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

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘Hear, hear!’ I said.

  ‘To be honest,’ he continued, ‘I’m surprised young Toby has the right to do that. I seem to remember being told that old General Redvers Squire, who was a real gentleman, signed the ownership of the land to the Common People.’

  ‘When was this?’ I asked, and took another sip of tea, which had cooled sufficiently to be attempted by those without asbestos mouthparts. It was almost up to the old girl’s standards.

  ‘A long time ago, before I was born,’ said Augustus. ‘Though my memory’s not what it was.’

  ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘I can’t remember everything from my childhood, especially the school stuff—I never saw the point of it. I mean to say, who uses trigonometry in real life?’

  ‘I do, young man,’ said Augustus. ‘It is a vital tool in navigation. I know there’s all sorts of clever technology for helping pilots these days, but I like the trusted methods I learned in the Air Force best. Never underestimate the power of trigonometry!’

  ‘Umm … I won’t,’ I said, ashamed of my ignorance.

  I sipped tea and shut up. Dregs finished his bowl in a series of slurps, which Arthur imitated while Hobbes and Augustus exchanged wartime anecdotes. After what he’d said earlier, the old man’s language shocked me, until I worked out that a Focke was an aeroplane.

  Hobbes put down his mug and rose to his feet. ‘Thank you for the tea and the information, Mr Godley, but it’s time we were on our way. Come along, Andy. And quickly! Dregs. We’ll see ourselves out.’

  I mumbled thanks, and Dregs wagged his tail as we left.

  ‘Goodbye, and thank you for visiting,’ said Augustus.

  ‘SOD!’ screeched Arthur, as I shut the door.

  ‘Now what?’ I asked when we were back in Moorend Road.

  ‘We’ll have a word with Mr Trevor Baker,’ said Hobbes, striding back to the car.

  ‘But he’s out.’

  ‘Which is why we’ll try him at work.’

  ‘But where is work?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s on the industrial estate, off Collinson Road—I’ve seen the sign.’

  ‘You know what I think?’ I said, when we were back in the car.

  ‘Very rarely,’ said Hobbes as he started the engine.

  ‘I think Trevor Baker was probably … umm … targeted because he opposes the development. Did you know Valentine Grubbe was in the army? I bet he can shoot. I reckon he’s your culprit.’

  ‘If I was a betting man,’ said Hobbes, ‘I’d take your bet.’

  ‘Why? It all adds up as far as I can see. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I’ll wait for evidence,’ said Hobbes. ‘Hold on!’

  He crushed the accelerator, and the car lunged forward, zigzagging through the traffic on Amour Lane until we reached the southern outskirts of Sorenchester, where there was a small, ugly, but vibrant industrial estate full of small and medium-sized businesses. We passed Collinson Road and stopped on a tarmac forecourt outside an unimaginative squat rectangular building of yellow bricks. A sign on the side declared it the home of Baker Engineering.

  ‘Let’s see what he has to say for himself,’ said Hobbes, as we left the car.

  Dregs relieved himself against a black Mercedes, and we approached the front door. Hobbes rang the bell and a smart young woman in a crisp, white blouse and neat, blue skirt answered.

  ‘Hello?’ she said and gasped when Hobbes smiled.

  ‘Good day to you, miss,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’d like a word with Mr Baker. Is he in?’

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, holding the door as if she longed to slam it.

  ‘Inspector Hobbes of the Sorenchester and District Police.’ Hobbes showed her his ID. ‘These,’ he indicated Dregs and me, ‘are my esteemed colleagues, Dregs and Andy. Andy is the one on two legs.’

  The woman smiled; her fears overcome by faith in an official document. ‘Mr Baker is on the telephone at the moment, but I’m sure he won’t be long. Please, come into reception and take a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.’

  We entered the reception, a small alcove with a desk, computer and various potted plants along one side and two leather-look chairs along the other. The woman left via a half-glazed door and two thirds of us took a seat. I stood and glared at Dregs, who did an almost believable impression of not noticing.

  ‘Good day, Inspector!’ Trevor Baker, dark-haired, good-looking, and an imposing figure, though no taller than me, entered the room and introduced himself. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about the murder of Timothy Rigg, sir,’ said Hobbes, standing up and shaking hands with him.

  ‘A terrible business. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to help, but fire away, Inspector.’

  ‘Were you at home on the evening of the shooting?’

  Trevor thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I believe I was.’

  ‘Was anyone with you?’

  Trevor shook his head and looked worried. ‘No, I think I was alone. Why do you ask? You don’t think I … ’

  Hobbes held up his hand. ‘No, sir. However, I suspect you were the intended victim.’

  ‘What? Me? But why?’

  ‘My investigations suggest the boy got in the way of a bullet aimed at you,’ said Hobbes. ‘Do you have any enemies?’

  Trevor shrugged. ‘I suppose I must have upset a few people over the years, but I can’t believe anyone would want to kill me.’

  Hobbes nodded and scribbled in his notebook. ‘How would you describe your relationship with Colonel Squire?’

  Trevor smiled. ‘It wasn’t great a few weeks ago when I opposed his development, but it’s much better now.’

  ‘Does that mean you are no longer opposing the development?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘I am not. Over the last month, I’ve spoken to Toby Squire and Val Grubbe, and now recognise that the merits of their scheme far outweigh any minor inconveniences that may arise. The development will bring tremendous opportunities to the town and its people and all for the loss of a patch of useless wasteland.’

  ‘But aren’t you still the chairman of the SODs?’ I asked.

  ‘For the time being, yes,’ said Trevor.

  Hobbes scribbled again. ‘Thank you, sir. That’s very useful. Have you informed any of the SODs of your change of heart?’

  ‘Not as yet,’ said Trevor, ‘though I will at the appropriate time.’

  ‘Isn’t that deceitful, sir?’

  ‘I suppose it is a bit,’ said Trevor. ‘I hadn’t thought about it very much since I changed my mind. I will disband the SODs.’

  ‘Did you change your mind before the shooting?’ asked Hobbes.

  Trevor did a swift calculation on his fingers. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Just gathering all the facts, sir.’

  ‘Well, I … umm … think that’s despicable,’ I said, allowing my indignant rage to slip out. ‘Anyone with any integrity would have stepped down at once and let the members elect a new chair.’

  ‘Calm down, Andy,’ said Hobbes. ‘Sorry about that, sir.’

  ‘He has a point,’ said Trevor, looking contrite, ‘but the thing is, I started the SODs, and no one else wanted to lead it. I have already mentioned my doubts to a few of the activists and pointed out how much the scheme will benefit them, despite a little disruption in the short term. I will resign, and I’ll let them know when I’ve finished here for the day.’

  ‘That would appear to be the honourable course in the circumstances,’ said Hobbes with a nod.

  ‘I suppose so, Inspector. I have no desire to let the SODs down—there are a lot of good people in the group, though I now believe they are on the wrong side. So many new jobs and opportunities will result from the plan, and no one can say those are bad things, can they?’

  ‘No, sir. How many know you’ve changed your mind?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘One or two probably suspect. You think that might have been the reason?’

  ‘It is possible, sir.�
��

  Trevor looked stunned, and then shook his head. ‘No, I can’t accept that—they are good people.’

  ‘All of them?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘Yes … as far as I know. Some may be a little radical but they wouldn’t hurt anyone.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hobbes. ‘Thank you for your time.’ He picked up one of Trevor’s business cards. ‘Goodbye, sir. I would advise vigilance. Call me if you feel threatened.’

  The first rumblings of discontent arose from my hungry stomach.

  ‘Come along,’ said Hobbes, walking to the door and stopping.

  Dregs rolled from the chair, stretched, and sauntered after him with me.

  Hobbes looked back over his shoulder. ‘As a matter of interest, Mr Baker, are you likely to profit from the development?’

  The man flushed. ‘Well, err, now you mention it, Colonel Squire has asked me to carry out a few minor jobs for him. I can’t afford to turn down legitimate business.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Hobbes. ‘Thank you again, sir.’ He opened the door and led us out into bright sunshine.

  ‘It’s coming up to lunch time,’ I pointed out as we got back in the car, hoping to blag an invitation to Blackdog Street.

  ‘Trust you to focus on what’s important,’ said Hobbes with a chuckle. ‘I am aware of the time and I would invite you home if the old girl wasn’t hosting lunch for her friends. There’s no room for the likes of us … and particularly for you.’ He pointed a banana-thick, hairy finger at the dog. ‘I’m afraid Dregs disgraced himself with a tray of petite-fours the last time her friends came round.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ll find somewhere to eat.’

  ‘Good idea. Do you have anywhere in mind?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘The Whippet in Sorington. It’s not far away.’

  ‘Great,’ I said. I hadn’t reviewed it for a year, and last time it had been well above average.

  He stamped on the accelerator and we rocketed through the narrow streets and little country lanes until we reached the car park. All around were green fields and trees coming into leaf, while the old pub’s Cotswold stone tiles glowed in the sun that came out to greet our arrival. The jaunty notes of a blackbird perched high on the mossy chimney welcomed us. Although only a ten-minute drive from the centre of Sorenchester (three minutes with Hobbes at the wheel) it felt like we’d entered a different world.

  ‘Move yourself, Andy,’ said Hobbes, who was already on his feet, with Dregs at his side. ‘They might run out of food!’

  Despite considering this outcome as unlikely, I was out in seconds.

  We entered the pub through a stone porch, and immersed ourselves in the aromas of freshly cooked food, wood-smoke and beer. A cheerful log fire crackled, casting flickering shadows over the age-darkened beams above. Tables awaited customers, and a few already had occupants. Hobbes headed for the bar with its array of real ales, ciders and lagers. A rosy-cheeked barmaid welcomed us with a smile.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  ‘Afternoon, ma’am,’ said Hobbes, giving her an old-fashioned salute. ‘We’re here for some lunch.’

  ‘There are menus on the tables, and the day’s specials are on the chalkboard.’ She gestured to one side. ‘Can I get you a drink while you decide?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’ll have a quart of ginger beer. Dregs would like a pint of mild in a bowl, and I suspect Andy would like a lager?’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, trying to show how unpredictable I was, ‘I’ll try a pint of Garrulus Stout.’ I pointed at the pump with a picture of a jay adorning the front.

  The barmaid poured our drinks. It surprised me when she pulled a dog bowl from under the counter—I suspected they knew Dregs there.

  I examined the chalkboard. ‘Homity pie? What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s an open pie filled with potato, onion and leek and whatever vegetables are available all topped with melted cheese,’ said Hobbes. ‘It was common enough during the desperate days of the war, but is rarely seen these days.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the barmaid, placing our drinks on the counter. ‘It’s become quite popular here for some reason.’

  ‘I’ll have it,’ I said, and sipped the top off my Garrulus Stout. It was cool with subtle hints of coffee and spice, and a smooth, almost creamy feel. ‘Not bad,’ I declared, more impressed than I cared to let on.

  Hobbes ordered two steak and kidney puddings for himself and restricted Dregs to a lump of Porterhouse steak, cooked rare and without the trimmings. We sat at a table and I placed Dregs’s mild before him. He sniffed, took a lick, rolled it around in his mouth like a connoisseur, wagged his tail and lapped it up in seconds.

  ‘Do you think you’ll catch Timmy’s killer?’ I asked Hobbes, who was taking a colossal swig from his enormous glass—how many pubs, I wondered, still served quarts?

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded. ‘Yes. I need to find somebody with a grudge against Mr Baker.’

  ‘And someone with access to a rifle,’ I said. ‘That should narrow down the search—there can’t be all that many people around here licensed to use them.’

  A wry smile crossed his face. ‘More than you might think, and that’s assuming there are no illegal weapons. The forensic boys say the fatal bullet came from a point three-o-three calibre. There are a few in the district, but they have all been accounted for, according to Kirten.’

  I nodded and swigged some more beer. A few minutes later, the kitchen doors opened and a smiling young woman, neat and pretty, brought us our meals.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Hobbes. He frowned, sniffed the air and, as she turned away, blocked her path with a tree-trunk arm.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ she asked, eyes wide.

  ‘Not at all, miss and forgive me for stopping you in the course of your duties, but I have a question.’

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, still looking alarmed.

  ‘What do you smell of?’

  ‘I say!’ His uncouth question had both shocked and embarrassed me. He had overstepped the bounds of decency, propriety and manners.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said the waitress, looking around for help.

  ‘What scent are you wearing? It reminds me of something long ago.’

  ‘It’s none of your business.’ She attempted to get away.

  ‘It is my business,’ said Hobbes and showed her his ID. ‘I detected a similar scent at a crime scene earlier today.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ she said, looking scared.

  ‘I’m sure you haven’t,’ said Hobbes with a smile and keeping his voice soft, ‘but what is it?’

  ‘It’s patchouli oil.’

  ‘Of course!’ He slapped his forehead. ‘That’s why I remember it—the hippies were all using it at Monterey back in the sixties.’

  ‘Do you mean the Monterey Festival?’ asked the girl.

  Hobbes nodded. ‘I’m surprised you know such ancient history.’

  ‘My grandmother was there—the stories she tells!’ The girl looked at him and smiled. ‘You don’t look old enough.’

  ‘But I’m afraid I am,’ said Hobbes with a sad smile. ‘Thank you for your help. It may prove vital.’

  ‘Let’s eat,’ I said, as she left us.

  20

  We ate in silence. At least Hobbes and I did. Beneath the table, Dregs slobbered and growled over his steak.

  After clearing his plate, Hobbes quaffed the remains of his ginger beer and relaxed with his eyes half-closed. I finished my homity pie, impressed and surprised that such humble ingredients could add up to such a satisfying and comforting meal—one for my column, I thought.

  ‘How was the pie?’ he asked.

  ‘Much tastier than I expected.’

  He nodded. ‘At its best, it was good, but during the war, it was often an indigestible mess of soggy pastry with underdone potatoes and only a
hint of cheese. It was, however, the only thing available sometimes.’

  He mentioned some other atrocities on the wartime police menu, reserving special contempt for tinned snook fishcakes. I listened with interest, because it was rare for him to talk about his own history unless it had some bearing on a current case. On this occasion, however, I think it was his way of turning off his conscious brain and allowing his sub-conscious free rein.

  ‘Fresh snook, however, is delicious,’ he continued. ‘I ate it many times in South Africa, just before the Boer War, when I was trying to quell the Third Tokoloshe Uprising. Now, that was a tricky case, because the tokoloshes had holed up in the Drakensberg mountains and … ’ He stopped and clapped his hairy hands together, making me and other customers jump, to judge by the resulting grumbles.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘I remember noticing the scent of patchouli during the attack on the SODs.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ I said. ‘I remember reading how popular it was with hippies in days of yore, and a few of the older SODs look like they might have been hippies back in the day.’

  He nodded and reached for his horrible, hairy wallet. ‘Time to pay and get on the road.’

  Once back in the car, Hobbes seemed thoughtful, and drove with such care and consideration that, if it were possible, it made me almost more nervous than usual. We were on the edge of town when a shiny, black Audi roared out of a side road, accelerated past and slammed on the brakes, forcing Hobbes to stop.

  DCI Kirten burst from the Audi and marched towards us, scowling. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ He was almost screaming. ‘Back off or I’ll have you disciplined!’

  Hobbes sighed, opened the window, and smiled. I would have been terrified if he’d aimed that smile at me.

  ‘I will, you know,’ Kirten continued. ‘It’s my case and I will not have you messing it up with your antiquated, rustic methods. Back off!’