Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman)

by Martin, Wilkie

  Hobbes's frown made me wonder if perhaps I'd sounded over-enthusiastic.

  I bit my lip. 'I mean, I'd be delighted, no … glad … happy … damn it!' I was babbling, intimidated by the frown that appeared to be deepening. 'Look, I don't actually want to see the body but if it might help me to understand the case, I think, perhaps, I should. Where is it?'

  At that moment, the clink of crockery announced that the old woman was at my side. Though the suddenness of her arrival made me gasp, I calmed down on realising she was carrying a metal tray with a vast brown teapot and essentials, including a plain, giant mug, a normal-sized mug, decorated with a picture of a cat, a silver bowl of sugar lumps and a milk jug in the shape of a cow. In addition, my greedy gaze locked onto a white plate, layered with what must have been an entire packet of Hobnobs – chocolate ones, I noticed with some approval and more drool. Their scent made me realise just how long it had been since I'd scoffed my lunchtime sandwiches.

  'Thank you.' Hobbes beamed, with no trace of anger on his face.

  Still, it was not a pleasant face and I doubted whether even his mother would have considered him good looking, assuming he actually had a mother. I supposed he must have, or have had. How old was he? I couldn't have said, for though his face might have been described as craggy, or possibly leathery, I couldn't detect any grey in the black bristle of his hair. The dark stubble on his chin, protruding like spines on a cactus, made me pity any poor razor having to cope with it.

  'Did you two have time to introduce yourselves?' he asked, as the old woman poured the tea.

  'Umm … no … not properly.'

  'Right then. Andy Caplet, this is Mrs Goodfellow, my housekeeper. Mrs Goodfellow, this is Mr Caplet, whom we will call Andy. He'll be working with me for a few days.'

  'Delighted,' said Mrs Goodfellow.

  'So am I,' said I, keeping a wary eye on her.

  Her work done, she drifted away. Hobbes leaning forward, heaping a pyramid of sugar cubes in his great paw, tipping them into the big mug, stirred the scalding liquid with his finger.

  'Help yourself,' he said, helping himself to a Hobnob and sliding back into the sofa.

  Without the covering of mugs, the tray revealed its decoration, a chipped portrait of Queen Victoria. Still, there's no accounting for taste and, despite everything, Mrs Goodfellow made a brilliant cup of tea. Taking a sip from the cat mug, I crammed a biscuit into my mouth. Hobbes was still nibbling his as I took another, trying to fill a chasm within and, for a few minutes, we sat without talking, just slurping and munching and I could almost have forgotten the body.

  Then, thumping his mug back onto Queen Victoria's lumpy face, Hobbes arose. 'Come on, Andy. Let's take a look at it. And quickly.'

  Putting my empty mug down, grabbing another biscuit, though only a couple remained, I realised I'd guzzled nearly the entire packet. Hobbes, I think, had taken only one.

  'Right then,' I said, lifted by the sugar steaming through my veins. 'Where is it?'

  'This way, I'll show you.'

  His slippered feet scuffing the carpet, he led me through a door, down a short corridor and into the kitchen. My initial impression was of a cheerful, old-fashioned sort of room, mellowed red bricks echoing beneath my feet, the gas cooker looking like a museum piece, a deep, white enamelled sink standing beneath the window, the shelf of which supported a miniature, yet prolific, jungle of pot plants. There was no sign of Mrs Goodfellow. The odd, feral smell I'd noticed earlier seemed stronger, despite a mouth-watering savour bubbling from a stew pot on the hob.

  I'd assumed the body would be kept in the morgue or a forensic laboratory or something, so it would not be a lie to say I was surprised, if not alarmed, when he opened the fridge door and reached inside. I couldn't see over his shoulder but when he turned he was carrying a metal dish covered in Clingfilm, misted by condensation. As he clunked it onto the scrubbed wooden table in the centre of the room, I leaned forward for a better look.

  He peeled back the film. I gasped, horrified, for a body, naked, hairless, not even two-foot long, filled the dish. It still had four limbs, though the hands and feet had been hacked off, as had the head; I had no doubt it wasn't human. When Hobbes turned it onto its back, there was a long gash down the front where someone had eviscerated it. I turned away, both hands covering my mouth.

  'Oh, my God!' I forced myself to look again. 'What is it?'

  Hobbes shook his head, a strange expression in his eyes, which were no longer red. 'It looks like a gnome.'

  'A gnome? That's ridiculous. There's no such thing. Is there?'

  He shrugged.

  The horror was growing inside. 'I don't get it. Why would anyone want to kill a gnome?'

  'For illegally fishing in a garden pond? And, if you don't believe it's a gnome, what else do you think it might be?' He waved his thick, hairy finger at the abomination.

  I shrugged, trembling, feeling as if I might be sick, or faint, or both, yet I couldn't help thinking what a fantastic story this would make, one that would even impress E. Rex. It could be my ticket to fame and fortune. I could become known as the reporter who uncovered the gnome.

  'The trouble is,' said Hobbes, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, 'that I can't afford to spend any time investigating. After all, has a crime actually been committed? There's no law against killing gnomes. Indeed the law does not officially recognise them.'

  'There must be something you can do. Have you any idea who could have done such a terrible thing?'

  'Well,' he said, slowly, eyes wide, 'I suspect it might have been the Butcher of Barnley. Last time I saw anything like this, he was the culprit for sure, though he was never charged.'

  'The Butcher of Barnley?' I shuddered, horrid thoughts fluttering into my mind like bats into an attic, images of blood and guts and death flapping behind my eyes. 'And you said last time – do you mean this sort of thing has happened before?'

  He nodded.

  'What happened?'

  'Money changed hands and the Butcher of Barnley was free to go about his bloody business.'

  'And what did you do with the body? Poor little thing.'

  'I did the only thing I could.' He grunted. 'What anyone would have done in the circumstances. I ate it.'

  'What?'

  'Stewed in cider with onions and carrots. Very tasty. Very tender. Mrs Goodfellow had some too, though only the juice. She can't chew you know.' He licked his lips.

  I stared at him, disgusted, scared by the sly, crazy look in his eyes, feeling totally lost for words. I mean, what can you say to someone who has just admitted to eating stewed gnome? I became aware my mouth had fallen open.

  'What's that doing out?' Mrs Goodfellow had materialised behind us. 'It's for your supper tomorrow.' She glared at Hobbes with an expression of half-amused exasperation, like a mother gives to a naughty child. 'I thought I'd stew it in cider again. I remember how much you enjoyed it last time.'

  I stared at the old woman and then at Hobbes. I'd fallen among despicable people and didn't like it. I now understood why everyone spoke of him in hushed tones. I'd known he had a reputation, everyone knew it, but I'd never guessed he'd be the sort to devour a gnome. Three minutes earlier, I hadn't even realised the poor little creatures existed, except in fairy tales and suburban rockeries, yet these horrible people relished them stewed. I wanted to leave and began to feel vulnerable. Why, I wondered, had he let me eat so many of the biscuits? For what was he saving his appetite?

  'The butcher said he'd send his bill next week, if it's convenient,' said Mrs Goodfellow.

  'Yes, of course.' Hobbes glanced at me.

  'He says he'll let me know next time he gets any in, because he knows how much you like a bit of rabbit.'

  'Rabbit?' I said.

  He shook silently, an expression of manic glee on his face, an explosive guffaw bursting forth, followed by a long, rumbling laugh.

  'Sorry Andy,' he said after a while and started again. 'Your face, you should have seen your face!
Gotcha.'

  He'd gotcha'd me alright. I'm no cook, so how could I have guessed what it was? But a gnome? Feeling an utter fool, I tried to laugh it off. 'Yeah, you really had me going. I don't know what I was thinking. It's obviously a rabbit.'

  'Yes,' he agreed, 'gnomes are much squatter and,' he paused, smacking his lips, 'they're not such good eating: a little on the stringy side.'

  I forced a laugh through clamped teeth.

  'Right,' he said, 'I'll just put it back and then I'll really tell you about the case.'

  Returning to the sitting room, I slumped back with a sigh and a touch of indigestion. A few seconds later Hobbes came in, grinning as if he'd done something clever, sitting next to me with a slow laugh, patting me gently on the shoulder. It felt like it would leave a fine bruise.

  'The Violin Case, as your paper calls it, has led to the apparent suicide of Mr Roman, a gentleman who lived in Fenderton. It's all quite tragic. Someone broke into his house, causing some damage. However, according to Mr Roman, the only thing stolen was his violin.'

  'Was it a Stradivarius or something?'

  'So far as we know, it was just an ordinary modern instrument, not a cheap one, in fact rather a good one and more than acceptable for playing in amateur orchestras. However, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Mr Roman played in the Fenderton Ensemble and normally played well, according to the other musicians, though he'd not been up to his usual standard in the day's rehearsals.'

  'But surely he could buy another? Why kill himself?'

  'That's what I want to know. Unfortunately, he wasn't very helpful when I spoke to him. He seemed overly distressed, even though he was insured. Anyway, a couple of days after the burglary he disappeared and a woman walking her dog found him hanging from a tree in Ride Park.'

  Though sorry for Mr Roman and the dog walker, I felt it was going too far to kill oneself over a lost violin. I said as much.

  Hobbes agreed. 'I suspect there was something else. Maybe he'd had something stolen he shouldn't have had in the first place: something illegal or embarrassing perhaps? Or, possibly, someone was after him.'

  'An assassin? Surely not.'

  He shrugged. 'Just speculation, and, though we don't get many assassins around these parts, a copper's got to keep an open mind. Anyway, the burglary was the real crime and that's what the lads are investigating. It looks fairly straightforward. Someone waited till Mr Roman drove out to rehearsal one evening, climbed over the back gate and snagged his trousers on a splinter. Forensics has a few fibres to keep 'em happy. It looked to me like our culprit wore old blue jeans, so I'm not expecting they'll learn much. Once he was in the back garden, the burglar chucked an ornamental birdbath through the window to get in.'

  'Did no one hear it being smashed, or see anything?'

  'No. The house is set back from the road and his neighbours are on holiday. I found quite a pile of cigarette butts and chocolate wrappers under a bush in the front, so it looks like the perpetrator watched and waited for Mr Roman to go out. He must have realised there was no one in next door and yet didn't break in there.'

  'So, Mr Roman was targeted.'

  'Very good, Andy.' He grinned. 'That is what I suspect, though most of the lads reckon the burglar was disturbed and ran off. They may be right but parts of the house were well-ransacked so he must have been inside for some time. Oddly, some unusual jewellery had been tipped out on the bed and left behind.'

  'Unusual?'

  'Yes, big and heavy. Middle-European and rather old I'd guess. Probably rather valuable, too.'

  'So, he left valuable jewellery and stole an ordinary violin. It's crazy.'

  'I agree. That's if he did take the violin, because, how could he have done, if Mr Roman was playing it at rehearsal?'

  I raised my eyebrows in what I hoped looked like a perceptive manner.

  Hobbes continued. 'I reckon the burglar found something he wanted more, something he was searching for, perhaps. Oddly, Mr Roman wouldn't say anything and I got the impression he wouldn't even have called us if he'd had his way.'

  All the tea I'd drunk began to make its presence known. 'May I use your bathroom?' I asked.

  He looked surprised. 'If you want. There's plenty of hot water.'

  He may have been joking, I didn't think so. 'What I mean is that … umm … I need to use your … umm … toilet.'

  'Well, you might have said. Upstairs and first on the left. It's in the bathroom.'

  I walked up the gloomy staircase. There were four doors at the top, all closed. I entered the first, a small room containing a gleaming white bath, a large hand basin and a toilet with an overhead cistern and chain, a sort I hadn't seen since I was a boy. As I stood over it, I noticed a chipped mug with a single toothbrush, a burst tube of toothpaste, two towels with portraits of cats, soap and some rose-scented talc. Some of the stuff belonged to Mrs Goodfellow, I supposed. There was nothing unusual, except for the electric sander on the lino beneath the basin. I speculated that Hobbes used it instead of a razor. I finished, flushing the toilet, which thundered like Niagara Falls, walked out and started down the stairs.

  'You forgot to wash your hands, dear.'

  I spun on the spot, maintaining my balance with difficulty. Mrs Goodfellow stood on the landing, looking me right in the eye, her expression stern.

  'What?'

  'You didn't wash your hands.' She tapped her foot impatiently. For some reason she was wearing wellingtons. She gestured towards the bathroom and frowned.

  Meek and embarrassed, I turned around, washing my hands and drying them. She'd vanished by the time I headed back down.

  I got back to business. 'Who was with Mr Roman when he discovered the break-in?'

  'Some of the Fenderton Ensemble: its fiddle section to be precise. They'd insisted on going back with him to practice a piece he'd had trouble with. When they got inside it was obvious a burglary had taken place and one of them called us. Mr Roman was in a terrible state, shaking and nearly hysterical when uniform got there. He was worse when I turned up. Those are the bare bones of it, except his car hasn't been found yet.'

  'It's very puzzling.'

  Hobbes grinned. 'Aye, lad, isn't it just? Isn't it great?'

  I nodded. I wasn't sure I agreed, even though I'd just experienced a frisson of excitement, as if I was getting into some real journalism. The last 'big' reporting job Rex had assigned to me was the Moorend Pet Show. Hamsters, not the fluffy balls of fun they appear, have teeth like needles, as I'd discovered when playfully pulling the winner of the rodents' section from his cage to conduct a mock interview. The kids had loved it when I asked the beast how it felt to be a champion, holding it up to my ear as if awaiting a reply. They'd loved it even more when its jaws clamped onto my earlobe, like a bulldog onto a bull, before seizing my finger which was trying to prise it off. The Bugle had never even printed my article, preferring the photograph of me, cowering in a corner, the blood-slathered brute bearing down on me. Readers had apparently found it highly amusing, yet all I remembered was the pain and the humiliation. For days afterwards laughing people would point at me in the street.

  'Anyway, Andy,' said Hobbes, 'that's what we'll be working on tomorrow. Now, I've my supper to eat and then I've got to see a dog about a man. I'll see you at the station, tomorrow morning at eight.'

  He rose like a wardrobe and the interview, if that's what it was, terminated. I had intended to ask some penetrating questions but they would have to wait. He showed me to the door and I stepped into the street, silvery light reflecting from the damp surfaces as I walked away. All in all, the day had not gone so badly, even though I'd been shouted at, been made a fool of and had been alarmed, horrified and disgusted. Hobbes had not been as bad as I'd feared. Nonetheless, I did not fancy meeting him again next morning and, hoping it might help me sleep, decided to dose myself with a few strong drinks. Not at the Feathers, though, for Mrs Goodfellow's teeth haunted me.

  I paid a visit to the Bellman's on The Shambles, a pub
with little to recommend it other than being located just down the road from the Bugle's offices and supplying food of a sort. Despite the biscuits, I felt the urge for a slap-up meal and, popping a couple of Rennies from my pocket to ease the indigestion, I scurried out of the rain.

  The tough, tasteless chop, the cold, limp, over-boiled vegetables and the lumpy mashed potato from a packet failed to meet expectations, though I had expected little. I still ate it all, because I'd paid for it, and even told the fat, gravy-stained barman it was 'very nice'.

  However, the drink was good and, having knocked back several bottles of strong lager, I made my way home to Spire Street, number 2, flat 2 and passed out on the sofa, where I was afflicted by nightmares in which Mrs Goodfellow and my father argued about the most excruciating method for extracting my teeth.

  2

  The sofa was vibrating, a noise like thunder pounded through my head and I didn't know what the hell was happening. Only one thing was clear; I stank of stale pub. It felt like the whole world was shaking and the only explanation making any sense was that I was in the middle of an earthquake. Panic dragged me to the front door, unlocked it and wrenched it open. I ran.

  After half a step, something as solid as a wall bounced me back inside.

  Hobbes, standing in the doorway, his great, hairy fist raised for knocking, a scowl the size of a continent corrugating his brow, greeted me. 'Good morning, Andy. You're late.'

  Swallowing a scream, I slumped back onto the sofa, my entire body shaking, struggling for breath as his laughter rumbled through me.

  'Did I alarm you? I did knock.'

  I kept my mouth firmly clamped, certain I would scream if I didn't, not convinced I'd be able to stop once I'd started. My head ached.

  'At least you're dressed,' he observed, 'but you'd better move yourself, and quickly; villains don't catch themselves.'

  Nodding, I took a deep breath, trying to calm down, waiting until I'd regained the power of speech.

  'Umm … what time is it?' I asked.

  'Eight-thirty. You were supposed to be at the police station by eight.'