Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (2 page)

Bob
shrugged.

‘It’s
been brought to my attention that someone’s been poaching in these parts,’ said
Hobbes, shambling towards the Nibblets.

Mrs
Nibblet sniffed. ‘Oh, is that all? Can’t a poor man take the odd rabbit to feed
his starving family?’

‘If,’
said Hobbes, ‘only the odd rabbit had been taken, I very much doubt I’d be
here. Unfortunately, there’s been a sudden and dramatic reduction in the
pheasant population. Colonel Squire has been objecting. In fact, he’s been
objecting very loudly to Superintendent Cooper, demanding action. He says there’s
a lot of money in pheasants.’

‘In
which case,’ said Bob, ‘the odd one or two going missing won’t hurt him.’

‘Keep
quiet, you,’ said Mrs Nibblet, glaring at her husband, turning back towards
Hobbes. ‘Look, Bob only takes the odd bird or two that he comes across. Loads
more get killed on the roads.’

‘However
many he takes, poaching is still against the law. Yet, in this case, Mrs
Nibblet, dozens of young birds have vanished without trace, while a similar
number have been found without heads. Do you know anything about it?’

Bob
and wife spoke together, ‘Dozens?’

‘Yes,
dozens.’

Bob
shook his skull head. ‘Honestly, Mr Hobbes, it’s got nothing to do with me.’

Hobbes
frowned. ‘Fair enough, but perhaps you know something about it?’

Bob
glanced at his wife as if seeking permission.

‘We
know nothing,’ she said before he could open his mouth.

‘Nothing,’
said Bob after a moment’s hesitation.

Dregs
yelped and I turned in time to see him leap away from the cage, blood oozing
from the black tip of his nose and dripping onto the grass.

‘You
ought to keep that dog away from my ferrets, or he’ll get hurt,’ said Bob,
shuffling off his beer keg, approaching Dregs.

‘Careful,’
I warned, ‘he’s fierce.’

Bob
ignored me, taking Dregs’s head in his hands and examining the injury. ‘That’s no
more than a love-bite,’ he said, reaching into the pocket of his threadbare
jeans, pulling out a battered tobacco tin and handing it to me. ‘Open it,
please.’

I
screwed off the lid. The waxy brown goo inside stank of garlic and stuff. I
wrinkled my nose. ‘What’s in this muck?’

‘Garlic
and stuff, but it’s not muck.’ Scooping up a globule with a bony, nicotine-stained
finger, he massaged it into the wound.

To
my astonishment, Dregs, after a faint whimper, allowed the indignity. I knew I’d
never let the gunk get any closer to my nose than arm’s length.

‘Won’t
he just lick it off?’

‘Would
you lick it off?’ asked Bob, his grin exuding his habitual good nature.

‘Thank
you,’ said Hobbes. ‘He’ll not do that again. I doubt he’s ever seen a ferret
before.’

Dregs’s
tail thumped a staccato beat as Bob stroked him; I wondered how he would have
reacted six months ago when Hobbes had first brought him home, a savage, vicious,
malevolent creature. It had only been a few days after I’d moved in and,
without exaggerating, I’d been in fear for my health and safety, if not for my
life. In fairness, Dregs had only nearly killed me twice and neither time had
it been on purpose. Since then we’d become friends.

‘We’d
better be on our way,’ said Hobbes. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Nibblet.’ Again
he touched his forehead in an old-fashioned salute.

She
nodded, waddling back into the cottage as Hobbes turned, strolling towards his
car, gripping Bob’s arm. Dregs and I walked beside them.

‘Right,
then, Bob,’ said Hobbes, ‘you want to tell me something.’

‘Do
I?’ asked Bob, biting his lip, looking shifty, which was normal for him.

‘You
do. I saw the look you gave Mrs Nibblet.’

‘I
try not to look at her.’

‘You
can tell me in confidence,’ said Hobbes. He chuckled, his arm encircling Bob’s skinny
shoulders, like a python round a fawn.

Bob
squeaked and found himself in agreement. ‘OK, OK, I’ll tell you … just give me
a moment to catch my breath.’

Hobbes
releasing him, Bob talked. ‘Look, don’t think I’m going funny or nothing and I
don’t really know if it’s important or not, but I did see something the other
night … something strange.’

‘Go
on,’ said Hobbes, slowing to snail-pace.

‘I
was out for a quiet walk in the woods a couple of nights ago.’

Hobbes
raised his eyebrows.

‘And
you’ll never guess what I saw.’

‘What?’
I asked.

‘A
big cat.’

‘A
big cat?’

‘Yes,
a big cat.’

‘How
big?’

‘Andy,
shut up a minute,’ said Hobbes. ‘How big was it?’

‘Much
bigger than this dog of yours but it was black like him.’ Bob glanced around as
if hidden ears might be listening. ‘I reckon it was one of them panthers.’

‘So,’
said Hobbes as he reached his car, ‘you reckon a big cat’s been taking the
pheasants?’

Bob
nodded and then shook his head. ‘Yes … no … er … could be.’

‘Go
on,’ said Hobbes.

‘Look,’
Bob whispered, ‘I didn’t see it do anything; it was just slinking through Loop
Woods, that’s all. It might just be a coincidence.’ He stopped and frowned. ‘You
don’t believe me do you?’

Hobbes
looked thoughtful. ‘Let’s say I don’t not believe you. Thank you for your help
and if you see anything else you know where to get hold of me. By the way, I’d
lay off the night-time excursions on Colonel Squire’s land for the time being
if I were you. I’d hate to hear you’d been eaten by a stray cat. Goodbye.’

With
a nod, he squeezed into the driver’s seat and, as soon as Dregs and I had taken
our places, started the engine, waving as we lurched and bumped back down the
track. Bob was standing still, rubbing his shoulders, wearing an anxious frown on
his bony face.

‘What
d’you make of that?’ I asked.

‘I
don’t know yet,’ said Hobbes. ‘There have been plenty of reports of mysterious
big cats over the years, so it’s not out of the question, but Bob’s never been the
most reliable of witnesses.’

‘I
reckon he was just trying to cover his tracks,’ I said. ‘It’s hardly likely
that a big cat would eat loads of pheasants.’

‘It
depends on how hungry it was and, if we allow the possibility that one big cat’s
on the loose, there’s a chance there may be others. And don’t forget that dead
sheep; that could conceivably have been the work of a big cat.’

‘It’s
a bit far-fetched. Surely, you don’t believe him?’

‘As
I said, I don’t not believe him. In fact, it wouldn’t be the first time there’ve
been big cats on the loose around here.’

‘Really?’
I said. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘It
was a few years ago, just after I’d been made up to sergeant, and it all
happened up by the Elms estate, which in those days was a quiet, pretty place
with lots of beautiful elms and very few houses. It was, by all accounts, a lovely
spring day and no one could have anticipated the terrible events. Do you want
to hear it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I
wasn’t there, being on holiday in Rhyll at the time, and only heard the story
when I got back. Apparently a small travelling circus had come to town,
featuring among the usual acts, a pair of lions in the charge of Claude the
lion-tamer.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Actually, that might not have been his name,
but he was definitely clawed, and had to be taken to hospital with multiple
lacerations, leaving the other circus folk to look after his animals. They didn’t
do a very good job.’

The
car bumped along the track, stopping at the end of the lane, the bleating of nearby
sheep drifting in through the window.

‘Go
on,’ I urged, meaning to continue his story, not to pull out in front of the
lorry that was powering towards us. Brakes shrieked, the engine roared and
somehow we were still alive.

He
continued. ‘They forgot to feed them for a few days and, when they remembered,
both lions lay limp in their cage, as if dead. A juggler and a clown went in to
check – the clown had nicked himself shaving and was bleeding. Anyway, to cut a
long story short, the lions weren’t dead; they’d merely been sleeping and woke to
find two men in their cage and the door wide open.’

‘Gosh,’
I said. ‘That must have been scary, especially for the bleeding clown.’

‘Language,
Andy. As it happens, the lions, ignoring the clown, went straight for the
juggler, who was in front of the door, and knocked him to the ground. Yet, the
lure of freedom proved stronger than hunger and they fled without harming him.
The circus folk contacted the police, who organised a big search but found no
sign of the beasts.

‘They
turned up on Sunday morning. Back then there was a pleasant little church on
the estate and a service was in progress when the lions walked in. The story
goes that the vicar looked up to see them bounding towards him down the aisle. “Oh
Lord,” he prayed in his terror, “turn these ravenous beasts into Christians.”’

‘What
happened?’ I asked, agog.

‘Well,’
said Hobbes, ‘on hearing his words, the lions stopped, bowing their heads
before the altar. The vicar rejoiced, certain a miracle had been granted to him,
until he heard what they were saying.’

‘The
lions could speak? What did they say?’

‘For
what we are about to receive …’

I
laughed. ‘No! I don’t believe you.’

Hobbes
chuckled. ‘Oh well, you’re learning. Actually, most of the story is true, just
not that last bit. In reality, old General Squire, Colonel Squire’s
grandfather, shot them both in the apse. A pity as they weren’t doing any harm.’

‘What
next?’ I asked.

‘I
think we should pay a visit to the Wildlife Park and have a quiet word.’

‘You
do think there’s a big cat on the loose.’

‘I
would merely like to eliminate the possibility from my enquiries.’

The
road to the Wildlife Park, being quiet, presented Hobbes with an opportunity
for some brutal accelerator crushing. I clung to my seat, sweating, wishing I
could be as cool as Dregs whose head was stuck out the window, ears flapping
like bats in a hurricane. Now and again, Hobbes insisted on looking over his
shoulder to talk to me, allowing the car to swoop wildly across the road,
taking the shortest route. Responding only encouraged him; keeping quiet only
made him turn to check nothing was wrong.

Fortunately
for my well-being, the ten-mile journey could only have lasted five minutes,
since the more I got used to his driving, the more frightening it became. Turning
into the Wildlife Park, we slowed down, having, as always, made it without harm
to ourselves or others. A small herd of antelope stared at us, acting skittishly
as if we might be predators. To the left, half a dozen two-humped camels
lounged in the shade of a mighty tree, watching the world with total disdain.

‘I’d
best keep well away from that lot,’ said Hobbes, a look of concern on his face.

‘Why?
They’re not dangerous are they?’

‘Not
as such, but unfortunately I have an allergy to camels; at least they’re not
dromedaries, because they can make me really bad.’

‘Well,
at least you’re not allergic to something common, like dogs or cats. You can’t
run into camels very often.’

‘You’d
be surprised.’

The
car park was guarded by a broad, red-faced man in a narrow, green booth. Standing
up, he emerged, ticket machine swinging from his bulging neck.

‘Be
careful,’ I said, ‘he’s going to charge.’

Hobbes,
stopping the car, smiling, held out his ID. ‘I’d like a word with the manager.’

‘Very
good, sir. Try the main office in the big house, but dogs aren’t allowed.’ He
pointed to a large sign confirming his statement.

‘It’s
alright,’ said Hobbes, ‘he’s with me.’

‘But
…’

‘He’s
with me,’ said Hobbes, his tone leaving no room for argument.

‘Fine.
In that case, you’d better leave your car by the coaches,’ said the poor man
pointing vaguely behind him, mopping his forehead with a red handkerchief, ‘because
the parking by the house is rather limited at the moment. We’re expecting
delivery of a kangaroo.’

Hobbes
thanked him and parked and we piled out of the oven. I felt as limp as a
month-old lettuce and even Dregs was drooping.

‘You
two look like you could do with a drink,’ said Hobbes, parting the flock of
excited school children loitering in front of the kiosk, deciding which sweets would
rot their teeth best. He returned with a large lemonade for me and an ice cream
carton filled with water for the dog. Dregs lapped it up, splashing almost as
much as he drank.

‘We’d
best find the manager,’ Hobbes said when I’d drained my paper cup and Dregs had
licked the carton dry. ‘Come on. And quickly.’