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

by Wilkie Martin

  His mobile rang. ‘Inspector Hobbes … Hello, Mr Catt … Yes, I know what they are … When did it escape? How dangerous? … OK, I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t come round straight away because I have to look in at the station first—I’ve been away.’ He ended the call.

  ‘The Wildlife Park?’ I asked. I’d met Mr Catt, its manager, on a number of occasions.

  Hobbes nodded. ‘He was letting me know that one of their rheas escaped two weeks ago and hasn’t been caught yet.’

  ‘Aren’t rheas those big birds from South America?’

  ‘Big birds indeed—distant relatives of ostriches. Mr Catt said they can disembowel a man with a single kick. He’s got staff out searching, and the local police are aware but he thought I should know.’

  ‘Quite right,’ I said. ‘We can’t have monstrous birds disembowelling the public—it wouldn’t look good in the tourist brochures.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ said Hobbes, getting to his feet. ‘I’m glad to see you on the road to recovery, but there’s constabulary duty to be done.’

  ‘I was going to offer you a cup of tea,’ I said, realising I’d failed in my duty as host.

  ‘And I was going to refuse it,’ said Hobbes with a chuckle. ‘I’ve tried your tea before. I’ll see myself out. Goodbye.’

  He left me to my own company, and finding I didn’t much enjoy it, I turned on the telly, which soon confirmed that I liked its daytime output even less. I picked up my laptop, rested it on my knees, and after wasting a few minutes browsing social media and news sites, got down to some writing.

  I drafted a light-hearted article about the pleasures and pitfalls of yak butter tea, including a recipe. The first lines gave me particular pleasure: ‘First, milk your yak. Then churn the milk for forty minutes and scoop out the butter.’ I wasn’t much concerned with accuracy—I doubted anyone would try it.

  After finishing, I emailed the piece to Ralph and glanced at the clock—it was approaching midday and time to look forward to Mrs Goodfellow’s visit. She’d said she’d call round at one o’clock. My stomach put up a convincing argument that this was far too late and to take my mind off it, I started writing, ‘My Life among Yetis by A. C. Caplet’. I hadn’t forgotten that I’d signed the Official Secrets Act, which forbade me from revealing anything Yeti-related to any uncleared person, but I had no intention of letting anyone other than Daphne read it. It started well, and I was so thrilled by my adventures I lost track of time.

  ‘Paella!’

  The shrill, sudden voice would have caused me to leap to my feet had my leg not let me down. As it was, a convulsive twitch launched my laptop into the air. It came down face first on the arm of the sofa.

  Mrs Goodfellow had just come in, carrying a stoneware bowl that looked as if it weighed more than she did.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, shaky of voice and fearing for my poor heart. My laptop slid to the carpet. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘I noticed. I did ring the bell.’

  ‘I was busy,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not like you, dear. Are you ready for lunch? I’ve brought some paella.’

  ‘Yes … I am.’ My stomach groaned, reproving my previous neglect.

  ‘I’ll warm it up,’ she said, heading for the kitchen. ‘It’ll be ready in a few minutes. Do you need to wash up or anything?’

  ‘I’m fine for now. I’ll just sort out the laptop.’ I picked it up.

  The screen was blank, and despite a flurry of random key poking, it was dead. I abandoned my efforts with a shrug and a hope that Ralph’s budget might buy me another. Giving up on it, I examined the camera, which was a sorry sight—the plastic housing had split and a crack bisected the lens. When I shook it, it rattled and something clunked. My stint as the Bugle’s roving photographer had ended in failure and, although I didn’t consider it my fault, Ralph would not be impressed.

  Delicious scents wafted from the kitchen to soothe me, and it wasn’t long before Mrs G walked back in, bearing my lunch on a tray. I’d been a little worried when she mentioned paella, having once suffered a bad one in a tourist trap in Marbella, but, of course, with the old girl at the pan, nothing could go wrong. Even before I’d tasted it, the aromas told me it would be brilliant. I took a tentative taste and realised I’d been mistaken—it was more than brilliant, it was stupendous. Once I’d got over the initial delight, I was amazed she’d found so many types of seafood in Sorenchester. I ate in rapturous silence, appreciating every morsel, every nuance, every flavour, the way the golden threads of saffron wove through the dish, the way the different textures balanced each other out. I could have eaten it forever—but I would have said much the same for almost every meal she’d made.

  When I could stuff no more, she handed me a mug of hot tea. I sat back, feelings of smugness and privilege overwhelming me. Still, I spared a compassionate thought for the unfortunates she hadn’t cooked for. No king or emperor ever lunched so well as I had.

  Mrs Goodfellow was washing up, and I was resting my eyes, when distant shouting disturbed the peace.

  11

  ‘What’s going on out there?’ I asked as Mrs G came back into the room—as if she could know.

  ‘No idea, dear, but it’s coming from the town centre. Let’s go and take a look—you’ve been cooped up in here since you got back and could do with some fresh air.’

  My response was peevish. ‘You can, but there’s no way I can make it that far!’

  ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way, dear.’ Her false teeth beamed at me.

  ‘What way?’

  ‘Old Mrs Brodie passed away last year, and left me her wheelchair. It’s parked outside—I thought you might need it.’

  ‘Mrs Brodie?’

  ‘She was a friend, I suppose … though she was an old sod.’

  I laughed. ‘That’s not a nice thing to say about a friend, I suppose you mean she opposed the development.’

  Mrs Goodfellow shook her head. ‘Not that sort of sod, dear. She was a mean, cantankerous old biddy and never had a kind word for anyone—especially for me.’

  ‘If she was so nasty, why did she let you have the wheelchair?’

  ‘Because she didn’t need it. She was dead, dear, a victim of the Glevchester Knitting Emporium collapse—she died in the wool. Here’s your stick.’ She handed it to me, helped me to rise, and led me to the front door.

  The bright spring sunshine dazzled eyes that had not seen the light of day since our return. I blinked and gaped in horror. The late Mrs Brodie’s wheelchair was a wooden relic, with a latticed-cane seat, two large wheels on the sides and a smaller one at the back. It reminded me of a squat penny-farthing tricycle.

  ‘Umm … is that thing safe?’ I asked, unwilling to risk my weight to it.

  ‘Probably, dear.’

  ‘But it’s an antique!’

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not that old. Mrs Brodie got it during the Blitz so she could keep calm and carry on working—she’d broken both ankles when her bus drove into a bomb crater. The chair has weathered the years better than she did. She drank, you know?’

  I hesitated and was lost.

  ‘Why not try it, dear?’

  I sat, and although the seat creaked, nothing fell off. ‘Are you sure you’ll manage?’ I asked, embarrassed that people would see me being pushed by a stick-thin little old lady—few would know how tough she was.

  She laughed. ‘There’s only one way to find out. Let’s roll!’

  We set off faster than felt safe, but I said nothing, too busy trying to look nonchalant as the wooden wheels clattered on the paving.

  At the end of The Boulevard, we turned up Moorend Road and crossed toward The Shambles, the noise growing louder as we approached the junction with Vermin Street. The road was full of shouting people, though there seemed to be little actual trouble until a beer bottle flew over the top of the crowd and shattered against a shop wall. I would have stopped and retreated, but Mrs G headed straight into the danger zone.


  An almost spherical woman emerged from the Cake Hole bakery, clutching a chocolate sponge the size of her head in pudgy hands.

  ‘Good afternoon, Fenella,’ said Mrs G.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Niblett,’ I said. ‘What’s happening?’

  Fenella acknowledged us with a regal smile and a dribble of drool. She took a bite from the cake, masticated for a few moments with a look of sheer bliss on her moon-like face and said, ‘I don’t rightly know.’

  ‘Skeleton’ Bob Niblett, her emaciated husband, emerged from her shadow. ‘It’s a demonstration against the new development.’

  I’d first met the pair of them when I’d visited their cottage with Hobbes while we were investigating a big cat sighting. Although nearly always in trouble, there was something likeable about Bob—his regular law-breaking was petty, unsuccessful, and performed with no malice aforethought or, indeed, much thought of any kind. Fenella scared me.

  Another bottle flew from the crowd. It was coming straight at my head. Unable to move in the cramped wheelchair, I covered up, cringed and expected pain. But, in one effortless movement, Mrs G leaned forward, caught the bottle by its neck and tossed it into the nearest litter bin.

  ‘The demo was all well-behaved and respectable when we got here, ten minutes ago,’ said Bob. ‘There were a lot of older folk, a bunch of students with placards, and a lady with dreadlocks collecting names for a petition.’

  ‘Then what?’ I asked.

  ‘We went in there,’ said Fenella, gesturing at the Cake Hole, ‘because we wanted a cake.’ She engulfed another great mouthful, leaving chocolate smears around her lips.

  Something was happening. The crowd surged backwards and forwards in waves, and lost in the middle, Constable Poll’s lanky frame swayed like a yacht’s mast in a storm. A fat, ugly, young man, his short hair like suede, swung a punch at a mild-looking, bespectacled old man who was looking the other way. Faster than I’d ever seen him move before, Constable Poll blocked the blow with his truncheon. The young man swore and sucked sore knuckles.

  ‘Jolly well done, constable,’ said a smart middle-aged lady, wielding a rolled umbrella to whack the miscreant on the ear.

  There was a moment of quiet.

  And then, a mob of at least twenty burly young bullies charged into the crowd, roaring and threatening. Constable Poll rocked, tipped, and went down in the storm. But before the charge of the heavy-brigade caused too much damage, it stopped. Dead. Several of the bullyboys took flight—one moment, they were causing mayhem, the next, they were airborne, arms and legs flapping like chicken wings. Within seconds, the trouble was over, and the troublemakers were grovelling in the road like worms on a rainy night. Except that most were groaning.

  Hobbes was strolling through the crowd. He raised the crumpled figure of Constable Poll and shook him out. ‘Are you all right, Derek?’

  Poll, a little dazed, nodded, and Hobbes set him back on his feet.

  ‘Good man,’ said Hobbes. He bowed to Mrs Niblett, who’d buried her face in her cake again. ‘Did anyone see what started this?’

  ‘Not really, Mr Hobbes,’ said Bob. ‘Some rough guys was hanging round outside the church when we got off the bus. I reckon they came from out of town because I didn’t know them. We kept out of their way, though they weren’t doing much. We went into the cake shop and heard the SODs start a chant when Fenella was inspecting the comestibles.’

  ‘What were they chanting?’ I asked, getting details for the story I might write.

  Bob screwed up his face to squeeze out a memory. ‘A skinny woman in dreadlocks yelled, “What don’t we want?” and the others shouted, “Development on the common!” Then she yelled, “When don’t we want it?” and they roared back, “Ever!”’

  ‘Then what?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘I looked out the window and a tall, nobby-looking bloke in a suit nodded at the rough guys, and they all began shouting and throwing things at the poor old SODs.’

  ‘Did you recognise the nobby-looking bloke?’ asked Hobbes.

  Bob shook his head. ‘Never seen him before in all my life, but I reckon I’d know him again ’cause he was wearing dark glasses.’

  ‘Thank you for your help, Bob,’ said Hobbes, before saluting Fenella, who acknowledged the gesture with a faint tilt of her head and a chocolate smile.

  People were checking the casualties, but apart from one old gentleman with a bloody nose and another with a black eye, no one was much hurt—thanks to Hobbes I suspected. Even the bullyboys were sitting up with dazed expressions. Bob’s suggestion that they were from out of town looked plausible—they looked like Pigtonites to me, though it might have been my prejudice against the knuckle-dragging inhabitants of that godforsaken town.

  ‘Albert Herring,’ said Hobbes, clamping the heavy hand of the law onto the shoulder of a man who was getting to his feet, ‘what brings you to town?’

  Albert, tall, overweight and over-tattooed, cringed and attempted a friendly smile. ‘Hello, Mr Hobbes … I didn’t see you there. They told us you was out of town—I wouldn’t have been here otherwise. I’m … er … very sorry for the trouble.’

  ‘And why did you cause trouble, Albert?’

  ‘Say nothing,’ said one of his mates, trying to look tough, though his piggy eyes were wide with fear.

  Albert squirmed under Hobbes’s stern expression. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Hobbes, towering over him like a thundercloud over a picnic.

  ‘Say nothing!’ roared piggy eyes.

  Hobbes seized Piggy’s ear and invited him to join the conversation. ‘Who are you?’

  Although the man squirmed, he was going nowhere. ‘None of your business. Aargh!’

  Hobbes, I gathered, had increased the twist on his ear.

  ‘They call him Mad Mick,’ said Albert, sparing his mate further pain.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mad, or do you prefer Mr Mick?’ asked Hobbes.

  An engine revved. Tyres screeched. The crowd panicked as a red pickup truck sped through them from the direction of the church. As people raced to get out of harm’s way, Hobbes released the two bullies, scooped up three elderly ladies and a snappy dachshund, and carried them to safety. Mrs G rolled me clear.

  The pickup slowed, Albert, Mad Mick and the other bad guys scrambled aboard and it screeched away.

  ‘How very ill-mannered!’ said Mrs Goodfellow in her cross voice. ‘It’s as if they didn’t care that someone might get injured.’

  Hobbes, after setting the flustered old ladies down, calmed the dachshund, who was howling like a soprano wolf. When he’d restored peace, he turned to us. ‘Did you see the driver?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I did, but I didn’t recognise him,’ said Mrs G. ‘He was wearing a grey suit and dark glasses.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Not much to go on, I’m afraid—I suspect he was the one pulling the strings behind this little incident.’

  ‘Those guys were his puppets?’ I said, thinking it an astute remark—none of them had looked like thinkers.

  Hobbes nodded. ‘It’s likely, if they’re anything like Albert Herring. He’s been getting into trouble since he was a lad, though he never knows how he got there. He’s incapable of planning anything and never starts anything himself.’

  ‘How do you know him?’ I asked.

  ‘He lived next door, dear,’ said Mrs G, ‘which was handy for keeping an eye on him. Back then, the old fellow kept him away from the worst troublemakers, which made his mum happy. Sadly, when the family had to move, he got into bad company.’

  Hobbes turned to the crowd. ‘Did anyone get the pickup’s number?’

  I was surprised he hadn’t noted it himself, though in fairness, he’d had his hands full.

  ‘I did, sir.’ Constable Poll eased through the crowd and handed Hobbes the number plate. ‘It came off when the pickup hit the speed bump.’

  ‘Thanks, Derek,’ said Hobbes, taking it in his huge, hairy hands. ‘It w
as only held on by a bit of gaffer tape. I’d guess it was stolen from another vehicle. That suggests forethought.’

  I pondered this for a moment. ‘So, it’ll be a waste of time tracing the number?’

  Hobbes shook his head. ‘Not necessarily.’ He handed the plate back to Constable Poll. ‘Would you take this to the station and check it out? Get it dusted for prints, too.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the constable.

  Hobbes said ‘goodbye’, took out his notebook, and talked to witnesses.

  ‘The excitement seems to be over all too soon,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, sounding disappointed. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  We said our farewells to Bob and Fenella, who was eyeing another cake and dead to all other considerations. The old girl whisked me homeward.

  ‘Why would anyone cause trouble at a SODs protest?’ I said. ‘They’re such a peaceful bunch.’

  ‘True, dear,’ said Mrs G. ‘But, maybe, this will get them some publicity. The Bugle has barely even mentioned any opposition to the development.’

  ‘Are you suggesting they organised the whole shebang for publicity? How irresponsible! Someone might have been badly hurt.’

  But part of me was thinking what a great story if it were true.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mrs G, ‘though I wouldn’t blame them if they had. And, as the old fellow says, it’s best to get all the relevant facts before jumping to any conclusions.’

  ‘That makes sense—for a policeman,’ I said, aware my profession often took the opposite approach.

  I thought about it. According to Ralph, the primary task of a reporter was to sell newspapers. Although I could see sense in his point of view, I still believed we should aim for the truth—my previous editors had insisted on it, up to a point. However, I suspected Ralph’s integrity, though I was still giving him the benefit of the doubt because he claimed he was doing his best to save the newspaper from bankruptcy. Like many others, it had experienced a sharp decline in paper sales. It worried me, though, that even historic articles were not immune to his striving for positivity—he’d tweaked some to be more favourable to companies that advertised with us, claiming it was vital not to drive away income. I was a little uncomfortable with the notion.