Inspector Hobbes and the Common People: Comedy Crime Fantasy (Unhuman Book 5)

by Wilkie Martin

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  RAZOR by Wilkie Martin

  Join the Unhuman Readers

  Acknowledgements

  INSPECTOR HOBBES

  and the

  COMMON PEOPLE

  unhuman V

  Wilkie Martin

  The Witcherley Book Company

  United Kingdom

  Copyright

  Published in the United Kingdom by The Witcherley Book Company.

  Copyright © 2021 Martin J. Wilkinson and Julia How.

  The right of Martin J. Wilkinson (Wilkie Martin) to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright owner, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Names, characters, places and events in this book are fictitious, and except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to any actual events or locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781912348565 (paperback)

  ISBN 9781912348558 (ebook)

  ISBN 9781912348572 (hardback)

  ISBN 9781912348589 (large print paperback)

  ISBN 9781912348596 (audiobook)

  1

  A frisbee came skimming over the gorse bush. As I reached out to grab it, a thump in the solar plexus flattened me. I curled up on the frosty ground amid gorse thorns, fighting for breath, with a big, black, hairy dog standing over me, his tail beating as if he’d done something clever. Unmoved by my whimpering, he dropped the frisbee onto my face and tried to bully me into throwing it again.

  A vast figure in well-polished black boots, baggy brown trousers and flapping gabardine raincoat loomed over us like a baron’s castle above a peasant’s hovel. ‘Are you alright, Andy?’

  I nodded, trying to show Hobbes how brave I was, and managed to draw a breath.

  He helped me to my feet. ‘I’ve warned him to watch where he’s going, but he gets carried away.’

  Taking the frisbee from the dog’s jaws, he launched it. Dregs set off in excited pursuit and, within a few seconds, his normal rumbling bark took on the higher pitch of canine frustration—his toy was stuck up a birch tree, well out of reach, no matter how high he bounced. Hobbes went to the rescue, leaving me to recover.

  As breathing returned to normal, I took a moment to enjoy the scenery. Although we were barely a mile outside Sorenchester, the small Cotswold town where I lived, it was my first visit to this place of rough grass, scrub and woodland. In fact, I hadn’t even known Sorenchester Common existed until Hobbes mentioned taking Dregs for walks on it. My ignorance was not surprising, since no roads or good paths led here, and it was surrounded by the walls of Colonel Squire’s estates to the east, and by a mix of marshland, dense, scrubby woodland and almost impenetrable blackthorn thickets on the other sides.

  I could understand why Hobbes came here—he sometimes needed time out of the modern world to relax and be himself. In truth, I’d been a little surprised when he’d invited me along, but he knew I needed fresh air and exercise as I recovered from a virus that had kept me indoors for two weeks. His one proviso was that I promised not to tell anyone how to get there.

  He retrieved the frisbee and hurled it again. Dregs set off with dogged determination to bring it to earth, his paws pounding the rough turf, his pink tongue lolling.

  A hint of a rustle made me glance at a leggy gorse bush by my side. A pair of dark eyes was looking at me through slits in a weird sort of mask.

  I blinked and the eyes and mask had vanished.

  ‘Hello? Who’s there?’ I asked.

  The bush said nothing.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Hobbes as he approached.

  ‘I thought I saw something in there.’

  ‘What sort of something?’

  ‘A face,’ I said, trying to think, ‘but I’m not sure how to describe it.’

  ‘Have a go,’ he urged.

  ‘ … umm … it had eyes.’

  ‘As do many faces.’

  Dregs trotted back with the prize.

  ‘The thing is,’ I continued, ‘I didn’t actually see a face—it was behind a mask of some sort.’

  ‘A mask of leaves?’ asked Hobbes with a slight smile.

  I nodded. ‘That’s right! It was all interwoven and layered. Mostly ivy, I think, but there were other bits and pieces too. The eyes were dark, like an animal’s, but animals don’t wear masks.’

  Hobbes accepted the frisbee from Dregs and spun it away above the grass tussocks. The excited dog took off in pursuit, barking like a pup.

  ‘What sort of person lurks in gorse bushes wearing a mask?’ I asked.

  Hobbes shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I meet them from time to time. We nod and go about our business.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘A group lives here, and since they prefer to keep themselves to themselves and since none has broken any laws as far as I know, l respect their privacy. It is perfectly legal to conceal one’s identity behind a mask, unless one is intending to commit a crime.’

  ‘I suppose so, but aren’t they … umm … trespassing or something?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Hobbes, ‘but trespass is not of itself a criminal offence. Besides, I don’t actually know who this land belongs to. It’s been common land for centuries, but someone probably still has legal ownership of it. I’d hazard a guess that it might be Colonel Squire, since it runs on from his estates.’

  I shook my head. ‘I doubt it. It doesn’t look as if it’s being used for anything, and the Colonel would surely have tried to make money from it—that’s what he does.’

  ‘True,’ said Hobbes, ‘but I’ve recently heard of plans to build a large housing estate here, which is bad news for the current inhabitants.’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Who are these inhabitants? Would they make a good article in the Bugle?’

  He shook his head. ‘Curiosity is commendable in a reporter, Andy, but sometimes it’s better to respect people’s right to privacy. I ask you not to pry or to tell anyone about them. Let them avoid us if that’s their wish. Just think of them as the Common People and leave them be. With luck, the housing development may not come to anything, and they won’t be disturbed.’

  Dregs, having performed a spectacular and totally show-off forward roll to catch the flying disc, trotted over. With his sharp ears and sensitive nose, I would have been surprised he hadn’t responded to my bush lurker, had frisbees not been his most recent obs
ession—he tended to forget everything else in the thrill of the chase.

  Hobbes sniffed the air. ‘It’s time we headed back for lunch.’

  A glance at my watch proved him correct—and we’d have to set a pretty hot pace if we weren’t to be late. However, I was confident we’d make it because Mrs Goodfellow, his housekeeper, had been cooking up a cauldron of pea and ham soup when we’d left, and no one who’d been lucky enough to sample the old girl’s cooking was late for meals if they could help it—Hobbes had invited Daphne, my wife, and me to join him for lunch.

  ‘Come on, Dregs,’ said Hobbes. ‘Home.’

  The dog greeted the end of playtime with a slight droop of the tail before accepting the situation and trotting ahead of us, holding the disc in his jaws like a trophy.

  On the walk back, I contemplated my future—there were worrying rumours that the Sorenchester and District Bugle, the SAD B as it was affectionately known, was up for sale. I’d heard that ‘Editorsaurus’ Rex Witcherley, the owner, needed cash to pay for an experimental treatment for his insane wife, who’d once tried to kill Hobbes and me. As a result, an air of uncertainty was blowing through the office and, although I was officially only the paper’s part-time food critic, I’d felt its chill. It was a concern, not least because I was enjoying my job, and Phil Waring, the editor, was trusting me with all sorts of reporting.

  Yet, though the thought of change was unsettling, there was nothing I could do about it, so worrying would be pointless. Instead, I concentrated on keeping up with Hobbes’s long strides, my mouth already moist with anticipation of the feast to come. I was in a cheerful frame of mind by the time we reached Number 13 Blackdog Street where he lived, and when he opened the door, the scent of soup and freshly baked bread rolled out on a mouth-watering wave.

  I completely forgot about the Common People until the Christmas Day service in Sorenchester’s stately old church, a few weeks later. Although not a regular churchgoer, I rather enjoyed belting out a few Christmas carols. Daphne and I took seats in the pew next to Mrs Goodfellow and Hobbes and joined in. The singing was lusty and mostly in tune, the organist only fluffed the occasional note, and there was the enticing prospect of Christmas lunch at Blackdog Street a little later. However, there was a bit I was dreading—the Reverend Timothy Monkton’s address. He was the new vicar, and, although it wasn’t his fault, he had one of those pompous voices that droned on interminably, but, in the spirit of goodwill to all men, even to Reverend Tim, I tried to concentrate on his Christmas message. After what felt like an age, I glanced at my watch, assuming he must be approaching the end, to discover that he’d only been going for three minutes!

  My head and eyelids drooped. I swallowed a yawn and jerked upright. With a great effort of will, I tried to distract my mind by examining the carvings on the intricate wooden screen to my right. They were worth a look: weird, fantastic creatures, oddly shaped people in quaint costumes, and what appeared to be angels on unicycles, among others. I was wondering what sort of mind had conceived such things when my gaze settled on a carving that made me sit up and gasp. The old pew creaked.

  ‘Shh!’ said a lady in the row behind. Daphne gave me a nudge and a smile.

  There, right in front of me, was surely a depiction of the masked face I’d seen on the common.

  I pointed it out to Daphne, after Reverend Monkton had droned to a standstill, we’d sung the last carol, and were free to go.

  ‘That’s a Green Man,’ she said. ‘There are depictions of him or her in many English churches. They’re a bit of a puzzle—no one knows what they are or why they exist. Some think they have pagan roots.’

  ‘Come along, dears,’ said the quavering voice of Mrs Goodfellow. ‘It’s time to get ready for lunch.’

  We filed out into the grey, drizzly street. After greeting friends and neighbours, all topped up with Christmas spirit and the relief that Reverend Tim was no longer talking, we headed for Hobbes’s house and Mrs Goodfellow’s Christmas lunch.

  2

  The rumours about the Bugle proved correct and the new owner, a mysterious, faceless corporation, took control of the paper in late January. Its first act was to sack Phil Waring and bring in a new editor, an Italian-suited, chubby, but otherwise nondescript individual who introduced himself as Ralph Pildown. During his first month, Ralph smiled a lot, talked to all the staff, complimented my food reviews, and changed nothing other than bringing in a new kettle to replace our leaky old one. At the start of his second month, he suggested a small tweak to editorial policy; he wanted the paper to be a little more upbeat and to make readers feel good about themselves and the region.

  I was happy to go along with him—I’d always preferred to stress the positive aspects of my eating experiences, assuming there were any. Overly harsh reviews were not my style, though I believed I owed it to my readers and to the restaurant owners themselves to point out possible improvements. As a result, my post bag bulged with appreciative letters from chefs and managers, thanking me for my efforts and explaining how they intended to make things even better. Well, I didn’t really have a post bag, but I did receive the occasional email.

  Phil invited his former colleagues for leaving drinks at the Bear with a Sore Head. He was in good spirits and had already secured a new position as editor-in-chief of a major London magazine. Still, he claimed he was sad to leave.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ muttered cynical Basil Dean, the Bugle’s veteran reporter, who was standing at my shoulder, waiting for me to buy him a beer. ‘The lucky bastard will be delighted to see the back of this place. Still, I reckon we’re going to miss him.’

  I nodded. ‘So do I. Still, Ralph doesn’t seem so bad, does he?’

  ‘I don’t trust that sconner as far as I could spit,’ said Basil, shaking his head, his Liverpudlian accent still raging despite decades of living in the Cotswolds. ‘I looked him up—he’s a hitman.’

  ‘What can I get you?’ asked the trendy young barman. His name was Tarquin, according to his badge.

  ‘Umm … ’ I stared at the pumps.

  ‘Come on lad, get the ales in,’ said Basil, one eye gazing lustfully at the beer pumps, while the strange one fixed me with a glassy stare. ‘I’m dying of thirst here. Mine’s a pint of Sorenchester Gold.’

  ‘Right … and I’ll have a pint of lager,’ I said.

  ‘You’ve got it,’ said Tarquin, and set to work.

  I turned back to Basil. ‘What do you mean he’s a hitman?’

  ‘I mean, mate, that wherever he goes, he cuts costs, sacks staff and emasculates the reporting. All that nonsense about making our reports more upbeat—he’ll have us writing fairy tales and fluff before too long.’

  I paid for the drinks, handed the Sorenchester Gold to Basil, and took a sip of my lager. ‘I’m sure it won’t be as bad as that,’ I said, uncertain that I believed myself.

  ‘Mark my words,’ said Basil. ‘That’s what he did at the Threadington Times and the Maudlin Mirror. Right, I’m off outside for a ciggy.’ He gulped his beer in one glug and headed for the exit, pouring tobacco onto a cigarette paper.

  I hoped he was wrong, but only time would tell.

  A couple of days and a hangover later, Sorenchester enjoyed a long-hoped-for spell of early spring sunshine. I sauntered along Rampart Street in my capacity as food critic, enjoying and resisting the siren aromas of hot food wafting from lunchtime restaurants and pubs because I was aiming for Papa’s Piri-Piri Palace. It was a week-old restaurant, on the site of the unlamented Jaipur Johnny’s, where I’d once caught a nasty case of the Jaipur trots that had confined me to the bathroom for an extremely long and revolting night. My review had been one of my rare stinkers and may have contributed to the restaurant’s demise. I felt no guilt.

  When I reached Papa’s, the door was open, but the restaurant looked deserted. Guessing I was its first customer of the day, I took the opportunity to look around. It was airy and clean, with bench seats, stretched trestle tables, and wooden chairs fitte
d with soft-looking cushions. Industrial chic steel beams and pillars supported the ceiling, while lush vegetation dangled from hanging baskets. Combined with grass green paint, it gave the place a tropical feel—a distinct improvement on its grim, tired and grubby predecessor.

  ‘Hello,’ I called to the room. ‘Anybody home?’

  It took a couple of minutes before a diminutive waiter in a brilliant white jacket appeared from the kitchen and greeted me. ‘Good afternoon, sir. Have you booked?’

  ‘Afternoon.’ I checked my watch—ten minutes past twelve. ‘No, is that a problem?’

  He pursed his lips, furrowed his brow in deep thought, and looked around the empty restaurant before answering, ‘No, sir, not at all. Please, sit wherever you like.’

  I chose a corner table by the window from where I could watch the world pass by.

  ‘Would you care for a drink while you’re waiting?’ the waiter asked as he handed me a menu.

  ‘A large glass of house red, please.’

  The menu wasn’t extensive: a small selection of starters, with chicken piri-piri and various sides as the main course. I selected cod and chickpea fritters as an appetiser and chicken piri-piri with batatas fritas to follow. The waiter reappeared with my wine, took my order, and scuttled back to the kitchen.

  I reached for my mobile, took a few snaps to jog my memory, and sniffed the wine. Its bouquet reminded me of thin vinegar. Undaunted, I took a sip and grimaced—it tasted of sour blackberry with a hint of mould; it might have been even nastier had it not been served at near-freezing point. Sharp slivers of ice pierced the surface, making drinking perilous. I would have spat the nasty stuff straight out into a napkin had there been one. Instead, I swallowed, shuddered, grimaced and pushed the glass away. Still, although it was disappointing, the critic in me was happy—acid remarks about acid wine would give a bit of oomph to my review.

  I sat twiddling my thumbs for twenty minutes, my hunger aroused, though my expectations were low since I’d often noted a link between poor house wines and below-average food. Another ten minutes passed, and I was wondering whether they’d forgotten me, though I remained the only customer. I was considering giving up and moving on when the waiter finally returned, plonked my starter on the table and hurried away without a word.