3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘Him, sir? What leads you to suppose it was a male skeleton?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know really. It was quite big and the skull had brow ridges, but I’m just guessing.’

  ‘You had no idea there’d be a body there?’

  ‘None at all. I’d never been there before.’

  ‘Could you point out the location on your map?’

  ‘Umm … I’m not sure … I don’t have a map.’

  ‘I find it interesting that someone who has never been around here before manages to walk straight from Blacker Knob to Blackcastle without a map. How did you manage it?’

  ‘I reckoned that, if I headed … umm … east, I’d find the town. I left a trail so I can take you back.’

  ‘How did you know you were on Blacker Knob?’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I said, surprised at the acuity of Jones’s questioning and getting agitated, ‘… I think someone must have told me.’

  ‘Who? When?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’ As I floundered, I wished I’d paid more attention to Hobbes when he was giving me a cover story.

  ‘I’m forming the opinion,’ said Jones, ‘that you are withholding information. I wouldn’t advise you to do that, sir.’

  A small flare of anger erupted. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘the important thing is that I’ve found a skeleton. The man may have been murdered and …’

  ‘Murdered, sir? That’s a new one. What makes you think he might have been murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know … it looked like he’d had a bump on the head.’

  ‘Did you bump him off, sir?’ Constable Jones’s gaze held me in a tight grasp.

  ‘No … no. It wasn’t me,’ I said, squirming, but unable to break his stare.

  An electric bell rang, making me jump.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Jones.

  When he left, I tried to reassure myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong and, consequently, had nothing to fear. Unfortunately, I was still worried about what was going to happen, even though I had, essentially, told the truth and had held nothing important back. All I had omitted was Hobbes; admittedly that was a rather large omission and I wished he’d turn up and explain. I finished my mug of tea, which wasn’t as bad as it looked, and burped as the scrumpy bubbled back, with a sharp overtone of onion, or was it garlic? Dregs seemed to be taking my discomfiture in his stride, or rather his sleep.

  Jones was talking. I assumed he was on the phone, until I heard a woman speaking. The voices faded and I sat in silence for a few minutes until Constable Jones returned, wearing hill walking gear.

  ‘Sorry about the wait, but I had to brief Mrs Duckworth about your information.’ He said the name as if he expected me to recognise it.

  ‘Who,’ I asked, ‘is Mrs Duckworth?’

  ‘Councillor Hugh Duckworth’s wife.’

  I shrugged and looked blank.

  ‘Councillor Duckworth,’ said Jones, ‘vanished in mysterious circumstances, just over three years ago.’

  ‘I see. Umm … do you think it’s him?’

  ‘Quite probably and so does Mrs Duckworth. She insists on accompanying us. It’s against regulations, but I have no intention of stopping her.’

  ‘But what about your sergeant? Shouldn’t he come too?’

  ‘He may not be capable.’

  ‘Of course I’m capable,’ said the booming voice of Sergeant Sam Beer. He walked in, tall, fat, red in the face, stinking of beer and sweat and wearing dirty khaki shorts, a faded Black Sabbath T-shirt and a pair of flip-flops. ‘Since it’s the first interesting thing to happen in this godforsaken town in the last three years, I’m not going to miss it. Let’s get a move on.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you change your clothes, sir?’ asked Constable Jones.

  ‘Nonsense. I’ll be fine.’

  The two police officers escorted me from the station and into the market square, where Sergeant Beer thrust his head under the drinking fountain for so long I feared he’d drown himself. Then, standing up, shaking himself like a dog, he smoothed back his greying hair and stood upright, relatively alert and ready to go. After a few moments, Mrs Duckworth, a small woman about my age or possibly a little younger, joined us and, with her dark eyes, soft brown hair and neat figure, was, in my opinion, highly attractive. Having such thoughts in the circumstances filled me with guilt, for I was going to take her to see what were probably the mortal remains of her husband.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Sergeant Beer.

  ‘For Mr Caplet to stop staring at Mrs Duckworth and show us the way,’ said Constable Jones.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘I’m awfully sorry. It’s this way.’

  As I turned away, I thought I glimpsed a moving shadow on the rooftop opposite and wondered whether Hobbes was keeping an eye on me.

  8

  I led my posse through the deserted streets, rarely seeing anything move, besides an occasional pigeon or sparrow. As we were leaving town, an old tom cat, big, ginger and fierce looking, swaggered by, giving us a disdainful glance. Dregs made a point of not noticing him.

  On leaving Blackcastle, I came to the conclusion that it was the most depressing place I’d ever visited, which was saying something for one who’d endured so many Caplet family holidays. Father, never having been one for spending more than he had to, was drawn to any apparent bargain, no matter how unsuitable. We’d once spent a week in the middle of an industrial estate, staying in a dingy flat above a derelict abattoir. It had rained nearly every day and petrol was, according to Father, too expensive to take us anywhere, without good reason. Merely enjoying ourselves was not good enough. Effectively marooned, I’d had to make my own entertainment, playing with the rats that lived downstairs and even thinking I’d made friends with one, until it bit me on the lip. The trip to hospital for a tetanus jab and a stitch was the highlight of the holiday.

  My spirits lifted as we headed back into the wilderness, following Hobbes’s trail, which he’d made by breaking off gorse branches, chewing off the spines and the bark, gnawing one end into a spike and driving them into the ground at regular intervals. I had no idea why he’d used his teeth, since he had a perfectly serviceable pocket knife. The pale stakes, standing out against the green and brown, were easy to follow and we made good progress. Anyway, Dregs seemed to know where he was going.

  We walked silently in Indian file until Mrs Duckworth caught up with me.

  ‘Mr Caplet,’ she said, ‘I understand you are here on holiday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a funny place to choose.’

  ‘Umm … yes, I suppose so, but he … umm … I mean … I wanted somewhere quiet and off the beaten track.’ I hoped she’d not noticed my little slip.

  ‘He?’ she said.

  ‘What?’ I replied.

  ‘You mentioned a he.’

  ‘Did I? I meant Dregs.’

  ‘Are you saying you came here because your dog wanted to?’

  There was a hint of suspicion in her voice, which otherwise, was soft and rather pleasant. I tried to allay her worries. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say he. It’s just that I’ve been a bit distracted since I found the bones. He reckons … I reckon it might have been murder.’

  ‘There’s that he again. Are you here with someone?’

  ‘Just my dog,’ I said, putting on a spurt, trying to avoid catching her eye, and attempting to project an aura of honesty and reliability. I suspected I’d only made myself look shifty.

  Mrs Duckworth caught up again, frowning. ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Mr Caplet. Your story doesn’t ring true.’

  I was aware the two policemen were listening in and couldn’t stop myself blushing and biting my lip, making it look as if I really did have something to hide, something to be ashamed of. I tried to be firm.

  ‘Look, the truth is that I’ve never been anyway near here before and just happened to come across the bones while out on a walk with Dregs. As soon as I found them, I immediately went to Blackcast
le to inform the police.’

  ‘For which we thank you,’ said Constable Jones. ‘It was very clever of you to find your way to us, without a compass or map and it’s puzzling that, having managed so well, you had to mark the path.’

  ‘Umm … I didn’t … or rather, I sort of did. I … umm … thought the sun might dazzle me on the way back.’

  It wasn’t a very convincing response, but I was getting in a flap. The constable was obviously no fool and I feared I was going to drop myself into some serious trouble, unless I mentioned Hobbes. Instead, feigning deafness, I strode on, as fast as I could go.

  We made good progress, climbing steadily, and had reached what might once have been a lane, when I found myself on the horns of a dilemma for, although I was merely a little out of breath and sweaty, Sergeant Beer’s face was as red as a raspberry and he was panting like an old steam train. I was worried I’d have another body on my hands if I didn’t call a halt, but if I did, they’d start questioning me again. I had not yet come to a decision when I heard something.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, though it was obviously a car’s engine revving hard.

  Sergeant Beer, slumping against a rock, sighed. ‘Trouble. How did he hear about it?’

  The engine noise grew louder and a gleaming, white Land Rover with mirrored windows rounded the bend, heading straight at us, not bothering to brake until the last possible moment. If the driver was trying to intimidate us, and I thought he was, then he only partially succeeded, as I was the only one who dived for cover. At least I amused Dregs and, by the time I’d pushed him off and got to my feet, a tall, dapper man, sporting a clipped moustache, was stepping from the Land Rover.

  ‘Ah,’ he said in a posh drawl, ‘it’s Sergeant Beer and his mob. Would you explain what you’re doing on my land?’

  Sergeant Beer, standing straight, mopping his brow with a grim, grubby handkerchief, said: ‘Some say it is common land, Sir Gerald.’

  Sir Gerald laughed. ‘Not according to the law, which you are, are you not, paid to uphold?’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir, but that’s neither here nor there.’

  ‘I’m astonished to hear a police officer speak so lightly of the law of the land. Now, would you mind escorting these … people … off my land?’

  ‘Let me explain, Sir Gerald.’

  ‘I wish you would.’

  Sergeant Beer took a deep breath. ‘We are here to investigate a report that a body has been discovered.’

  ‘Nonsense. No one comes here, so how could anyone discover a body?’

  ‘This gentleman,’ Sergeant Beer pointed at me, ‘claims to have discovered a human skeleton on Blacker Knob.’

  ‘Preposterous! What was he doing on Blacker Knob?’

  ‘He says he’s on holiday.’

  ‘He must be an idiot.’ Sir Gerald spared me a glance. ‘He certainly looks like one, doesn’t he?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say, sir,’ answered Sergeant Beer, ‘but we must investigate.’

  Sir Gerald shrugged. ‘It sounds like a wild goose chase to me. I’d arrest the blighter for trespass and wasting police time, if I were you.’

  ‘I can’t do that yet, sir.’

  ‘We have to check,’ said Mrs Duckworth.

  Sir Gerald peered at her, as if noticing her for the first time. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said. ‘I might have known you’d be at the bottom of this. I suppose you think the bones belong to that waster of a husband of yours. What was his name? Pugh?’

  ‘Hugh.’

  ‘Well, don’t go raising your hopes. It’s most likely your old man left town with some floozy. You’re wasting your time. This fellow’s probably just stumbled across a dead sheep.’

  I didn’t much like being referred to as this fellow. ‘It wasn’t a sheep.’

  Sir Gerald, giving me a most condescending smile, turned back to the sergeant. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘your time is evidently not as valuable as mine and, since I’m obviously not going to stop you, I’d be obliged if you’d let me know what happens. Then I can say I told you so.’

  Nodding dismissively, he got back into the Land Rover, allowing me a glimpse of the driver, a bald, thickset man, whose bare arms were plastered in tattoos. The Land Rover drove away.

  ‘Who was that?’ I asked.

  ‘That,’ said Mrs Duckworth, ‘was Sir Gerald Payne.’

  ‘He’s a big landowner round these parts,’ added Sergeant Beer.

  ‘Does he really own this land?’

  ‘So he claims, sir, and he’s got a court order to prove it.’

  ‘But Hob … but I was told it’s really common land.’

  ‘So some say,’ said Constable Jones. ‘Mr Duckworth was one of them.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Duckworth. ‘He spent a lot of time trying to prove this was all common land. But we need to get a move on.’

  As the way steepened, we carried on without further talking, other than Sergeant Beer muttering that his flip-flops were giving him gyp. I had time to think about Mrs Duckworth. Her softly accented voice was melodious and pleasant, her pretty face suggested a friendly nature, but I was glad our conversation had been interrupted; I’d had enough interrogation for one day.

  When, at last, we reached Blacker Knob, I pointed out the position of the skeleton and sat down out of the way with Dregs. The wispy morning clouds had congealed into a heavy grey mass, and the afternoon was as dark as early evening. I pulled my jacket tight to keep off a wind that kept thrusting chilly fingers everywhere it could reach and realised I hadn’t yet had any lunch. My stomach was grumbling so much that Dregs was staring, as if he expected an alien to burst forth.

  The voices of Mrs Duckworth and Sergeant Beer were carried on the wind.

  ‘Those boots certainly look like Hugh’s,’ she said, ‘and he used to wear a shirt like that.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s him?’ asked Sergeant Beer, still breathless.

  ‘Of course not, but I think it’s likely.’

  She spoke clearly and firmly, without any sign of the tears I’d been expecting. I admired her courage. Constable Jones, talking on his mobile, drowned out the rest of their conversation as he called for a forensics team. I heard him mention a helicopter. When he’d finished, putting his mobile back into his pocket, he sat beside me and shivered.

  ‘It’s a lonely place to die,’ he said.

  I nodded.

  ‘It’s not somewhere I’d choose to go for a walk,’ he said, ‘and I wouldn’t want to come round here for my holidays.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll come back,’ I said, ‘but it seemed a good idea at the time.’

  ‘I prefer Spain, or Greece, somewhere warm with a bit of nightlife.’ The constable stretched out his legs. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘We’re … umm … camping.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and Dregs,’ I said, covering my slip brilliantly.

  ‘Where’s your tent?’

  ‘Umm … it’s over there somewhere,’ I said, waving a hand in what I hoped was the right general direction.

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t much look like a hill walker.’

  ‘I’m not normally much of one.’

  He sighed. ‘Mr Caplet, I’m sorry if I’m bugging you with these questions, but I get the feeling you’re hiding something.’

  ‘I’ve told you the truth,’ I said.

  ‘But not the whole truth, eh?’

  ‘I’ve told you everything that’s important.’

  He laughed and patted Dregs. ‘I’m inclined to believe you about finding the skeleton, but, come on, you’re not this dog’s master, are you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can see he knows you well enough, but I’ve had experience with dogs and it’s obvious you’re not his master. Plus, it’s clear that someone else marked the path and that you haven’t got a clue where we are and what’s up here.’

  ‘Umm …’

  ‘Don’t worry
. I won’t press. I think you are honest and, no doubt, you have your reasons.’

  I nodded. The constable was much sharper than his sergeant, who was standing on a tussock, adjusting his shorts and complaining about his poor feet, while staring blankly at the bones.

  Mrs Duckworth joined us and although her face showed strain, she was still in control. I just wished she wouldn’t look at me with such deep suspicion. Still, I was used to similar reactions in women who didn’t know me and even in some who did. Only once had I really believed I’d got lucky. Her name was Violet, and I’d nearly been sure she loved me, as I thought I loved her. Unfortunately, love’s course had failed to run true since the girl of my dreams wasn’t quite as she appeared and had bloody murder on her conscience, if, indeed, she had a conscience. I might have let myself feel sorry for myself again, had it not been for Mrs Duckworth’s example.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Constable Jones.

  ‘I suppose I already knew he was dead,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t the type who’d run away when he had a cause to fight and he was convinced all of this,’ she waved her hand to encompass the Blacker Mountains, ‘is common land, whatever Sir Gerald Payne might claim.’

  ‘Still,’ said the constable, ‘it must be a shock to find him. Assuming it is him.’

  ‘I’m almost sure it is. It’s those boots. He got them in Peru. As for a shock, I guess it is, though I’ve already done my grieving. In any case, we’d grown apart, because he was too interested in his good causes to waste much time on anything else.’

  Constable Jones pulled a sympathetic face. ‘That was a shame.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Mrs Duckworth. ‘Although, if he hadn’t left me to my own devices so often, I’d never have had time to study.’

  ‘What are you studying,’ I asked, feeling left out.

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘No, of course it isn’t. Sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too. I wasn’t fair. I studied archaeology, something that’s always fascinated me, and I have a degree now. Recently, I’ve been conserving some amazing Viking pieces.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Sergeant Beer, approaching, ‘archaeology is a bit like police work. We also dig things up and make deductions from the evidence. In this case, though, I don’t think there’s much to be investigated. It looks like he got caught in a storm and tried to build himself some sort of shelter. I’d guess he died of exposure. That’s what does for a lot of hill walkers.’