Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman)

by Martin, Wilkie

  My mouth dropped open. Phil's car was a blue Audi. Maybe the seed of guilt that had sprouted in my conscience would shrivel and die. Maybe, I'd been right all along and my prejudice against him didn't necessarily mean he wasn't a genuine villain. It was only then that I finally acknowledged to myself that I had been prejudiced. It was because he was slim, because he was better educated, better spoken and, I winced, a better journalist than I would ever be. It was no wonder Ingrid preferred him. I began to wallow in self-pity.

  Hobbes, having finished his crumpet, was talking. 'That's most helpful. You see an individual I wish to interview owns a blue Audi. I don't suppose you were able to get its number?'

  'Sorry, Old Boy, it was all covered in muck: too thick to see through. Fancy another crumpet?'

  'Though it's tempting, we'd better not.' Hobbes smiled. 'I've got to think of my figure and Mrs Goodfellow doesn't like it if I ruin my appetite by eating between meals.'

  ''ow is the young lass?' asked Rocky. ''as she got over losing that daft 'usband of 'ers?'

  'She's doing well,' Hobbes said, 'and rather enjoying having a young man around the house. Mind, she's only locked him in the cellar the once. So far.'

  I smiled, stupidly pleased to be described as a young man. No one had called me that for a decade. I confess a little anxiety was there, too. How many more times was I likely to be locked down there?

  'Still,' Hobbes continued, 'she hasn't actually got over losing Mr Goodfellow; she can't because she hasn't really lost him. She knows exactly where he is and can't be bothered to fetch him back. She reckons he's happy where he is and she's happy he's not getting under her feet.'

  'Glad to 'ear it.' Rocky laughed, reminiscently. 'I remember the first time you brought 'er round 'ere. A skinny little lass, cooing over 'er rag dolly. We 'ad crumpets then an' all. They grow up so fast.'

  'Indeed they do.' Hobbes chuckled. 'You must come round to supper sometime. I'm sure she'd be delighted.'

  Rocky smiled. 'That'd be nice, Old Boy. I 'aven't been gettin' around so much recently, cos me old joints are turning to chalk but I'd like to see the lass again.'

  I gawped in astonishment and confusion. Not for the first time since I'd met Hobbes, I didn't get it. I mean, how old was this Rocky? And why did both he and Hobbes refer to Mrs Goodfellow as 'the lass'? And as for Mr Goodfellow, what on God's good earth had happened to him? I'd assumed he was dead and had accepted his old suits without too much thought, except for a vague feeling of spookiness.

  It struck me how peculiar it was to feel so comfortable, so at home, in Rocky's parlour. He was a bloody troll, for Christ's sake and trolls, at least in all the stories I could remember, were bad things, savage, wild creatures who killed people and threatened to gobble up Billy Goatgruff, or whatever his name was. Yet, this one was giving me tea and crumpets in a cosy parlour while chatting with an old friend. It was all far too difficult to comprehend. Still, it says something about the change in me that, despite appearances, I had no doubt Rocky wasn't human and, what's more, was sanguine about it. What a difference a few days with Hobbes had made to my life! There was so much more going on than I'd ever imagined. Mind you, I never entirely discounted the likelihood that I'd gone quietly insane. And, if I had, so what? Things were still looking up.

  Hobbes and Rocky plunged into a deep conversation about the old days and though I started to listen, the warmth and the crumpets conspired to make me drowsy. I remained vaguely aware of the trickle of melted butter down my chin and the rise and fall of their talk. I think they were discussing a mutual friend, who'd gone down with the Titanic and turned up in Bournemouth but it's possible I was dreaming.

  I awoke to total confusion and the chimes of Big Ben, apparently coming from the clock on the mantelpiece.

  'Six o'clock already,' said Hobbes. 'Time we were getting back for our suppers. Time for Andy to wake up.'

  Hobbes got to his feet, shaking Rocky's hand. I followed his lead. It was like shaking hands with a statue, except there was flexibility and a pulse, and I was grateful for his gentleness, my bandaged hand still being a little sore.

  'Thank you for your hospitality,' Hobbes said and I nodded my agreement. Stepping outside, we made our farewells, got into the car and sped home.

  'A nice man … umm … chap, Rocky,' I said, as we narrowly avoided a wall.

  'Indeed. He's the white sheep of his family; some of the others aren't quite so civilised but the Olde Troll's always been a good friend.'

  Hobbes swerved to avoid a tractor and began humming 'Dooby Dun' under his breath. Though I thought I almost recognised the tune, I couldn't quite get it.

  'What's the song?'

  'Dooby Dun,' he replied, 'by Gill Butt and Sully Van.'

  'Strange. I thought I knew it. How's it go?'

  'When constabulary duties dooby dun, dooby dun,' he sang in a surprisingly mellow, if noisy, baritone.

  I joined in. 'A policeman's lot is not an happy one.'

  'All wrong of course,' he said. 'It's fun being a policeman.'

  Looking at his manic grin as he hurtled past the red light at the end of the Green Way, I could believe it.

  1 1

  We made a brief stop at the police station and, since he said he'd only be a short while, I decided to wait in the car. After a couple of minutes, PC Wilkes walked past, grinning and waving, while I pretended to be engrossed in a map book.

  A few moments later, Hobbes returned. 'We might as well leave the car here. There's plenty of time for a brisk walk home before supper and I haven't had my exercise today. Come along, and quickly.'

  Understanding how a fat, lazy cat must feel when plucked from its cosy doze by the fire and turfed out into the night, I got out with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, which wasn't much, although the relief of not having to endure his driving again was some comfort.

  'PC Poll's much better,' said Hobbes as we set off for Blackdog Street. 'He suffered a very minor concussion and is resting at home now.'

  Though I'm sure he wasn't trying, his stride was just long enough to compel me to scurry in an undignified fashion to keep up. 'Good,' I said, two steps behind.

  'Actually, they're all out of hospital and there's a nice little article about the riot in the Bugle – George Wilkes showed me – and there's a fine photograph of you. Here, take a look.' Rummaging in his coat pocket, pulling out the evening paper, he handed it to me.

  A fine photograph? I could see why Wilkes had grinned. Cringing, open-mouthed, handcuffed, gormless, I dominated the front page, Constable Poll's long arm feeling my collar, an angry woman waving a bony finger under my nose. My expression was similar to the one I'd displayed when the bloodthirsty hamster had savaged my ear. I gritted my teeth, thinking what a proud man my father would be if he ever saw it. Still, I didn't look as agonised as Dreg's former master, who was brandishing a bit of fence while the dog ripped his trouser leg.

  A teenaged-boy, all zits, lank hair and dandruff, glanced at me in passing. He nudged his mate and his mate nudged another mate who was holding the Bugle. They all sniggered.

  'There's still no sign of Mr Waring, or of Mr Biggs from the museum,' said Hobbes, seemingly oblivious to my embarrassment.

  'Oh, isn't there?' Trying to play it cool, I caught my foot on a cracked paving slab and stumbled. As the sniggers ripened into jeers and laughter, I was glad I was making someone happy. Actually, I wasn't. I'd have much preferred to make them very miserable with my boot. However, I kept running after Hobbes, trying to pretend I never noticed lower forms of life. 'Dignity is the ticket to success,' my father used to say, though I never believed there was much dignity poking around in people's mouths.

  'The forensic lads got back about the body,' Hobbes continued, 'and made a positive DNA match with Jimmy Pinker, so there's no doubt he was the victim. He'd been killed by a single thrust of an extremely sharp blade into his heart. There's no sign of the weapon yet. What's more, whoever messed up his face did it with a shovel after he was dead.
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  They also tested the mud on his wellingtons; it was probably from Mr Roman's garden, and the dried stuff I found in the house fits the tread, plus there were fibres from the carpet, proving Jimmy was at Mr Roman's shortly before he was killed, so it is likely he was the one that broke in. However, as he wasn't a smoker, the cigarette butts in the bush suggest an accomplice, unless by coincidence another individual hid there at roughly the same time.'

  'Oh, right.' I tried to throw my mind back to the body in the grave case. All the break-ins and the attack on Mr Barrington-Oddy had almost driven it from my mind and I was surprised Hobbes was still interested. 'Poor Anna,' I said, remembering her big eyes and smile.

  Hobbes nodded. 'I'd already warned her to expect the worst. She took it as badly as you might expect. She's a soft-hearted young lady and I've arranged for a friend to stay with her; she'll need one. If there's one thing I don't like about policing, it's telling bad news to people. Still, she deserves much better than poor Jimmy and maybe she'll be luckier next time around.'

  I was touched by his thoughtfulness; sometimes he appeared almost human. With that, a thought, germinating in a dark corner of my brain, sprouted making me gasp and my head spin as I struggled to comprehend what it meant. PC Wilkes had suggested Hobbes was unhuman. Hell's Bells! Though, almost from the start I'd realised he was different, it had never crossed my mind that he might really not be a human being. After all, being human was the least anyone might expect from a policeman.

  I doubt the possibility would ever have crossed my mind had I not already met the ghouls and Rocky, the Olde Troll, who looked like a man. Shaking my head, I tried to dismiss the idea, yet, in a crazy way, it made sense. It was more than possible Hobbes wasn't human. Yet, if not, what was he? And how would I be able to find out? Suddenly, I was trembling: not with fear but with a strange excitement.

  Hobbes's great hand patted me gently on the shoulder and I stumbled. 'Chin up, Andy. It's difficult being around murder cases when you're not used to them – it's bad enough when you are used to them. I'm sure Anna will come through this ordeal and we will catch the culprit.'

  I nodded, my thought processes temporarily scrambled. 'Good,' I said, flattered by the 'we', until I realised he meant 'we, the police'.

  'Evening all,' said a slurred voice from ankle level.

  Billy Shawcroft sprawled on his back in the doorway of the teashop, a blissful smile splitting his face.

  'Hello, Billy. Are you drunk?' asked Hobbes.

  'Yes,' said Billy, 'and in the morning I shall be hung-over. Featherlight's got some cheap new beer called 'Draclea's Bite'. It's strong shtuff, though it tashtes of oven cleaner and nobody will buy it. He shays I can 'ave it.' He shivered.

  'Very good.' Hobbes, bending, lifted Billy to his feet. 'Now, mind how you go and be careful where you go to sleep. It's cold at night.'

  'Tha's alright.' Billy smiled. 'I'm gonna work now. It's warm enough in the Feathersh.' A frown congealed his face. 'I got shomething to tell you.' There was a pause and an hiccup. 'Tony Derrick was in town today. Thish afternoon. He was driving a big blue car along The Shambles. I thought I should tell you. '

  'What sort of car?' asked Hobbes.

  'I told you, a big blue one. I dunno the make. Bye Bye.'

  He began his journey to the Feathers, taking the long route, via both sides of the road, once colliding with a lamppost, and apologising profusely for his 'clumsinesh.'

  'He likes a drink rather too much,' said Hobbes, unnecessarily. 'Still, he's a good man. We now have further evidence of Tony Derrick's involvement in the attack on Mr Barrington-Oddy. Now hurry up, or we'll be late and I'm getting hungry.'

  As he increased the length of his stride, I alternated between a jog and a scurry to keep up. We passed the front of the church where Kev, leather clad and helmeted was revving up an enormous motorbike. With a cheery thumbs up, he roared off down the road.

  Hobbes chuckled. 'There goes our curate. He used to be known as Kev the rev in the old days, when he was in a biker gang and a bit of a bad lad. It was just foolish pranks for the most part and nothing malicious, though I had to have a stern word with him in the end. Shortly afterwards, he found religion and now he's Kev the reverend. He still likes his bike though.'

  I was panting by then. 'I met him this morning. He's the one who pointed me to the pamphlets about the Roman Cup.'

  Hobbes turned to nod. 'Yes, he'd need to. He's only been back in town a few weeks and is still learning. If you really want to learn about the church's history you should have a word with Augustus Godley, his great grandfather. He was church warden for many years and what he doesn't know about the old place isn't worth knowing.'

  We turned into Blackdog Street as the rain, which had been threatening violence for hours, began its attack. Apart from a glance at the frowning sky, Hobbes didn't appear concerned but I scuttled for the front door of number 13, the key already in my hand. Heavy drops were already spattering the pavement as, opening the door, I dived for cover. There was a deep, booming woof, as if from an aggressive tuba, a pair of big black paws thudded into my chest, knocking me back through the door, down the steps, onto the pavement at Hobbes's feet.

  He laughed. 'Beware of the dog! He's a bundle of fun isn't he?'

  Pinned to the ground, on my back like a defeated wrestler, stunned and winded, I tried to work out if Hobbes's last remark had been directed at me or the dog, who had begun worrying my tie, though the tie wasn't half as worried as I was, even though he didn't hurt me.

  'Drop him,' said Hobbes, 'and get inside out the rain.'

  Dregs, tail wagging like he'd just done something clever, bounded up the steps with Hobbes, leaving me to stare into the night sky, rain water pooling in my eye sockets.

  A middle-aged couple passed by on the other side, tutting in disapproval. The woman had a penetrating whisper. 'That one's started early. Disgusting! Someone really ought to do something about people like him.'

  'I haven't been drinking. I've been steamrollered by a huge, hairy, horrible animal. I need help.' That's what I wanted to say but the only sound I could force out was a piteous little whine.

  'Are you going to lie out there all night?' asked Hobbes, looking down from the doorway. 'You'll get wet and miss your supper.'

  Struggling to my feet, I stumbled up the steps, the bloody dog cocking an evil eye at me as I entered the sitting room. Hobbes patted its head and it followed him into the kitchen, while I dripped upstairs to change my wet clothes, to wash away the street. In my bedroom, I unwrapped the soiled bandage from my hand, pleased the skin beneath was pink and shiny and, though it felt stiff, it appeared to be healing well. I removed my jacket, all grimy and soggy, stinking of wet sheep and, more worryingly, urine, and dropped my trousers. They were round my ankles, I was bending to remove them, when the door opened, striking me firmly on the backside.

  Mrs Goodfellow entered with the trousers I'd ruined in the morning hanging from her skinny arm. 'They're all cleaned and repaired. Have you lost something?'

  'Only my dignity, though there wasn't much to worry about.' I tried to cover myself and look cool. It wasn't easy.

  She smiled, not at all embarrassed. 'You'd better give me those dirty trousers, dear.' Folding the clean ones, placing them neatly on the dressing table, she picked up my muddied jacket. 'Cor, you are a mucky lad. It's a good job the old fellow knows a good tailor and dry-cleaner.'

  Resistance was obviously useless, so, giving up, I handed over my trousers.

  'Ooh, you've got legs like pipe cleaners, dear. They're all thin and white and fluffy.'

  I said nothing; nothing in life had prepared me for a comment like that. However, my legs blushed. I'd never suspected they were so bashful.

  'They've gone all pink like Dregs's tongue.' She laughed. 'Now, get dressed, there's chicken curry for supper.'

  All the meals she'd made so far had scaled previously unimaginable heights of excellence, yet, as a long-time addict, I needed the occasional cur
ry fix and it might have become a serious matter of concern if she hadn't cooked one just in time. I could have kissed her had my legs not objected, refusing to take a step until she'd left the room. Then, dressing quickly, I bounded downstairs, only just avoiding Dregs who'd fallen asleep halfway.

  The curry, after the inevitable delay for grace, was a truly sensational meld of mysterious spices, flavours and piquancy that nearly made me cry in ecstasy. I like to think she'd surpassed herself, though I thought the same at every meal. Hobbes, too, seemed in dreamy mood as, finishing his last chapatti, he sat back with a sigh. Someday, I thought, I would have to leave, find a place of my own, eat normally. The thought was hard to bear and I felt tears starting in my eyes.

  Hobbes grinned. 'Curry too hot?'

  'No,' I defended it, 'it's wonderful but I fear it's too good for this world.'

  'If you like this, then you should try her vindaloo. That'll bring more than a tear to your eyes.'

  I expected we'd adjourn to the sitting room as usual. Instead, Hobbes, picking up the dishes, carried them to the sink.

  'The lass has her Kung Fu class on Monday nights,' he said, 'so I do a bit of washing up.'

  'She does Kung Fu?' My voice soared incredulously. 'I'm surprised they let anyone her age learn a martial art. Isn't it dangerous?'

  'You don't understand,' said Hobbes, 'she's the teacher and an honorary Master of the Secret Arts. She combines her class with sex education as a sort of spin-off. It was all the printer's fault; he made a mistake and some folk turned up hoping to learn the marital arts. She didn't like to disappoint them.'

  I was so flabbergasted I volunteered to do the washing up myself and Hobbes, to his credit, did not stand in my way, taking himself and Dregs off for a walk. The bowl I'd melted had been replaced and I washed the dishes with a virtuous feeling. Afterwards, I dried and put everything away methodically, some of it, I flattered myself, in the right place.