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

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘Umm … there’s another thing that bothers me,’ I said. ‘What was Timmy doing here? Did he know the Chings?’

  Hobbes shook his head. ‘Not really. Timmy’s family ordered a takeaway now and then, but that’s all that connects them—other than the body being here.’

  ‘Kirten’s case seems flimsy,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not even as strong as that,’ he said. ‘Mr Ching has documentary proof he was in Taiwan at the time.’

  ‘What … ?’ I started.

  He held up a hand, and I let the question slip.

  ‘Hello ’ello ’ello, what’s all this then?’ He picked a small twig from the grass and turned towards the hedge.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Take a good look at this hedge. What do you observe?’

  ‘Umm … leaves … twigs?’

  ‘Near the top, Andy. Can’t you see it?’

  ‘No … umm … wait a moment.’ A sudden thrill ran through me. ‘Yes, I think so—there’s a bit with lots of broken twigs. Umm … does that mean something?’

  ‘It’s food for thought,’ said Hobbes. ‘I think I should look next door. Come along.’

  He loped out of the garden, with Dregs and me trotting behind. We returned to the road, and he knocked on a door. A plump, pretty, grey-haired woman opened up, gasped and recoiled, as if she intended to shut the door in his face, but he already had his police ID in his big hairy hand.

  ‘I’m Inspector Hobbes,’ he said. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Timothy Rigg.’

  ‘That poor boy,’ said the woman, relaxing as she saw a police officer and not the monster she’d imagined. ‘But we’ve already talked to a police inspector, though we didn’t really know anything because we were away when it happened. If there’s any way I can help … ’

  ‘All I need is to look in your garden,’ said Hobbes. ‘Do you mind?’

  The woman looked surprised, but smiled. ‘Not at all. I’m Penny Bright by the way. My husband, is at work. Please come in.’

  She led us through the house, a place of order and cleanliness, and opened the back door to the garden, which wasn’t. It was similar in size and shape to Mr Ching’s, but comprised a muddy lawn with a playhouse, footballs, bikes, a trampoline, and random toys scattered over it.

  ‘Aha!’ said Hobbes, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked, but he was onto something and ignored me.

  Dregs leapt onto the trampoline and bounced like the tail-wagging idiot he was, his tongue lolling, his expression one of unalloyed joy.

  ‘He’s just like our grandchildren,’ said Penny, smiling at the loony antics. ‘They love the trampoline too.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Do your grandchildren ever have friends round to play on it?’ asked Hobbes.

  It was a surprising question—he preferred to get straight down to business without any chitchat.

  Penny nodded. ‘Sometimes. Most kids seem to enjoy bouncing.’

  ‘Was Timmy Rigg one of them?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘Sort of,’ said Penny. ‘He was one of a bunch that came round here from time to time—I recognised his photograph in the Bugle. Now you come to mention it, I think he was always on it if he had the chance. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I think I know what happened,’ said Hobbes, examining the hedge.

  I was groping at an idea, too, but it ran away before I could catch it.

  ‘Do you mind if I try it?’ asked Hobbes.

  Penny looked him up and down. ‘It’s designed for children. Someone of your … build might break it.’

  ‘I’ll try not to bounce,’ said Hobbes. ‘I just need to look.’

  Penny shrugged. ‘I don’t understand why, but yes. Just take care.’

  After persuading a reluctant Dregs to get down, Hobbes vaulted onto the trampoline, which pinged and sagged when he reached the middle. Penny looked nervous and was opening her mouth to speak when the telephone called. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, returning to the house.

  Hobbes was still investigating the hedge. There was a little damage near the top, as if something had hit it. As soon as Penny was out of sight, he bounced high and looked over the hedge.

  ‘You said you wouldn’t do that,’ I began as he bounced again.

  As he landed this time, the distressed springs groaned and pinged, the jump mat split down the middle, and he plunged to the ground. ‘Oops,’ he said.

  Penny, telephone to her ear, was staring from the back window, a look of horror on her face. She ran out. ‘Oh god! Is he alright? Shall I call an ambulance?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mrs Bright,’ said Hobbes, brushing himself down and standing up. ‘However, I’ve bust your trampoline. It did not die in vain, though—I’ve learned something important.’

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Where the shot was fired from,’ said Hobbes. ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll order a new trampoline at once.’

  He took the mobile from his pocket and gave instructions to someone before turning to Penny with a smile. ‘It will be here within the hour.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  ‘No, Mrs Bright, thank you for your invaluable help.’

  After leaving her, Hobbes ensured the crime scene was still secure and herded Dregs and me into the car.

  I was bursting with curiosity as I fastened my seatbelt. ‘What did you see?’

  The car roared forward. ‘I saw the landscape around Elvers End.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I believe Timmy was shot from a distance.’

  ‘But … umm … why?’

  ‘By accident. The shooter probably intended the bullet for someone else.’

  I scratched my head. ‘You think Timmy was on the trampoline and bounced at the wrong time? But Mrs Bright said they weren’t home—he couldn’t have got into the garden.’

  Hobbes gave me a grim smile. ‘She also said Timmy was particularly keen on trampolining. I suspect he sneaked into the garden—the gate would be no obstacle to an active child. He was unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  I cottoned on at last. ‘So, you reckon the impact of the bullet knocked him across the hedge?’

  He nodded. ‘There were traces of blood and fibres from clothes across the leaves and twigs at the top of the hedge. I’d be astonished if they hadn’t come from the poor boy.’

  ‘But … umm … shouldn’t DCI Kirten have spotted all that?’

  Hobbes shrugged. ‘He should, but Kirten has a reputation for focusing on the immediate crime scene and getting confessions rather than checking further afield.’

  ‘That’s stupid,’ I said.

  ‘But that’s his method, and it can get quick results, which his bosses like because it saves time and resources. It’s failed this time, though. He’s floundering and panicking. That’s why he’s trying to pin it on poor Mr Ching.’

  I nodded. ‘All this gets you no closer to catching the murderer, though ….’ Noticing an eighth of a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth, I added, ‘Or does it?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, threading the little car through the narrow streets.

  Dregs gave me a smug look, letting me know that he’d already worked out what was going on, though there was no point asking him to explain. All I could do was sit and wait for the big reveal.

  Two minutes later, we stopped on Wall Street, a residential dead end next to open ground, bounded on the far side by the remains of Sorenchester’s Roman fortifications and the River Soren. Hobbes leapt out and led us down a path into the fields. When I caught up, he and Dregs were staring up a tree.

  ‘Has he been chasing squirrels again?’ I asked.

  Hobbes shook his head. ‘This, I suspect, is a crime scene.’

  I looked up. It was just an old beech tree. ‘You think the murderer shot from here?’

  Hobbes nodded, dropped to all fours, and sniffed and rummaged through the leaf litter.

  Dregs joined him, nose down, tail wa
gging, ears pricked. Knowing my place in the scheme of things, I kept well back and observed.

  After a few moments, Hobbes grunted and stretched out an arm. I watched, fascinated as a sharp, yellow fingernail extended like a cat’s claw to hook something pressed into the soil. Using his nails as tweezers, he held it up to the light. As his nails retracted, it dropped into his palm. He'd found a tiny, glittery red ring, smaller in diameter than a penny.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘A small, red ring,’ he said and sniffed. ‘It’s got a very faint smell … antiseptic? It reminds me of something.’

  ‘Is it relevant?’

  He stood up. ‘Perhaps—it’s not been here very long, so it could have been dropped at the time of the shooting. I’m not sure what it is yet. Any ideas?’

  I peered at it. It looked flimsy and had a split in the circumference. ‘A little girl’s toy ring?’ I suggested.

  A large man who’d been walking a tiny white dog on the other side of the field approached. It was ‘Bruiser’ Wainright. Adopting a fighting stance, and a fierce expression, he squared up to Hobbes, fists raised.

  The little white dog wandered up to Dregs and yapped. Dregs ignored the pest.

  I expected Bruiser was going to get flattened, but Hobbes chuckled and held out his hand.

  Bruiser laughed and shook it. ‘Hiya, coach—it’s great to see you.’

  ‘Coach?’ It was a new nickname to me.

  ‘Yes, Andy,’ said Bruiser. ‘Mr Hobbes taught me to box when I was a nipper, and I was being bullied.’

  ‘I’m glad it worked out well for you,’ said Hobbes.

  Bruiser nodded. ‘Thank you. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Investigating a crime,’ said Hobbes and showed him the ring. ‘We were trying to work out what this is.’

  ‘It’s a hair ring,’ said Bruiser. ‘They are used for holding braids together and to add a bit of sparkle and colour to hair.’

  ‘I’ve seen them,’ I said. ‘Not long ago.’

  Hobbes grinned. ‘If this proves significant, it’ll be the first time a red hair ring turns out to be a genuine clue.’

  Bruiser glanced at his watch. ‘Oops, I must be on my way—I’ve got a lady coming for a cut in twenty minutes. Great to see you, Coach. Andy.’

  As Bruiser and his dog departed, Hobbes grabbed a low branch, swung himself into the beech tree like an ape, and began climbing. Now and then, he stopped to investigate something.

  Seeing him go, Dregs barked, bounced and pawed the trunk, wanting to join in the fun. I’d seen him climb trees, and he wasn’t bad—for a dog. However, the lower branches were just out of his reach. He gave me a hard stare, annoyed I wouldn’t offer him a leg up.

  Hobbes reached the higher parts of the tree and turned upside down, his boots hooked over a sturdy limb to enable him to sniff the top of the branch below. His eager expression suggested he was on the scent of something. ‘That weird smell is up here, too. If only it hadn’t rained.’

  He unhooked himself, dropped, twisted, and landed feet first on the branch below. After gazing out over Sorenchester, he nodded.

  ‘Found anything?’ I asked.

  He jumped down, landing between me and Dregs. ‘The shooter fired from that branch—it overlooks the gardens at Elvers End and would have provided a stable platform.’

  ‘The murderer must have been quite active,’ I pointed out. ‘I’d struggle to climb up there … and they risked being seen—this is public land.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Your first point is valid, but I’m not so sure about the second. Yes, there would have been a risk of witnesses, but it’s not busy round here. How many people can you see?’

  ‘Umm … none at the moment.’

  ‘That’s often the case. Dog walkers and the occasional rambler use this place. Children too—when they’re not playing their electronic games. It would not be too difficult to stay out of sight.’

  I shrugged. ‘The shooter would still have to carry the rifle in public. Someone would have seen it—unless it was one of those rifles that can be taken apart and fitted back together—like a professional hitman would use.’

  Hobbes grinned. ‘That sort of thing is far more common in films than in real life, and assassins are rare in small Cotswold towns. I think it more likely that the shooter concealed the rifle in a bag, or even beneath baggy clothing.’

  ‘But someone would have heard the shot,’ I insisted.

  ‘Very likely—but would anyone recognise it as a rifle shot? They’d think it was a car backfiring or a firework.’

  He was right. Other than shotguns blasting away at the local pheasantry, gunfire was almost unheard of in Sorenchester.

  I sighed, feeling a little peevish. ‘This is all very interesting, but gets us no closer to the culprit.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘And another thing,’ I said, ‘if you’re right about him shooting Timmy by accident, then he intended the bullet for somebody else. What if he tries again?’

  ‘Good point,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, flattered, though I suspected he’d thought of all this long ago and had been waiting for me to catch up.

  Dregs, the canine clot, sniffed at a small brown feather. It stuck to his nose and made him sneeze. Hobbes picked it off and stared at it.

  ‘What? It’s just a feather,’ I said.

  ‘One that’s come from the rhea,’ said Hobbes, flicking it away. ‘Now, where were we? Are, yes, the intended victim.’

  ‘Do you know who it is?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet, but I know where they live.’

  ‘Umm … how?’ I asked.

  ‘I lined up my position in the tree with Mrs Bright’s garden and looked beyond. Only one house is in the right place, so that’s where we’re heading next.’

  ‘Good. If you find the intended victim, you can stop another attack.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Hobbes. ‘And if this person knows of an enemy who is prepared to commit murder, then we have our shooter.’

  He marched us back to the car.

  19

  A short but intense car ride took us to Moorend Road. Hobbes parked the car outside one of the imposing, red-brick Victorian houses that were common in that part of town.

  ‘This is the place,’ he said, getting out and looking back to where we’d come from.

  Dregs and I followed as he stepped up to the front door and knocked.

  No one answered.

  ‘We’re too late—the murderer has struck already!’ I said, grim-faced.

  ‘Or they are out at work,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘I suppose that is possible,’ I conceded. ‘You’ll have to come back later.’

  ‘Or I could ask a neighbour who keeps an eye on what’s happening in this area. Come along.’

  He took us a short walk up the road to the first in a row of impossibly cute alms-houses, the home of Augustus Godley, the oldest human in town. He rang the doorbell, and we waited. Dregs, getting bored, started worrying my shoe. The door opened at last, and a pickled-chestnut face enclosed by a fuzz of white whiskers and eyebrows looked out.

  ‘Good day, Mr Godley,’ said Hobbes.

  Augustus peered at him. ‘Why, it’s Constable … I mean Sergeant … no, Inspector Hobbes. What are you after?’

  ‘Information,’ said Hobbes, ‘but first, I trust you are keeping well?’

  ‘As well as can be expected,’ said Augustus, ‘but what with old-age and constipation, I’ve had to give up paintballing on Thursdays. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? The kettle’s on.’

  ‘We’d love one,’ said Hobbes. ‘You remember Andy and Dregs?’

  ‘The weird one and the hairy one? Of course. Come in.’ Augustus chuckled.

  ‘Weird?’ I muttered, peeved, though conceding that the old man might have a point.

  We followed him at a funeral march pace down a gloomy stone-paved corridor into a small room with three t
atty old armchairs, a few other sticks of furniture and a blue budgerigar in a cage. ‘Bugger off!’ it said in an old woman’s voice.

  Augustus shook a gnarled finger at the bird. ‘What have I told you about swearing?’ He glanced at Hobbes. ‘Sorry about Arthur’s language. He’s taken to mimicking Mrs Withers, my girlfriend—she’s a lovely lady but, between you and me, she’s a little common.’

  He went into the kitchen, leaving Hobbes and me to sit. Dregs was eying an armchair, but Hobbes shook his head. ‘That’s Mr Godley’s.’

  The dog’s tail dropped and he sat in front of me, fixing me with a mournful stare and trying to guilt me into giving up my seat. I was not to be intimidated and, with a near-human shrug, he sat on the mat. Remembering previous visits to Mr Godley’s, I prepared for a wait.

  Ten minutes later, he shuffled back, leaning on a loaded trolley. He poured tea into three spotless white mugs and one white bowl. ‘What do you wish to know?’ he asked, and handed Hobbes a mug.

  ‘Can you tell me who lives in the big house three doors down?’ Hobbes asked.

  ‘I can,’ said the old man, passing a mug to me, and placing the bowl in front of Dregs. ‘He’s not been living there for long—only four or five years, I think.’

  ‘So, who is it?’ Hobbes sipped from his mug.

  Dregs sniffed his tea and retreated. I took a sip of mine—it was scalding hot.

  Augustus lowered himself into his armchair before speaking. ‘The chap’s name is Baker … Trevor Baker. He runs his own engineering business.’

  ‘I know him,’ I said.

  Hobbes raised his hairy eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes … umm … or rather, I know of him. He’s the top SOD.’

  ‘I’ll have no more of that language in my house,’ said Augustus, launching a tectonic frown at me. ‘I don’t want Arthur picking up any more off-colour words. Do you understand, young man?’

  ‘Yes, but … umm … ’

  ‘What Andy is trying to mumble,’ said Hobbes, ‘is that Mr Baker is a leader of Sorenchester Opposes the Development—they use the acronym S.O.D.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll forgive him.’ The old man smiled. ‘I dislike the very thought of the development—it’s criminal the way the countryside is being swallowed up these days. Young Toby Squire should know better, but he is a greedy, thoughtless man. It’s shocking because his predecessors did so much good for the local people, particularly the previous owner, his uncle.’