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

by Martin, Wilkie

  ‘It’s familiar and strange. I noticed it at home recently. Just faintly. It’ll come to me. In the meantime, duck.’

  ‘You what?’ I asked, puzzled.

  He dragged me to the ground behind the wall as a spear of light stabbed through the darkness with a deafening retort.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked keeping my head and voice low. ‘Is someone shooting us?’

  ‘No, someone shot at us. There’s an important difference.’

  ‘OK. But why shoot at us at all?’

  ‘We’d better find out and stop them doing it again.’

  ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘Yes, you can scream, as if you’ve been hit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Agh,’ I cried.

  ‘No, like this,’ he said, grabbing my wrist and pressing.

  ‘Aaagh!’ I screamed, writhing, until he released me.

  ‘Much better. Now do that every few seconds.’

  ‘OK, but for how long?’

  He’d already vanished, so I lay where I was and screamed. A few seconds later I screamed again and then again, making sure it was a really good one, proud of its length, volume and pitch. A light flashed in my face, dazzling me.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ asked a man.

  ‘Nothing … but I have a good reason.’ There was no sign of Hobbes and a number of people were staring at me, while keeping at a safe distance.

  ‘What reason?’

  ‘Umm … I don’t know, exactly.’

  ‘You’re a dickhead,’ said the man, and the group trudged away.

  Once again, I screamed.

  ‘Nutter!’

  On the far side of the lane, someone’s yell was stifled. I peeped over the wall to see Hobbes standing by the farmhouse, holding some poor devil by the collar, dangling him with his feet just scraping the ground. A shotgun with a broken back lay in the dirt until Hobbes booted it into a ditch, if he could boot anything with sandals on. Keeping my head down, creeping from the field, I went to see what was happening.

  As he turned the man round, I saw it was Mr Bullimore, shaking like a man on the gallows.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said Hobbes. ‘Perhaps you’d explain why you fired at us?’

  ‘If I’d known who it was, I wouldn’t have.’

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ said Hobbes, ‘be firing at anyone; it’s against the law.’

  Bullimore’s voice shook. ‘I apologise … I thought it was them again.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘Yes, them.’

  ‘Right,’ said Hobbes, ‘I think we should go inside and have a little chat. Don’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Bullimore, shaking his head, ‘we’ve got to find them.’

  ‘Whom,’ asked Hobbes, ‘do we need to find and why?’

  ‘Them!’ Bullimore screamed, his scream far more convincing than any I’d managed.

  Hobbes shrugged. ‘Calm down, sir, let’s go inside and then you can explain. Let’s be having you, sir.’

  Setting Bullimore back down, keeping a firm grip on his collar, he marched him round the side of the house to the front door, a great, solid, iron-studded creation, yet battered and cracked, as if it had withstood a siege. When he tried the handle it didn’t turn. He knocked; a few moments later, he thumped it.

  ‘Is anyone in?’

  ‘Yes … I hope so,’ said Bullimore. ‘I do have the key, though. There’s only this one door.’

  He stepped forward and tried to open it.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said Hobbes, ‘that it appears to be bolted, which suggests someone is in.’ He pounded the door so that it shook, with a rhythm and volume that must have made people suppose another band had come on stage. When it stayed shut, he raised his fists as if contemplating demolition, hesitated and let his fists drop to his side. ‘You two stay here,’ he said. ‘I’ll let myself in.’

  I leaned against the gritty, old farmhouse wall in a state of hyper-nervousness, waiting with Bullimore, who might have been paralysed. Hobbes disappeared round the back of the house, glass shattered and, soon afterwards, the bolts on the door squealing, he reappeared in a blaze of electric light. As Bullimore rushed past him, I followed, stepping over a scattering of various-sized wellington boots, finding myself in an old-fashioned house, with a large plank table, a number of worm-eaten wooden chairs and very few modern comforts.

  Mr Bullimore shouted, ‘Helen? Les? Kids?’

  No one replied. I knelt to tie my shoelaces hearing him running from room to room. As I got back to my feet, I became aware of a faint background odour, not dissimilar to Hobbes’s feral scent, and noticed him sniffing the air and frowning while looking around.

  Bullimore, white-faced and panting, pounded down the shiny, dark-wood stairs back into the front room. ‘They’re not here!’

  ‘Someone must have bolted the door,’ I said. ‘So where are they?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, slumping heavily onto a creaky wooden stool.

  Hobbes was crawling, toad-like, around the front room, sniffing, staring intently at the threadbare rug on the timeworn flagstones. Stopping, poking at a spot, he licked his finger. ‘This is blood and it’s fresh.’

  Bullimore, groaning, held his head.

  ‘Though,’ said Hobbes, ‘it’s not human.’

  Bullimore gave another, longer, groan.

  Hobbes, quivering like a terrier in a barn full of rats, reached the back window. ‘There are fresh scuff marks here … and dried mud. Someone has gone out through the window.’

  ‘When?’ I asked.

  ‘Within the hour, I’d say.’

  Bullimore looked up, his eyes hopeful.

  ‘Hello, hello, hello,’ said Hobbes, pointing to the peeling cream paint on the woodwork, ‘this is interesting.’ Holding a long, thick, brown hair between thumb and fingernails, he examined it.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Bullimore, despondent again, ‘the window is locked and can only be locked from the inside. What you say doesn’t make sense.’

  Hobbes, standing up, pushed at the sash window, which moved easily and silently, sliding back into place when he let it go. ‘The lock,’ he said, peering at it, ‘is broken. It appears to have broken a very long time ago.’

  Bullimore groaned again, his face tinged grey.

  ‘Now, sir,’ said Hobbes, sounding urgent, ‘I think it’s time you told me what’s going on. I want the truth, mind, no matter how peculiar.’

  ‘I don’t know how to tell you; you’ll never believe it.’

  ‘I’m very good at believing things. Try me. And quickly.’

  Bullimore sighed, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘I’m not sure where to start … it’s rather complicated and I really shouldn’t tell you this.’ He hesitated. ‘In fact, I can’t unless you promise not to tell anyone. You won’t believe it anyway.’

  ‘I said quickly,’ Hobbes growled, ‘and I meant it; we may not have much time. Perhaps it would help if I told you that I already know about Mr Bashem? I already had a strong suspicion, but the blood and the hair confirm it.’

  ‘What d’you know about him?’ asked Bullimore, staring, looking nervous.

  ‘That he’s your son-in-law, that he’s thirty-eight, that he and Mrs Bashem have six children, and that he’s a werewolf.’

  Bullimore’s mouth dropped open, mimicking mine. I was stunned Hobbes would think Mr Bashem was the werewolf; he seemed such a nice man. Maybe he was a little hairy and, perhaps he could have done with taking a bath but …

  ‘How did you know?’ asked Bullimore.

  ‘It’s my business to know,’ said Hobbes. ‘Now, please, tell me what’s going on, before it’s too late.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Bullimore. ‘Do you know anything about werewolves? Anything at all?’

  ‘A little.’ Hobbes smiled. ‘I was friends with one many years ago. He lived in a werehouse in town, next to the railway station.’

  ‘There isn’t a rai
lway station in town,’ I said.

  ‘This was before your time, Andy. So, Mr Bullimore, I am familiar with the type.’

  Bullimore sighed, looking relieved. ‘That’s good, because I didn’t know how to start. You’re absolutely right, Les is a werewolf. He’s a good lad, though, or I wouldn’t have let him near my daughter, being very protective after her poor mother died. I admit to being unsure about him to start with, and took steps to keep the wolf from the door when some of his behaviour struck me as barking mad. He’d scratch himself in public and wolf down his meals and, though I tried to put him off, he was dogged and one night he collared me and won me round. Of course, he’d long ago won Helen’s heart.

  ‘Well, to cut a long story short, they got married, with my blessing, and moved into a council house in Wolverhampton where, unfortunately, there were allegations about inappropriate use of lampposts and a misunderstanding over a cat that resulted in bad relations with the neighbours. A very unpleasant situation arose and Les was hounded by vigilantes. When he complained to the council, he was howled down and in the end they had to do a moonlight flit.

  ‘They tried other places but similar things happened. It seemed that someone was always telling malicious tales to their new neighbours. Though they were lies or gross distortions the result was always the same; people weren’t prepared to tolerate him, or Helen, or the young ’uns when they came along. They were spat at in the street and it began to get increasingly violent. In the end, in despair, they turned to me for help. As it happened, I’d long had an ambition to settle down in the country.’

  ‘So you all moved here,’ said Hobbes. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Loop’s Farm is mine. It’s been in the family for generations and I inherited it from my grandfather, though he never lived here. It was always rented out in my time until the old boy who was the tenant passed away and we moved in. We’re not great farmers, though the young ’uns have learned how to herd sheep, and money has been tight. That’s why we came up with the idea of the festival. We thought it would make a bit of cash while, hopefully, getting people on our side. Things seemed to be going well until a couple of months ago. It all started with our neighbour, Henry Bishop.’

  ‘I saw him die,’ I said.

  Bullimore stared at me, puzzled.

  ‘This is not the time for idle chitchat,’ said Hobbes. ‘Please continue, sir.’

  I didn’t feel he was being fair. It wasn’t chitchat; I had seen the man die, it had been horrible, and I’d suspected Hobbes. Though part of me still did, I began to wonder if Mr Bashem might actually have been the culprit.

  ‘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 pr
oblem 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.

  20

  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.