Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman)

by Martin, Wilkie

  ‘Nowhere, really … I was just thinking.’

  ‘About your young lady, I’ll be bound.’

  I nodded. Sometimes he could be quite astute.

  ‘Right then, now you’re back, I’m going to offer Mrs Bishop a lift.’

  Henry Bishop’s friends, who obviously held the poor woman in as much regard as Henry, had commandeered all the transport, leaving her stranded. I wondered how she’d react to Hobbes’s offer but she smiled, getting into the car as he opened the door for her. ‘You’re very kind, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Of course, I didn’t expect to be offered a lift by those bastards he called mates, but I’d got my bus fare ready.’ She sighed. ‘Thank God that’s all over. Did you enjoy my performance?’ She pushed the black veil from her face.

  ‘It was very moving,’ I said, getting into the back seat.

  She turned to look at me as Hobbes introduced us. Her eye, though still bruised, was concealed beneath make-up and I was surprised to see no trace of tears.

  ‘Moving?’ she said and laughed. ‘God knows, I should have been an actress. I might have been, too, if Henry hadn’t banged me up. You should have seen him in his uniform, back in the day.’

  ‘Was he good looking, then?’ It seemed unlikely.

  ‘Hard to believe, eh, seeing what he turned into, but that’s what the drink did to him and he wasn’t always so bad. He did do the right thing after getting me in the club. At least, we thought it was right at the time but it’s a pity you can’t see how things will turn out. We had our fair share of problems, not least poor little Mikey getting run over, and then the foot-and-mouth disease doing for his dad’s farm that he was going to inherit. Still, he didn’t have to deal with them by boozing and taking it out on me, did he?’

  I shook my head, making sympathetic noises. Hobbes, I noticed, was driving with care and consideration, though his teeth glinted in a broad grin.

  ‘How are you coping, since he passed away?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m coping just fine without the old devil,’ said Mrs Bishop, with a broad smile, ‘and I’m glad he’s dead and burned. I hope he continues to burn! God knows he deserves to.’

  ‘Will you be alright … for money and stuff?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve got my little nest egg, something I’ve built up over the years for when I left him. That should see me alright.’

  ‘And you’ll inherit his assets, won’t you?’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I’m seeing the solicitor next week to sort things out, though I doubt the old bugger made a will. He was too selfish to consider what might happen to me if he died. Still, I will probably be alright. He can’t have drunk it all away and he’s been getting paid pretty well, since he started working for King Enterprises.’

  ‘King Enterprises?’ I asked, anything to do with Violet interesting me.

  ‘That’s right, lad.’

  ‘Do you know Felix King, then?’

  ‘He’s the boss right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Of course not. Henry wasn’t likely to be mixing in those circles. He worked for one of King’s underlings, a rather unpleasant young man.’

  ‘What did Henry do for them?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure. I think he may have collected rents and debts. Whatever it was, he seemed to enjoy it and got paid well enough – not that I ever saw a penny of it. He reckoned he’d soon be getting very much richer and that we’d be able to move into town.’

  Hobbes, having steered into Mrs Bishop’s yard, stopped the car and leapt out. He opened the door and offered his hand to help her out.

  ‘You are very kind, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It’s a fine day and it’s a wonderful feeling to be coming home and know he won’t be around.’ She chuckled. ‘Still, whatever you said to the old devil worked. He didn’t lay a finger on me, though it didn’t stop his foul mouth. For that I’ve got to thank a panther, apparently. Thank you for the lift.’

  Hobbes walked her to the front door. ‘Are you sure you’ll be alright, Mrs Bishop?’

  ‘I’ll be better than alright. My sister’s coming round this afternoon. I haven’t hardly seen her since Henry turned bad. Thank you once again. Goodbye.’

  She entered the house, smiling as she closed the door. Hobbes was right about her becoming a merry widow, though the transformation seemed a little rushed to me, possibly a little lacking in decorum. I couldn’t blame her.

  ‘Right,’ said Hobbes, ‘let’s get back for dinner. Hanging round crematoriums always gives me an appetite.’

  12

  The mere prospect of spending more time alone with Violet unbalanced my mind so much that the next few hours were a little hazy; I couldn’t even remember what the old girl prepared for lunch, though I’m sure I ate it alone, Hobbes having taken Dregs with him to work. Unable to settle, I kept looking at the clock, standing up, sitting down, walking round the house and garden, watching Mrs G at work and, generally, fidgeting. In the end, having had enough, she bundled me out the front door, saying she wouldn’t let me back in until half-past three.

  ‘Umm … but that’ll only give me half an hour to have a bath and get ready.’

  ‘That’s more than enough,’ she said, shutting me out and, although I had my key in my trouser pocket, I didn’t try going back inside. She’d looked as if she meant what she said and it would have been quite wrong to try forcing my way back in; besides, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  Instead, having wandered aimlessly around the middle of town in a myopic daze, I came to rest on a bench in the shade of the church, surrounded by a coachload of tourists listening to some history stuff. A problem with my bench was that, even after the tourists moved inside the church, the parapet blocked my view of the clock tower, meaning I had to keep getting up to cross the road, from where I could see the clock’s hands’ lethargic progress. After repeating the procedure several times, becoming convinced the clock had slowed down, I hurried down The Shambles to a jeweller’s shop, where ranks of clocks and watches in the window confirmed the church’s infallibility.

  Seeing all the shiny stuff laid out before me made me wish I could afford a new watch to replace the one I’d blown up in a microwave accident, though I was usually quite happy to be free of time’s tyranny.

  So much rushing around in the sun had got the sweat flowing, so, dabbing my face with the orange silk handkerchief, I retreated to the bench and fidgeted for several minutes, trying to keep cool. I was joined by the lanky figure of PC Poll, who, having marched up The Shambles, sat down beside me. Making a pretence that I hadn’t seen him, for, despite Hobbes’s influence, a uniformed police officer, even one I knew quite well, still made me feel guilty, I sat unusually still.

  ‘So it was you, Mr Caplet,’ he said. ‘I might have known.’

  ‘Hi … umm … Derek. What’s up?’ I said, turning to face him.

  He smiled. ‘You are. We had a report of a suspicious-looking character casing the jewellers. What have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing … I only looked in to check the time.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to look up at the one on the church?’

  ‘Well … umm … yes. Actually, I thought it might have stopped.’

  ‘But,’ said Poll, giving me a sceptical glance, ‘the proprietor reported that you’ve been staring in his shop every couple of minutes, worrying his staff. He said you looked nervous and shifty, and he’s correct. Are you sure everything’s alright?’

  ‘There’s a perfectly simple explanation,’ I said, feeling the blush coming.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s sort of because I’ve … umm … got a date. I’m meeting a lady at four o’clock but Mrs Goodfellow won’t let me back in the house till half-past three and I can’t risk being late.’

  ‘You’ve got a date?’ said Poll.

  Never before had I heard such doubt in his voice and, having always regarded him as far too nice and trusting to be a pol
iceman, I wondered whether I should revise my opinion.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Who’s the unfortunate lady?’

  There was, I suspected, a hint of a smirk on his face and I didn’t like it. ‘That’s none of your business. And she’s not unfortunate.’

  ‘Oh, go on. I was only joking.’ He smiled.

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ I said, certain my cheeks must be glowing like a sunset. ‘She’s just someone I bumped into at the Wildlife Park. Her name’s Violet and she’s very nice.’

  ‘OK, Andy,’ he said, standing up, ‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. Please, just calm down and don’t go frightening any more shopkeepers. See you.’

  He wandered off along Vermin Street, stopping to chat with half a dozen locals on his way. Despite his long legs, he rarely got anywhere fast.

  As he left, I decided a brisk walk around town might work off some of my nervous energy. It worked quite well and I was admiring the way some builders were transforming a near-derelict house into smart flats, when their radio informed me the three-thirty news was starting. I raced home, in a panic, sweating like a racehorse by the time I got in. Opening the front door, charging in, I galloped upstairs, threw off my damp clothes and oozed into the bathroom.

  Though not a fan of cold showers, a lack of time and my red-hot body tempted me to make an exception. I hadn’t forgotten Hobbes’s plumbing but hoped, being prepared, to stand up to it. It was a mistake. Standing beneath the plate-sized rosette, I turned the tap on, producing a pathetic, tepid dribble. Turning it full on, disappointingly, seemed to make little difference, so, deciding I’d better make the most of it, I reached for the soap and lathered up.

  The shower burped and an icy torrent struck me in the back with the power of a mountain waterfall, knocking me to my knees, then flattening me against the bottom of the bath. I gasped and squealed, trying to escape, when it stopped as suddenly as it had started. I raised my head, catching my breath and, with no warning, it started again, pressing me against the hard, white enamel. Helpless, I groped for the side, as the gentle trickle returned. I was already dazed, battered and disoriented before the following deluge demolished me again, staying full on this time, sometimes scalding hot, sometimes icy cold. In trying to drag myself clear, I pulled down the shower curtain, the pole striking my head a stunning blow, while the plastic sheet, clinging around me, turned my struggles to futility. Like a drowning man going down for the third time, panic set in, for I couldn’t help believing it was curtains for me. When I opened my mouth to cry for help, nothing came out, because of the flood going in.

  To my amazement, the inundation ended, the battering ceased, and I was saved. Raising myself on my arms, I rolled from the bath onto the lino, sucking dry air into my lungs, choking a while.

  ‘Don’t you go dripping all over the place,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, holding out a fluffy white towel.

  I pulled myself to my feet, wrapping the towel around my waist, and hugged her, any embarrassment having been swept away in a surge of relief and gratitude.

  In all honesty, I was sure her arrival had saved me from a terribly silly end, the sort of bizarre death that makes newspaper readers snort with derisive laughter. At least, that’s how they affected my father and one particular story came to mind, one he’d read to us at breakfast. It was about a burglar, who, having used a screwdriver to force open a skylight, had clamped the tool between his teeth while trying to climb down into the shop. When he slipped, he’d fallen on his face, forcing the screwdriver down his throat, choking him. I remembered the incident well for, not only had it been one of the rare occasions when my father had laughed out loud, but also because he’d pebble-dashed me with the cornflakes he’d been masticating.

  ‘Are you alright, dear?’ asked Mrs Goodfellow.

  ‘I am now,’ I said, hugging her again, grabbing at the slipping towel.

  ‘Good,’ she said, as she turned to leave the bathroom. ‘I came to let you know it’s ten-to-four, so you’d better get a move on. Your picnic’s all packed and waiting by the door.’

  I did get a move on, drying myself, dressing and grooming in record time, the shower having refreshed me no end, leaving me feeling tingling, alert and lucky to be alive. Examining myself in the mirror, trying my straw boater at various rakish angles, I indulged myself in a complacent smile. With the blue of my eyes matching the stripes on the blazer, my brown, wispy hair looking neat, I didn’t think I looked half bad. Confidence rising, I went downstairs.

  ‘Very smart, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘What lady could resist?’

  When the doorbell rang, the lurch in my stomach came not from panic but from exhilaration and anticipation and I nearly skipped to the front door. I opened it. There stood Violet, smiling and divine.

  ‘Hi,’ she said and, just for an instant, her eyes widened, as if shocked at what she could see. Her smile stayed in place, but that one look convinced me my Technicolor blazer and straw hat were ridiculous. I wasn’t surprised, for, after all, I was the same old, hopeless Andy, not the debonair gentleman I’d hoped to be.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  Though she was wearing a simple red t-shirt and a faded denim skirt that must have seen a few years, even in such simple garments she retained, to my eyes, an air of elegance and sophistication. Yet something about her was different. Her expression showing a hint of stress, or possibly distress, I feared my appearance lay at the root of it.

  The conversation exhausted, we looked at each other and squirmed. At least I squirmed, trying to work out if I had time to change into something more appropriate.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow peering out at Violet from under my arm. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well, thanks.’

  ‘Good. I’ve packed a picnic for you. Now, off you go and have a lovely time. Andy, why don’t you pick up the hamper?’

  ‘Umm … right.’ I squatted down to pick it up, alarmed, if not surprised, by its weight, as the old girl nudged me outside.

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, ‘have fun.’

  I nodded, my confidence already shattered, and followed Violet down the steps.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ I asked, looking around, hoping I wouldn’t have to carry the hamper too far.

  ‘It’s just round the bend, behind that white van.’

  Something in her voice suggested a problem. Stopping abruptly, she turned to face me.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘there’s no easy way to say this but my brother wants to come along and I hope it’s alright with you. You see, Felix has a terribly stressful job and needs to unwind sometimes. He only said he wanted to come a few minutes ago and I couldn’t really say no and there was no time to ask you. Anyway, it’ll be a good chance for you to meet him. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it will be just fine,’ I said, forcing a smile, my spirits sinking into my tennis pumps.

  She smiled back, a little crookedly. ‘Thanks. Do you think we’ll need to get more food?’

  I could answer that question with confidence. ‘No, the old girl’s used to catering for Hobbes so there’ll be plenty and, as for cutlery and stuff, there’s four of everything. We’ll have loads, and there’ll still be lots left over for feeding the ducks.’

  ‘Will there be ducks? I like them but I thought there’d just be trees.’

  ‘Umm … I don’t know, actually. I’ve never been there before, but there always seemed to be ducks when I went on picnics as a boy.’ I remembered a flock of the flat-footed, quacking villains creating mayhem, decimating our sandwiches; that had been another unsuccessful Caplet family picnic.

  We drew up to her car.

  ‘Andy,’ she said, ‘this is my brother, Felix.’

  I noticed with a mixture of anger and jealousy that he’d taken possession of the front passenger seat, that his clothes, khaki shorts and faded black polo shirt, were as casual as his sister’s, yet he, too, looked smart and well-groomed, even if he had rather overdone the af
tershave. He nodded at me, grinning, making me feel overdressed and awkward.

  ‘Felix,’ she said, ‘this is Andy.’

  ‘Hi,’ I said, attempting to smile back, feeling like a phoney, a dissembler. ‘But this isn’t the first time we’ve met. Your brother helped me out when there was a misunderstanding in the bookshop.’

  ‘Did I?’ asked Felix, shrugging. ‘I don’t remember – but I’m glad I was of service, though I’m sure you were capable of sorting things out for yourself.’

  ‘I expect so,’ I lied. Things had a habit of blowing up in my face.

  ‘Right,’ he said, indicating the back seat, ‘shove that hamper in the back and hop in.’ Despite the car being a two-door model, he never offered to move.

  My attempted casual vault into the back turning into a trip, I sprawled across the hamper, while trying to act cool. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Felix.

  As Violet started the car, moving off, I struggled into a seat, retrieving my boater from the footwell, trying to look like a man enjoying myself. Violet, concentrating on her driving, didn’t speak, Felix poked buttons on his mobile, while I fidgeted in the back, uncomfortable, the hamper pressing into my side. The journey was uneventful, except for my boater blowing off as we rounded a bend. Though I grabbed it, pleased with my reflexes, part of me wished I’d lost the ridiculous thing.

  The silence being disconcerting, I was relieved when we reached the arboretum. Yet, I wasn’t happy, for though I had reason to be grateful to Felix, I didn’t want him there, even when he paid our admission money.

  The car coming to a stop, he sprang out.

  ‘Grab that basket, Andy.’

  He didn’t ask: it was an order.

  ‘We’ll find somewhere good to eat. I reckon over there’s promising.’ He gestured across the valley towards the trees on the far side.

  It looked a pretty stiff walk for a man with a hamper.

  ‘Or over there might be better,’ I said, pointing in the opposite direction, towards a small meadow between stands of ornamental trees, no more than fifty metres away, ‘It’s got tables and benches. It looks ideal.’