A few minutes later Hobbes reappeared, looking clean, relatively civilized, and tidy. He was chuckling and grinning.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘I have my car back. It was abandoned on Green Way.’
‘Good. What are you going to do about Kathy? Shouldn’t you be doing something now?’
‘All in good time. Firstly though, I’m going to do the crossword and the Sudoku and then it’ll be lunchtime. The Butcher of Barnley delivered some of his best pork and leek sausages last night and the lass is making toad in the hole.’
‘Last night? Doesn’t he always deliver punctually in the afternoons?’
‘Normally, but he was delayed.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘He slipped and sat on the mincer. It meant he got a little behind in his sausage making.’
‘Sounds painful.’
‘Probably.’ He chuckled again.
‘Are you joking?’
He winked. ‘The point is, I like a good toad in the hole, his sausages are excellent and the lass makes a great batter.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I’ll need a good dinner to set me up for this afternoon.’
‘You’ve still got room after that bone?’
‘Of course. Picking a bone just piques my appetite. I’m surprised more people don’t try it.’
I couldn’t stop myself shuddering, being a little squeamish when it came to raw meat. This, I suspected, dated back to the time when I was a small boy, and Mother had attempted to quick roast a joint of beef she’d only just removed from the freezer. The result had been a crumbling outer layer of charcoal, with cold, bloody meat inside and a core that was still solid. It hadn’t stopped her serving it and the sight of bright red mashed potato and the taste of iced blood had made me vomit on the table. I reassured myself, because, with Mrs Goodfellow in charge, there would be no similar problems. My only slight worry was that Hobbes, in his weirdly euphoric mood, might slip a real toad onto my plate.
Sitting down on the sofa, he reached for the Bugle and a pen and started scratching at the crossword. I couldn’t believe how relaxed he was. My nerves were jangling and I just wanted to rush out and rescue Kathy, though I didn’t understand how Sir Gerald had got his hands on her.
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked, sitting down beside him. ‘And can I help?’
‘I intend,’ he said, ‘to visit the Squire’s Arms at the appropriate time and pick her up. I don’t want you there, because Sir Gerald requested me to go alone. Hmm … it’s tricky.’
‘It could be a trap.’
‘I think it’s probably apatosaurus.’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Five across: a large plant-eating dinosaur of the Jurassic period … apatosaurus.’ He filled in the squares and frowned.
‘Oh, I see. But you ought to take precautions this afternoon.’
He glanced up. ‘Ought I? Why?’
‘Well, it might be dangerous.’
‘I do hope so. Stilton. So, that means two down must be titular.’
Getting up, I left him to his puzzle and paced about the house until Mrs Goodfellow called us through. The toad in the hole was so magnificent, the batter so light and fluffy, the sausages so robust and satisfying, the gravy so aromatic and delicious that it took my mind off poor Kathy and what Sir Gerald and Denny might have in store for Hobbes. But afterwards, a mug of tea in my hand, my nerves returned, for it was my opinion that he was being far too complacent. I decided that, whatever he thought, I would be close at hand. My idea was to stow away in the car boot.
When he went upstairs to put on his boots, I took my opportunity. I rummaged in his coat pocket for the keys, sneaked outside, opened the car boot, rushed back inside and returned the keys.
‘I’m just going out for a walk,’ I said casually, as he came downstairs. ‘I hope Kathy’s alright.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Hurrying into the street, I climbed into the boot and pulled down the lid, making sure it didn’t quite click. It was smelly in there, as if the previous owner had used it for transporting manure and, as it was also uncomfortably cramped, it didn’t take much time before I felt I’d already been there too long. I was just beginning to wonder whether I was making a huge mistake when I heard a car pull up nearby.
‘Wotcha,’ said Billy.
‘Afternoon,’ said Hobbes. ‘Thanks for coming.’
Dregs was sniffing and scrabbling at the boot. It suddenly clicked shut.
‘Let’s go,’ said Hobbes, his voice muffled. ‘And quickly.’
Billy’s car drove away down Blackdog Street, leaving me a prisoner.
22
Although I’d have been the first to admit to having made some rotten plans in my time, this one was turning out to be a real stinker. Hobbes was gone and I feared he was walking blindly into a trap, and I was going to be as helpful to him as whatever it was that was sticking into my back. There was some comfort in knowing that Billy was taking him and that Dregs would also be there, although, after what he’d done to Denny, his presence might only make matters worse. I hoped Billy would keep out the way. He was far too small to be of any use.
Unable to see anything, other than a fringe of faint light around the top of the boot, I groped around as much as I could, which wasn’t much, since I was pinned down. Even so, my hands explored wherever they could reach, hoping to chance on some sort of release mechanism and, despite starting with hope, I was soon entering the realms of despair, especially when my shoulders began to cramp.
Forcing myself to relax, taking long, deep breaths, I tried to think. My first thought was that I was well stuck. The second was that I was stuck in an embarrassing situation. The third was that this was not the time to think useless thoughts. Somehow, I had to find a way to get out and, furthermore, I had to do this sooner rather than later, for it was already getting stuffy in there and I was starting to worry about how well sealed it was and how much oxygen might be left. I tried to imagine what Hobbes would do and came to the simple conclusion that he would not have put himself into such a stupid situation in the first place.
Although everything, other than my own breathing, was muffled, I could still make out sounds from the street, which I assumed meant that passers-by would hear me, should I make sufficient noise. Even so, I had to overcome the massive embarrassment of having to beg for help and of having to explain how I’d got there and I couldn’t bring myself to do it for several minutes. Besides, I was in something of a quandary, for screaming would use up my oxygen faster, whereas keeping quiet might just mean I’d die more slowly. In the end I realised I had no choice. I lay as still as a corpse, trying not to breathe more than necessary, until I heard footsteps approaching.
‘Help,’ I bellowed, banging on the boot lid, ‘I’m stuck!’
The only response was heartless laughter and a most unfeeling remark. As the footsteps receded, I ground my teeth and tried to relax.
More footsteps approached and this time, my pleas received no response whatsoever. More footsteps: again nothing. As panic closed in, throwing caution to the winds, I yelled and banged, sweated and gasped.
A crunch and screeching of tortured metal hurt my ears. Then I was blinking in bright sunlight with something dark looming overhead. A vision in pink came into view as my eyes adjusted. Pinky was staring down, looking puzzled.
‘What on earth are you doing in there?’ she asked.
‘Good question,’ said a familiar voice.
‘Sid?’
‘At your service,’ said the old vampire who, dressed in a long black cloak and a Homburg hat, was twiddling a crowbar in his fingers.
‘Would you mind helping me out? My legs won’t move.’
Passing his crowbar to Pinky, he reached in, his surprisingly strong hands grabbed me around the waist, lifted me and sat me on the steps.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I was stuck.’
‘Obviously,’ said Pinky, ‘but why
?’
‘I was trying to help Hobbes.’
‘In a car boot?’ Her tone suggested she considered me beyond all hope.
As the feeling returned to my legs as pain, I groaned and stretched. ‘I didn’t mean to get locked in. He was going alone and I thought he might need some help. I tried to hide in there, but the lid closed and, then he went off in Billy’s car.’
‘Billy Shawcroft?’ asked Sid.
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘Everyone knows Billy. He’s a good man in a crisis.’
‘But what can he do? He’s so small.’
‘There’s more to him than you’d think,’ said Sid. ‘He’s a man of no small talent and ability.’
‘I suppose he is. Umm … I thought your sort didn’t go out in daylight.’
‘Bankers don’t normally,’ said Sid, ‘because they’re at work.’
‘Oh. I thought you couldn’t stand sunlight?’
‘It’s alright. Too much gives me wrinkles.’
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Pinky, again looking puzzled. ‘You’re talking as if Mr Sharples were a vampire.’
‘Only joking,’ I said, ‘but what brings you two here?’
‘Miss Pinkerton mentioned that Wilber’s daughter was in trouble, so I thought I’d offer my services. Alas, it would seem I am too late.’
‘I wish we could go after him,’ I said, ‘because I’m sure he’s walking into a trap. It’s all Kathy’s fault for getting herself kidnapped.’
‘Don’t blame her,’ said Sid. ‘She’s in danger and he’s going because he has no choice. He must help her. That’s what he does.’
‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t really meaning to blame her, but I’m worried. About both of them.’
‘Of course you are,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘Look, it’s still only quarter to three and we’ll probably just about get there in time if we use the Batmobile.’
‘The what?’ asked Pinky, looking thoroughly bewildered.
‘My car,’ said Sid. ‘That’s what Billy calls it on account of it being black and looking like it should have wings.’
‘Great!’ I said. ‘Umm … where is it?’
‘In the Batcave. Before you ask, that’s my garage. Follow me.’
He led us along Blackdog Street and into Pound Street at a steady jog. I wondered where we were heading, for there’d been no room for a garage near his house. The mystery was solved when, having crossed the road, he opened an iron gate in the old stone wall and led us into a courtyard surrounded by eleven garages, their doors painted in all colours. The one he approached was the black one, bafflingly numbered 39. He opened it, tugged at a tarpaulin and uncovered a huge, black, gleaming, very old-fashioned, very American car.
‘That’s lovely,’ gasped Pinky, applying a lace handkerchief to her face, which now matched her clothes. ‘What is it?’
‘That, young lady, is a 1958 Cadillac, Series 62, Extended Deck Sedan. A true classic.’
‘Is it? Good, but does it go?’
‘Does it go?’ asked Sid, chuckling and then looking worried. ‘I hope so. I haven’t actually used it for some time.’
He squeezed into the driver’s seat and a moment later the engine roared. He opened the window as he drove out: ‘That’s a 365 cubic inch V8 engine, packing 310 horsepower. A marvellous machine. Hop in, there’s plenty of room for all of us in the front.’
Exchanging amused, if slightly puzzled glances, Pinky and I got in, sliding along the bench type seat, with me in the middle. It soon became apparent that, despite its mighty-sounding engine, it was a sedate car, comfortable, but totally lacking in zip. It felt slow: frustratingly slow.
‘What time is it now?’ I asked as we reached the outskirts of Sorenchester.
‘Ten to three,’ said Pinky. Her watch, I wasn’t surprised to see, was pink. ‘How long will it take us to get there?’
‘About ten minutes,’ said Sid.
‘Can’t we go any faster?’
He shook his head. ‘She was designed for long, straight American highways, not these twisting Cotswold roads.’
Clutching my hands into fists, forcing myself to sit still, I fought against a repeated urge to ask whether we were nearly there yet, a question that had once so exasperated my father that he’d turned the car around and headed straight back home, instead of to the caravan in Wales he’d rented for a week. The disappointment of that day, of that lost week, still resonated, despite the fact that we had stayed there before. The caravan had been cramped, freezing at night, roasting during the day, mildewed and at the very bottom of a marshy field. It had no facilities, other than a tap at the farmhouse, a good ten-minute trudge away, and an old spade for digging holes when nature called, yet I’d loved it because of the mountains rising imperiously behind, the restless sea over the dunes, the little trout stream, and the space and the freedom. Thinking about it helped slacken off my taut nerves.
Even so, it seemed an age before, rounding a sharp bend, we came in sight of the Squire’s Arms and the River Soren. There was no sign of Billy’s hearse, or of any movement, except for the languid munching of a herd of black and white cows in a meadow on the other side of the road, below an ancient and ridiculously massive church. Sid, slowing to thirty in accordance with the speed signs, was immediately overtaken by a dark-blue van. Ignoring it, he signalled and turned right over the bridge into a lane leading towards Northsorn, with the Squire’s Arms on our right. Its car park was empty, and there was a large, handwritten sign saying: ‘Sorry, closed due to bereavement’. I presumed, and hoped, it was just to deter visitors.
‘Is it three o’clock yet?’ I asked.
‘Two minutes to,’ said Pinky.
‘I don’t like it.’ I said. ‘It’s too quiet.’
Sid parked by a hedge and we got out into a cool breeze, though the sun was bright.
‘Well,’ said Pinky, looking around, ‘what are we going to do now?’
‘Umm … I don’t really know.’
‘I think,’ said Sid, ‘we should stay out of sight.’
‘I agree,’ I said, ‘but then what?’
‘How about,’ said Pinky, ‘finding a place where we’re hidden, but from where we can see what’s going on? Then we might be able to do something, if there’s any trouble.’
Sid pointed downhill. ‘There’s a footpath running behind the pub. We’ll try that, but keep your voices down … and stay alert. This might be dangerous.’
Having no better suggestion, I went with them, feeling horribly conspicuous until, as we reached the path, there were hedges and bushes to hide behind. The path was sticky with mud, with a collage of human and canine footprints indicating what it was mostly used for. As we tiptoed past a hawthorn tree, glowing bright with red berries, we could see a gate leading towards the back of the Squire’s Arms, where the footprints suggested many dog walkers sneaked in for a crafty pint. From there, we could also see one side of the pub, part of the front and most of the car park. As we looked around, wondering if it was the best place, a sudden, stealthy movement ahead made us duck back under the hawthorn’s shade.
A diminutive figure in black from boots to hood, slipping through the gate into the pub’s backyard, concealed himself behind a stack of gleaming kegs, his arms outstretched.
‘That’s Billy,’ Sid whispered. ‘What’s he up to?’
‘Hiding,’ I murmured.
‘Shh!’ Pinky cautioned. ‘Someone’s coming.’
It was Hobbes, walking a little stiffly, I thought, through the front entrance of the car park, sporting a new gabardine raincoat and, unusually, with a trilby pulled low over his eyes. He approached the front of the Squire’s Arms, stopped, folded his arms across his chest, and said: ‘I am here.’
His voice was so hoarse and tense I wouldn’t have recognised it had he not been standing there.
‘Very punctual,’ said Sir Gerald, sauntering through the open doorway. ‘I knew you would be. Your kind has never exhibited
any originality.’
‘Where’s Kathy?’ asked Hobbes, barely loud enough for us to hear.
‘She’s currently enjoying a glass of lager with my son. She apparently prefers it to English ale, which is her loss. Did you know this pub gets an honourable mention in the Good Beer Guide?’
‘I’d like to see her,’ said Hobbes.
‘Of course you would, but first I want Duckworth’s notes.’
‘How do I know she’s alright? I want to see her.’
‘This,’ said Sir Gerald, ‘is my game and we will play it by my rules. You’ll see her as soon as I have the notes.’
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘You have my word.’
‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Hobbes.
‘It will have to be,’ said Sir Gerald.
Reaching into his coat pocket, Hobbes brought out a notebook and held it up.
‘And the rest of them,’ said Sir Gerald.
He produced three more battered notebooks.
‘Good,’ said Sir Gerald. ‘You can’t imagine the trouble I’ve had getting hold of them.’
‘But why do you want them? They’re only books, full of scribbles. They looked worthless to me.’
‘Because you’re a fool! If any geologist saw them, my little game would be up for good.’
‘This is not a game,’ said Hobbes.
‘It’s the game of life. There are winners and losers. I am one of the winners. You and your kind are the losers.’
‘Games have rules.’
‘Oh, rules!’ said Sir Gerald with a sneer. ‘A man of vision knows when to use them and when to break them.’
‘I want to see Kathy.’
‘Give me the books.’
‘Not till I see her.’
‘Very well. If you swear there’ll be a fair handover, I’ll let you see her.’
‘I swear.’
‘Good. Put the notebooks down and step away from them.’
Hobbes did as he was told.
‘Very well,’ said Sir Gerald, looking over his shoulder. ‘Denzil, would you care to escort the young lady out here?’
Denny appeared, gripping Kathy by the shoulders. She tried to break away, but his hold was firm.
3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers Page 28