Inspector Hobbes and the Common People: Comedy Crime Fantasy (Unhuman Book 5)

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘No, we weren’t,’ said Helen, and the hesitancy in her speech had gone. ‘You were always in a foul mood and we never went anywhere together and never did anything together, unless you were showing me off at some business do.’

  Grubbe looked thunderstruck.

  ‘I’d had a bellyful of being your trophy wife, as you so delicately described me to one of your bloated cronies.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Grubbe with a guilty start.

  Helen, still looking cool, smiled.

  ‘I’m delighted for this opportunity to remind you of all that, and I’m even more delighted to learn your latest money-grubbing scheme has hit the rocks.’

  After wiping his eyes and blowing his nose on a large, white handkerchief, Grubbe scowled and set his jaw.

  ‘That’s it! I’m putting an end to this nonsense. You’re coming back to the real world with me.’ He lunged at her; his handsome features disfigured by fury.

  It was time for me to act. As he rushed by, I gave him a shove, and he went down onto hands and knees.

  Turning his head, he glared as if he hadn’t noticed me until then.

  ‘You bastard!’ he roared as he got back to his feet. He charged, looking like a man intent on murder.

  Daphne stuck out her leg.

  As trips go, it was perfection.

  Grubbe went down like a felled tree.

  His chin smacked against my kneecap.

  ‘Ow! Ow! Ow!’ I hopped in a circle, trying to cradle my bruised knee as Grubbe attempted to get up.

  He swayed to the left, lurched to the right, and collapsed.

  As the Not Yetis crowded around, staring and murmuring in their strange, guttural language, a sound as if from a badly tuned donkey made me jump and Helen gasp.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Daphne.

  ‘Umm … an alarm?’ I suggested.

  Three Not Yetis ran to close the barrier, but a mob of around thirty men wielding pick-axe handles as clubs swept them aside. The other Not Yetis fled.

  My swift response came from years of experience. I grabbed Daphne’s hand.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said, dragging her towards the huts. The only thought in my head was to get us both away from harm.

  ‘Who are they?’ she asked as we ducked beneath a low wooden lintel into a gloomy, smoke-filled room.

  ‘Squire’s thugs? They look like the same ones who caused the trouble in town.’

  A battle developed outside—the thugs’ pick-axe handles battling nine or ten unarmed Not Yetis. It was clear that Squire’s men must soon triumph. And then what? Perhaps hiding in a hut with only one door had been a foolish idea. Or was there somewhere to hide? Not really—I could make out little through the gloom. Smoke circulated from a wood fire in the middle, stinging my eyes. All I could see were a few cooking pots and utensils, several logs arranged like benches, and some bedding.

  ‘What’s happened to Helen?’ asked Daphne before I could try breaking through the walls.

  ‘Grubbe’s got her!’ I said, peeping out.

  Before I could think of anything sensible to do, Daphne darted from the hut. Dodging and weaving, she slid through the melee.

  ‘Shit!’ I charged after her, my instinct for self-preservation nowhere near as powerful as my urge to keep her safe.

  As reckless charges went, it wasn’t my best.

  In fact, I’d only just got outside when a blow to the head made pretty lights flicker before my eyes. Down I went. As I pushed myself onto my knees, trying to shake the confusion from my head, a huge, blubbery man in a white t-shirt fell on top of me—Colonel Squire’s thugs weren’t having it all their own way.

  The bloated body crushed me flat against the hard ground, muffling the sounds of battle. Despite increasingly desperate wriggles, I couldn’t free myself. I hoped Daphne was okay, because I wasn’t—each breath was a struggle, and each breath made me wish the thug had showered more recently. Unable to shift him, I was helpless, and only convulsive jerks allowed me to catch even the slightest gasp. I was losing the battle.

  The ground was so hard.

  My only consolation was that all things must pass and my situation could not get any worse.

  And then it did get worse.

  The crushing weight doubled, and not even my most titanic efforts could inflate my lungs.

  I despaired.

  And then the pressure was gone and a gentle hand was brushing my cheek.

  I opened my eyes.

  Daphne was kneeling at my side. There was blood on her face. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, but you’re bleeding!’

  ‘It’s just a nose bleed,’ she said. ‘You’re bleeding too.’

  I touched my head and saw she was right.

  I sat up.

  The sun was low and red, and all was peaceful as far as I could see. There was no battle, no thugs, no Not Yetis. I turned my head. Four neat rows of men were lying beneath a birch tree—Squire’s thugs.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Where are Grubbe and Helen?’

  Daphne applied a handful of tissues to my leaking head. ‘I caught up with them and told him to let her go … ’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘No, and he was hurting her. I tried to break his grip, and he hit me.’

  ‘The swine!’ If he’d been within kicking range, I would not have been responsible for my actions.

  ‘So, I punched him like Mrs Goodfellow showed me and he went down like a ton of bricks and stayed down—I’d knocked him out cold.’

  ‘Well done.’ I was even more proud of my wife than normal. ‘How’s Helen?’

  ‘Bruised, but nothing too bad.’

  ‘And the Not Yetis?’ I asked.

  ‘Squire’s bully boys were going crazy with their clubs and fists, and I feared someone would die, and then Mr Hobbes turned up.’

  ‘How did he know to come here?’

  ‘I texted him as soon as we thought we were being followed. I was afraid something might happen. He would have got here sooner, but DCI Kirten had found his way onto the roof of the police station and was threatening to throw himself off, the poor man.’

  I grimaced—that ‘poor man’ might have killed me a few hours ago. Still, Daphne’s capacity for forgiveness had benefited me more often than I cared to remember, and I forgave her.

  She continued. ‘By the time he got here, Colonel Squire’s thugs had more or less beaten down all resistance and there was nothing Helen or I could do.’

  ‘And Hobbes?’

  She smiled. ‘He walked towards them and asked them to put their weapons down and go home.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘They did not,’ said Daphne. ‘Well, two local men he recognised did, to great jeers from their mates. The rest of them laughed and told him where to go in the foulest terms possible.’

  ‘He wouldn’t like that,’ I said. ‘What next?’

  ‘He told them they were all under arrest and were to accompany him to the police station, which went down as well as you might expect. One lunged forward and swung his club at Mr Hobbes’s head.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Everything happened rather fast. I don’t know how he did it, but all of a sudden the club was in Mr Hobbes’s hands and the guy was lying on the ground.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then the rest of them charged in. There were so many, I couldn’t even see him at first. They were all trying to club him, and I thought he was going to get badly beaten, if not killed. I tried to call the police, but couldn’t get a signal. But there was no need to worry—he just kept dodging and ducking, and I’m not sure any of them landed a blow. He just kept moving through them as if it was some sort of dance, and the strange thing is that I never saw him hit back—I think they ended up knocking each other out. How does he move so fast?’

  ‘He’s unhuman,’ I said with a shrug. ‘It’s just what he does. He is weird—you’ve seen it before.’

  She nodded.
‘Yes, but it still amazes me … and he’s a friend of ours!’

  ‘He is,’ I admitted. ‘Just as well—I wouldn’t like to be his enemy.’

  ‘Nor me.’ She bit her lip. ‘Can you imagine getting on his wrong side?’

  I shivered. ‘I’m afraid I can—he can get rather wild, and he’s terrifying when he’s angry. Fortunately, he’s not like that very often, and he’s determined to be one of the good guys—it’s how he was brought up.’

  I looked around. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s gone to call for an ambulance. He took two of the more seriously injured men with him, balanced on his shoulders.’

  ‘And Helen … and the Not Yetis?’

  ‘She’s looking after her friends—none of them is as badly hurt as you might have expected.’

  ‘Why didn’t they put up more of a fight?’ I asked. ‘They’re big and they look strong, and I can’t believe the real Yetis in the mountains would have been so … passive.’

  ‘Helen said it was because most of the fit adults were away, hunting and gathering. The ones still here are too old, too young, or too sick. That’s why she stayed here—she was a nurse before she married Grubbe.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Grubbe! What about him?’

  ‘He was back on his feet when Mr Hobbes turned up. He ran away.’

  ‘What a coward!’ I said and felt I had the right to say it. After all, I had once fought an unhuman who’d been as big as Hobbes, and who was attacking Daphne. I’d lost in the end, of course, but I’d kept her safe until Dregs turned up in fighting mood and saw him off.

  ‘Are you up to walking home?’ she asked.

  I got up, tested my limbs, and nodded.

  Something glinted in the grass. I picked it up—it was Grubbe’s gold Rolex, but Rolex watches should not be rusty. I showed Daphne.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked—she looked troubled.

  ‘Yes. It’s just that I enjoyed punching Valentine. I didn’t know I had a violent streak.’

  ‘That’s not what you are,’ I said, giving her a hug, ‘but everyone can fight if pushed too far. You were protecting Helen, and you succeeded. You should take pride in that.’

  She thought for a moment and smiled. ‘Home?’

  ‘Home,’ I agreed, taking her arm.

  All in all, it had been an interesting day.

  26

  Over the next days, there was a great deal of legal palaver concerning the ownership of Sorenchester Common. Most of it went over my head, but in the end, Clarence’s documents proved key to a ruling that the land still belonged to the Common People. The development was laid to rest with few mourners in the town. The afternoon of the verdict, Daphne and I set off to tell Helen the good news, but there was no sign of the path we’d used before. Furthermore, every potential route through the woods towards the common ended in a mass of dense thorn or holly bushes. We took the hint and left the Not Yetis alone.

  The next day, I ran into Hobbes outside the church. He helped me back to my feet.

  ‘Are you alright?’ he asked. ‘You appeared quite unaware of your surroundings.’

  ‘Yeah—I was just thinking how to draft the latest episode of our mountain expedition.’

  He nodded. ‘The first two parts were most entertaining—and sometimes accurate.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I said, pleased. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘I’ve been dealing with Ms Cracknell, DCI Kirten, and twenty-three miscellaneous young hooligans. DCI Kirten is now on sick leave—he claims the stress of investigating Timmy Rigg’s killing caused his breakdown and that he wasn’t responsible for his actions.’

  ‘Will he be charged with anything?’

  Hobbes grimaced. ‘I doubt it—he has connections. He’ll probably recuperate for the politically correct time period and then return to work. However, I doubt he’ll be allowed to work a case again—he’ll get a dull desk job in London where he can do little harm and even some good.’

  It didn’t seem like justice, but perhaps it was—Kirten wasn’t the first senior police officer to crack up after a dispute with Hobbes.

  ‘I saw the pictures of you in the Bugle,’ said Hobbes. ‘You looked very brave.’

  I blushed. ‘That was nothing to do with me. I tried to explain what had happened, but Ralph insisted on presenting it that way. He said it would sell newspapers, and it did—sales increased by thousands.’

  ‘I thought your article about the cancellation of the development, was fair and balanced, even the part about Mr Grubbe.’

  ‘I’m glad you liked it. Olivia Squire helped with the research—it turns out that she really does want to be a newspaper reporter. She says she knew nothing about the shenanigans that got her the job in the first place—I wonder whether she has enough of an enquiring mind to be a top journalist.’

  Hobbes shrugged. ‘Perhaps not, but naivety and ignorance are not uncommon in people from privileged backgrounds. It rarely holds them back, though.’

  His mobile buzzed. He held up his hand to silence me and answered. ‘I’ll be right there,’ he said a minute later, and ended the call.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘A suspected burglar is. He’s got stuck upside down in a chimney. I’d better find a long stick to poke him out.’ He loped away, paused, and looked over his shoulder. ‘Would you and Daphne like to come to lunch on Sunday?’

  I pretended to think about it. ‘Yes, please!’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’ He hurried up the road.

  Later that week, the Bugle carried a statement from Colonel Squire in which he claimed to have been as surprised as anyone to learn that he didn’t own the common. He hinted that he was secretly relieved the project had been stopped, and had only supported it to help out Valentine Grubbe, an old friend fallen on hard times. Squire expressed shock and outrage at the alleged dirty deeds, intimidation and violence, all of which had happened without his knowledge. Furthermore, he was puzzled and hurt by suggestions of nepotism at the Bugle—so far as he knew, his daughter and niece had been recruited purely because of their undoubted talents and potential. Learning that a consortium fronted by Grubbe owned the newspaper, had come as a great shock.

  I was amazed and a little depressed by how many of the good townsfolk believed him.

  On Sunday, Daphne and I headed for Blackdog Street. Hobbes opened the door for us, and the heavenly aroma of roasting beef greeted us, as did Dregs, who hurtled around me like a canine whirlwind before sidling up to Daphne for a head rub.

  ‘Come in,’ said Hobbes, as Dregs rushed back towards the kitchen, no doubt hoping for scraps.

  We sat together on the old sofa while Hobbes took his seat in his armchair.

  ‘I expect you’d like to hear what’s been happening,’ he said.

  Daphne nodded. ‘Have you any news about Grubbe yet?’

  ‘Mr Grubbe appears to have vanished without a trace. He owes millions of pounds and, from what we have ascertained, much of the debt is to what you might call “informal” lenders who don’t adhere to the normal rules, and who are reputed to employ massive debt collectors to retrieve massive debts.’

  ‘But he gave the impression of wealth,’ said Daphne. ‘The flash cars, the Italian suits … ’

  ‘All fake, or illusions bought on credit,’ said Hobbes. ‘Like his watch.’

  ‘And Rosemary Crackers?’ I asked.

  ‘Ms Cracknell has been remanded in custody on suspicion of murdering Timothy Rigg. However, in my opinion, the charge will be reduced to manslaughter. She didn’t mean to kill anyone.’

  ‘Even so, firing off a gun like that was reckless at best,’ said Daphne.

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Of course, it was, but the lack of intent to cause harm is a mitigating factor. Her father taught her to shoot, and believes she is an even better shot than he was at his peak.’

  ‘Where did she get her rifle?’ I asked.

  ‘She stole it from his collection, intending to scare Mr Trevor Baker, who she
considered had betrayed the cause.’

  ‘With good reason!’ said Daphne.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Hobbes. ‘However, a man is entitled to change his mind without being intimidated.’

  ‘Even if he’s done it for money?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hobbes, ‘unless it is regarded as a bribe in law.’

  ‘It’s still unethical,’ I said virtuously. I’d been conflicted when Daphne turned down Grubbe’s easy money, but now I supported her decision. Anyway, he probably wouldn’t have paid her. Not that we needed it—the department had sent us, or rather Daphne, a generous cheque.

  ‘Hello, dears,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, poking her head round the door. ‘Dinner will be in five minutes.’

  ‘I’d better wash my hands,’ said Hobbes, and padded upstairs. After all the years, it still amazed me how quietly he could move.

  Dinner was a delight: sirloin of beef, perfectly cooked, butter-softened mixed greens, and the tastiest, crispiest roast potatoes I’d ever eaten since the last time she’d made them. We ate as ever in a rapturous silence, only broken by a pathetic whimper from Dregs who could never understand why he was not granted a place at the table. I knew why—it was his disgraceful table manners. I didn’t worry about him, though. He’d do alright when we’d finished.

  Then came the dessert, which the old girl had made for Daphne and me, since Hobbes was indifferent to sweet foods. It was a marmalade pudding, a wonderland of contrasting flavours and textures, made with her own marmalade and served with a cream custard. It was so amazingly tasty that even Hobbes went back for seconds. I would have done too, if I could have stretched my greedy stomach.

  Afterwards, we returned to the sitting room.

  ‘How are things at the Bugle now?’ asked Hobbes, sipping a mug of tea.

  ‘Umm … peculiar,’ I said. ‘Ralph’s still there, and he and I write most of the articles—Arabella walked out as soon as she learned the development was finished. When I say reporting, I mean we copy most of the stuff from other news sources and social media—it doesn’t feel right, but at least I’m still getting paid. Olivia helps, though she’s sometimes more of a hindrance—she’s always asking awkward questions.’

  ‘Ralph should get rid of her,’ said Daphne.