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

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘Shan’t,’ said Hobbes. ‘Have you released Mr Ching yet?’

  ‘I do not release suspects!’

  ‘He was on holiday at the time of the shooting,’ said Hobbes, shaking his head. ‘Therefore, he cannot be regarded as a suspect. Besides, he has no access to a rifle and had no reason to kill the boy.’

  ‘The body was in his garden,’ said Kirten. ‘He couldn’t explain it!’

  ‘Of course, he couldn’t,’ said Hobbes, ‘because neither him, nor any of his family, knew anything about it—they were on holiday.’

  ‘Ching cannot or will not explain the bullet wound.’

  Hobbes sighed. ‘Look, Kirten, there is no evidence against him, and you know it. Plus, it is clear Timmy was not the intended target—I know who that was, and I’m closing in on the shooter. I’d like to share my knowledge with you. You can take all the credit if you wish.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh, Hobbes! Leave this case to the professionals and stick to arresting yokels.’ Kirten appeared to notice me for the first time. ‘What’s he in for? Potato picking without a license?’

  Hobbes shook his head, but kept smiling. ‘Listen to me, if you wish to catch the killer.’

  ‘No, you listen to me. Back off!’ Kirten’s face was twisted into a snarl and flecks of spittle decorated his lips. ‘If you don’t, I will inform the chief constable who’s a friend of my father and he’ll have you drummed out of the police for obstructing a murder investigation.’

  ‘I have made significant progress toward solving the case, but feel free to do whatever you want,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘I will—just you wait and see.’ Kirten turned around, stalked back to his car and drove away, screeching the tyres.

  Hobbes laughed. ‘He’s rattled and must know he’s messed up by now. He’s looking for scapegoats.’

  ‘Do you … umm … think his threat is serious?’ I asked.

  ‘Probably. His father does belong to the same golf club as the chief constable. However, although the chief constable and I have had our disagreements, he is no fool.’

  ‘But Kirten is?’

  ‘I did not say that,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘Though you might think it?’ I suggested.

  He grinned. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Yeah … umm … where to?’

  ‘To the Bugle.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, wishing he’d said anywhere else—Ralph would be furious to see me gallivanting with Hobbes when I should have been in the office, cutting and pasting frivolous articles from social media.

  ‘I wish to check something. Hang on!’

  He floored the accelerator, inertia pushed me back in my seat, and the usual numb terror took over, though we’d reached the Bugle’s offices before I reached the gibbering stage. The ‘No Parking’ signs at that end of The Shambles would have made most folk think twice. But not him—he stopped on the pavement, ignoring a warning shout from a passing traffic warden.

  Hobbes and Dregs got out and strode up to the front door, while I dithered, reluctant and nervous.

  ‘Are you coming?’ asked Hobbes, his hand on the door handle.

  I took a deep breath and followed them. He jogged up the echoing staircase toward the half-glass door at the top. When they entered the main office, I hung back.

  Two expensively dressed young women with long blonde hair paused their chat to stare at Hobbes. One, slight and pale skinned, smiled at us. The other, tall and tanned, did not react.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Hobbes. ‘Is your editor in?’

  Dregs, tail wagging, loped towards them, hoping for a head scratch and let out a deep sigh when Hobbes called him back.

  ‘Mr Pildown is out,’ said the pale woman—her voice identifying her as Olivia. ‘He won’t be back until late.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Hobbes. ‘We only need to check your records.’

  Olivia screwed up her face and looked flummoxed.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ asked the tanned woman. ‘You can’t just waltz into the office and use our equipment.’

  ‘I think I’m Inspector Hobbes,’ said Hobbes, showing his ID, ‘and I rarely waltz these days.’

  ‘Oh, you’re police.’ Olivia frowned. ‘But I don’t know what to do. I’m new here and Arabella only started today. I don’t think we can help you.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Hobbes, reaching back and propelling me to the front. ‘I’m sure Andy knows the ropes.’

  ‘Andy Caplet?’ asked Arabella. Her voice was a deeper version of Olivia’s posh drawl.

  ‘Umm … yes,’ I admitted.

  Both women’s eyes widened. They exchanged glances. Arabella giggled.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Mr Pildown told us that if you turned up, we were to let you know you’re fired,’ said Olivia. ‘Arabella has taken over your job.’

  ‘What? Why?’ I stuttered and spluttered. At the back of my mind, I’d entertained an idea that, when the time was right, I would make a dramatic and impassioned resignation speech, and walk out, leaving Ralph aghast and bereft. The loss of such an opportunity hurt, though it was also a relief—I would not now need to build up that sort of courage.

  Olivia shrugged.

  ‘That doesn’t matter for now,’ said Hobbes, pushing Dregs away and ushering me toward Ralph’s office. ‘Take a seat, go into the news database and dig out photographs of the SODs.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said, sitting down in the editor’s chair for the first time. It was new, with a soft-leather cover, far more comfortable than the tatty, utilitarian relics I was used to. According to Basil, getting the new chair had been Ralph’s first action.

  I logged in to Ralph’s laptop. Or rather, I tried to. ‘Umm … ’

  ‘A problem?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘It doesn’t recognise my ID.’

  ‘Because you no longer work here,’ said Arabella, looking down her nose from the doorway.

  I ignored her, and logged in using Ralph’s password—I’d seen him use it, and it had stuck in my memory: Bugle*Editor.

  I was about to minimise the email left open on the screen when a name caught my eye. Dumbstruck, I pointed at it. Dregs sighed and slumped into a corner.

  Hi Ralph,

  Well done for clearing out the dead wood at the Bugle, and I’m delighted it is on its way back into profit. I have reflected my thanks in your bonus—I’ve sent my man, Corbett, to hand it to you.

  In addition, I have learned that your positive coverage of our development has converted a number of waverers and has helped bring a previously implacable enemy onto our side. Toby, of course, is delighted.

  He is also grateful to you for employing Olivia—it’s her first work experience, and he wants her to learn something about the world of work before she joins the family business.

  Keep up the excellent work,

  Val

  Hobbes looked at the email and grunted. ‘That reveals some interesting relationships. However, it’s not what I need at the moment. Can you find the photographs?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, forcing ruffled feelings aside and poking at the keyboard. ‘Here they are.’ I showed him the index. ‘They’re in date order.’ I opened the first one and stood up to allow him to take over.

  Olivia and Arabella were muttering together.

  Hobbes examined each picture as it came up.

  Olivia had her mobile to her ear. ‘Mr Pildown?’ she said. ‘I know you said not to disturb you, but there’s a big policeman at your desk. He’s using your account to look at photographs … No, we didn’t—Andy Caplet logged in for him … Yes, I know you did, but he got in anyway. What could we do?’

  ‘Aha!’ said Hobbes.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘The woman standing behind Trevor Baker.’

  ‘Rosemary Crackers? What about her?’

  ‘Her hair.’ He pointed at it.

  ‘Yeah, perhaps it is a little unusual for a woman of her age to wear it in braids—or are t
hey dreadlocks?’

  ‘The style is unimportant, it’s what’s in her hair that may be significant.’

  ‘What?’ I leaned in for a better look.

  He pointed. ‘Those shiny little rings.’

  ‘Just like the one you found,’ I said, though it didn’t strike me as particularly remarkable.

  Hobbes nodded. ‘It appears so.’

  I laughed. ‘It’s not much use though—she doesn’t look the sort who’d climb trees and shoot somebody. She may have poured mussels over Grubbe, but murder is hardly the same thing, is it? Anyway, if you’re right about Trevor being the target, why? He was on her side at the time!’

  Hobbes shrugged. ‘Maybe she already knew he’d changed his mind.’ He scrolled through more photos.

  Arabella was on her mobile, too. ‘How long will they be?’ She bit her lip. ‘Okay, we’ll do our best.’

  The two young women approached. ‘Mr Pildown demands that you leave now,’ said Arabella.

  ‘My father says you have no right to be here, and you have no right to look at private computer files,’ said Olivia.

  ‘Your father is correct,’ said Hobbes with a smile. ‘However, I’ve found what I was looking for and it may well be an important clue to solve a murder case. When Mr Pildown returns, please give him my apologies … and thank him for his co-operation.’

  Arabella shook a beringed finger at us. ‘You should get out before you find yourself in deep trouble. My uncle is sending some men round.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hobbes. ‘Perhaps, you would pass on our regards to them. We have what we need.’ He turned to me. ‘Alright, Andy?’

  ‘Umm … yeah,’ I said, though I wasn’t. I’d lost my job! It wasn’t that we’d starve—Daphne’s wage would keep us going, but I hated being unable to contribute. Especially now she’d turned down Grubbe’s easy money.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Hobbes.

  Dregs sprang to his feet.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Hobbes, saluting the two women. ‘Sorry for the intrusion and for putting you into an uncomfortable position, but it was vital.’

  We left the office. At the bottom of the stairs, Hobbes pushed Dregs and me into the shadowy stairwell, telling us to keep quiet as the front door burst open and three burly men charged in. They pounded up the stairs, and as soon as they were out of sight, Hobbes led us out into The Shambles.

  A parking notice was stuck to the car’s windscreen and the front wheel was clamped.

  Hobbes squatted and grasped the clamp. The screech of twisting metal as it tore apart sounded like a pig in pain, and reminded me of Cuthbert and Charlie.

  ‘Charlie said something funny, when you were out catching the rhea last night,’ I said.

  ‘Go on then,’ said Hobbes. ‘I could do with a laugh.’

  ‘Umm … I meant funny as in peculiar.’

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ he said, standing up with the broken sections of the clamp in his hands.

  ‘He reckons Colonel Squire doesn’t own Sorenchester Common.’

  ‘How would he know?’

  ‘General Squire told him over a cup of tea, or so he said.’

  ‘Which General Squire?’

  ‘Redvers Squire … no … not him … Arthur. Charlie reckoned he was the General’s pig man.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘It’s true. General Arthur Squire was a decent old fellow, if you ignore his being responsible for thousands of deaths during his campaigns. He lived to one hundred years old and looked good for a few more until he drowned.’

  ‘Drowned?’

  ‘He fell from a biplane when looping the loop and plunged into Church Lake. The story made quite a splash at the time … as did he. But never mind that, Mr Brick’s information is of interest.’

  ‘He said General Redvers gave the land away,’ I said. ‘Do you think he might be right?’

  ‘He might be. Mr Godley said much the same.’

  ‘And are you going to do anything about it?’ I asked.

  ‘If time permits. Don’t forget I have a killer to catch before Kirten messes up any more.’

  ‘But you can’t seriously believe Rosemary Crackers would do it? What about means, motive and opportunity? She’s a tree hugger, and I’d bet she doesn’t own a rifle, and she’s busy with the SODs, so I reckon she’s ruled out on all three counts.’

  Hobbes grinned.

  ‘Umm … don’t you agree?’

  ‘I won’t disagree until I find out, but let’s see if we can have a chat with her first.’

  ‘That would be sensible,’ I said, ‘if you knew where she is.’

  ‘I’m good at finding people,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘So how are you going to do that?’

  He scratched his head. ‘I could use cunning, intelligence and diligence, though it may be quicker to try Google first.’

  He poked at his mobile and shrugged. ‘Low battery. May I borrow your computer?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but why not use your work one?’

  He dropped the bits of wheel clamp into a bin. ‘I think it might be diplomatic to keep a low profile while Kirten’s still sulking.’ He opened the car doors. ‘Let’s go.’

  I let Hobbes and Dregs into our house and started up my laptop. Dregs disappeared for a moment, and returned with a pair of my dirty socks, before starting a game that involved tossing them across the room and springing onto them while growling like a wolf. After a failed attempt to retrieve them, I sat on the sofa and waited while Hobbes fiddled with the computer.

  ‘I can find no mention of any likely person with the name Rosemary Crackers,’ said Hobbes after a few minutes. ‘There are, however, many recipes for cracker biscuits made using the herb rosemary. Are you sure you got her name right?’

  ‘That’s what Colonel Squire said.’

  Hobbes looked sceptical.

  ‘Why would he lie?’

  ‘I doubt he was deliberately lying. On reflection, it sounds more like a jokey but disparaging nickname.’

  ‘Because she’s against his development—I get it,’ I said. ‘So, what’s her real name? I bet Trevor Baker knows.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ said Hobbes, taking out Trevor’s card. ‘Mind if I use your phone?’

  Without waiting, he tapped in the number.

  ‘Mr Baker? Inspector Hobbes here. I have a question. Do you know the name of the middle-aged woman with dreadlocks who’s one of the SODs? … And would you know where she lives? Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Well?’ I asked as he put the phone down.

  ‘Very well, thanks,’ said Hobbes. ‘Her real name is Rosemary Cracknell, and she lives on Hairywart Close. Mr Baker said she’s a not-very-talented artist but a passionate and committed environmentalist. I think we’d already guessed the latter.’

  ‘A penny for your thoughts,’ I said after Hobbes had stared into space for a few minutes.

  ‘Somewhere in the back of my mind, I have an idea that Cracknell should ring a bell.’

  ‘It’s not an uncommon name,’ I pointed out. ‘There was that Olympic rower for one, and there must be loads of others.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ said Hobbes, ‘and I recall once arresting a trick cyclist going by the name of “Crazy Cracknell” who’d burgled a garage for spare parts. However, he’s been dead for years—he trick cycled over a cliff in Ireland. No, the person I’m thinking of had some official connection with the town. The trouble is, I suspect he was a law-abiding citizen, which means I would have had few dealings with him—it’s a policeman’s unhappy lot to know more about the baddies.’

  ‘Are we going to see Rosemary now?’ I asked.

  ‘We could,’ said Hobbes, looking thoughtful. ‘But it might not be advisable since, as DCI Kirten pointed out, it is still his case, even if he’s handling it badly.’

  ‘But he’ll keep on making mistakes,’ I said. ‘You can’t let him keep Mr Ching in the cells any longer than necessary.’

  ‘That is true,’ said Hobbes. ‘I believe it
might be for the best if I apprise Kirten of what I have discovered so far. Do you mind if I use your computer to send him an email?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea.’

  Hobbes nodded and started typing. Ten minutes later, as I brought him a mug of tea, he was still going, prodding at keys using his catlike nails. ‘Thank you.’

  I took my place on the sofa and tried to relax while Dregs glared at me—I’d forgotten to offer him a drink, which was rude of me. A saucer of tea made amends. He then returned to the sock game, which now involved using me as an obstacle to be growled at and bullied until I tossed them round the room.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Hobbes at last. ‘Kirten knows what I know. The rest is up to him.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ I asked, and chucked the slobbery socks into a corner. Dregs bounded after them with a resounding woof.

  ‘I’m going to enjoy my cup of tea,’ said Hobbes. After shaking a pile of sugar into the mug and stirring it in with his big, hairy index finger, he took a sip and looked surprised.

  ‘Umm … sorry,’ I said, crestfallen. ‘I did my best.’

  ‘No need for apologies, Andy. That is a fine cup of tea. Well done.’

  Amazed, I stammered out thanks and took a sip of mine. It was pretty good—careful and sustained watching of how Mrs G did it had improved my technique. I just hoped it wasn’t a fluke.

  21

  ‘While I await DCI Kirten’s next move,’ said Hobbes, putting down his empty mug, ‘I have time to think about the development. But before that, is there more tea?’

  Proud to have passed the ultimate tea test, I poured him another and wondered where Dregs had got to—he’d grown bored with the sock game. I threw the soggy relics into the washing machine.

  Hobbes continued. ‘If Mr Brick’s information proves correct, I believe it would mean the end of Colonel Squire’s proposed development.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said, ‘though I thought you weren’t really bothered by it.’

  ‘Although building developments are not normally matters for the police, I still have to be seen as impartial in my official capacity. I would prefer to keep the common as it is, and if I do find evidence of what Mr Brick claims, then I will ensure it goes to the right people.’