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

by Wilkie Martin

  Dregs stared at me in astonishment.

  ‘It’s Daphne’s. I put it on by mistake and I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Since it’s approaching ten o’clock, I’d hazard a guess she’s at work,’ said Hobbes as he came inside. He was carrying a black bin bag.

  Hurricane Dregs followed, bounding around me like a kangaroo on amphetamines as I shut the door.

  Hobbes handed me the bin liner. ‘From Mr Brick.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s been a real nuisance not having my things.’

  ‘Glad to help,’ said Hobbes, and gave Dregs a look that quelled his attempt to break into the fridge.

  The reek of rotting pig dung overwhelmed me as I took a glance inside the bin bag. Dregs yelped and bolted upstairs.

  ‘If I were you,’ Hobbes suggested, ‘I’d tip that lot straight into the washing machine.’

  Knowing good advice when I heard it, I did as he said, and slammed the door to contain the pong. I put in a double scoop of detergent, and an extra helping of lavender-scented fabric conditioner and jabbed a finger towards the ‘heavy soiling’ button.

  ‘You should take your valuables out before you do that,’ Hobbes remarked.

  Holding my breath, I rummaged through the shit-sodden clothes and retrieved my wallet, mobile and house keys. After wiping them down with disinfectant, I closed the door again, pressed the button, and left the machine to chug and slosh.

  ‘Any news on the murder?’ I asked, returning to the lounge, sliding my mobile into my pocket.

  He grimaced. ‘DCI Kirten has not yet opened my message, so I’ve passed my evidence to Superintendent Cooper. Much as I dislike undermining a fellow officer, I fear Kirten has made such a mess of the investigation that innocents are suffering and the guilty party will get away.’

  I caught a hint of a gleam in his eye and wondered if, despite his words, he might be getting his own back for Kirten’s rudeness and arrogance.

  I changed the subject. ‘Did you get much out of Charlie Brick?’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘He confirmed what you said. If he’s correct, Colonel Squire does not own the common.’

  ‘But is he correct?’

  ‘I would say that Mr Brick is a reliable witness and believes what he says.’

  ‘Does that mean the development won’t go ahead?’ I asked.

  ‘Unless Squire can persuade those who do own the land to sell it.’

  ‘Which would put a dent in his profits,’ I said, and smiled.

  ‘And might make the entire project unviable,’ said Hobbes.

  Dregs thumped downstairs, ears standing to attention, my unchewed mountain boot in his mouth.

  ‘Give it here!’ I demanded, and tried to reclaim it.

  He kept his grip, growling softly, his head on his front paws, his backside high, his tail wagging. A tug of war ensued, which was great fun for both of us and might have continued much longer had Hobbes not interrupted. ‘I have arranged to meet Mr Clarence Squire this morning. Are you interested?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, springing into action. ‘I’ve got nothing better to do. Let’s go.’

  ‘Like that?’

  I glanced at myself in a mirror. The fluffy pink dressing gown looked much better on Daphne. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

  ‘Make it five,’ said Hobbes.

  I started upstairs and stopped. ‘Could you rescue my boot before it dissolves in dog drool?’

  I ran the rest of the way, made a pit stop in the bathroom, and dressed. Although I doubted I’d been away for over four minutes, I galloped downstairs.

  As I reached the last few steps, Dregs ran across my path in a bid to prove that a black dog crossing one’s path could be even unluckier than a black cat.

  Momentum too great to stop, I tried to hurdle him, but my leading foot struck his back. So did my following foot. We yelped in unison as he fell on his side and I flew toward the front door. I expected pain and injury, but Hobbes leapt forwards, caught my legs, spun me round and dropped me back onto my feet.

  ‘Thank you,’ I gasped. ‘Is Dregs alright?’

  He was, though he now believed we were enjoying a wonderful game of ‘Flatten Andy,’ and a bouncing takedown left me flat on my back, fighting off a pink, stinky tongue.

  ‘Stop mucking about, you two,’ said Hobbes, opening the front door.

  Dregs bounded after him.

  ‘ … and quickly!’ Hobbes demanded, as I got myself vertical.

  There was no time to wash my dog-licked face.

  I ran after them and pulled the door shut.

  Twenty seconds later, still struggling to fasten my seatbelt, I was in the back seat of the car, racing through Sorenchester.

  ‘Where does Clarence Squire live?’ I asked when I’d mastered the belt and caught my breath.

  ‘At Edgecliff,’ said Hobbes, who was gripping the steering wheel like a bear hugs a careless hiker. ‘That’s about fifteen miles away.’

  For anyone else, the journey along narrow, twisting country lanes would have taken at least fifteen minutes. He did it in under ten, leaving me a nervous wreck, though I had enough experience to know terror was only transitory.

  We pulled up on a gravel driveway outside a splendid three-storied country house with crenelations around the roof—not quite the quaint, secluded Cotswold cottage I’d envisaged. As we got out, a peacock strolled by to check we were legitimate visitors, and an early swallow swooped past on a warm breeze.

  Hobbes marched to the door and rang the bell while I took a moment to admire the house, its lush green lawns and the massed ranks of spring flowers in the borders.

  The polished oak door opened and the pink face of an elderly man with long white hair and old-fashioned round spectacles stared out and smiled.

  Hobbes showed his ID and introduced Dregs and me.

  ‘I’m Clarence Squire. I was expecting you. Come in.’ The old man stepped aside to allow us in. He wore a white shirt down to his knees and baggy cream trousers.

  ‘Hi!’ I said.

  ‘Not today, young man,’ he said with a puzzling wink.

  The hallway was decorated with vases and trinkets that reminded me of our time in the mountains. That short period, despite all the trials and tribulations, was already well on its way to becoming a romanticised memory. Given the chance, I would have gone back there in a shot.

  The old man took us to a door at the far end, opened it and ushered us through.

  ‘Wow!’ I said.

  Edgecliff was well named, for the ground fell almost vertically from the back of the house as the Cotswold escarpment dropped into the vale. Further off, a glinting ribbon of silver showed the course of the River Severn as it meandered through rich farmland and the occasional small town. Beyond that, I fancied I could make out the hazy shapes of the Blacker Mountains.

  ‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Clarence.

  I nodded. Hobbes and I sat on a long, dusty, threadbare sofa, which blended in with the room’s shabby decor. Dregs played at knowing his place and sat beside Hobbes, alert like the hero of a heroic dog film.

  ‘I believe you have some questions,’ said Clarence.

  ‘Thank you, sir, I do,’ said Hobbes. ‘Have you heard about the intended development on Sorenchester Common?’

  ‘No, I have not. The fact is, Inspector, that I rarely interact with the outside world and almost never hear any news.’

  ‘Your nephew, Toby, has teamed up with a property developer,’ said Hobbes.

  Clarence’s pink face turned a shade pinker. ‘But it’s not his to develop.’

  Hobbes glanced at me. ‘Surely, the land is part of the Squire Estate?’

  ‘Not since my great-grandfather signed it over to people who’d done him a great service.’

  ‘Which people?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘The Common People, Inspector.’

  ‘D’you mean the ordinary people of Sorenchester?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Clarence. ‘I mean the pe
ople who live on the common—the Common People.’

  ‘But no one lives there,’ I said. ‘There are no houses … or roads … or anything.’

  ‘Not everyone lives as we do,’ said Hobbes with a frown that shut me up.

  ‘Correct.’ Clarence scratched his whiskers. ‘These people are not, as I understand, like you and … er … me.’

  The old man was looking at me, rather than Hobbes. An inkling of what he meant came into my mind. That masked face …

  ‘Please continue,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘How can I put it?’ said Clarence. ‘Some people are … well, different. Such individuals and groups exist in many places around the world.’ He darted a shrewd look at Hobbes. ‘I suspect you know more about this than most, Inspector.’

  Hobbes nodded.

  Clarence continued. ‘A small group has lived on the common since at least the fifteenth century. My family permitted them to stay, but had minimal contact with them. Then, one foggy winter’s evening, my great-grandfather suffered a severe fall from his horse. The Common People found him unconscious in the snow, carried him to their encampment, if that’s the right word, and cared for him. He would have died otherwise. When he was fit enough to go home, he signed over the common to them as a mark of his gratitude.’

  ‘That’s it then,’ I said, clapping my hands. ‘The development can’t go ahead. That’s one in the eye for the Colonel and Grubbe!’

  ‘Would that be Valentine Grubbe?’ asked Clarence.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’m surprised a man who rarely hears news knows about him.’

  Clarence smiled. ‘He came here a few years ago asking questions when his wife went missing. I believe Toby thought I could help him find her.’

  ‘So, Grubbe is married—I knew it! He denied it, you know?’ I glanced at Hobbes, noted his expression, and shut up.

  ‘Why would he think that?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘Because back then, I still maintained intermittent contact with the Common People, and Grubbe suspected his wife had joined them. It turned out to be true—she’d become disillusioned with life with him and wanted no more dealings with “that supercilious bastard”—her words. As far as I know, she’s still living there as an honorary Common Person.’

  I compared my memory of the face on the common to ones I’d seen more recently. ‘Are the Common People Yetis?’

  ‘An interesting question and I understand why you might think so, but no, they are not Yetis. Not as such,’ said Clarence, and a look of astonishment appeared on his face. ‘What do you know about Yetis?’

  ‘They looked after me … umph.’

  Hobbes’s hand on my mouth cut me off. ‘That’s enough, Andy.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Clarence. ‘I know that careless talk costs lives—the Yetis would be threatened if evidence of their existence and their whereabouts became known to the general public. I’ve never revealed my experiences with them, and I’m not going to now. The only reason I’ve told you about the Common People is to save their community.’

  I broke free of Hobbes’s gag and took a breath.

  A dreamy look came into the old man’s eyes. He sighed. ‘Those were the days—I miss them. I had such great times in the mountains until my accident. I was in a bad way, until Piers, the leader of our expedition, contacted a wandering Yeti who treated me and saved my life. Piers must be long-dead by now.’

  ‘You mean Piers Twilley?’ I said. ‘I met him when I was in hospital—he was in the bed next to mine and we talked, but he died. It was his heart.’

  ‘Poor old Piers. The other guys used to call him Holy Dick, though I never understood why—he wasn’t religious.’

  ‘It’s because umf … ’ Hobbes again cut me off mid-flow.

  ‘Probably just an in-joke,’ he said.

  Clarence nodded. ‘I heard from mountaineer friends that he’d stayed out there and I can’t blame him—I’d have gone back if my leg was up to it. Still, it’s not so bad here. I moved in because I’d grown bored with running the estates. I handed them over to young Toby and let him get on with it. It seemed the right thing to do—the boy had made a complete hash of his army career and needed some sort of income. It would all have gone to him eventually, in any case.’

  A deep bell boomed from somewhere in the vicinity. Dregs, forgetting himself, sprang to his feet and barked a challenge. He glanced at Hobbes and sat back down, looking sheepish.

  ‘What was that?’ I asked.

  ‘A reminder that my time to meditate is approaching,’ said Clarence. ‘Can I help you with anything else?’

  ‘There is one thing,’ said Hobbes. ‘I don’t suppose you still have any documentation that proves your great-grandfather gave the land away.’

  ‘You suppose wrong,’ said Clarence with a grin.

  Hobbes smiled. ‘Then you do have it?’

  Clarence nodded. ‘I believe so. I’ve kept the old family records—Toby never bothered about such things, and I feared he would throw them out. They’re in a trunk in the attic. I’m prepared to let you have the relevant materials if you promise to bring them back when you’ve finished with them.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘Wait here.’ Clarence got to his feet and left us.

  ‘That was a turn up for the books!’ I said.

  ‘If it’s what Mr Squire claims, then I agree,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘It should mark the end of the development.’ I said and laughed. ‘Grubbe and Colonel Squire won’t like it!’

  ‘I expect not,’ said Hobbes, standing up and staring out the window towards the Blacker Mountains where he’d lived long ago.

  Enjoying the moment, I remained on the sofa, and had there been a bottle of vintage champagne on ice, I would have popped the cork and toasted Clarence Squire. Hobbes’s mobile chirped.

  He answered. ‘How many armed officers?’ His face became one huge frown. ‘Why? … Where? … Yes, ma’am. I’m at Edgecliff at the moment, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ He ended the call.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked, but he held up a hand and shook his head.

  The bell resounded again as Clarence reappeared. He handed a manila folder to Hobbes. ‘These are the relevant papers.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hobbes after a glance inside.

  ‘Is there anything else, Inspector? If not, you are welcome to join my meditation—if that’s your thing.’

  ‘I’d be delighted,’ said Hobbes, ‘but something has just come up and I need to make haste.’

  He shook Clarence’s hand, called Dregs and me to heel, and bustled us from the house and into the car.

  I’d thought we’d reached Edgecliff at breakneck speed, but it was nothing to the return journey. The acceleration shoved me deep into my seat, holding me down as fear paralysed every muscle, including those in my eyelids. Fields, woods, cottages and cars passed in a frenzied blur, the engine screamed, the tyres rumbled and squealed as we snaked along stupidly narrow lanes. It was almost a relief to reach a broader road, even though it gave him a chance to crush the accelerator against the carpet.

  ‘What’s the rush?’ I squeaked when I’d got my breathing under some control and the outskirts of Sorenchester were coming into view.

  ‘Superintendent Cooper said Kirten has read my notes and has gone to talk with Ms Cracknell.’

  ‘That sounds a reasonable thing to do,’ I said. ‘But you’re driving like there’s an emergency. Wah!’

  I cowered in the back as a blind bend gave Hobbes an opportunity to hurtle past a tractor towing a long trailer. He looked at me over his shoulder as he did so. ‘Apparently, Kirten has called in armed-response officers to back him up.’

  ‘That seems excessive,’ I said, and cringed as we overtook a speeding Porsche on the brow of a hill.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Hobbes, turning back to the road. ‘Ms Cracknell may have access to firearms, but I don’t consider her dangerous. What’s wrong with knocking on the front
door in a civilised fashion and asking a few questions?

  ‘You might want to hold on here—there’s going to be a few tricky manoeuvres.’

  Instead of going the correct way through town, he took the shortest route, despite most of this being the wrong way up one-way streets or along pavements. His big, hairy hands blurred on the wheel, making the little car dance across the road. Circumstances made him brake now and again before gaps in the oncoming traffic allowed maximum acceleration. Despite my seat belt and clinging on for dear life, I bounced about like a dried pea in a jar. Dregs, to my frustration, swayed to the rhythm and looked cool. But we got there intact—I should have had his faith in Hobbes.

  The action was developing in Hairywart Close, a nineteen-seventies development off Spittoon Way. It was lined with small semi-detached houses and the road was just wide enough for two vehicles to pass—or would have been had it not been half-clogged with parked cars. Hobbes drove onto someone’s neatly striped front lawn and stopped.

  ‘Everybody out,’ he said. ‘And quickly!’

  The lawn’s red-faced owner burst from the house. ‘What the hell do you think … ’ He saw Hobbes and retreated.

  ‘Keep behind me,’ said Hobbes, striding away, with Dregs at his side while I jogged to keep up. ‘There are people with guns just ahead. Stay safe and don’t make yourself a target.’

  As we rounded a bend, two parked police cars and a police van, blue lights flashing, greeted us. In addition to three local officers, there were five others dressed in what looked like black commando suits, complete with matching body armour, helmets, and rifles. They looked tough and twitchy. Beyond them, squatting by a wall, I was amazed to see Ralph behind a camera with an impressive telephoto lens. He made himself comfortable and gave me a friendly wave, which surprised me until I realised it was for DCI Kirten on the other side. Kirten, cradling a megaphone, nodded as if at a signal and sauntered toward a large and much older house in the hollow next to Church Fields.

  An officer in black approached us.

  Hobbes held up his ID.

  ‘Afternoon, sir. I’m Sergeant Armitage.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘Well, sir, as you can see, DCI Kirten is making an approach to the suspect’s house even though my team has only just arrived, has not been briefed and has had no time to assess the situation and deploy.’