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

by Wilkie Martin

  We hurried back to the motorbike. Dregs, tail wagging, bounded into the sidecar while I struggled to get my leg over the saddle—Charlie’s overalls were exceedingly tight across my backside, and I feared they might split. Hobbes saw my difficulty, picked me up under my armpits as if I were a toddler, and plonked me into place. He leapt on, started the engine, and we sped away.

  The road was dark. Too dark. I only worked out why when we overtook a white van. ‘You’ve forgotten to turn the lights on!’ I yelled, but the roar of the engine must have drowned out my voice because he didn’t react.

  I clung on, wishing I knew how fast we were going, though convinced it was too fast. Dregs had another opinion—the tongue-lolling, ear-flapping idiot was enjoying the ride. For a few moments there was light as Hedbury passed in a blur and then we plunged back into darkness, tearing up the road to Sorenchester. If Hobbes’s car driving hadn’t toughened me up first, his motorbiking would have terrified me, but, of course, we reached Sorenchester intact.

  He dropped me back home, said goodbye and pulled away. As I approached the front door, I reached into my pocket, only to find the pockets weren’t where I expected them. And the ones I had were all empty, other than the balled-up, tattered remains of an old tissue.

  My keys had been in my jacket pocket.

  My jacket was with the rest of my dung encrusted clothes in the bin bag on Charlie’s kitchen floor.

  Other than a light in the porch, the house looked dark. I guessed Daphne had already turned in—not surprising as it had just gone midnight. Knowing she was a heavy sleeper, I pounded on the door. There was no response. No problem, I thought, and reached for my mobile—the beeps from our house phone could wake the dead. But my mobile was in my jacket, in the bag, on the floor in Charlie’s kitchen. As was my wallet, now I came to think of it. In desperation, I pounded on the door again.

  Rain came down, and it was not of the gentle rain that droppeth from heaven variety—it was a deluge, billowing up The Boulevard in horrible gusts. As I stood there wondering what to do, a waterfall started up from the broken bit of gutter and poured straight down my neck. I recoiled, but within seconds, Charlie’s old overalls were drenched. I kept pounding for want of anything better to do, though horrible thoughts crossed my mind. Was she ill? Had she gone straight round to Grubbe’s, accepted his offer and stayed on? The rational part of me knew I was being stupid—there was no reason to think she was not fit and well and, despite my insecurities and inadequacies, she was still in love with me, though why was a mystery.

  Ten minutes of door thumping had no effect, except on my knuckles. My teeth were chattering, and hypothermia beckoned. I sat on the step, curled into a ball, and tried to think what to do. Should I head over to Blackdog Street and fling myself on Hobbes’s mercy again? It would take me fifteen minutes to get there and he would have turned in, but I was already chilled and could think of nothing better.

  Three shadowy figures were approaching under the cover of umbrellas.

  A voice called out. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  It was Daphne, flanked by her beauteous friend Pinky and Pinky’s vampire lover, Sid.

  ‘Thank God!’ I cried and stood up.

  Daphne ran to me. ‘Andy? Are you alright? What are you doing out here? Why are you dressed like that?’

  ‘I had an accident … ’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘Not that kind of accident. I fell in some pig shit and had to borrow these things … ’

  She threw her arms around me.

  ‘ … and I put my dirty clothes in a bin bag which I forgot to pick up. My keys and everything are in it, so I couldn’t get in and I couldn’t wake you.’

  ‘I wasn’t asleep.’

  ‘Oh, no … of course not … umm … where were you?’

  ‘You could talk outside in the rain and catch your death, or we could go inside,’ said Pinky, giving me the kind but amused smile that always made me want to act like an over-eager puppy.

  Daphne opened the door and let us in.

  ‘Better strip those wet rags off him,’ said Pinky, winking one of her big blue eyes at me.

  A sudden blush warmed my face.

  ‘A hot bath will take away the chills,’ said Sid, a benevolent toothy grin creasing his plump face.

  Daphne led me upstairs into the bathroom and ran the bath while I stripped off and shivered. When at last I stepped into the water, my chilled skin tingled with the blessed warmth. In no time, my teeth stopped chattering. I told Daphne of my evening and to give her credit, she only laughed twice. As I got up to dry myself, she left me to it. From below, I heard the rise and fall of voices, laughter, and finally a cheery ‘goodnight’ from Sid. The front door closed.

  I made my way to the bedroom and snuggled into bed.

  ‘I was so relieved when you came back,’ I said, when Daphne joined me. ‘Mind you, a few minutes earlier would have been better.’

  ‘Sorry. If I’d expected such a tale of woe, I’d have been back earlier. I’d gone round to Sid and Pinky’s to talk things through after what Mr Hobbes told me—she’s a good listener and Sid’s financial advice was helpful.’

  ‘Why did you want financial advice at this time of night?’

  ‘It wasn’t this time of night when I went there. The thing is, I’ve decided to turn down Valentine’s contract, though the money would have been useful. We’re not too well off at the moment and the guttering needs fixing, and we could do with new windows.’

  I nodded and yawned before what she’d said hit me. ‘You’ve turned down the contract?’

  She nodded. ‘I couldn’t square it with my conscience. Although I don’t suppose Valentine means any harm, I feel I might expose some of our friends and other innocents to unwelcome scrutiny, and I’d never forgive myself if someone got hurt because of me. Mr Hobbes didn’t seem worried about himself, but there are others.’

  ‘But Grubbe would have paid you so much!’ I said as the consequences struck. I had a horrible suspicion I’d been hoping she’d sign, so that I could signal my disapproval from the moral high ground, while being very glad of the money. One thing was clear, though—I couldn’t afford to resign from the Bugle. I wasn’t paid so well as a food critic and occasional reporter, but I was paid and my contribution to the household budget was still useful.

  ‘Do you think I’ve made a mistake?’ She asked, looking surprised. ‘I thought you’d be pleased—I thought you didn’t like Valentine.’

  I shook my head. ‘You’ve made the right moral decision. I was just thinking of the money.’

  ‘We’ll get by.’

  ‘I suppose so. Did Sid have any suggestions?’

  ‘He offered us a loan. Not from the bank, but from his own pocket. Interest free.’

  ‘How much?’ I asked.

  ‘As much as we’d need. I turned it down, though. It’s not good to borrow from friends, in case anything goes wrong.’

  I bit my lip and nodded.

  ‘We’ll manage.’

  ‘Yes.’ I yawned again.

  Daphne glanced at her watch. ‘It’s nearly one o’clock! We’d better get some sleep—I’m guiding a group of amateur archaeologists round the pre-Roman section first thing tomorrow.’

  Daphne’s gasp woke me.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘Look at the time!’ She leapt from bed.

  It was eight-thirty.

  ‘Why didn’t the alarm work?’ I began and stopped—the alarm was on my mobile, in my jacket pocket, in the bag on Charlie’s kitchen floor.

  She hurried to the bathroom.

  I could so easily have dozed again, but I forced myself to roll out of bed, fearing Ralph’s wrath if I wasn’t on time. After dressing in record time, I scurried into the bathroom as Daphne ran out. A rudimentary set of morning ablutions followed, during which I spat toothpaste down my nice, clean shirt. A brisk scrub with a face flannel removed most of the mess and I rushed downstairs. Daphne was
gulping down a glass of tap water.

  ‘What would you like for breakfast?’ I asked, opening a cupboard in hope.

  She put down the glass. ‘Sorry, there’s no time. I’m off.’ She dropped a quick kiss on my lips and was gone.

  I dithered a moment, wondering whether to risk a quick bite before a mad rush to the office, but the clock showed eight forty-five, and my walk to work took fifteen minutes, if I was brisk and the traffic allowed me to cross roads without delay. Giving up on eating for the time being, I decided to head straight to work—hoping I’d find time for something later. I just wished I wasn’t so hungry already! I ran and opened the front door.

  The overnight downpour had washed the sky clean, and a watery sun glinted off damp streets. I blinked and was pulling the door behind me when I had a thought—my keys were at Charlie’s. And so was my wallet, leaving me with nothing to buy a snack. I was in a quandary: should I leave the front door unlocked and risk burglars? Or should I not turn up at work? Basil’s fate was in the forefront of my mind, but which was worse?

  I dithered until my growling stomach made up my mind.

  I went back inside, put the kettle on, shoved two slices of bread in the toaster and used the landline to call the office.

  A posh female voice answered. ‘Sorenchester and District Bugle. Olivia speaking—how may I help you?’

  ‘Umm … what?’ I said—I knew no Olivia. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Olivia.’

  ‘Yeah, but what are you doing there?’

  ‘I am answering the telephone,’ she said.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because it was ringing.’

  I knew she’d just rolled her eyes.

  Flummoxed, I changed my approach. ‘Is Ralph in?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Pildown is in.’

  ‘Good. May I speak to him?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s busy. Can I help?’

  ‘Umm … maybe. Could you give him a message?’

  ‘I could.’

  ‘Tell him I’ve lost my keys, mobile and wallet … ’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Olivia, ‘but I’m afraid lost property is not newsworthy.’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Then why bother calling a newspaper?’

  The toaster made a muted ping.

  ‘I’m not ringing in a story.’

  ‘That’s what I just said.’

  ‘Look, I’m calling because I … ’

  I sniffed the air—something was burning. Two plumes of smoke were rising from the toaster—the bread was wedged in. An unfortunate word escaped as I ran to the rescue.

  ‘I’ll thank you not to swear at me,’ said Olivia.

  ‘Sorry, but … umm …’ The line went dead.

  Several choice swear words, each worse than the last, burst forth as I jiggled the release, trying in vain to get my toast to pop out while there was still hope of salvaging something edible. An attempt at pinching a corner and pulling brought only pain—the slices were well and truly stuck. The smoke was thickening, and I wrestled with the blasted machine for several seconds before I thought to unplug it. After leaving it to cool for a few seconds, I prised out lumps of carbonised bread with a butter knife, though no amount of scraping would save them. Still, I’d learned to take adversity in my stride, so I made a pot of tea and tried again, keeping a close eye on the toaster to ensure nothing went wrong this time.

  Nothing did go wrong, and I was left with two perfect slices of toast. Famished, I slavered butter and Mrs Goodfellow’s marvellous marmalade on them, poured myself a mug of tea, and carried my breakfast to the table.

  Only when I’d finished eating and had poured a second mug of tea did I call the office again. This time, I was prepared.

  ‘Sorenchester and District Bugle. This is Olivia—how may I help you?’

  ‘Good morning, Olivia,’ I said, trying to exude confidence and authority. A rogue crumb caught my throat, and, despite my best efforts, my voice came out as a hoarse and strained whisper. ‘My name is Andy Caplet. Would you pass on a message?’

  ‘Let me find a pencil,’ said Olivia.

  She put the phone down, but I heard her say, ‘It’s that weirdo again. What should I do? He claims he’s called Randy Tablet or something.’

  Another woman’s voice said something too faint to hear, and Olivia got back to me. ‘Now listen, creep! If you try this again, I’m calling the police. Get it?’

  ‘But I need to tell …’

  The line went dead again.

  18

  It was only after my utter telephone failure that other options occurred to me, and I sent Ralph an email to explain. Two minutes later, a new mail pinged into my inbox. I opened it, expecting to have my face chewed off by a furious editor.

  But it was Daphne. ‘Hi, Andy, I’ve just remembered about your keys. Don’t forget the set you hid under the sink.’

  I’d put them there for safe-keeping, insisting that I wouldn’t forget them. But, of course, I had.

  Technically, there was now no reason for not going into work, but having already made my excuses, I felt free—a sneaky day off work is worth double a planned one. Hoping Hobbes might take me to pick up my stuff from Charlie’s, I phoned Blackdog Street. Mrs Goodfellow said he’d already gone to the police station. I decided to go there too. After retrieving the spare keys, I headed out.

  To reduce the possibility of being spotted by Ralph, I took the long way round, avoiding the end of The Shambles, scurrying furtively down the shadowy side of Vermin Street and sneaking down the alley to the police station. An altercation was going on inside. I looked through the open door to see what was happening.

  DCI Kirten, either very brave or very stupid, was yelling at Hobbes, who was facing him, stone-faced.

  When Kirten broke off to breathe, Hobbes spoke. ‘Use your brain. Mr Ching was not at home at the time of the killing. Therefore, it is clear he could not have fired the shot that killed Timmy.’

  Kirten shook his head. ‘He might claim he was away, but why should I believe him?’

  ‘Because he can prove he was on a family holiday in Taiwan.’

  Kirten sneered. ‘You rustic coppers are so gullible! He could easily have fabricated this so-called proof.’

  ‘No, he could not. There is compelling evidence that he and his family were exactly where he says he was. If I were you, I would put an end to this fiasco and put some effort into catching the real killer.’

  ‘Don’t tell me how to run my case, you bloody rural simpleton!’ Kirten bellowed, his face red with rage. ‘Back off, or I’ll inform the chief constable of your gross insubordination. I will not be releasing Ching, but I will compile evidence against him.’

  For a moment, I thought there’d be trouble. Hobbes, scowling, took a step forward, towering over Kirten like a guillotine blade over an exposed neck. Kirten retreated, stumbled over a paper bin, and fell back into a chair with an almighty thump. Hobbes turned around and stalked from the police station.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said on seeing me lurking. ‘Did you hear all that?’

  ‘Enough,’ I said. ‘Are you going to do anything about it?’ I hoped he would—Aye Ching’s was the best takeaway in town.

  ‘Yes. First, I’m going to examine the crime scene,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘Can I come?’ I asked.

  When he nodded, I regretted my impulsiveness—the prospect of another bike ride gave me the heebie-jeebies. But Billy had put his little car back together, and it gleamed with fresh paint and polish in the police car park. Hobbes whistled and Dregs ran towards us, licking his lips and looking smug. Cake crumbs dusted his muzzle.

  I took my usual inferior position in the back. Dregs got into the passenger seat and Hobbes started the engine. The speed at which we reversed from the parking space would have left me in the footwell had I not fitted my seatbelt. We set off. To distract myself from the driving, I watched Dregs, wondering how he seemed to anticipate the car’s every swerve, lurch
and brake, and wasn’t thrown around like a rag doll. He leant into bends, braced himself as the car sped up or slowed, his tongue lolling and without an apparent care. Not that Hobbes braked much on that journey—his speed rarely dipped below eighty miles per hour through the narrow streets of central Sorenchester. We stopped on a quiet residential street. The large, Cotswold stone terraced houses showed we were in the Moorend part of town.

  ‘This is Elvers End,’ said Hobbes, unfolding himself and stepping into the street, with Dregs and me close behind. ‘The boy’s body was lying in Mr Ching’s back garden. Follow me.’

  His anger had dissipated, replaced by the quivering intensity that took him at crime scenes. He led us down a long side passage into a service road with extensive gardens backing onto it.

  ‘Third gate on the right,’ he said.

  It was closed and decorated with police tape. He tried the catch, but the gate was bolted. That proved no obstacle—he vaulted it. A moment later, the bolt scraped back, and he let us into a large, overgrown garden with tall, unkempt, privet hedges along either side.

  ‘You know the procedure,’ said Hobbes.

  Dregs and I stayed close to the gate as he began looking about.

  ‘That is where they found Timmy’s body.’ He pointed to an area of flattened grass in front of the hedge on the right and crept towards it on all fours like a monstrous toad, examining the area from all angles, sniffing and poking. ‘There’s still a faint scent of blood, despite the rain and the trampling feet of the investigators.’ He turned and frowned at the house. ‘Kirten claims Mr Ching shot Timmy from the upstairs back window.’

  ‘Does Mr Ching even have a gun?’ I asked.

  Hobbes shook his head. ‘There is nothing to suggest that he does, and Kirten has located no weapon. Mr Ching denies ever having owned one, though he admits he knows how to shoot—he was in the army thirty years ago.’

  I nodded. ‘The whole thing makes no sense. Even if he had a gun, why would he shoot a child?’

  ‘Because he’s a psychopath, according to Kirten,’ said Hobbes, crawling to examine a patch of grass that looked the same as all the others. ‘But he refused to explain why he’d jumped to that ludicrous conclusion.’