Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (36 page)

‘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 steps, 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.

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.