‘Help yourselves to more borscht,’ said Sid as I finished the bowl. ‘There’s plenty.’
‘I don’t mind if I do,’ I said. ‘It’s delicious.’
‘Delicious? I should jolly well think so. I’ve had plenty of practice since my wife died.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Don’t be, young fellow. She had a good life. Until she married me, of course.’
Hobbes, with a laugh, helped himself to more and said: ‘Your Queenie was a good woman; she was like a mother to the lass.’
Once again, I experienced the strange sense of dislocation that struck whenever I was confronted with the age of Hobbes and some of his associates. Although I’d never plucked up the courage to ask how old he was, I had ascertained that, despite appearances, he was old enough to have been a policeman for some years before joining up as a soldier in the Great War. Mrs Goodfellow, ‘the lass’ as Hobbes called her, had been orphaned during the Blitz in the next war, and yet still ran Kung Fu classes in the church hall. It was no great step to accept Sid as older, far older, than his smooth, plump skin suggested.
When we’d finished the borscht, Sid gathered up our bowls, stacked them in the dishwasher and returned to the table with three sundae dishes filled with another dark red, frothy substance. ‘Raspberry mousse,’ he said, before I could embarrass myself. ‘I hope you like it.’
It was sweet and tart and fruity and smooth and utterly delicious. Hobbes didn’t say another word until he’d scraped the dish clean. Then he said four words: ‘Is there any more?’
Sid, looking well pleased, fetched him another dish, which went the same way. Although I would have loved to indulge my taste buds, I couldn’t, for my belly was so tight I didn’t dare and it was all I could do to find room for my wine.
Afterwards, Sid took us through to the lounge, painted a cosy, bright orange, dominated by an enormous book case, and containing a pair of magnificent green leather chesterfield sofas. A capacious armchair was positioned where its occupant might watch the vast television on the wall in total comfort, while benefiting from the fire that was dispelling any hint of autumnal chill and imbuing the air with the soft, soothing scent of warm, ripe apples. Hobbes and I, sprawling, replete, took a sofa each, while our host, having returned to the kitchen, brought in a steaming jug, whence arose the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee, adding to my feeling of comfort and ease. Having filled three translucent white porcelain cups and passed them to us, Sid approached a large, beautifully polished drinks cabinet.
‘Could I interest either of you in a snifter of brandy?’ he asked. ‘I fancy one myself.’
Hobbes nodded.
‘I’ll stick to coffee,’ I said. ‘Brandy is a bit strong for me these days.’
‘No problem,’ said Sid, pulling out a pair of brandy glasses, filling them and handing one to Hobbes. ‘Perhaps you’d like something else?’
‘Umm … I don’t know … I …’
‘How about a cocktail? I suggest one the youngsters used to drink in the Old Country.’
‘Maybe. Which old country? You don’t really come from Transylvania, do you?’
He laughed. ‘No, I come from a small village in Norfolk. The Old Country was a wine bar I used to own.’
‘You wouldn’t know it,’ said Hobbes. ‘It was way before your time. After he sold it, it became the Black Dog Café.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Sid, ‘I’ll make you one and see if you like it.’
With a sinister chuckle, he set to work with three bottles and a crystal glass.
‘This,’ he said, handing me the results of his alchemy, ‘is a Brain Haemorrhage.’
It was an apt name. Floating in a colourless fluid was what appeared to be a small clump of brain with great bloody streaks running through.
Although I tried to act cool, I failed to suppress a shudder and a grimace. ‘What is it?’
‘Two parts peach schnapps, topped with a measure of Irish cream and drizzled with grenadine. It’s normally drunk in a single quaff. I’m sure you’ll like it. Enjoy.’
Though my brain said ‘no’ and my stomach said ‘no room’, I felt, for the sake of my honour, that I should give it a try. Taking a deep breath, I gulped it down, finding it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. In fact, it was rather pleasant, with a sweet, fruity taste. Overcome with a sudden fatigue, I slumped in the chesterfield, resting my eyes, while Hobbes and Sid enjoyed a heated discussion on the subject of sticklebacks.
Having exhausted the topic, Sid asked about the investigation.
‘It’s too early to tell yet,’ said Hobbes, ‘but we have several lines of inquiry. Firstly, how did the gang know the gold would be delivered to the bank at that time?’
‘Someone must have told them,’ said Sid.
‘That would seem likely, so we are working on the theory that it was an insider job. I’d be obliged if you’d let me have a list of anyone who knew, but it may not have been malicious; it may have been carelessness.
‘Secondly, we’re holding three of the gang in the nick, and I may persuade them to talk. Unfortunately, my first impression is that we caught the foot soldiers, who know very little and that the boss got away.
‘Thirdly, there’s the van. When we find it, it’s likely to provide some clues – and it shouldn’t be hard to find, as it’s quite distinctive, having a hole in its roof and a huge dent where it hit a tree. I’d have caught them this afternoon, had my car not broken.’
‘But, surely, old boy, they’ll burn the van to get rid of any clues? That’s if they haven’t done so already.’
‘I fear you may be right.’ Hobbes sighed. ‘Still, I do have one further line of inquiry, because I got a good view of the driver and I’d recognise him anywhere. In fact, I thought for a moment that I did recognise him. Unfortunately, I didn’t get much of an impression of the other man, except that he was tall and wearing a tweed suit. I suspect that one was the boss.’
‘What are you going to do next?’ asked Sid. ‘Won’t all the reporters get in your way?’
‘Maybe, but I don’t really know what they want from me. Andy reckons they’ll hang around until they’ve got a story, or they’ll make one up.’
‘He’s probably right. They can be extraordinarily persistent until the next big news breaks. Do you remember what they were like that Walpurgis Night when Skeleton Bob Nibblet got stuck up the chimney? That could have become a very sticky situation. Another brandy?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Hobbes.
Sid got to his feet. ‘Another Brain Haemorrhage, Andy?’
Although I could easily have dropped off in the warmth of the crackling fire, and my head, already fuzzy, felt as if it were spinning, I opened my eyes and sat up. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ I said, ignoring a sober portion of my brain whispering that I’d already had too much.
Sid fetched the drinks. ‘Here’s to solving crime … Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
Having taken a gulp of neat brandy, Sid, looking thoughtful, said: ‘What I’d suggest is that you get away for a few days, until things quieten down. After all, you’ve already done enough. You saved the money and the bank’s reputation and arrested three of the gang.’
‘But at least two others are still free,’ said Hobbes, ‘and one of them is the brains and he might be planning something else.’
‘Possibly, old boy, but he’s more likely to be in hiding, afraid he’s going to be arrested. Your police colleagues should be able to find him.’
‘I don’t like to leave a job half done.’
‘Surely you don’t want to take all the glory?’ said Sid. ‘Give someone else a chance. It was only an attempted robbery after all.’
Hobbes stared deep into his brandy as I gulped down my Brain Haemorrhage. They were moreish, so I didn’t object when Sid fixed me another.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Hobbes, after a long pause.
‘I’m sure I am,’ said Sid. ‘Take a few d
ays leave. I’ll bet you’ve got a few accrued.’
Hobbes grinned. ‘Superintendent Cooper reckoned I’d built up over four years and that was ages ago, so I dare say there’s a few more now.’
‘When did you last take a holiday?’
‘Last week.’
‘For how long?’
‘All of Sunday morning.’
‘What about a proper holiday?’
‘I took a few days off last year, soon after I met Andy.’
Admittedly, my head was stupid with drink, but I couldn’t think what he meant. ‘The only time I remember you not going into work was after you got shot.’
‘That’s when I was thinking of,’ said Hobbes. ‘I spent a couple of days in bed.’
‘That doesn’t count as holiday,’ I said. ‘You’re supposed to enjoy them.’
‘He’s right, old boy. You deserve a break.’
‘But,’ said Hobbes, a little peevishly, ‘policing is so much fun. Why would I want a break?’
‘It won’t be so much fun with those vultures outside your door,’ said Sid. ‘You’ll get a lot of attention. Remember back in ’53 when they ran the story of you breaking the four-minute mile? They were after you for days, and it would probably have been much worse had it not been for the coronation.’
‘I thought,’ I said, ‘the four-minute mile was broken in 1954.’
‘Officially,’ said Sid, ‘but Wilber got there first.’
‘I wasn’t first,’ said Hobbes, ‘and it wasn’t in a race and, I’m glad to say, never made the record books.’
‘What happened?’
‘I was in pursuit of a suspect,’ said Hobbes.
‘Who was on horseback,’ said Sid. ‘It was at Hedbury Races and Wilber was timed between mileposts before he made the arrest. According to the course clock, he’d covered the distance in well under four minutes ’
‘It wasn’t a very good clock,’ said Hobbes.
‘But,’ said Sid, ‘the point is, it caught the press’s attention and they swarmed around you like mosquitos, until the events in London distracted them.’
‘True,’ said Hobbes. ‘It made my job a little difficult.’
‘It’ll be worse now. There are more of them, they’ve got telephoto lenses, they’ll buy stories off people, and they’ll use all sorts of unscrupulous methods.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Hobbes, nodding. ‘I suppose a few days off wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Quite right,’ said Sid. ‘You’ll need to do something about the lass and Andy, or they’ll be subjected to unwelcome scrutiny. More drinks?’
When they arrived, Hobbes was looking thoughtful and, maybe, a little wistful.
‘Thanks,’ he said, accepting another large brandy. ‘I’ve decided to head up to Straddlingate. I don’t know why, because I haven’t been there for years, but it just popped into my head. I’ll let the lass know what’s happening and I’ll mention it to the superintendent as well.’
‘Good idea,’ said Sid. ‘Now that’s settled, did you hear about Daft Abel?’
‘Abel Clutterbuck? Not since he saw the headline in the Bugle saying man wanted for burglary and he went in and applied for the job,’ said Hobbes.
‘Well,’ said Sid, ‘Tom Pollack told me he’d had a postcard from him. He was on Easter Island and it seems there was this shark …’
And I think that must have been when the final drink hit me.
5
I awoke, sorely afflicted by a raging thirst, a thumping headache and a bursting bladder, the latter of which was demanding urgent attention, despite my trying to wish it away and fall back into sleep. From the scent of apples and the absence of the underlying taint of Hobbes or Dregs, I knew I wasn’t in my own bed and, since I was comfortable, with soft blankets pulled up to my chin, I wasn’t at my parents’. Even after I’d prised open bleary eyes, I was still confused and lost, as the cold, grey light of early morning showed I was in a strange room, albeit one I felt I should recognise. I was lying on a chesterfield sofa. I sat up and realised I was still dressed, except for my jacket, bowtie and shoes. My head throbbed as I forced myself to stand, and I was panicking because I had no idea where the bathroom was and my need to reach it was rapidly approaching critical. As I staggered to the door, weak and shaky, my head was spinning and I came close to being sick.
I went into a gloomy hallway, where the scent of stale borscht made me understand that I was still at Sid’s. The house was as quiet as the grave and, unable to see any stairs, my panic grew. A pair of large, matching china vases stood by the front door and I was seriously contemplating using one of them as an emergency pisspot, when I spotted a gap in the dark wooden panelling in front of me. Closer examination revealed a sliding door and, behind it, the stairs.
I would have run up them, had I dared. Instead I climbed steadily, concentrating on bladder control. At the top, faced with five closed doors, I came close to disaster, until my eyes adjusted to the gloom and I noticed the small china plaques on each door. Starting on the left, I read them: Bram’s Room, Stephanie’s Room, Sid’s Room, Airing Cupboard, and finally, Batroom.
I opened the door and, seeing it was, indeed a bathroom, rushed inside, burst forth and stayed there for some time until the relief of Andy had reached its natural conclusion. As I tottered out, my headache more massive, my nausea barely under control, and my body shivering and weak, a small, ball-of-fluff cat hissed at me, put its ears back and fled downstairs. Taken aback, I stumbled, putting out a hand against a door to steady myself. The door flew open and I lurched inside.
Sid was staring at me, but he wasn’t in bed. He was hanging by his ankles from a steel frame beside the wardrobe.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, regaining my balance, ‘the cat got in my way’.
‘That’s quite alright, young fellow. She’s often in my way, too. My word, you do look rough, though it’s hard to tell from this angle. Excuse me one moment.’
Grasping the side of the frame, he pulled himself upright, released his feet, stepped out of the contraption and slicked back his hair. For a moment, I almost forgot my hangover, paralysed by ancient preconceptions of vampires.
‘Did I scare you?’ he asked.
‘Umm … no … yes.’
‘I suppose you think I always sleep upside down, like a bat?’
‘Don’t you?’ I asked unhappily.
‘No,’ he said, ‘but, a few minutes inversion therapy does wonders for my stiff old back.’
‘When my old editor had a bad back,’ I said, grasping for normality, ‘he swore by acupuncture. You could try it.’
‘It’s a little too close to being staked for my liking.’
‘I see,’ I said, and nodded, causing another wave of headache to break inside my skull.
‘Hangover?’
I nodded again: a bad mistake.
‘I’ll fix you something that should help.’
‘I don’t want to be any bother.’ I was desperate to lie down, to cover up, and to not move for hours.
‘It’ll be no bother.’
‘What are you going to fix me?’
‘A Bloody Mary.’
I might have guessed.
‘It’s my own recipe. It’ll do you good, and I think you’ll like it.’
Leading me back to the lounge, he propped me up on the sofa with cushions and headed for the drinks cabinet. With a laugh, like a mad scientist creating a monster, he selected a number of bottles and prepared his concoction.
‘Get this down you,’ he said, handing me a glass, ‘and you’ll soon be feeling more chipper.’
Grunting my thanks, I took it, mesmerised by the red, frothing contents and trying to think nice thoughts. Bracing myself, I took a sip. It was spicy and peppery and salty and thick. I wasn’t sure I liked it but, before I’d come to a final conclusion, I’d finished it. Though I thought I felt a little better, less likely to throw up, my head was spinning again. Pulling the blankets to my chin, turning onto my side
, I slept.
It must have been a couple of hours later, when I awoke again to full daylight, this time feeling like I might live, with the scent of roasting coffee making me want to. As I sat up, the door opened, the small, ball-of-fluff cat swaggered in, hissed, and scarpered, and then Sid was there with a steaming mug of coffee.
‘Drink this,’ he said, ‘and your cure should be nearly complete.’
‘Thank you.’ I said. ‘Is Hobbes here?’
‘No, he’s arranging a few days’ leave.’
‘That’s probably a good idea. Did he stay last night?’
‘No, he went home. He had some things to pick up and a dog to walk.’
‘Why didn’t he take me?’
‘You were dead to the world, young fellow,’ said Sid with a toothy smile, ‘and it would have been cruel to wake you. Wilber was all for it, but I convinced him you needed plenty of beauty sleep. Drink your coffee. Then, take a shower if you wish; I’ve laid out towels and stuff in the batroom. When you’re ready, come through to the kitchen and I’ll fix you some breakfast.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Sid with a pleasant smile that made me decide I liked the old vampire. I was rather pleased with how cosmopolitan my outlook had become.
He left me to my drink. When it started to hit my stomach, and was infusing my body with a rosy glow of well-being, I was able to get up and look around the room and to examine the contents of Sid’s enormous bookcase. Mostly it was filled with handsome, leather-bound volumes with titles, so far as I could make out, in Latin. The exception was the middle shelf, full of lurid paperback detective novels. They were so tightly packed I didn’t dare remove any, fearing I’d never be able to get them back.
Then, heading upstairs, I enjoyed a long, hot shower, a rare luxury, as the one at Hobbes’s, which he’d installed for himself, put lesser users in mortal peril. The last time I’d used it, I might have drowned had Mrs Goodfellow not come to my rescue.
3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers Page 5