Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (33 page)

‘This
water,’ he said, seizing my shoulders, lifting me above his head and throwing
me.

The
water was cold: bloody cold. Going in backwards, I rose, gasping, to the
surface, where he allowed me a couple of indignant breaths before dunking me
again. I came up spluttering, seeing that he’d chucked me into a big, metal
trough.

‘Now
let’s have your coat,’ he said, ‘and I’ll give it a good scrub.’

‘But
…’

I
never had a chance to argue, for he unbelted and unbuttoned my coat, whipping
it off, dunking me again before I could react. Grabbing the side of the trough,
I tried to haul myself out, still gasping.

‘One
more time should do it.’

The
last thing I heard before going down for the third time was his chuckle.

‘Well
done,’ he said as I emerged, puffing. ‘Give yourself a good rub down.’

‘Do
I have to?’

‘I’m
afraid so. I’ll try to get some of the pong out of this.’

He
began scrubbing and beating my coat against the metal sides of the trough. The
water, once I was over the initial shock, didn’t feel so bad, so I stayed put,
rubbing at any dubious areas on my clothing, as Dregs joined in the jolly romp;
cold water possessed none of the terrors of a warm bath.

‘That’ll
do for now,’ said Hobbes, lifting me onto the grass.

Dregs
leapt out and delighted me by shaking himself all over Hobbes, who, shrugging
it off, wrung the water from my coat. While Dregs rushed about, rubbing against
the grass, I stood and dripped, seeing the distant blue-grey outline of hills
standing out on the clearing horizon, hearing the birds chorusing from the
woods and hedges.

‘It’s
all very well,’ I said, ‘but how am I going to get dry?’

‘Like
this,’ said Hobbes, his grin bright and clear, as he grabbed my wrist and
ankle. ‘Your very own spin dryer.’ The world turned into a blur and I became
aware I was yelling, with a mixture of indignation and exhilaration.

When,
at last, he set me down, I tottered sideways for several steps like a drunkard,
fell over and lay laughing in the grass. Hobbes sat next to me, Dregs flopping
on my feet, as a pink glow over the hills heralded the dawn. Within minutes we
were bathed in brittle, golden light, a fluffy mist lending an air of softness
to the farmland. Across the glistening fields, I could see the festival stages
had been set up. If the weather held, it looked like we’d be enjoying a great
festival, despite the music.

‘That,’
said Hobbes, in a thoughtful voice, ‘was a great night out.’

Looking
at my sodden, grimy clothes, the scratches on my hands, I thought of how I’d
been bruised and terrified.

‘I
wouldn’t have missed it for anything,’ I said, intending sarcasm. It didn’t
come out that way and I realised, I really wouldn’t have missed it.
Nevertheless, as the sun’s warmth touched me, a great tiredness settled in my
heart. I yawned, my head nodding, Hobbes’s voice seeming very distant.

‘C’mon,
Andy, grab your coat, it’s time to go home.’

Forcing
myself to stay awake, I got to my feet and followed him, smiling as Dregs scouted
ahead, his tail wagging happily, knowing just how he felt.

With
a yawn and a stretch, I came awake, my hands sore, the rich aroma of oxtail
soup pervading my room. Since I was in bed, with no memory of getting home, I
guessed Hobbes must have put me there. Sitting up, I examined a selection of
scratches that mapped the events of the previous night.

‘Good
afternoon,’ said a heavily accented, guttural voice.

‘Bloody
hell,’ I squeaked.

Milord,
back-lit by sunlight, half-moon spectacles glinting, sat hunched on a
three-legged stool by the window, a pile of my clothes at his side. He nodded.

‘Is
it afternoon already?’ I asked, hoping a show of normality would mask my
bemusement and shock.

‘Yes,
it is past noon.’

‘Gosh,
I must have slept like a baby.’

‘No,
this time you were not wearing a nappy.’

Bemusement
turning to embarrassment, I tried to camouflage it behind a weak laugh and a
question. ‘How come you’re always repairing my clothes in here?’

‘Because
you are always damaging them. You have become a great source of employment, for
which, I thank you.’

‘You’re
welcome. I mean to say … umm … why do you do it in my room? Haven’t you got a
workshop?’

‘Of
course, but Frau Goodfellow does not provide for me when I work there.’

‘That
is a good reason.’

Leaving
him to it, for the soup was demanding my attention, I got up, dressed in the
bathroom and trotted downstairs.

The
old girl was cutting bread. ‘Hungry, dear?’

‘Ravenous,’
I said, sneaking a slice of bread when she turned for a plate.

‘Good,
but we’d better wait for the old fellow.’

‘Is
he at the station?’

‘No,
he’s at the hospital.’

‘Is
he alright?’

‘He’s
fine, apart from some nasty scratches on his hands.’

‘I’ve
got a few of those and they don’t half sting,’ I said, holding up my hands,
showing them off.

‘They
look like gardening scratches,’ she said, peering. ‘The old fellow’s came from
a panther’s claws.’

I
was ashamed of trying to play up my pathetic collection of injuries.

‘I
gather you boys had some fun last night?’

‘Yes,
I suppose it was pretty exciting, or was when it wasn’t terrifying. But, if his
scratches aren’t serious, what’s he doing at the hospital?’

‘You
remember Mr Binks was arrested for assault?’

‘Yes,
of course.’

‘Well,
the man he is alleged to have attacked died in hospital, so now it’s a murder
and the old fellow’s on the case.’

‘Oh
no! Does that mean he’ll be late for lunch?’

‘Not
likely,’ said Hobbes strolling into the kitchen.

Dregs
padded after him, flopped into his basket with a sigh, and was asleep within
seconds. Late nights could obviously be too much for dogs, as well.

‘Glad
to see you up,’ said Hobbes. ‘D’you know you sleep like a baby?’

‘Only
when I was ill. I don’t always wear nappies, you know.’

He
laughed. ‘I mean you suck your thumb.’

‘Umm
… it was probably scratched. But do you know what’s happening with Featherlight?’

Hobbes, taking his place at the table,
sighed. ‘He’s in a real pickle. I’ll tell you after I’ve had my dinner.’

We
feasted on the magnificent soup and fresh crusty bread before adjourning to the
sitting room. Hobbes, having taken a slurp of tea, rested his mug on the coffee
table.

‘Featherlight,’
he said, ‘has been charged with the murder of the unidentified man who passed
away in hospital this morning.’

‘Does
he still deny it?’

‘Yes,
though the evidence appears to be against him.’

‘What
evidence?’

‘To
start with, no fewer than twenty-three people witnessed an altercation between
Featherlight and the deceased gentleman at the Feathers on Saturday evening. All
agree that Featherlight punched him, put him in an armlock and dragged him
outside. Approximately five minutes later, he was discovered unconscious in the
alley by the side of the pub.’

‘That
would appear to be pretty conclusive.’ I said. ‘So why does he keep denying it?’

‘He
denies assaulting the man, who he says called himself Mike, or Mickey, but
admits punching him.’

‘What’s
the difference?’

‘He
claims the punch was in self-defence. He also admits putting him into an
armlock and escorting him from the premises.’

I
snorted. ‘Escorting him from the premises? Is that what he said?’

Hobbes
chuckled. ‘Remember, he had been talking to a lawyer. What he means is that he
thumped the man and threw him out.’

‘In
front of twenty-three witnesses.’

‘Most
of them entirely credible. They include Kevin Godley and Billy Shawcroft. They’ll
all stand up in court, if it goes there.’

‘How
will anyone be able to see Billy in the witness box?’

‘Steps
will be taken,’ said Hobbes.

‘But
it sounds like Featherlight’s not really got a case.’

‘On
the face of it, no.’ He stroked his chin. ‘However, there are some points that
may be in his favour. Firstly, all the witnesses agree that he only punched the
victim once when inside the pub, yet the man had received a thorough beating
when he was found.’

‘But
he could have dragged the poor guy down the alley and done it.’

‘True,
though he’d have had to be quick and Billy is sure he was only outside for a
matter of seconds. Of course, Featherlight can be surprisingly fast, in short
bursts.’

‘I
know, I’ve seen him in action once or twice and he can be quite frightening.’ I
paused, as if to think and, to my surprise, a thought occurred. ‘Who found the
victim? If they found him only five minutes later, they might have seen or
heard something.’

‘Excellent,’
said Hobbes, ‘you’re thinking well. A group of lads out on a pub-crawl found
him and appear to have acted quite responsibly, despite being inebriated. One
of them called for help on his mobile while the others did what they could to
assist until the ambulance turned up.

‘The
strange thing is that we received another call about the incident a few seconds
after the first.’

‘Why
was that strange?’

‘Well,
the caller, who wouldn’t give his name, claimed to have witnessed Featherlight
beating a man.’

‘So,
why didn’t he stop him?’

‘He
said he tried to, but Featherlight attacked him and he had to run.’

‘That
sounds likely,’ I said. ‘I know I wouldn’t like to mess with him. I reckon he
did do it and is lying to save his skin.’

‘That
is possible,’ said Hobbes, ‘though he denies hitting anyone else.’

‘Well,
he would, wouldn’t he?’

‘Maybe,
yet I’ve always known him to tell the truth, or at least the truth as he
understands it. Still, I can’t rule out the possibility that he is lying,
especially with the charge being so serious. However, one of the lads who found
him claims to have seen someone running away down the alley. Unfortunately, he
couldn’t give a description, other than that he thought it was a man. None of
the others saw anything.’

‘The
guy was pissed, so how reliable is he?’

‘I
don’t know,’ said Hobbes, with a shrug, ‘though I don’t think he was as
intoxicated as all that. Nevertheless, I might have agreed with your
assessment, had it not been for that second phone call.’

‘Which
said Featherlight did it,’ I said. ‘I don’t see how he’s going to get out of
this one. He’s been close to going to jail for a long time and I can’t see him
keeping out of it again.’

Hobbes
poured himself another mug of tea. ‘He probably does deserve to go to prison,
if only for his cooking, but I’m not convinced he’s lying and wouldn’t be
surprised if the second phone call gets him off the hook. I think it would be
very helpful if I could find whoever made it. There was one other thing, you
know, that was extremely odd.’

‘What?’

‘Dregs.
When we got there he refused to go down the alley. He stood at the entrance,
trembling and bristling. The only time he’s been like that before was at the
Wildlife Park. What’s more, I understood what was bothering him, because I
sensed something wrong.’

‘You
were scared?’ I couldn’t believe it.

‘No,
not scared … stimulated more like …. I don’t know … I’m still thinking about
it.’

‘But
why?’

‘I
can’t say for certain. There was something in the air, a scent, but it was
strange, not exactly animal, and not exactly human.’

‘Like
a werewolf?’

‘Not
really. Besides, Dregs likes werewolves.’

He
sat in thought for a few moments, the house silent, apart from Dregs snoring in
the kitchen, until a car drove past, its occupants kindly sharing their music
with the world.

‘Of
course,’ said Hobbes, ‘this case would be simpler if we knew the victim’s
identity. Unfortunately, he had no wallet, or keys, or anything that might
identify him. That fact could be in Featherlight’s favour, as he had nothing
like that on him when he was arrested.’

‘He
could easily have hidden stuff.’

‘He
could, but I searched the area and found nothing. We are assuming, of course,
that the victim had some personal effects to take and it’s possible he didn’t,
though his expensive suit and shoes suggested he was well-off; in my
experience, prosperous people usually have some identification about their
persons. In addition, there was a white mark on his wrist, indicative of a
watchstrap, but no watch. Again, Featherlight hadn’t got it. Furthermore, he’s
never before robbed anyone he’s thumped.’