Moondog and the Reed Leopard

by Neil Mach

  Both girls narrowed their eyes before giving half-hearted smiles. They were amused rather than wounded by his comments. The Sergeant was an old-timer and stuck on his ways. He wasn’t a bad sort. Just boring. The Sarge turned to his screen and said, ‘The internet connection is slow today. As useful as a pair of tits on a bull. I wanted to check online for radiator paint.’ He looked over to see their reaction, but the girls had already started to bang out some reports.

  After ten minutes, Sarah-Jane couldn’t stand the silence any longer and piped in: ‘So, all joking aside Hopie — when does Mister Moon Dog want to see you again?’

  ‘He didn’t say,’ Hopie lied. ‘He said he might bump into me some other time. There’s nothing fixed. So, who knows? His name is Moondog by the way… no gap.’

  ‘Mmm. Bump into you, huh? Rumpy-bumpy maybe? Would you going to go for a ride with him some time?’

  ‘My God...’ said Sergeant Moyes, clasping his forehead.

  ‘Give it a rest...’ said Hopie.

  ‘Oh, come on, girlie...’ said Sarah-Jane. ‘You know you need a guy. You’re itching for a night out with a real man. And Mister Moon Dog sounds ideal for you. He’s a bit spaced out, just like you. He sounds out of touch, just like you. He’s a bit weird, just like you. Let’s be frank, dear; the guy’s a perfect match.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about him. So, stop trying to be my matchmaker. He might be married for all I know — married with three kids. And a mortgage. Anyway, he’s a professional. He’s here to do a job of work, that’s all.’

  Sergeant Moyes cut in: ‘Married? No, never. Not his type. He might have a few sprogs scattered around. Guys like him broadcast their wild oats all over. But married? Nah. And a job of work, huh? That’s a laugh too. Though Sarah-Jane is right. A man’s what you need, dear... a bit of bumpy-bumpy… I could fix you up with a nice young policeman from downstairs of you want me too…’

  ‘Shhh, be quiet,’ Hopie said. She fiddled with the sleeves on her cardigan. ‘He is nice though, isn’t he?’ She glanced across at the Sarge who picked his nose and studied some dried snot that he’d pulled out. ‘Better than most men around here, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Is he interested in you, though?’ Sarah-Jane asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he is. When he touched me — it was kind of tense and buzzy. It felt electric —’

  ‘He touched you?’ Sergeant Moyes burst in again. He wiped his sticky finger on the edge of his desk. ‘I should never have sent you on a solitary encounter in a bloody field. Where was that prat Jimmie Lavery? Why didn’t he go into the field with you to protect you? I’ll have his guts for garters, the useless little sod...’

  ‘It wasn’t Jimmie’ fault. He was nearby. And Moondog didn’t touch me. Well not in a way that you’re suggesting. He didn’t touch me in a sexy or perverted way. Nothing sleazy. Just being friendly — he put a hand on my shoulder.’

  ‘Taking advantage, that’s for sure. He shouldn’t be touching you. What’s his game?’

  ‘It’s okay Sarge, really it is. Thanks for caring, though, but nothing happened, nothing to worry about. Truly.’

  ‘Well, I’m not happy. I don’t want you to see him again, you understand. Not on your own anyhow. That sort can’t be trusted...’

  ‘What do you that sort? And anyway, who are you to tell me who I can and can’t see. I’m a grown woman. I don’t need your protection. Or anyone else’s come to that…’

  ‘Oh, come on, Hopie, everyone knows that kind of bloke tempts nice girls away from their family and friends.’

  ‘What rot.’

  ‘Is it?’ Sergeant Moyes crossed his legs, then placed an arm behind his head. Hopie could see a yellow sweat-stain on his armpit. ‘Romanian gangs wander Britain all the time; they’re kidnapping nice white girls into slavery as we speak. Everyone knows it’s true. It’s in the daily papers all the time.’ Sergeant Moyes held up a copy of the Daily Mail to prove his point.

  ‘Good grief, Sarge. That’s a racial stereotype. You ought to know better. Moondog isn’t Romanian, is he?

  ‘Got dark skin, though hasn’t he? How do you know he isn’t a slave-trader? Not that I hold the colour of skin against him, of course, I don’t, but you must admit it’s one of those little warning signs, isn’t it? I suspect there’s a little touch of the tarbush in his family. You better beware, my girl. Watch yourself when you’re around the dark-skinned types. And don’t fall for their hypnotizing...’

  ‘Hypnotizing?’

  ‘I saw you at the tea rooms. You were like putty in his hands, weren’t you? Keep your distance; that’s what I think. I’ll tell the Chief that this madness must end. We’ll thank the Romanian hippie-traveler for his efforts and explain that we’ll manage to work things out ourselves... we’ll tell him goodbye. Yeah?’

  ‘Will we?’

  ‘Of course, we will...’

  ‘What about last night’s attack at Groby Pool? The one I’ve been typing-up for the C.I.D. Don’t you think it’s connected to all the creepy stuff that’s been going around? Don’t you think it’s spooky and uncanny? The couple said they got pounced on by a phantom panther…’

  ‘There’s nothing mysterious about it...’ Sergeant Moyes shrugged. ‘Recreational use of psychedelic drugs, most probable acid. Psychoactive intoxication, yes. Paranormal, no.’

  ‘No sign of poisoning, though, was there? And, according to the report I typed, they volunteered to go to the hospital, and they provided samples. The investigating officer says they found no pills, alcohol or other paraphernalia. And their injuries — the lacerations — were consistent with the story. He said they looked like claw-marks...’

  ‘Wait until the official determination. Wait until the enquiry is complete. Lover’s tiff after an overdose is what I expect it’ll be. I’d bet a week’s wages it’s the upshot. Stop being so bloody over-the-top Hopie. It’s not good for you.’

  *

  The following morning Moondog completed his early-morning work-out at the hotel gym. The management kindly agreed to turn-off their C.C.T.V. at roughly the same time each day, for routine maintenance. This gave Moondog the perfect opportunity to enjoy an unsupervised session before anyone else came in and before the cameras got turned on.

  After his session, he got straight onto the telephone to call his London agent, the production assistant, Tibby Fromstein.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit strange?’ he said, without introducing himself. ‘Isn’t it a coincidence that there was a police incident was at Groby Pool over the weekend? That’s only a few miles from Hugh-Lupus, and I’m up here on their patch…’

  Tibby yawned because it was early: ‘Maybe it’s just that, a coincidence. We shouldn’t read anything into it…’ Tibby Fromstein knew he’d be up with the lark so was canny enough to keep her phone by the bed, for his early-morning calls. ‘Perhaps you could ask your friends in the police what they know about the incident...’ she suggested. ‘That might alleviate your qualms…’

  ‘I have no friends in the police...’ Moondog told her, firmly. ‘And I don’t have qualms. I’m just saying it’s a curious coincidence. Since we were planning to come up here anyway, to the Groby Pool story. But, yes, I still have lots of stuff to do up here. The dog mutilations are the least significant part if you want my opinion. There’s also the big cat sighting to look into.’

  ‘Oh yeah, there’s been a lynx escaped from a stately home in Somerset this weekend. The story has been trending online.’

  ‘Why are you telling me that? It’s not relevant to this case, is it? Don’t confuse me…’

  ‘Calm down; I’m just making polite conversation…’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be short-tempered... but —’

  ‘Not getting sleep?’

  ‘It’s not been the best, ever since…’ Moondog faded out. After an interlude, he said, ‘Anyway I’ve been lying awake thinking about things. Especially about the state of affairs up here. It’s very puzzling...’

 
Tibby paused before she spoke again, ‘What’s your best guess?’

  ‘Up here you d’you mean? I’ve got a few theories. I need to speak to some witnesses to get a handle, though. By the way, you never told me that one of the attacks was on a cat. I thought you said all victims were dogs...’

  ‘I didn’t know. That’s the first I heard of a cat. I told you everything I knew. How’s the Chief behaving?’

  ‘I Don’t know. I’ve been collaborating with his niece. I have made her my liaison officer...’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘What do you mean by that tone of voice?’

  Tibby Fromstein chuckled. Moondog reached his trailer, so he paced around the perimeter slowly. He liked to know who or what had been about. He’d already set-up a pair of remotely activated trail cameras on the approach to his camp. He knelt to swap data storage cards on the first device.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Tibby asked.

  ‘Go on. I’m inserting a fresh card into my trail-cam. But I’m still listening. Don’t you think we should do something at Groby Pool? The victims say a Big Cat attacked them. Don’t you think it’s a twist of fate? They suggest they saw a large animal. They described it as a puma, with an arched back… they say it clawed them…’

  ‘Well the Chief's original sighting was of a leopard, so now, it seems, the investigation has expanded to include a puma. And you say there’s a dismembered cat? Do you really want to push this whole enquiry down that avenue? I thought you wanted to complete it quickly and come back?’

  ‘That’s true, and it’s a good point. I don’t know. But if it’s a correlated incident, we should maybe match them up, yeah? I should poke my nose into dark corners, shouldn’t I? That’s what my job is, after all. I think it’s an opportunity that shouldn’t be wasted.’

  ‘Are you sure the individuals involved are not telling a pack of lies…’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Rowley Goldwrath has been up there,’ Tibby told him. ‘To Groby Pool I mean. He went up there a few years back. I was reluctant to tell you earlier because I know what you think of him. Anyway, he called me last night to talk about it. He says he wants to make a show from up there. He says there have been reports of shape-shifting creatures at the pool for centuries. He talked about a thing called a pooka. Rowley says they can be found up there. Rumour has it that these so-called pookas take on the form of wolves, dogs, or even cats. He suggests that’s what the recent sightings are about. He suggests we should start collecting data. He insists all the stories are inter-connected…’

  ‘Rowley Goldwrath? Holy guacamole! You don’t listen to that chump, do you? He’s a fraud. Incidentally, they showed me a photograph of the fantastical creature that the Chief allegedly saw. Guess what? It’s a shadow.’

  ‘A big cat?’

  ‘Who knows? A shadow of something. A shadow of nothing. Think about it; shadows grow big, shadows grow small. They’re erratic. Totally unreliable. What’s more, he’s an untrustworthy witness. He’s almost certainly suffering P.T.S.D. He’s recently bereaved.’

  ‘Oh, sorry to hear that. So, the sighting of a big cat is a waste of time?’

  ‘I think so, almost certainly not connected. But I will check the story out.’

  ‘You’re such a professional. You are so thorough.’

  ‘Honeyed words are not necessary, Tibby. I’m just doing my job. What I came here for.’

  ‘Do you think there’s anything supernatural going on?’

  ‘Well, I know there’s no such thing as pookas if that’s what you’re asking. Not around these parts anyway. Pookas are mountain and moorland spirits, and they don’t exist in lowlands… and that’s if they exist at all. So, it’s not related to that...’

  ‘This has nothing to do with a pooka at Groby Pool?’

  ‘Public lewdness has been an offence since the ninth century, and it’s the source of the pooka legend at Groby. Mothers warn their daughters not to visit the Pool lest the spirit of the pooka steals away their innocence. In other words, the story is made-up by worried Mum’s to put-off their daughters from going up there to practice lovemaking. Sensible precautions, to protect from acts of public lewdness, but the myths got mixed along the way, and now it’s become a folk tradition.’

  ‘Still, perhaps you could dig around? Try to find something we could use for next season?’

  ‘If I have time. But I can’t promise anything. Anything else?’

  ‘No. Take care of yourself. I’ll call you later in the week. Keep in touch.’

  ‘You too.’

  *

  Faithfull Friend’s Pet Shop

  That same morning, Hopie successfully followed her “exit procedure” from the police station — a process she’d adopted to allow her to escape from her workplace without getting intercepted by the oaf — constable Jimmie Lavery.

  After a successful escape, she tootled down the High Street heading for the pre-planned meeting arranged with Moondog. Slipped slyly into a purse was a list of the names and addresses he’d requested. They were easy to get hold of, actually, and she did it without raising suspicion. Hopie had simply logged into the Crime Recording System and wrote the details out onto a jotter. She’d had access to the system since her last role at Rothley police station, where she worked on the Crime Desk.

  As she approached Nan Pantan’s health food shop, Hopie slowed her pace and glanced into doorways. She examined a bus shelter where old ladies gathered to gossip, and the dark area by the cash vending machines. Because those were the places that Jimmie Lavery normally hid himself to wait for her. She shook her head, no sign of Jimmie. Though she assumed he would turn-up soon enough, like a bad penny. A car whizzed past, with similar livery to a police car, and it gave her a shock. But it was the emergency car that the tyre & exhaust people sent out to accidents. She took a deep breath and resumed her zippy stride.

  She’d almost reached Nan Pantan’s when she heard a high-pitched toot that sounded like:

  Too-werp-tiptree-a-wirr —

  Due to a general state of jumpiness, caused by that freaking idiot Jimmie and his constant pestering, she turned her head, to see what made the noise. She decided the shriek must have come from inside the Pet Shop. Maybe they had a new cockatiel? She liked cockatiels, funny birds, so she broke off her rhythmic dash to have a closer look into the window of Faithfull Friends. And it’s a good job she did because that’s when she saw the reflection of his police car. It was parked across the road, cleverly concealed by a pile of roadside scaffolding. Why she hadn’t noticed it earlier? The car was parked right opposite.

  ‘Oh, drizzle-flip —’ she whispered. ‘How will I get past that flickwad, Jimmie?’

  She continued to stare into the shop window, trying to determine if Jimmie was inside the vehicle or he’d jumped out to harass her in the High Street.

  She saw a shadow move to her left and assumed it came from a customer about to leave the pet store. She prepared a smile… but the shadow didn’t emerge. The shadow didn’t move an inch beyond the threshold. Then she heard that strange cockatiel tooting again, but this time the sound was softer, less harsh. The sound beckoned her inside. How odd? She checked the police car again and saw that a door had opened, and Jimmie’s reflection was getting out. It looked as if he was about to cross the High Road to join her at the window.

  ‘Quick, quick think...’ she told herself, mimicking that stupid telly commercial. Without hesitation, she found herself stepping into the darkness of the Faithfull Friend’s Pet Shop.

  Inside the premises, Hopie got accustomed to the poor light. Mister Faithfull, the owner of the Pet Shop, kept the place dim, so people were drawn inside to view the bright tropical fish-tanks at the back. She blinked a couple of times and squinted. Then she rubbed her hand across her jaw, and that’s when she heard a creak and a soft voice behind her, ‘Hopie...’ She twirled around hoping it wasn’t Jimmie. She was glad to discover the whisper was from Moondog. He stood by the Pet Shop d
oor.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  He remained splendidly calm and immobile in the half-light. ‘Didn’t you hear my whistle?’ he asked. He looked directly into her eyes and gave a playful smile.

  ‘Was that you? I thought it was one of their cockatiels…’

  She felt a sure hand grab hers. Moondog pulled her away from the door and towards the back of the store. ‘Quick,’ he said, ‘Jimmie is coming…’ She didn’t have time to ask: ‘Where are we going?’ and it seemed obvious anyway: They were evading the cops.

  They passed Mister Faithfull’s tiny office, where he counted the money at the close of the day, then past a pooch-parlour that only operated on Saturday and into a little stock room that smelled of biscuits and oatmeal. Here, Moondog opened a heavy fire door, and they stumbled into the sunlight.

  She viewed a back patio crowded with buckets, brushes, plastic containers, and boxes. There were also large metal cages in one corner. All were empty.

  ‘This way...’ Moondog said before she could think. He let go of her hand and went to one of the cages. Hopie looked over her right shoulder and could see a gate. It probably led to a side alley. Feasibly they could use that method to escape.

  ‘Once Jimmie realizes you’re not coming out of the shop, he’ll make his way to the service road,’ Moondog explained. ‘If we pass over the fence here, we can double back. That’ll confuse him long enough to get clean away.’ Moondog climbed onto the cage, then helped her get a leg up. He turned an athletic calf over the fence and waited for her — making sure she put her right knee first.

  ‘Dammit!’ she muttered as she snagged her tights on a rusty nail. She knew she didn’t look elegant or ladylike. Why did you wear a tartan mini skirt, you silly tart? she whispered. She’d worn special make-up too, plus perfume, and an Angora sweater for this lunchtime rendezvous. She hadn’t imagined the meeting would involve a hurried clamber over an improvised assault course.