The boom of Kirten’s amplified voice made me jump and Dregs growl. ‘This is the police, Miss Cracknell. Come out with your hands up … and don’t try any funny business.’
‘This is not the way to handle these situations,’ said Armitage. ‘The DCI is rushing things and there’s no need.’
‘It looks like he wants to be the hero,’ I said.
Armitage nodded. ‘Yes, instead of asking that guy with the camera to clear the area, he waited for him to get in position before he made a move.’
‘The camera guy is the editor of the Bugle,’ I said. ‘But how did he know to be here?’
Hobbes gave me a quizzical look.
‘Alright,’ I said, engaging my brain, ‘I guess Kirten told him.’
Hobbes nodded.
‘And who would you be, sir?’ asked Armitage.
‘I’m Andy Caplet. I’m a … I was a reporter.’
‘And why are you here?’
‘He’s with me as an observer,’ said Hobbes, his tone leaving no room for argument.
I smiled—observer sounded so much better than bystander.
‘Come out with your hands raised!’ Kirten’s metallic squawk echoed between the houses. He had adopted a heroically determined but casual pose. ‘Come on, Miss Cracknell, you’re only wasting your time and mine. I warn you that if you don’t come out of your own volition, I will send armed men to drag you out and it will be the worst for you.’
‘The damned fool,’ said Armitage.
Hobbes shook his head. ‘There’s a time and a place for threats and this is not one of them.’
Kirten raised the megaphone again. ‘I’m warning you … ’
A shot made me dive over a garden wall, narrowly avoiding the nicely clipped roses. When I peeped back over the top, Kirten was flat on his back, the megaphone on the road behind him.
‘She’s brought the Kirten down,’ said Hobbes with a grin.
Dregs wagged his tail.
Although I hadn’t liked Kirten at all, their callous attitude was shocking.
23
Sergeant Armitage ran towards his men, shouting orders. Frantic activity took over.
I stared at Kirten’s crumpled form from behind the wall. ‘She’s killed him!’
Hobbes sauntered towards me and laughed.
‘Take cover!’ I yelled, appalled by his disregard for his fallen colleague and his own safety.
‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ he said.
‘But you might be next!’
‘I doubt it.’
As he spoke, Kirten scrambled to his feet and scuttled toward us like a lost soul pursued by the hounds of hell. ‘She shot me. She bloody shot me! Somebody call me an ambulance.’
‘Very well, sir. You’re an ambulance,’ said Hobbes, straight-faced.
Much to Dreg’s amazement, Kirten dived over the wall and landed beside me, breathing hard.
‘She tried to kill me and you’re making lame jokes? I’ll have you off the force!’
‘Calm down. Shooting your megaphone does not constitute an attempt on your life … sir,’ said Hobbes.
‘I’m bleeding!’
‘It’s a tiny scratch on your lip, so stop bellyaching.’
Indeed, DCI Kirten looked remarkably free of bullet holes, though in fairness, a tiny bead of blood had bubbled up on his lower lip—I suspected he’d caught it on the rosebush he’d dived through.
‘I think the bitch might have chipped my tooth,’ he moaned, ‘and I’ve only just had it fixed.’
‘Get a grip, and find someone to clean you up,’ said Hobbes.
Shaking like a wet kitten, Kirten crawled back to the police vans.
‘Sir!’ Sergeant Armitage pointed down the road. ‘There’s smoke coming from the suspect’s house. What should I do?’
He’d directed the question at Hobbes, but Hobbes, hunched, his knuckles nearly grazing the ground, was already sprinting towards the house.
‘Alert the fire brigade and an ambulance,’ I said.
‘Yes, sir, right away,’ said Armitage, reaching for his radio.
I would have been astonished that an armed police officer had accepted my command, had I not been watching Hobbes. Despite his bulk, his heavy boots and his flapping raincoat, he was pounding down the road at a pace that would have put greyhounds to shame. Dregs was making a valiant attempt to keep up.
They were running straight for the house’s front door.
I expected Hobbes would stop, but he accelerated, bursting through the door with a thud and the screech of tortured hinges. Black smoke billowed out and hid him.
Dregs knew when enough was enough, and sat down on the garden path, howling—he regarded fire as treacherous since a painful attempt to retrieve a dropped sausage on a barbecue. I ran towards him.
He whimpered when I put a reassuring hand on his back. ‘What now?’ I asked, as the first spears of flame penetrated the smoke.
He said nothing.
Intense heat seared my face, although we were still yards from the door. What next? Charge to Hobbes’s rescue? But would that help or just make another casualty? Would I die? Would Daphne still love me if I got hideously burned?
A quick movement in Church Fields caught my eye.
A woman in an orange kaftan.
Her grey hair was in dreadlocks.
She had a rifle slung over her shoulder.
Rosemary was running away.
The ferocious heat drove us back as I bellowed at the top of my lungs, hoping Hobbes would still hear me above the crackle and roar of flame. ‘She’s out! She’s getting away!’
For a moment, nothing happened.
I covered my face with my arm, fearing that even Hobbes could not survive such an inferno. Then an upstairs window shattered, and he dived through, raincoat blazing. He plummeted like a shooting star, bounced off a privet hedge and splashed down in a small ornamental fish pond. A moment later, he stood up, shook himself like a soggy dog, and strolled towards us, still steaming.
‘Are you alright?’ I asked.
‘It was a trifle warm in there, but I’m fine—apart from my coat.’ He glanced ruefully at the blackened holes in the fabric. ‘Thank you for your shout—I couldn’t find Ms Cracknell and feared she was a goner.’
‘She’s gone alright,’ I said. ‘She ran into Church Fields … and she’s got a gun.’
‘I’d better get after her before Kirten conjures up another hare-brained scheme.’ Hobbes raised his voice. ‘Sergeant Armitage, stay back, keep your lads out of sight, and don’t even think of discharging your weapons.’
Dregs and I followed as Hobbes galloped into Church Fields. He was already out of sight when I reached the children’s play area on the edge of the fields, but, half the field ahead, Dregs was bounding along. Assuming he was following Hobbes, I put on a spurt, determined not to fall too far behind. I had a strange feeling of being followed, but a glance over my shoulder revealed nothing but trees, flashing blue lights and smoke.
It wasn’t long before a stitch in my side slowed me to a jog, and by the time I reached the footpath on the town side of Church Fields, I had to walk. I’d lost Dregs by then, but kept heading towards the place I’d last seen him. The footpath ran by the wall of the churchyard, passed a disgusting public toilet block, meandered between clumps of trees and shrubs, and crossed a brook that led into the Soren. It was only a five-minute stroll from the bustling centre of Sorenchester and was normally well used, but not another soul was in sight. Although I had a weird sense of loneliness, something made me look over my shoulder.
Although I was still alone, I shivered.
I could hear what sounded like feet splashing in the brook.
Which it was.
Rosemary, the rifle still slung across her back, her orange kaftan slimed with weed and mud, dripped as she emerged from under a bridge. She saw me and gasped.
‘Hello,’ I said, unsure how to react. ‘Fancy meeting you again … umm … ’
>
She stared through red-rimmed eyes, apparently not recognising me until something seemed to click in her memory. She scowled. ‘I know you—you’re friends with that weasel Grubbe.’ She swung the rifle into her hands, though I noticed she kept the dangerous end pointing at the ground.
I shook my head. ‘I’m no friend of his—I could have cheered when you poured those mussels over him. I only wished I’d thought of it first.’
‘That’s all right then,’ she said, as if we were having a normal conversation and my knees weren’t knocking. The rifle looked huge in her delicate artist’s hands, but she held it as if she knew what she was doing.
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked, wondering why she wasn’t running away, which is what I’d expect of a killer on the run.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘They’re out to get me for some reason.’
‘Because you shot Timmy Rigg,’ I said.
‘Oh that. I didn’t think anyone would find out.’ Her eyes teared up. ‘It was awful, you know? I was aiming and just squeezing the trigger, when this horrible big bird made a booming noise. I jumped, and the gun went off, and the kid was in the way—he just popped up out of nowhere.’
‘He was playing on a trampoline,’ I said.
‘Oh.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘I didn’t want to kill anyone.’
‘But you were trying to shoot Trevor Baker!’
She shook her head. ‘I was only going to scare him. I was aiming at one of his plant pots. He’d taken Grubbe’s thirty pieces of silver and betrayed the cause.’
I believed her and, though she was still holding the rifle, felt I was in no danger.
‘What do you think I should do?’ she asked.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘if I were you, I’d put the gun down and talk to Inspector Hobbes—he’s already worked out that you did it and that it was an accident.’
She thought for a moment and nodded.
This was going well. I was keeping things calm and resolving a difficult situation without bloodshed.
‘Armed police! Drop your weapon!’
As I turned, Kirten, armed with a police rifle, half-emerged from behind a tree. He was aiming at Rosemary.
‘Drop the weapon,’ he repeated.
Rosemary shook her head and raised her gun. Her finger was not on the trigger.
‘No!’ I said and stepped between them in an act of wilful recklessness that left me weak at the knees. What on earth was I thinking? Only that I didn’t want to see her gunned down.
‘Step away from the suspect,’ Kirten called.
‘Stay there,’ said Rosemary. What I imagined to be a gun barrel prodded the middle of my back.
As I began to appreciate my position, I decided it wasn’t a good one—I had a mad police officer aiming at my front and a mad hippy aiming at my back. ‘Everybody calm down,’ I said. ‘I’m … umm … sure we can sort this out and be friends. There’s no need for bloodshed.’
‘She’s already shed my blood,’ said Kirten. ‘I intend to eliminate the threat, so I would advise stepping away. You are obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty, and I will not stand for it. Do you wish to be remembered as a child killer’s accomplice?’
‘I’m not obstructing you. I’m just standing in your way.’
Kirten took aim.
I expected to die.
I did not expect the streak of hairy, black lightning.
And neither did he.
Dregs leapt, and Kirten went down as if someone had clubbed him. Dregs sat astride him, growling softly and wagging his tail.
‘I’ll take that,’ said Hobbes, prising the rifle from Rosemary’s grasp and tossing it into a bush. He said he was arresting her and began explaining her rights.
My legs gave way, but even on my way down, I felt the elation that I’d survived. The world was bright. In the distance, I could hear sirens—probably the fire brigade on its way to Rosemary’s house.
My mobile rang.
I fished it from my pocket. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi,’ said Daphne. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to meet for lunch.’
‘Umm … I … ’
‘Are you alright? You sound stressed.’
‘Yes … No … I don’t know.’ I got to my feet.
Several young women came running onto the far side of Church Fields. One skimmed a frisbee to another, and Dregs gave in to temptation. In a clear case of dereliction of duty, he set off to join in the game.
Kirten, the light of madness in his eyes, spittle foaming on his bruised lip, rolled to one side, and grabbed his rifle. He rose, finger on the trigger, and something told me he wouldn’t calm down until he’d killed somebody. Anybody would do—and I was first in line.
I didn’t like it.
Nor did Hobbes.
Most of all, I didn’t like what he did next.
Grabbing me by the shoulder and the seat of my trousers, he launched me at Kirten.
I howled like a banshee. (Hobbes later remarked that it was nothing like a banshee, but was reminiscent of the whine of a juvenile kelpie.) Then came the impact, the crack of the gun firing, and pain. I’d landed astride Kirten’s face. Not that he complained—my groin had knocked him out for the count.
‘Hold that pose! Lovely!’ Ralph was approaching, camera clicking. ‘That’s great! This is going to make the Bugle—these pics will be fantastic. I can see the headline: “Hero Bugle reporter takes down mad cop with flying Kung Fu move”.’
I clutched my tender parts, unable to speak, unable to remind him that he’d fired me.
‘Sorry about that, Andy,’ said Hobbes, running up. ‘I thought he was going to kill you and had to act quickly.’
‘Andy? Andy? What happening?’ My mobile was lying in the grass at my side.
Hobbes picked it up. ‘Good day, Daphne,’ he said. ‘Andy’s fine. There was an incident, but all is now under control … Yes, you did hear a shot … No, no one got hit, though the toilet block now has improved ventilation … I wouldn’t worry—in my experience, a little excitement gives him an appetite.’
Sergeant Armitage and his men appeared and took charge of Kirten, who was coming round, muttering curses and kicking out at anything within reach. Fortunately, he only made contact with a tree trunk. He yelped and calmed down.
As my groin pain diminished, I got to my feet. Rosemary was sitting on the path, clutching her knees and sobbing. Despite the terrible thing she’d done, I felt sorry for her. Hobbes handed me back the mobile.
‘Hi Daphne,’ I whispered. ‘Hobbes just used me as a blunt instrument, but I’m alright. How about the Bear with a Sore Head? I heard they have a new menu.’
24
The great thing about my status as an amateur observer was that I could just walk away, leaving the professionals to deal with Rosemary and Kirten. Or, to be more accurate, I could hobble away with a slow, straddling gait. My whole body shook and my groin ached—it was not used to close encounters with a detective’s face.
Daphne had already claimed a table by the time I limped into the Bear with a Sore Head.
She stood to kiss me. ‘What were you up to? Who was shooting?’
She’d already bought me a pint of lager, so I took a soothing gulp before telling her of my starring role in ending the menace of Kirten, and the arrest of Timmy’s killer. Her startled expression, the occasional gasp and the way she squeezed my hand were rewards for my tale of heroism and woe, especially as the pain was draining away by then.
I’d just finished my story when a young waitress approached.
Following a glance at the menu, I ordered shin of beef, slow-cooked in ale, while Daphne went for spinach and ricotta ravioli.
‘How was your morning?’ I asked her out of politeness.
‘Strange,’ she said, ‘and not only because of the gunshot. That was terrifying—I don’t know what Mr Hobbes was thinking, putting you in the way of trouble again.’
‘It wasn’t his fault. The
truth is, I was only there because I wanted to be, and if there’d been a better way of taking down Kirten, then I’m sure he’d have used it … I think. Anyway, apart from a bit of bruising down below, I’m alright. But you were telling me about something strange.’
‘I had a visitor. You’ll never guess who.’
I didn’t. ‘Tell me.’
‘Valentine Grubbe’s wife. His ex-wife, I should say.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘Why? How?’
‘You know I was working on cryptids?’ she asked.
‘I thought you’d stopped that.’
‘I don’t mean Valentine’s job, but the research I was doing for Mr Hobbes. In all honesty, I didn’t think I’d discovered much, but a couple of things I turned up pleased him.’
‘What things?’
‘I’m sorry—he asked me not to reveal what I discovered to anyone, not even to you. Besides, I didn’t really understand much of it—there were some documents written in bad Latin, plus an artifact dating from the period of the Anarchy in the twelfth century. All I can say is that it was all linked to the area now known as Sorenchester Common. I think Mr Hobbes was looking for something that might help stop the development.’
That reminded me—so much had happened since that I’d forgotten to mention our visit to old Clarence Squire. I blurted it out.
She smiled. ‘Great! That must mean the development is finished.’
‘I believe so,’ I agreed, ‘and I think Hobbes does, though he wouldn’t say so.’
‘Well, it sounds like good news,’ said Daphne. ‘Helen will be delighted.’
‘Helen?’
‘Valentine’s ex-wife.’
‘Why does this affect her?’
‘She lives on the common … with her friends.’
‘Of course, she does! With the Not Yetis,’ I said, remembering Clarence’s story.
Daphne looked puzzled.
‘The Common People,’ I explained. ‘I think they’re Not Yetis.’
‘Of course, they’re not Yetis—what a weird thing to say.’ She shook her head. ‘Sometimes, Andy, I think I married a lunatic.’
Inspector Hobbes and the Common People: Comedy Crime Fantasy (Unhuman Book 5) Page 24
