Though I felt incredibly guilty about Carol, I hoped she’d soon find a better employer.
‘But enough of my business,’ said Felix, ‘let’s go to my office.’ He glanced towards his men. ‘Get this place sorted out. I’ll speak to you later.’
He took us from the side room, along a glass-walled corridor, past a rubber plant, a water dispenser and a number of cringe-worthy inspirational pictures, to his office. Full of daylight and gleaming metal, it dwarfed the reception and might have been considered a pleasant, airy room had his aftershave, or cologne, or whatever it was, not been so overpowering. Inviting us to sit on a soft, white leather sofa, he pulled up a matching chair for himself as we made ourselves comfortable.
Touching his fingertips together, Felix leaned back. ‘It’s very good of you to come. I appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedules to visit.’
I assumed he was having a dig at me.
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’m always glad to make the acquaintance of a fellow wine buff, and Andy reckons you are something of an expert.’
‘Well, hardly an expert,’ said Felix with a modest smile, ‘merely an enthusiastic amateur.’
‘If you say so,’ said Hobbes. ‘I thought you’d appreciate these. The ’63 is reckoned to be an especially fine vintage. Andy, have you got the bottles?’
I placed them on the table in front of Felix.
Picking them up, he studied the labels. ‘I expect he told you how much I’d like to get hold of a few crates of this. The thing is, I’m planning a celebration for when my current project is completed. In addition, I thought I’d like to market it. There would be, I’m sure, a great demand for a wine of such quality. We would, of course, split the profits equitably and, if it’s all as fine as the bottle we enjoyed at the picnic, I think we would be in for a tidy sum. We’d have to make the label snazzier, of course, but, with a little advertising in select magazines we’d be onto a winner.’
Hobbes, shaking his head, looked sorrowful. ‘Sorry but the wine is a gift from a friend and is not for sale.’
‘But think of the money.’
‘My friend has more than sufficient for his needs. He produces just enough wine to meet his own requirements and has no desire to expand his hobby.’
Felix sighed. ‘A shame, but no matter, I respect his restraint. There are far too many people in my line of work who are only interested in accumulating money, even when they already possess far more than they could run through in a lifetime.’
‘So, what is your motivation?’ asked Hobbes.
‘I can’t deny that property development is a lucrative business, and I’ve made many killings over the years. Though I am a wealthy man, money is merely a means to an end.’
‘And what is the end?’
‘A better world, Inspector. I intend to play a role in the eradication of certain evils, evils that have plagued mankind since the dawn of time. That’s my motivation.’
‘What sort of evils?’
Felix’s eyes gleamed. ‘I intend to use my money to eliminate genetic mishaps.’
‘That’s a massive task.’
Felix nodded. ‘I know. It’s too much for one individual. I can’t possibly rid the world of all its evils, but I might be able to make an impression on one or two of them. And, of course, it’s not just me. A corporation such as this can achieve so much more, though it won’t happen overnight. I’ll have to see what I can do over the weekend.’ He laughed, the gleam fading from his eyes.
‘Philanthropy is a marvellous way to use your money,’ said Hobbes, with great approval. ‘I wonder …’ he paused, ‘… if it’s not a bit cheeky, whether you might be able to do me a favour this weekend?’
‘A favour?’
‘Yes. You may be aware that there’s to be a music festival? Well, a charity I’m involved with looks after underprivileged nippers, and I was wondering whether you might spare a car and driver to deliver them in the mornings and take them home afterwards. Andy mentioned that you have a driver … Mike was it?’
It was the first I’d heard of any charity.
Felix shook his head. ‘Alas, I can’t help. Any other weekend, maybe, but I’m going to be busy.’
‘You don’t need to be involved at all,’ Hobbes pointed out, ‘other than by lending us a car and Mike – assuming he’s willing, that is.’
‘I’m afraid Mike Rook is no longer in my employment. I gather he inherited a plantation in Borneo, or some such place. He’d worked his notice, and was planning to fly out there last Saturday. I imagine he’s there by now. It means, alas, that I am currently without a driver, which is inconvenient.’
‘Not to worry,’ said Hobbes. ‘I can make other arrangements.’ He glanced at a clock on the wall by Felix’s desk. ‘I say, is that the time? I’m afraid I have police business to attend to. I do hope you enjoy the wine and, if you do, I can let you have a crate for your party: as a gift of course.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Nice to meet you Mr King, but time and criminals wait for no man. Come along, Andy.’
Felix stood up and, to my regret, shook my hand again. ‘Delighted you could visit. I hope we will meet again.’
‘So long as it’s not in my professional capacity,’ said Hobbes with a pleasant laugh. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, Inspector … Andy.’
17
As Hobbes and I walked back to the car, a small grey cat shot past, ears flat against its skull. It was lucky to escape the wheels of a reversing van.
‘Stupid animal,’ I muttered.
‘No doubt she had a reason for her behaviour,’ said Hobbes, opening the door.
‘So,’ I asked, ‘what do you make of Felix?’
Resting his arm on the car’s roof, he thought for a moment. ‘Mr King struck me as a good man. He’s obviously an intelligent businessman with a laudable vision of what he wishes to achieve and it’s clear he has nothing to do with any of the recent funny business. Of course, I never thought it likely that he had. Sorenchester could do with more like him.’
As we got into the car, I was annoyed how Felix had fooled him so easily. Yet, when we were driving away he chuckled.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Mr King is. I hope I didn’t overdo it, but flattery is like cream on a trifle; you can never lay it on too thickly.’
‘What d’you mean?’ I asked, confused.
‘Mr King is not quite what he appears to be. I don’t suppose you noticed him hiding in the shrubbery as we left? He got there extremely quickly and gave the cat a fright – it’s lucky she wasn’t squashed. I thought, since he was listening, I’d say something flattering.’
‘He was listening? How? We weren’t talking very loud.’
‘He’s got sharp ears.’
‘Do you mean they’re a bit pointed?’
‘You noticed that did you? But I mean he has acute hearing.’
‘Has he? … Umm …. How did you know he was behind the bush?’
Hobbes’s nose twitched. ‘His aftershave is distinctive.’
‘So, do you … umm … think Felix is actually involved in … umm … funny business? Did he attack Mike the driver?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, yet, but I do know that he lied when he claimed Mr Rook was planning to leave; his name was still on the duty roster for next month.’
‘What duty roster?’
‘The one on the wall by his desk.’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘No, but I observe my surroundings. By the way, Miss King is now staying in London but will be returning on Friday.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘There was a sticky note on his desk. But enough of that. Mr King worries me.’
‘Me too.’
‘There’s something odd about him. Did you notice his scent?’
‘I could hardly miss it.’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head and slotting us into a minuscule gap between two cars, ‘
I don’t mean his aftershave, I mean his own scent.’
‘Are you saying he’s smelly? I didn’t notice but I think I know what you mean. One of my mother’s larger friends didn’t shower too often but slapped stuff on to cover it. The combination of perfume and stale sweat was overwhelming.’
‘I don’t mean that at all. The opposite rather … I couldn’t pick up any scent from him. That stuff he wears seems to block everything.’
‘Perhaps it’s deodorant?’ I suggested, having learned not to question his sense of smell, his nose seeming to match Dregs’s.
‘If so, it’s a very effective one and he must use it all over, even on his hair. I wonder what he’s hiding?’
‘Perhaps he’s embarrassed by body odours. Some people are.’
‘Perhaps, but that’s enough speculation. Hold tight.’ He steered onto the dual carriageway, overtaking a convoy of lorries by driving along the verge.
I held my seat as tightly as I could, teeth rattling, until, having passed them all, we veered onto the road. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To have a word with Skeleton Bob, to tell him to be much more careful where he sets his snares. He might have hurt someone last night.’
‘Some werewolf, you mean?’
‘Werewolves are someone, too. Here we go.’
As he spun the wheel to the right, the car skipped through a gap in the crash barrier, straight across the opposite carriageway, dodging a petrol tanker bearing down on us. We made it, pursued by the discordant blaring of horns. Hobbes had once told me that if someone had time to sound the horn, he’d already decided there was no danger and was merely giving vent to his temper. I almost believed him.
We bumped off the carriageway onto the verge, up a steep slope, the engine straining and whining, across a patch of scrub and into the lane leading to Bob’s place. The spherical Mrs Nibblet, glowing in a bright orange shell suit, reminding me of the space-hopper I’d had as a boy, was apparently picking nettles. She straightened up and frowned as we stopped.
‘Oh, it’s you again is it? What d’you want this time? Can’t you go and arrest some real criminals instead of hassling us poor folk as is only trying to make a living?’
Hobbes, climbing from the car, bowed. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Nibblet. I’m not here to cause any unpleasantness; I just need a word with your husband.’
‘Well, you can’t. He’s out. Goodbye.’
‘Out you say? Then, that must be his identical twin peeking from the shed.’
‘Oh, you bloody fool,’ said Mrs Nibblet, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. ‘You might as well come out now, why don’t you?’
Skeleton Bob, emerging from the lopsided wooden shed by the house, scratched his head, smiling, displaying a set of coloured and disfigured teeth that even Mrs Goodfellow couldn’t love. I wondered whether he’d ever visited a dentist.
‘Hello, Bob,’ said Hobbes.
Bob nodded, his eyes as wary as those of a hunted animal. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Just a pleasant little chat.’
Hobbes’s smile didn’t seem to reassure him.
Mrs Nibblet scowled. ‘He’s hardly left the house this last week. Don’t you go nicking him for no good reason.’
Hobbes’s eyebrows expressed shock. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, madam. I’m not going to nick him, I’m here to offer a little friendly advice.’
Bob, his trousers heaving and writhing, as if containing a ferret, looked both suspicious and hopeful. Yelping, twitching, doubling up as if in pain, he reached into his pocket. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, pulling out a wriggling ferret by the scruff of the neck, walking towards the cage and dropping it inside. He turned back to face Hobbes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘All I want to do is to warn you …’
Mrs Nibblet sniffed. ‘Threaten, more like.’
Hobbes beamed. ‘I want to warn … no … encourage Bob, to take more care where he sets his snares.’
‘They’re nothing to do with me,’ said Bob, trying to look innocent.
‘Well you know best,’ said Hobbes, raising his hands in mollification. ‘I’ll just say that one of those snares of yours might have caused a serious injury to a rare animal last night.’
‘How do you know it was one of mine?’
‘Oh, you fool!’ Mrs Nibblet groaned. ‘Just admit everything, why don’t you?’
Hobbes tapped the side of his nose. ‘I know many things. What do you set them for? Pheasants?’
Bob, with a glance at his wife, shook his head. ‘No, I only set them for rabbits. When I want pheasants, I dazzle ’em with my lamp and catch ’em in my net.’
Mrs Nibblet slapped her forehead. ‘Bob!’
‘Oh, lawks,’ said Bob. ‘Now you’ve gone and snared me with all your clever words.’
Mrs Nibblet looked on the verge of tearing her hair out or punching her husband.
Hobbes, noticing my incredulous look, rolled his eyes. Skeleton Bob would never make it into Mensa. His name was on a long and varied criminal record, though he’d never been jailed, partly on account of the pettiness of his misdeeds, but mostly because the fines he paid far exceeded any harm he did. Though Hobbes tolerated his activities with just the occasional chat if he ever pushed his luck, more ambitious police officers, interested in meeting targets, took a less liberal view, with the result that Bob appeared in court every couple of months. It wasn’t difficult to catch him or to get a confession.
‘It doesn’t matter, madam,’ said Hobbes smiling. ‘I know he’s a poacher. You know he’s a poacher. Even Andy knows he’s a poacher. We also know he’s not good at holding onto gainful employment and that money and food would be in short supply without his evening job. I also happen to know that he sells game to the milkman, who cheats him, and to the curate, who doesn’t. Bob’s not greedy, though, and doesn’t take more than he needs.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Mrs Nibblet. ‘He’s soft in the head and I must be, too, for marrying him.’ She smiled at her skinny spouse, who was hitching up his trousers again.
‘No matter,’ Hobbes continued. ‘We were having a stroll through Loop Woods last night.’
‘Did you see them?’ asked Bob, looking as excited as his ferret, which was running bounding circuits of its cage.
‘See what?’
‘The big black cats. They were out.’
‘Yes, we saw them.’
‘I reckon,’ said Bob, ‘they may be dangerous, but they weren’t the only things out. There was something else.’
‘Bob!’ cautioned Mrs Nibblet, shaking her head.
‘I know there was,’ said Hobbes, ‘because it was that something else that got caught in your snare. I’m glad to say, it wasn’t much hurt.’
‘You see, Fenella?’ Bob grinned. ‘It’s not just me. Mr Hobbes saw them as well and he’s a policeman. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That would be nice,’ said Hobbes.
‘We’ve only got nettle tea,’ said Mrs Nibblet, ‘we can’t afford the shop stuff at the moment.’
‘You can’t beat a cup of nettle tea,’ said Hobbes, smacking his lips.
I wasn’t so sanguine. Nettles in my experience were horrible, nasty, vicious weeds that inflicted pain on the unwary. My worst memories came from a boiling hot day in the school holidays when, having sneaked from the garden I was meant to be weeding, I visited a little stream at the back of the playing fields. Since no one was around and since I was hidden by the weeping willows fringing the stream, I stripped to my pants for a paddle, making strenuous attempts at catching the wildlife that wiggled and darted through the muddy waters. I’d come close to landing some tadpoles and a stickleback when the sun’s going in forced the goosebumps out. While trotting up and down the bank to dry off and warm up, a brilliant idea occurred: I could become Tarzandy, King of the Jungle. Though I had to contend with a scarcity of lions and a lack of creepers, it seemed to me that if I grasped a handful of the weepier branches, I could swing over the water
and return safely to dry land.
It all worked beautifully, apart from the return safely to dry land part. Though I swung out in fine style, I’d failed to appreciate that my weight would bend the branches down. Despite my best efforts, my feet splashed up the water while my momentum was hurling me, at increasing pace, into the bank but not onto the bank. Raising my legs in desperation, I slid onto solid ground, cutting a path into the centre of a patch of stinging nettles. The more I struggled to get clear, the more they stung my bare skin, and by the time I got out, running home, howling and crying, I looked like a smallpox victim. I went off Tarzan after that.
When I came back to the present, Hobbes, seeming to know a great deal about the subject, was advising Bob how to set humane snares in rabbit runs where they would only be a danger to rabbits, thus sparing less-edible wildlife. They’d perched on a pair of discarded beer kegs that served as stools in the rickety, bramble-infested lean-to that pretended to be a porch. I joined them.
‘I’ll strive to be more careful in future,’ said Bob.
Fenella waddled from the cottage bearing four non-too-clean mugs of nettle tea on a rusty tray. ‘Here you go, lads,’ she said, handing them round, lifting her ample backside onto a keg, which, being solidly made, groaned, but did not buckle.
My tea was in a cracked mug celebrating the coronation of Edward VIII, which seemed wrong somehow, though I couldn’t work out why. Half thinking it might be a joke the others were in on and of which I was the butt, I sniffed the steaming liquid, a strange aroma reminding me of cut grass. Yet, as the others appeared to be drinking it, I risked a sip, finding it scalding hot, though not at all stingy, with an earthy, robust flavour that was quite pleasant.
Hobbes, taking a gulp, turned to Bob. ‘So tell me about the other thing you saw in the woods?’
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 26