I could say, ‘I was just in the district.’ Or ‘Just passing through.’ ‘Just in Diddling for a few days.’ ‘Thought I’d look you up.’ No, no. That’s for strangers, isn’t it? Not for family. ‘Just wanted to know how you are.’ Humm. That sounded like putting your head in a noose. Like, why didn’t I think of asking until now?
’Just wanted to see you, all right?’ That might be the one. Funny when I said it. Just have to see when I get there. Face the music, I suppose. It’s all long past, but I expect they’ll rake it all up. So... Yeah. Whatever.
He thought of something else and went back indoors to find his waistcoat. Yes. That’s a problem, he mused, staring at it. In fact it represents the whole problem. Do I take it? Do I wear it? If I wear it, what does it say about... everything? It’s the first thing Dad will see. And I know what he’ll say. He’ll say, “Look at you! Nothing’s changed!” The same old Dad. He’ll be the same, not me.
So I don’t take it. That would be different. He won’t have that as a reminder. But then Mum will think I’ve lost it. Or they’ll both think I haven’t the nerve to front up with it. Like I’m dis-owning it - them... Is that what I’m doing? Disowning them? No. If I was, I simply don’t go back.
OK. If I’m not disowning them, then I go back. So I wear it, which means I can’t avoid whatever he - I have to take whatever he dishes out.
Unless I get in first... Whatever that means. He touched a gold button. I think I want to know if... how they are. And... yeah. Family.
It’s going to be very difficult. What on earth am I going to say! But I think it’s time. Good or bad, come what may. I think I should see how they are... before they... Before it’s too late. Maybe I should have thought of it before. Maybe a long time ago. I don’t know. But things take time, and... Well, that’s the way it is. But I think it is time, now. He put the waistcoat on but still spent the morning mulling over it.
He was quite happy simply to take off north, except now he had a rather nice dwelling that he had spent a lot of time and effort getting ready to occupy. He’d be away for at least... a long time, anyway. And the place was wide open. Anybody could walk in and take possession.
The solution he came up with was simple. Ridiculously simple. In view of the time and effort he had spent in removing soil, he felt his solution was more ridiculous than simple. Nevertheless, that night, he carried it out.
Or in this case, carried it in. He went back to the farm, borrowed the barrow and spade once more, and took loads of soil from the heap in the field down again, and blocked up his front door. With that done, he was just in time before dawn to put the tools back, fill his tummy and satchel - including a nice fresh lettuce for Molly Coddel - and head north.
62 GOING BIG-TIME
The young vixen that Horn was obsessing about was called Diana, daughter of the Vulcan McLeash family of Tops Farm out in the hobby-farm district of Kettle, a well to do area with its own village of Hob, a day’s walk east of Diddling. Tops Farm was the most successful agricultural enterprise in the district, turning out the most sought-after veggies for the gourmet palates of Diddling. Diana ran the local school. The only thing Horn knew about the girl was he had seen her in Hob. He took his boys back there to do some research.
Horn and his two offsiders took to Hob. They roamed and lazed about the village, squatting in doorways, sitting outside shops and on corners until they spotted Diana, then they zeroed-in until they knew her routine at the school.
A couple of days loitering gave Horn all the information he needed. He reckoned they got to know her every move, which altogether wasn’t much, but Horn was thrilled. He considered he had pulled off a remarkable surveillance operation right under peoples’ noses without anyone catching on. He took his boys back to Plenty. They still didn’t know her name or even where she lived. They had totally missed the fact that she was the daughter of one the most influential families in Diddling, or that they were about to attempt an operation well above their normal paygrade.
At home, Horn had a plan to kidnap the girl - and a stunningly simple way to stop pursuit. He began with a note in his best handwriting.
With the note ready, he called Blowback and Skinner and they set off from the Clumps for their first venture into the kidnapping business. His idea with the note was to deter anyone from following and rescuing her. To him, it was a stroke of genius. If she were married to him, there would be no legit cause to come after her. His note was designed to allay all suspicion. It never occurred to him that he would be planting evidence in his own handwriting, signed by him, leading directly back to him, that might even perhaps be sufficient to convict him on a kidnapping charge. On the contrary, it had taken immense concentration to plan so much in advance and he was incredibly proud of this achievement.
There was a new spring in his step as he goaded his no doubt worthy henchmen into a trot back towards Hob. If this scheme worked, he thought he might do it on a regular basis. He saw a magnificent step up, compared with the peanut scale of his current efforts. He imagined himself wheeling and dealing with those lay-abouts up north! He thought of their faces when they had to negotiate with him! He’d make them sweat! Make ‘em wait... Like, I’m too busy to be on time...
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Doing a deal down in Neese, you know. If you know where that is, of course...”
He envisaged branch offices up and down the country! Imagine being mogga-rich! Mugga-rich? Moggy something... Not having ventured so far up the pecking order of the super-rich, he was unsure of the correct terminology. This would be a whole new world for him.
63 A HOME RUN
Passing Nock, Monty remembered the rope had come from the boat yard. He promised himself that sooner or later he’d make sure he got it back to them.
At Little Willy, he called in on Molly Coddel. She was much older and really lacking anyone to talk to so was pleased to see him. He left some fruit and the lettuce and headed to the store to see Lofty Dole who insisted that Stump inspect his bankbook to see that all his affairs and wealth were in order. Assured that Molly Coddel was in the best of hands, that Mr and Mrs Dole were happy to continue their service to the old hare, and with his own wallet full, he set off north again, sad because he had the feeling he might not see Molly again. He had left Mr Dole yet again repeating his instructions for any untoward event.
On the road once more, he settled into his pace again. Approximately 4 hours ‘on’ and about the same time ‘off’. Meals ‘on the hoof’ were lucky when they happened and meant more rest during the ‘down times’. By stretching the pace only slightly, he would reach his destination in seven days. This would be a modest record for him, and it included almost a full day at Little Willy.
For the purists, his average trotting speed was just under seven kilometres per hour. He seldom broke into a canter, and never into a sweat.
64 EXECUTION
Horn’s plan was simple and successful, though not quite as neat as he had envisaged it. He and his partners set fire to the wheat field behind the little school where Diana Vulcan McLeash was holding class. When the alarm was raised, and with the fire fast approaching, the kids were sent out of the front to run for it by Diana. Naturally, she was the last to leave the building.
The three thugs, having entered via the back, came up behind her, overpowered her, and dragged her out the way they had entered, but not before the last two children, both goat kids as it happened, had witnessed the abduction.
The miscreants made off with Ms Diana Vulcan McLeash. They didn’t know who she was, she wasn’t going to tell them, and the subject wasn’t going to come up for debate anyway. Horn led the party back to his hideaway in the Clumps. He had completely forgotten about the note that he had planned to leave at the scene.
The school burnt down. In the total confusion caused by the general horror of the event, the desperate priority was to account for all the children. The lack of the teacher herself to do that added to the confusion. The class records being dest
royed by the fire made the problem even worse. Parents and kids were hysterical, and the authorities were going in circles. And then when the dreadful possibility dawned on them that the teacher herself might have perished in the fire, nobody thought anything other than what an awful tragedy had happened.
Diana McLeash’s parents turned up and received a huge amount of attention. This was understandable in the face of their tragedy and their daughter’s undoubtedly heroic sacrifice in ensuring the miraculous safety of every one of her precious charges. The authorities were therefore slow in organising a search and rescue party for the teacher. In fact, it nearly never happened. Horn almost succeeded. It was only when the harried mum of the two kids dragged them forward and butted them into telling what they had seen of the abduction that any action was taken. By then of course, much time had passed.
65 THE SMELL OF SUCCESS
Eventually a task force was formed, named Operation Overlady. Headed by Commander Oliver Button, a border terrier of considerable experience, there were two detective beagles and a communications greyhound to act as message runner. It was the next day when they were finally ready to roll. They were also using the private services of a bloodhound called Fustian Lump.
Fustian Lump was a police dog. More accurately he was a blood hound who until recently had a full-time contract with the local constabulary. However, months ago due to the usual regular cost cutting, his police contract had been downgraded to a needs-to-nose basis. So really, he was an ex-police dog. Or at least... Well, technically, maybe that was the problem.
Fustian Lump always had a problem. Actually, he had lots of problems. For years he was regularly used as a police tracker. Like all good bloodhounds, he was good at picking up scents. However, this guy was a perfectionist. His overwhelming desire was to collect all evidence at a scene. With no decision about relevance or otherwise, he saw his job was to present every scent from the whole scene and let others do the menial work of deciding what was relevant or what was not.
He would therefore present so much evidence of the comings and goings of every living thing within spitting distance of his most peripatetic yet thorough wanderings while on the job, that the authorities spent more time looking for clues in his incredibly comprehensive reports than they would have taken to chase after the crims for themselves in the first place.
Another thing, eyesight is not a bloodhound’s strong feature at the best of times. When Fustian was nose-to-the-ground, his foresight as well as hindsight were even worse. He was known to walk into trees, posts, people he was tracking, whatever.
To put no finer point on matters, it was the problem of the aforementioned spitting distance that made his searches on the one hand so fastidious and awesomely thorough, and on the other, so incredibly wide and time consuming. Because, unfortunately coupled with this trait, Fustian had another problem not unfamiliar to most bloodhounds. When on the job, his enthusiasm tended to express itself in the manufacture of extra drool. All of which had to go somewhere. Sooner or later in this process, gravity would take over, so a lot of it would migrate downwards, where at ground level, it would mix freely with all and everything before meeting up with the trailing ends of his very large ears.
To alleviate the problem of accumulating this extra baggage, Fustian Lump would raise his head and shake it vigorously. This action always worked a treat for Fustian. But as a side issue, industrial deafness was well established due to the regular slamming of his sail-like flaps against his eardrums. Also, the fact that Fustian had this tendency to drool excessively and trail his ears on the ground as he moved, made this not only the most effective of all possible ways to collect evidence and other delicacies, but the regular intervals of headshaking ensured that any such evidence would be distributed with extraordinary accuracy into the most inaccessible but clearly visible locations on high branches, bushes, walls or ceilings.
As if to compensate for this, the scattered evidence thus distributed would arrive at its new destination pre-wrapped in its special mixture of dirt and spit with such force as to have no other option but to stick like a wet rag flung at a wall. Thereupon, it would behove the attending officers to remove and collect such evidence with alacrity. Because leaving it there to dry would see it turn into a hardened glue with the consistency of concrete that would have been enviously studied in the human world.
He had another trick. Any evidence, say, presented to him in person – as in “Hey, Fusty, here’s a sock. Find the culprit that lives in it!” – he would invariably eat. Understandably, this could lead to delays in Court if reliance on such evidence turned out (to use a phrase) to be significant. One clear advantage from Fustian’s work as a tracker though, was that it was always easy to track where he had been.
As said, when his job with the police was downgraded, he was hired purely on a needs-to-nose basis. Fustian Lump had then established a regular advertisement in the Diddling Daily Doodles as a “private gumshoe, sniffer dog, olfactory and osmic specialist for hire” just to help make ends meet.
His most recent job-offer came when he’d answered the door to a dog in a raincoat and fedora hat offering the prospect of making easy money tailing some high-ranking clerical gander who was taking regular off-the-record trips to a colony of supposedly devout geese at the Greylags Nunnery to the southwest of Diddling.
However, getting involved in the murky extracurricular world of the clergy seemed a bit too much of a comedown for him, so he had refused. This was just as well, because immediately after that, he got the call to attend the police briefing on the Hob, Kettle, kidnapping affair.
66 CLOSING IN
Slowly but surely, Fustian Lump led the Police party to the rugged terrain of the Clumps. Slow, it certainly was. Nothing they tried would encourage Lump to move any faster or cover the ground less thoroughly. It was dawn the next day when they realised that Lump had stopped searching and was lying across an entrance, totally blocking it. They deduced from this that it must be where Horn had gone to ground apparently with Diana Vulcan McLeash.
Once the whereabouts of Horn’s hideout was established, Fustian Lump was discharged. Button saw no point in running up unnecessary expenses.
“Thank you, Lumpy. Make your usual report, claim for expenses and travel time. Debriefing first thing tomorrow at HQ. Any Questions? Good. Dismissed.”
A camouflaged observation post was established with a good view of the hideout. After that, Commander Button left instructions at the OP to send the greyhound to him if there was any development. He also said he’d organise a meal for them, would himself be back with a relief team in the evening, and then trotted back to HQ. There, he made the promised arrangements, went to his office, closed the door, went to sleep and promptly woke up again. He went down to Catering, changed the order to a Requisition For On-going Expenses for a daily meal delivery to the observation post. Then went back to his office and slept soundly.
That evening, he did go to the Clumps again. He organised a recce party. Under cover of darkness, the two beagles were sent out to make a detailed search of the area with strict instructions to maintain silence unless threatened.
When the two detectives came back, they confirmed that the Horn hideout had no other exits or entrances – a curious lapse of foresight on the part of the crims.
They also brought in an interesting discovery. Caught in bushes was a paper. This was the note that Horn had intended to leave at the school.
“So, tell me exactly where this note was.” Said Button.
When it was definitely determined that it could not have been placed for them to find, but must have been dropped and then blown away, Button summarised the situation.
“OK. First, we now know who we are dealing with. Our friend Hans Horn.” Said the Commander.
“ Hammerhead!” Said a detective.
“Wow. This is a bit out of his league, isn’t it?” Said the other.
“We had the description from Hob,” continued Button “That could have fitte
d the Horn gang. But we have this – signed by him. I think that’s conclusive. Now, the next thing -”
“So he’s upped his game.” Interrupted the first detective.
“Yeah, the next thing is why?” Said the second detective, finishing the Commander’s sentence.
“Yes. There are perhaps two reasons for that,” continued Button, “from my experience, at least,” he added, “either he’s getting too big for his own boots and thinks it’s time for a promotion, or...?” Button raised his eyebrows to the others, waiting to see if they knew.
“Or somebody else is pulling his strings.” Said number one.
“Not necessarily. You’ve a good point, but I think if that were the case and someone was forcing his hand, we wouldn’t have the note. Rather, I don’t think he would have written a note.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?” Said the second beagle, “with it, without it? After all, he wrote it and did the job. So why not somebody pushed ’im to it?”
“No,” Button said patiently. “If he was acting on instruction, that would certainly explain him suddenly acting above his usual performance level. But if that were the case, he wouldn’t write the note.”
“Why not?” Asked the first.
“What, and identify himself?” Asked Button. “If he was being coerced into a job like that above his pay grade, his bosses would not want a trail leading back to them, and so, neither would he.”
“But he did sign it.” Said number two.
A Tour de Fate Page 18