on a spring, ‘I had enough grief when I told the boys down the pub about the big cats, and I was right about them an’ all.’

  ‘So it’s best to keep things like this under your hat, then,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said,’ said Mrs Nibblet. ‘Perhaps you’re not as daft as you look.’

  ‘No one could be as daft as he looks,’ I quipped, regretting my loose tongue as Hobbes’s frown bored through me. ‘Sorry.’ I laughed nervously.

  Then he chuckled, the Nibblets smiled, and I’d got away with it.

  ‘We’d best be on our way,’ said Hobbes, getting to his feet, ‘or we’ll be late for our suppers and it’s cauliflower cheese tonight. Thank you for the nettle tea and your hospitality, Mrs Nibblet, and, Bob, remember what I said about snares. C’mon Andy, drink up. And quickly.’

  I took a sip or two from my mug, though it was still scalding hot, and handed it back three-quarters full. Mumbling my thanks, I got back in the car. As we drove away, I was puzzled, if pleased, that Hobbes was driving with care and consideration, keeping within the speed limit. As we parked on Blackdog Street, the front wheel dropped off.

  ‘I’ll get Billy to fix it,’ said Hobbes, getting out, bounding up the steps to the front door.

  ‘Does he know about cars?’ I asked, as I followed. ‘I thought he was only a barman.’

  ‘Only a barman? No, if you want anything mechanical fixed, Billy’s your man.’

  As soon as the door opened, Dregs, having obviously slept off last night’s exertions, his delight in seeing us evident, overwhelmed me. Though I appreciated the welcome, I wished he hadn’t knocked me down the steps and, though I assumed he hadn’t meant to do it, he made a noise very much like a snigger as I sprawled in the gutter, before dancing around me with a toothy grin. Every time it had happened, I’d made mental notes to be more careful, but events nearly always erased them.

  Picking myself up, slapping the dust from my jacket, I entered the house, showing as much dignity as I could muster with a party of excited camera-wielding Japanese tourists for an audience.

  Still, all my woes fell away as we sat down for supper, for, having finished my course of antibiotics, my taste buds had returned to life. Their resurrection, combined with Mrs G’s cauliflower cheese, outstanding even by her standards, was almost like a religious experience and brought tears to my eyes.

  ‘Too hot for you?’ Hobbes grinned. ‘If I were you, I’d let it cool. Now, is there any more, lass?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, as the old girl refilled his plate. ‘In fact it’s perfect. A perfect end to the day.’

  ‘Not quite the end of the day. You’ve got to identify a body first.’

  I felt like a man who, clinched in a slow smooch with the most beautiful girl at a dance, has just realised the large, muscle-bound, tattooed hooligan approaching him is her boyfriend. I had once been that man and Leticia, for that had been her name, had used me to make her man, Crusher, jealous. Though things had worked out very well for Leticia and Crusher, my evening had ended in a skip.

  ‘Do I have to? I’m tired and I don’t want to go down those tunnels again.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Hobbes, ‘the tunnels – I was joking but, since the car’s out of action, the tunnels might be the easiest way of getting there.’

  ‘What about a taxi?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea; I can never bring myself to trust taxi drivers. No, you’ve convinced me, the tunnels are the best way.’

  I had long ago realised that he didn’t like being driven, perceiving most drivers, other than Billy, as dangerous. He had a point, I supposed: other drivers had accidents but, when he crashed, it was deliberate, or so he said.

  We sat on the sofa watching a lousy film and, despite all my efforts, yawns kept breaking loose. I hoped Hobbes would regard them as a symptom of extreme fatigue and have pity. During a particularly wide and extended yawn, he turned to me.

  ‘I see this film doesn’t interest you. I’m not surprised. Anyway, the morgue will be as quiet as the grave now, so it’s a good time to visit.’

  I shivered. ‘I hope it’s quiet all the time. Do we really have to go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I take a torch?’ I asked, fighting to stay calm.

  ‘If you want. The lass keeps one in the drawer in the kitchen and it might have batteries. Grab it if you want; she won’t mind; she uses it when she’s cleaning the cupboards. Let’s go.’

  He got up, heading towards the cellar with Dregs at his heels.

  Although the torch did contain working batteries, I’d have felt considerably happier had it been bigger and brighter than a cigarette lighter. I took it anyway, even if it provided more reassurance than light. When I reached the cellar, the coal pile was not in place and Hobbes was standing with his ear to the tunnel door, listening. So was Dregs. The hairs on my neck bristled.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Shhh!’ He stepped back, a hairy finger pressed to his thick lips.

  Dregs whined, standing alert in front of us as the doorknob slowly turned. Something was trying to get into the cellar and I felt a desperate urge to get out, though my legs, in a display of reckless loyalty, refused to leave Hobbes.

  As the door swung back, I could hear shuffling footsteps, while cold, damp air seemed to be crawling around my feet. Shivering, I gulped, wanting to scream, to run, baffled as to why Hobbes was smiling and Dregs was wagging his tail. When something small and brown appeared in the doorway, I gasped; the last thing I’d been expecting was a shopping basket.

  A small, skinny figure stepped into view.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Can someone give me a hand with my baskets?’

  Hobbes, took the basket from the floor, reached into the darkness for another and carried them upstairs. One contained a pair of steam irons and the other a large, bony-looking fish. I assumed she’d bought them somewhere, though I couldn’t quite let go of the idea that she’d merely taken them for a walk.

  As I watched Hobbes, Dregs and Mrs Goodfellow leave the cellar, I realised with a chill of horror that I was alone, standing with my back to the open door of the tunnels. Turning, I peered into the blackness below, fearing something was coming. The feeling was too much to bear, so, running forwards, wary of the steep step
s, I grabbed the knob and pulled the door shut. A metallic chink came from behind it, repeating several times, diminishing like a fading echo. I was puzzled until I tried to lock the door.

  ‘Sod it!’ I muttered, clenching my fists, the fear of troglodytes, and God only knew what else, having access to the house, forcing me to act, to go below, to retrieve the key. After all, it would only be at the bottom of the steps; there would be no need to go any further, and I had a torch. What’s more, Hobbes knew where I was and would, no doubt, follow in a matter of seconds. Though I could have waited, I had to prove something to myself.

  Taking a couple of deep breaths, setting my jaw in a rugged, determined grin to underline my resolve, I turned the knob, pushed open the door and faced the void. My torch gleaming faintly, I stepped down, finding that, as the darkness deepened, its beam strengthened, revealing strange, intricate patterns carved into the dripping stone. I didn’t dare spare any time examining them. Walking down took much longer than falling down and I had to force myself to continue. When I reached the bottom, the torch fading quickly, flickered and died. Though I shook and banged it, it was a goner. I became aware of a faint, distinct stink, like a combination of sour milk and day-old cabbage water.

  In the dimness, I could just make out the key, lying in the puddle. I wondered whether the puddle was permanent, or just a result of heavy rain, and imagined it growing into a lake during the depths of winter. Bending down, groping for the key, I found the water so cold it hurt. The bad smell was growing stronger; I tried not to breathe it in.

  As my hand closed round the key, there was a noise like the suckers on a rubber bath mat being pulled up, something plopped into the puddle, and the water swirled. I fled, taking the steps two or even three at a time. On reaching the cellar, I yanked the door closed behind me and locked it, though I didn’t feel safe until I’d run upstairs into the kitchen.

  The old girl was scaling the fish in the sink. ‘Are you alright, dear?’

  I nodded, panting too hard to speak, and slumped onto a chair. Hobbes was on the phone in the sitting room.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘we have a positive identity? Well, that saves me a job … Thank you … Goodbye.’

  The receiver clicked down and Hobbes returned to the kitchen.

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘was the station. The lab has confirmed the body is that of Michael Peter Rook. He’d served time for GBH, among other things, and they were able to match his fingerprints. Furthermore, he didn’t die of his original injuries. He’d been smothered in his hospital bed. That’s good news, eh?’

  ‘Good news?’ My voice was shaky. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, firstly, it means Featherlight couldn’t have been responsible for his death and, secondly, you don’t have to identify the body. Thirdly, it’s going to be fun finding out who did kill him … and why.’

  ‘I see.’ I could have punched the air at my reprieve. To be honest, I’m not sure I could have forced myself back down the tunnels, though I bet Hobbes could have.

  ‘I’ll just lock up,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve already done that.’

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thanks. Umm … I dropped the key and went to get it and I think something was clinging to the wall. It dropped into the puddle … I don’t know what it was.’

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Hobbes, ‘but those suckers stink.’

  ‘They certainly do. Are they dangerous?’

  ‘I expect so, but they’ve never done me any harm.’

  Though he didn’t reassure me, the relief of not having to go to the morgue made me euphoric, almost as if I’d downed a couple of bottles of wine. When Hobbes returned to the cellar to replace the coal, the existence of the extra barricade made me feel even better. I slipped across the kitchen floor and landed a kiss on the old girl’s cheek, as warm and as soft as velvet.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said and surprised me by blushing. Then she inserted a thin knife blade into the fish and its guts fell out, stinking and slimy.

  ‘Fish tomorrow?’ I asked.

  ‘No, dear.’

  I pointed at the mess in the sink. ‘So, why are you gutting it?’

  ‘It’s something to do while I think.’

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘The festival. I’m just making sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Ensuring the punters are safe and have a good time is very important.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ I said, smiling, thinking she wasn’t a typical security guard.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Hobbes stepping back into the kitchen. ‘I’m planning to go there first thing in the morning to make sure everything’s safe before the crowds turn up. I thought I might turn in early tonight, as I doubt I’ll be getting much sleep over the weekend. And Andy, make sure you pack a bag.’

  When he went to bed, it was only nine o’clock. Though it seemed very early, after pushing a few clothes and other essentials into the old canvas kit bag that had been left by my bed, I too turned in.

  18

  When I awoke, it hardly seemed a minute had passed.

  Despite the scent of frying bacon making my mouth water, the comfort of warm blankets, for a few minutes, was even more alluring. Even in my drowsy state I knew this to be unusual, the old girl’s cooking having proved far more effective at getting me up than the alarm clock I’d relied on back in the days when I’d had a job. I couldn’t understand why I was so heavy with sleep that I didn’t want to move. Still, in the end, the bacon won. Sitting up, opening my eyes, I found it was so dark I feared we must be in for a storm, like the ones that had afflicted so many festivals I’d seen on the telly.

  I dragged myself from bed, yawning across the room, and pulled open the curtains, surprised the street lighting was still on, as if in the middle of the night. Dazed, I washed, dressed and fumbled down the dark stairs to the kitchen, where I stood blinking in the doorway, fluorescent light battering my bleary eyes.

  The old girl was at the cooker, sizzling bacon in a pair of blackened cast-iron pans that I struggled to lift. When she raised one in each hand to shake them, I feared her skinny wrists would snap, but she seemed as unperturbed as Dregs, who was still sprawled in his basket, emitting gentle snores. Hobbes, dressed alarmingly in his blue striped pyjamas and kitten slippers, leant across the table, slicing slabs of bread from a vast white loaf.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘Is it?’ I asked, too dozy to argue, sitting down at the table and yawning.

  ‘You’re up early,’ said Mrs G by way of greeting.

  ‘So are you. Why?’

  Flipping a rasher, she examined it for defects and, finding none, flipped some more. ‘Well, dear, it’s going to be a busy day, so we thought we’d best make an early start. We weren’t planning on waking you yet.’

  ‘Thanks … but what are we going to do?’

  ‘Keep people safe,’ said Hobbes, waving the bread knife a little too close to my nose. ‘The lass and her team will be ensuring there’s no trouble with the festival-goers, while I’ll be undercover, mingling, being inconspicuous.’

  I tried not to laugh.

  ‘And I’ll keep an eye out in case other things cause trouble,’ he continued.

  ‘You mean the big cats?’

  ‘I do in part, but I’ll be policing as well, seeing that nothing goes on that shouldn’t.’

  ‘What can I do?’ I asked, feeling like a spare part.

  ‘You can enjoy the music … but keep alert and let me know of anything you think I should know. In the meantime, would you care to saw this bread while I get changed? When you’ve finished this loaf, there are three more in the pantry; that should be sufficient.’ He handed me the bread knife.

  ‘Sufficient for what?’ Since he’d already carved a small hill of slices, I reckoned it might not all be for us.

  ‘For you two and for my security lads,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘They’ll be getting to the farm for seven and I think it’s only right and proper that they star
t the day with a decent bit of breakfast in their bellies.’

  ‘And when do we get ours?’ The aroma having wakened my stomach, it was grumbling and groaning quietly like a disappointed audience.

  ‘When we get there.’

  ‘So … umm … what time is it now?’

  ‘Nearly four o’clock.’

  I sighed, glancing out the window where a brittle, monochrome light was becoming apparent and a chaffinch began to sing. Twice in three days, I’d witnessed the sunrise and, much as I appreciated it, I hoped it wasn’t habit forming.

  I set to work, building a tottering tower of sliced bread, which the old girl, butter knife in hand, jar of home-made chutney chinking, converted into bacon sandwiches, hiding them away in a succession of brown paper bags. To my regret, not a single sandwich finding its way to me, I had to make do with a handful of the crumbs from the breadboard. Fortunately, there was a pot of tea and a couple of steaming mugs provided temporary respite. Still, I couldn’t say I wasn’t jealous when Dregs woke up and she treated him to a selection of bacon scraps.

  I sat, watching as she scrubbed the dishes. She was wearing her normal checked skirt, a brown cardigan and, as a concession to the event, a pair of green wellington boots, very much down-at-heel.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have a uniform or something?’

  ‘I have, dear,’ she said, turning round, pointing to a badge pinned to the middle of her cardie. ‘All the lads have them. Miss Pipkin typed them for us on her computer and Billy Shawcroft had them laminated. Nice aren’t they?’

  The badge read ‘Festical Sexurity’.

  ‘Shouldn’t that be ‘Festival Security’?’

  ‘Yes, dear, but old Miss Pipkin’s eyesight is not so good these days and I didn’t want to upset her. Anyway, it might have been worse.’

  ‘Much worse,’ I said, smirking, ‘though they won’t do much for your authority, will they? Won’t everyone laugh at you?’

  ‘They might, if anyone notices. But that’s not such a bad thing.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, dear. Laughter can dispel tension.’

  ‘I suppose it can,’ I said, thinking that not all laughter was well meant.