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

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Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 26

by Martin, Wilkie


  'What is that?'

  'It's a leg of lamb.'

  'Why?'

  'To feed a police inspector,' I said. I might have phrased it better.

  'What?'

  'It's for Inspector Hobbes, I'm looking for him.'

  'Hobbes? Are you sure he's not looking for you, sir? In connection with the break-in down the road on the afternoon of the second of this month?'

  'No, he's disappeared and I'm trying to find him.'

  'I've heard no reports of the Inspector disappearing. He's not the sort.'

  'This blackguard has probably murdered him,' said the woman, 'so he can escape justice. I bet he's the one who burgled Mr Roman's.'

  'Have you been in Mr Roman's house, sir?'

  'No, well … umm … yes. I was with Hobbes at the time. It was after the break-in; it was part of his investigation.'

  'I was there when the Inspector investigated and don't recall seeing you. You admit you were inside?' The policeman's expression turned as hard as his grip on my shoulder. 'I think, perhaps, you'd better come along to the station and answer a few questions.'

  'No, I was there when he went back for another look. I need to find him, he may be in trouble.'

  I know Inspector Hobbes. He can look after himself, if anyone can. I'm afraid you're the one in trouble.' The policeman reached for his handcuffs.

  In fact, the young policeman was the one in trouble, for at that moment the cavalry arrived. Or rather, Dregs did. Loping down the garden path with a deep woof, obviously believing I was in danger, he launched himself like a hairy black missile. The policeman, turning too late, Dregs thumped into his midriff with the pace and power of a punch. The poor man, doubling up, grunted, falling backwards into the house, banging his head on an occasional table as he rolled inside. The table collapsed under the impact and became a pile of occasional firewood. The woman screamed again – she was having a most exhilarating afternoon – and slammed the door.

  Dregs bounced round me, butting and licking, as if he'd done something clever. I calculated that, though he had stopped me being arrested, he'd probably not improved my situation and I wasn't sure I'd now be able to convince the police to help me. In fact, the way things were going, I felt it more likely they'd arrest me for assaulting a policeman with an offensive weapon, namely a large, hairy dog and, if they banged me up in the cells, I'd have no chance of helping Hobbes. It appeared I was on my own, apart from Dregs, which was a dubious advantage.

  I was about to flee the scene, when I remembered the leg of lamb. As I bent to pick it up, Dregs sniffed it and kicked soil over it in apparent disdain. Maybe he thought it would smell better after being buried for a few days. Still, he let me bag it and I scarpered, while he sat down, staring at the door, with his head on one side as if listening. I left him to it. He'd be able to find me if he wanted and I'd be better off without him.

  I had to find out what was happening, though I had little idea how to go about it. Reason suggested that, if I sneaked into the Witcherleys' garden and kept out of sight, I'd at least have time to think. I darted up the road, taking some comfort no one else was about, concealing myself between the hedge and a bush. I seemed to be putting myself into, at best, an embarrassing situation and the pressure of thinking I ought to do something was crushing. My face grew hot and my stomach quivered at the thought of what would happen if I'd misread the situation. Yet, the longer I dithered the more I'd get the wind up. I had to be positive.

  All the running and stress had left my mouth as dry as chalk, yet slaking my thirst was not my priority. Firstly, I had to relieve my bladder, a regular consequence of meeting Rex. Taking a quiet leak in the hedge, I began operations, deciding, as a start, to scout the garden, to get the lie of the land. Basing my movements on what I'd seen Red Indians do in old westerns, though I doubted they'd ever made so much noise, I stumbled, pushed and crawled through the undergrowth. In such situations, buckskins have distinct advantages over long overcoats. I kept kneeling on its edge or snagging it on branches and thorns, dampness spreading from the tweed knees of my trousers. When a trunk of a huge evergreen tree concealed me, I stood up, wiping the cobwebs from my face, a putrid stench making me retch. My hands were plastered in slimy, disgusting, sticky, brown gloop. I'd got it all over me, the pigeons flapping overhead suggesting the source. I wiped my hands down my trousers, which were already beyond hope, trying not to throw up. There was a downside to being a detective, yet I was not deterred.

  I began my reconnaissance with a closer look at the house. The lowering sun, glinting off an array of windows on a single-storey modern extension, connecting the old part of the house to the garage, meant I was too dazzled to see much and my teeth chattered as, scurrying across the lawn, I pressed myself against the wall. Gulping like a goldfish, I peeped into the extension. It was the kitchen, though it looked more like a glossy advert, with lustrous blacks contrasting with creamy whites and the glitter of stainless steel. Although it looked impressive, almost like a work of art, I'd have taken Hobbes's homely kitchen any day, especially with Mrs Goodfellow's cooking.

  My anger flared. How dare Rex pay me such a meagre wage when he could afford all this? The kitchen alone must have cost many times my annual salary and then they'd got the house and the cars and the holiday home and everything. It wasn't fair. Yet it was nothing compared to my rage at Rex's lie. How dare he lie to me? How dare he put me through all the crawling round in pigeon shit? How dare he put Mrs Goodfellow through all the worry? And how dare he do anything to Hobbes?

  I stopped myself. He obviously dared a lot but what might he have done to Hobbes? How, in fact, could he have done anything? Even though the Editorsaurus was a big bloke, even heavier than Hobbes I guessed, he was fat and lumbering, whereas Hobbes was …Hobbes.

  The door, leading into the kitchen, swinging open, I dropped to my knees in the rich loam of a border, flattening myself against the wall, praying nobody decided to venture out.

  A whiny voice spoke. 'Shouldn't I at least give him a drink?' It was Tony Derrick.

  'He's been in there for ages and …' he paused and muttered. 'OK. Keep your hair on. I was only asking.'

  I could hear him moving about, splashing water, opening and shutting doors.

  'Where d'you keep your coffee? Thanks … sugar? Milk? OK … cream it is then. Uh, which one's the fridge? I got it … single or double? Chocolate biscuits? Right … can I have one? I'm starving.'

  The stream of questions continued for a minute or two and then there was silence. After a while, risking poking my head up, I satisfied myself the kitchen was empty again. Tony had spilt coffee by the sink and a couple of broken biscuits were valiantly attempting to soak up a dribble of cream splashed on the floor beneath the stainless steel door of what I took to be the fridge.

  It meant there were at least two people inside, Editorsaurus Rex and Tony and, since Narcisa's car was parked outside, it was likely she was home, too. In which case, who was the 'he' Tony had mentioned? Hobbes? Or Phil?

  A timid part of my brain suggested I was jumping to all the wrong conclusions. I tried to ignore it, because part of me was convinced Hobbes was inside and, since he'd been looking for Phil, he might also be there.

  Keeping my head below the windows, I crept along the side of the wall like a commando, except commandos usually carry weapons they're trained to use and are not dressed in soggy tweed that's growing ever soggier. The shadows were lengthening and I guessed it had gone four o'clock. Though the huge, red sun was blinding, it wouldn't be long before it no longer peeped over the hedge.

  On reaching the spot where the kitchen-extension met the old part of the house, I stood up straight, stretching cramped muscles, noticing a small, dilapidated shed in the far corner of the back lawn, somewhere I thought would make a brilliant hiding place. Scurrying behind it, I looked back, shocked to realise I'd been in full view of the upper windows of the house, but it seemed I'd got away with it. I resolved to be more vigilant, for a momentary careles
sness might waste all my efforts and would lead, at best, to intense embarrassment.

  Two fears were competing: first, if Hobbes and Phil were being held captive, I, too, soon might be; second, if, by chance or stupidity, I'd got everything wrong, Rex might simply spot me trespassing, call the police and I'd be a laughing stock again. My timid side just wouldn't shut up, urging me to run before I got into something I couldn't get out of. I forced myself to ignore what seemed only common sense, feeling I owed Hobbes something. Yet for a while, all I could do was lurk behind the shed, where the shadows concealed me.

  Buttoning my coat, pulling up the collar, thrusting my hands into the pockets, I looked around in the half-light. To one side was a steaming compost heap, to the other, a heavy lawn roller, smothered under a blanket of enormous spiders' webs. Imagining the enormous spiders that had created it, I couldn't stop shuddering, so I forced myself to concentrate on my mission. I peeked round the side of the shed, observing the garden, bright and ruddy in the glow of the setting sun, encircled by a hedge, dotted here and there with tall trees. There was an ornamental pond, a covered swimming pool and a tennis court. A strange vision of Rex floundering about in white shorts, or diving into the water made me snigger, despite, or because of, my nerves. My imagination failed to conjure up an image of Narcisa doing anything similar.

  A light coming on in one of house's upper windows, I jerked back behind the shed, very cautiously risking another look, hoping the dusk would conceal me. Narcisa, clad in a glossy blue gown, sat down in front of a dressing table by the window, dabbing something behind her ears, turning as if to speak to someone. Another figure moved into view and, though I could only see his back, his green Hawaiian shirt screamed it was Tony Derrick. He leaned on the window ledge, seemingly entirely at home in her bedroom. When she finished speaking he, nodded, kissing her on the lips and left.

  I couldn't take that sort of thing standing up and had to sit on the roller, despite the spiders. Surely, Narcisa and Tony weren't lovers? What could she see in the weasely, whiney, grubby lowlife? If it came to that, what could he see in her? To be fair, she'd looked OK, elegant even, in the Sorenchester Life photo, if only because of the crust of makeup. Yet, perhaps neither was fussy. I couldn't understand how Rex fitted in and why he didn't just throw Tony out. I shook my head, glad I didn't live that way.

  When I looked again, she'd removed her robe and was wearing only a flimsy, shimmering slip, held up by coat hanger shoulders. Her neck was scrawny, as if it had been stretched, and encircled by a triple string of pearls. As she ran a bony hand through her hair, I turned away, feeling like a peeping Tom. Yet, I had to take another look and this time, to my horror, she was quite bald, apart from a few fluffy, brittle tufts reminiscent of a lawn in a drought. Her sleek blonde hair was nowhere to be seen as she touched up her makeup. Then she stood, disappearing from view for a minute or so, returning in a loose, purple robe with a heavy gold chain around her neck. Bending, picking up her wig, she sat at the table to fit it, the sleeves of her robe slipping down revealing a bracelet. Even from such a distance I was sure it was the one stolen from the museum.

  She walked away and the light went out.

  1 7

  As the last lingering tentacles of sunlight slithered below the hedge, I berated myself for failing to make real progress. I was convinced Narcisa had the dragon bracelet and reckoned it was a safe bet she'd stolen the other articles as well. So what? I didn't know why she'd taken them, or why Phil and Hobbes had vanished, or even if there was a genuine connection between the events. Of course, her ancestry might explain her interest in Romanian artefacts but why those particular ones? Surely, there were millions of old Romanian bits and pieces in the world? There had, in fact, been a fair number in Mr Barrington-Oddy's cabinet, yet only one had been taken. It dawned on me that asking unanswerable questions and beating myself up wasn't helping. I was prevaricating, yet I couldn't really blame myself, since I'd never done anything so frightening before. My nervous terrors were not at all alleviated by being alone in the dark.

  A childhood memory returned, of an old book of fairy stories at Granny Caplet's, its grotesque illustrations scaring me silly. In particular, the skinny old witch in Hansel and Gretel had such a look of cruel wickedness she had haunted my dreams for months. I began to understand my unease, for the shed bore an uncomfortable resemblance to her tumbledown cottage, or it did in my imagination. I tried to laugh it off, for I was starting to believe Hobbes's tall tales. Even so, I couldn't stop myself patting the rotting wood, as if to reassure myself it was not built of gingerbread. He'd really had me going about that, and, despite everything, I smiled, coming to a decision.

  'Right then, Andy,' I addressed myself, 'let's get out of here. It won't get any easier.' Forcing my mouth into a determined, devil-may care grin, I stood up, just as something rushed towards me, something too black to be mere shadow. I gasped as it sprang, knocking me onto my back.

  It could have been worse, I thought, as Dregs's long, stinky tongue snaked over my face.

  'Bloody dog,' I muttered, patting his hairy head.

  I was all over dog drool and he was all over exuberance.

  The back door of the house opened and Tony Derrick spoke. 'No, I'm not getting twitchy. I really heard something. I'm gonna take a look.'

  A torch beam flashed across the lawn. Dregs, releasing me, loped towards it with a woof. Diving back behind the shed, I lay still, trembling.

  Dregs growled the way he did when he wanted to play.

  Tony screamed. 'Get it off!'

  'Shut up,' said Narcisa, 'or the neighbours will be round complaining.'

  A bright light flooding the garden, my hidey-hole was no longer dark.

  'Get it off me!' Tony sounded as if he was going to cry.

  'It's only a dog.'

  'Get the bastard off!'

  'Shut up, he's not hurting you.'

  Something hissed and Dregs yelped.

  'That's got rid of him,' said Narcisa.

  'About bloody time. What is that stuff?'

  'Pepper spray. It's not nice but he'll get over it, poor mutt.'

  'Poor mutt?' Tony spluttered. 'It was Hobbes's bloody dog, you know? And Hobbes won't be too far away. You'd better hide the spray.'

  She laughed. 'You're right, he isn't far away but, don't worry, he'll be no trouble.'

  'What d'you mean?'

  'You'll see,' she said. 'Now come along. There's still plenty to do.'

  Their footsteps receded and a moment later the light went out. Dregs had come to my rescue again and I just hoped he wasn't going to suffer too much for it. Standing up, I brushed myself down. Narcisa's assertion that Hobbes wasn't far away gave me reason to believe I was doing the right thing, yet her confidence that he'd be no trouble had me worried, even more worried than the prospect of running into her pepper spray.

  Drawing a deep breath, I tiptoed across the darkened lawn, creeping around the outside of the house, peeping into every room. The furniture and carpets looked expensive and comfortable and nothing seemed out of place, except that I couldn't see anyone. As the upstairs lights were off, it was a puzzle, because, so far as I could tell, no one had left the house. I was baffled, though I was sure of one thing – I didn't want to be standing outside for too long. A brutal gust caught me in the back of the neck and goose pimples erupted over my skin.

  'C'mon, you idiot,' I muttered, my breath steaming, 'you've got to do something.'

  I stole round to the back door, which was locked. The kitchen behind it lay in darkness, though a small ventilation window above my head was open. Pulling myself up by the frame, kneeling on the narrow sill, I squeezed my head and shoulders through the window, standing up, carefully, wriggling and squirming. I'd got so far through that I was starting to worry about what I was going to land on, when something snagged. I couldn't slither forwards or push myself back and, losing my footing, ended up balanced on my ribs, a hard, pointy knob sticking into my solar plexus, despite the laye
rs of clothes. An involuntary groan, partly pain, mostly despair, squeezed out and a new proverb came to mind: 'Don't try to squeeze through inadequate gaps in inappropriate clothing.' It wasn't snappy, yet I wished I'd thought of it beforehand. I writhed and wriggled and it made no difference.

  Soft, heavy footsteps approached and there was nothing I could do except cringe and wait for whatever happened next.

  'What's going on in here?' asked Editorsaurus Rex.

  At such times it's impossible to be nonchalant, though I did my best, smiling, keeping my chin up, as the kitchen light flickered on. I'd been discovered in a most embarrassing position. Slumping, dangling, I awaited my doom. A pair of fluffy white socks sailed into view across a sea of glossy black and white tiles and a soft, moist hand lifted my head.

  'Capstan, what the Devil are you doing?' The Editorsaurus's voice sounded strange and there was curiosity instead of the fury I'd anticipated. My head dropped.

  'Just hanging about,' I said, attempting an ingratiating grin.

  'Oh, that's all right then. So long as you're not burgling.'

  'Oh no, sir. I'd never do such a thing.'

  'I'm very glad to hear it. Now, are you going to stay there all day, or are you coming in for a drinkie?'

  I realised why he sounded so odd – he was dead drunk, though his speech was controlled and precise rather than slurred.

  'I'd love a drink, sir, only I appear to be stuck.'

  'I'm not surprised, it's far too small for you.' His voice grew angry. 'Not too small for Narcisa's rat-boy, though. Oh no, he squeezed himself in all right. Nasty, dirty, little sneak. Are you sure you're not burgling?'

  'No, sir, I'm here for a drink. If you wouldn't mind giving me a hand?'

  'Sorry Capstan. Of course, you are. It's very good of you to visit me on my birthday and I see you've brought a present. Thank you.' He took the plastic bag from me. It had been dangling from my arm for so long it was almost part of me.

 

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