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

by Martin, Wilkie

  'Right, Andy, I want to take a proper look at Roman's house. Let's see what we can find.' He hustled me from the canteen to the car.

  Feeling fully awake and fit by then, I was really able to appreciate the journey, which only went to show the advantage of having felt like death earlier. Hobbes, I decided, knew only one way to drive: with the accelerator pressed flat against the mat. For him, speed limits were restrictions applying, and only applying, to other road users. It was the same with one-way signs and he regarded red lights as optional. As we hurtled past the speed camera on Fenderton Road, he waved his warrant card in the instant it flashed. Gripping my seat, wide-eyed, speechless, I sat, anticipating a violent end at any second. As we passed the cemetery, I tried to take my mind off the fear by imagining which plot I'd fill, assuming they didn't cremate me. Would, in fact, enough of me survive the inevitable smash to make a funeral worthwhile? My strategy was not working so well as I'd hoped and, once again, I was considering flinging myself into the road when Hobbes, with a crazed chuckle, spun the wheel to the right.

  'This is it,' I said to myself, shutting my eyes as we turned in front of a council lorry, 'I'm going to die.'

  I didn't and, when I looked again we'd made it into Alexander Court, a quiet side road lined with tall trees, behind which stood a scattering of large, old houses. Hobbes braked as we approached the end of the road, gravel crunched, and he skidded to a halt on the drive of a house, impressive, even by comparison to the others.

  He smiled as we got out. 'Roman's empire. Nice isn't it?'

  'Not bad,' I said.

  From its high gables, its banks of chimneys, rising like towers, its neat rows of glittering, leaded windows, looking out over formal gardens, seemingly large enough to form a small farm, I guessed it dated from Victorian times.

  'He was well off, then?'

  'Rolling in it,' said Hobbes. 'At least by normal standards. He admitted, if that's the right word, that he was a wealthy man, though I gather times had been harder in the recent past. He wasn't forthcoming on the source of his wealth, though I suspect his parents left him plenty. They certainly bought this place just after the last war and he inherited it. Mr Roman lived quietly and rather well and, for the most part, without the necessity of having to work for a living. He enjoyed foreign holidays, good restaurants, Saville Row suits and those sorts of things and, until fairly recently, kept a cook, a maid and a gardener. It seems he spent his time playing the fiddle and painting.'

  'A gentleman of leisure? Lucky bastard.' I grinned. 'I've always wanted to be like that.'

  'May I remind you the lucky bastard hanged himself?' Hobbes's stare nearly knocked me backwards.

  'Sorry,' I mumbled, 'was he … umm … a good painter?'

  He shrugged. 'From what I've seen, he was a decent draughtsman with a real eye for colour, though with something of a magpie style. One work would be reminiscent of Cézanne, the next Rousseau or maybe Matisse. He even appears to have gone through a Daliesque phase. In my estimation, his paintings look good but reveal little of the artist, except to suggest he was intimately acquainted with the works of the masters. His work is more pastiche than original, if you follow me.'

  Though my knowledge of art is poor, in truth almost non-existent, I nodded as Hobbes stood before me, his voice soft, his demeanour thoughtful. It was hard to believe he was the same man who'd just threatened my life with his lunatic driving.

  'Come on,' he said, approaching the front door. 'Let's take a look inside. Stay behind me and don't touch anything. Right?'

  I stood back, expecting him to have a key. Instead, he thumped the door once with both fists and, as it swung open with a tortured creak, I followed him inside.

  Mr Roman obviously hadn't tidied up after the burglary. The finely patterned carpet, though well worn, was deep and soft, sprinkled with shards of broken china. Hobbes strode into what he called the drawing room, where the French window had been boarded up and slivers of glass glittered on the floor. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled about, apparently oblivious to the risk of cuts. He searched thoroughly, occasionally grunting, once or twice sounding as if he was sniffing, while picking up a number of wedge-shaped slivers of dried mud from the carpet, which, he remarked, came from the soles of a well-worn pair of boots.

  I soon grew bored watching his broad backside and studied the room, which, though a mess, was a rich mess. However, something about the old ornaments and furniture, something to do with their colours and chunkiness, suggested they weren't British. Engaging my brain for a moment, I remembered Hobbes talking about the foreign-looking jewellery left behind in the burglary and Roman's parents having bought the house just after the war. Perhaps, I thought, they had been foreigners who'd arrived in Britain at the time and, perhaps, they'd done something bad, or had acquired something they shouldn't have, when Europe was in turmoil. And what if someone had tracked the hiding place down after all these years? I tried my theory out on Hobbes, who sniffed and stuck his head under a sideboard.

  Crawling backwards, he squatted on his haunches, staring up at the panelled wall and down at the turquoise patterned carpet, scratching his chin with a sound like someone sawing wood. At first, I couldn't see what had interested him. Then I became aware of faint scuffs on the carpet, suggesting the sideboard had been pulled away from the wall on one side and then pushed back. As I turned my head, the light striking the wall revealed a thin vertical crack along one side of the panelling. My heart lurched with excitement.

  Hobbes stood up, hauling the sideboard out the way, poking the panelling with his thumbnail until a section swung back with a ping, revealing a wall safe. It wasn't locked but it was empty. He glanced at me over his shoulder, raising his shaggy eyebrows.

  Leaning forward, he sniffed and poked the combination lock with the tip of a fingernail. 'There's no sign of forced entry but the burglar's been in here alright. Hallo, what's this?'

  There was a scrap of screwed up paper in an ashtray. He picked it up, spreading it out, revealing a page from a small, cheap, wired jotting pad, much like journalists used at the Bugle, just like I should have had with me. Someone with large, sprawling, handwriting had scrawled five numbers on it in black biro. Hobbes, after studying them for a second or two, twiddled the combination dial, using the tips of his horny nails, smiling when the lock clicked.

  'What does it mean?' I asked.

  'It means the burglar knew the combination to the safe, which suggests an inside job – except it wasn't, unless Mr Roman burgled his own house. Besides, whoever did it didn't have a door key.' He nodded at the boarded-up French window.

  'What about the servants?'

  'He'd got rid of 'em about a year ago during a temporary financial problem. Still, it might be worth having a word with them at some point. Well, well, well, there's something else here.'

  Taking the paper, he turned it over, holding it up to the light, laying it down on the sideboard, pulling a pencil from his coat pocket. As he delicately rubbed the lead over the page, faint, white indentations began to stand out, slowly turning themselves into letters. Even I could tell the small, neat, carefully formed capitals were in a different hand to the one that had jotted down the numbers.

  'What does it say?' I said, struggling to look over Hobbes's bulging shoulder.

  He stood aside, frowning, puzzled. 'See for yourself.'

  I could make out, quite clearly, that the letters formed the words, though oddly spaced, EX WITCH IS A JOY OK.

  'What on earth does that mean?'

  He shrugged. 'No idea, but it might all become clear, eventually. Then again, it mightn't. What is most interesting is that I'm certain this bit of paper wasn't here on my last visit. Anyway, I'm done in this room and at least I now know someone, other than Mr Roman, knew how to open the safe and they've been back, assuming it was the same person.'

  'So will it help you solve the case?'

  'It may provide a lead. Possibly more than one. I'm going to take a look in his file
s.'

  Folding the paper carefully, shoving it into his pocket, he led me to a small study, a smart, cosy, little retreat with a green leather chair on casters behind a leather-topped desk, with a laptop computer and a modern telephone. Rows of books lined the walls, obscuring polished oak panelling. A fax-machine rested on a small table in a corner by the desk, beside a brim-full shredder; a filing cabinet locked by a steel bar occupied another corner. The carpets, as rich and luxurious as in the rest of the house, gave the impression of comfortable, modern wealth. There was no sign of the burglary.

  Hobbes, muttering about not having the key, wrenched the locking bar from the filing cabinet, propping it against the wall, rummaging through the folders inside.

  Taking a seat, I stared out into the back gardens, imagining them in the springtime, an explosion of colour and life, wondering what fate held for them. Few houses possessed such a space and I suspected it might all be sold off for development, which I thought a shame. Hobbes, switching on the laptop, began tapping at the keys.

  'Well, well,' he said after a few minutes.

  'What have you found?'

  'Nothing of interest, which may be significant.'

  I shrugged. Finding nothing didn't sound very significant to me. It more or less summed up my journalistic career. The Bugle had only ever printed my stuff when desperate for fillers, or one time, after the office party, when everyone was a little drunk, and my article sneaked in. At least my piece on the history of smoking had prompted more letters to the editor than he'd ever received before. I blamed bloody Phil, who, swaying under the influence of several crème de menthes, had told me tobacco came from potatoes and was introduced into the country by Mr Chips, who'd also invented the Raleigh bicycle. I should never have trusted the git, even though he claimed he'd been joking.

  'By the way,' said Hobbes, 'when you were staring out the window, did you notice how soggy the patch of lawn by the French doors looked?'

  I shook my head. 'Is that significant?'

  'Probably not. Right, let's get out of here.'

  We got out. The last thing he did was to pull the front door back into place, wedging it shut with a piece of wood he broke from a small occasional table.

  'Fake Chippendale,' he grinned. 'It's worthless. Especially now.'

  3

  As we got back into the car and he started the engine, the butterflies in my stomach began fluttering. The feeling was getting too familiar.

  'Where to?' I asked, expecting to be heading back into town, probably to the police station.

  'To the cinema in Pigton.' He glanced at his watch. 'We'll be just in time for the late afternoon show.'

  'Are you off duty?' I asked, hacked off that, if so, he was taking my presence for granted – not that I had anything planned.

  'I'm never really off duty, but I find films relax the mind and allow me to think. By the way, I'm on the graveyard shift later and you're welcome to come along. I've had a tip off and it might be fun.'

  The journey to Pigton proceeded without incident until, as we were hurtling down the dual carriageway, a white Mercedes van had the temerity to pass us.

  'Did you see that clown speeding?' asked Hobbes, crushing the poor accelerator under his foot.

  'No.' I stared ahead, helpless.

  Despite the engine squealing like a soul in torment, we would never have caught up had there not been a steady line of lorries in the inside lane and had not a yellow Citroen in the outside slowed down, signalling to turn right, blocking the van's progress.

  Hobbes shook his head. 'Now what's he doing?'

  The van driver made an attempt to squeeze into an inadequate gap in the inside lane, 'undertaking' the Citroen. He failed and red brake lights stabbed through the gloom.

  Hobbes chuckled. 'Now I've got him.'

  I didn't mean to, but I whimpered as he squeezed us between two lorries, filling a gap barely big enough for a skateboard. The driver behind hooted and I turned to see him gesticulating and swearing. Hobbes acknowledged him with a cheery wave and waited his chance, managing to sneak in front of the van as it tried to accelerate, controlling its speed and position until, as soon as the inside lane was clear, he forced it to stop on the verge.

  'Right,' he said, 'let's see what this clown's problem is.'

  Once the immediate prospect of death had receded, I was horrified to hear him speak so disrespectfully about a member of the public, and might have said something, had he not already burst from the car and been marching towards the van. Scrambling after him, I was glad, at least, that the wrath of Hobbes would be directed at someone else. Despite the glare of the red dipping sun on the windscreen, the van driver's face was pale and I wondered how I'd look after being stopped in such a manner.

  Hobbes rapped on the window, which hummed open, and leant into the van. What he said next took me completely by surprise.

  'Who d'you think you are? Stirling Moss?'

  A soft Irish voice replied, 'No, Inspector, it's Pete Moss – as you well know.'

  'You're a clown.'

  I winced.

  'I am that.'

  The man was wearing full clown make-up and regalia, except for the big boots, which were lying along the passenger seat, on top of a huge suitcase.

  'Why are you in such a hurry?' asked Hobbes. 'Don't you know speed kills?'

  I nodded vigorous agreement.

  'Actually, Inspector, it's usually the abrupt cessation of speed that kills, but I take your point. I'm rushing because I'm booked to entertain some sick children at Pigton Hospital and I'm running late. I got delayed by … business and I'm not sure quite where I'm going. I'd hate to disappoint those poor kids.'

  Hobbes, smiling, nodded. 'Alright, Pete. Follow me. Move yourself, Andy – and quickly.'

  He hustled me back to the car and I threw myself into the passenger seat, just in time. From somewhere, he whipped out a blue-flashing light, sticking it on the roof, and speeding off, Pete Moss's van close behind. He turned on a siren and we hurtled towards the big town, ignoring traffic lights and give-way signs, forcing other vehicles out of our way. A sign flashed by saying 'Pigton 10', yet I could have sworn that within five minutes we were screeching into the hospital car park.

  Hobbes opened the window, pointing to a low, modern building as the clown got out. 'The children's ward's over there. Mind how you go in future.'

  'I will that,' said Pete, running towards the hospital, struggling with his case, a giant boot wedged beneath each arm.

  'Nice chap,' said Hobbes, accelerating away, cutting through the traffic like a scimitar through tissue paper. 'I barely recognised him under all the makeup. I knew him when he was a lad, you know.'

  'Shouldn't you turn the siren off?' I asked, embarrassed, as well as scared.

  'All in good time. We've got a film to catch.'

  He turned it off as we reached the cinema car park. I barely had time to get out before he'd locked up and was marching towards the foyer, pulling out his wallet and removing some cash. The wallet was small and hairy and strangely disturbing. I wished I hadn't seen it.

  'Two for screen one, please, miss.' He slapped his money down in front of the cashier.

  Her hands shook as she handed him the tickets.

  'Let's go.'

  I followed because I'd had no time to consider my options. I didn't even know what was showing. When we took our seats in the gloom, the auditorium was half-empty, which was fortunate as he overspilled his seat and I had to make myself comfortable in the next but one. Though the film was already in progress, he shuffled out for a quiet word with the projectionist and very soon it restarted. I don't remember its name: it was a Western and not the sort of thing I'd normally go for, though it passed the time enjoyably enough. Hobbes barely moved during the next hour and a half and once or twice I glanced at him as he watched the screen through narrowed eyes, apparently entranced.

  He emerged from his trance only once, when a spiky-haired, baggy-shirted youth in the seat in
front opened a bumper-sized packet of crisps. From deep inside Hobbes's chest emerged a rumble of disapproval. The youth, ignoring it, munching his crisps, kept scrunching the bag, until, after a few seconds, Hobbes leaned forward and tapped him a crushing blow on the shoulder.

  'I am a police officer,' he whispered, his voice as soft as a hurricane, 'and I must warn you, that unless you desist from making that noise, and quickly, I will arrest you.'

  The youth had guts. He rubbed his shoulder, looking back over it, barely flinching. 'On what charge?'

  'Rustling,' Hobbes drawled. 'See there?' He pointed to the screen, where the broken body of Luke Kinkade dangled from the gallows. 'Some places you can still be hung for rustling and don't you forget it, boy.'

  The youth had the good sense to turn away and keep quiet. Hobbes settled back with a contented sigh, watching in rapt silence until a shootout signalled the end. As we got up to leave, the youth turned, as if planning to say something. Hobbes put his head to one side, sticking out his tongue, twisting his mouth horribly, making a hanged man gesture, until the youth fled. I felt rather sorry for him but Hobbes was smiling like a cheerful wolf.

  There was something of a nip in the air as we left the cinema under a sky seemingly weighed down with cloud.

  'I enjoyed that,' said Hobbes, walking to the car. 'Now it's time to go home for supper. A nice dish of gnome, I expect.' He grinned evilly. 'Hop in and I'll drop you off at your flat or anywhere else you like. I expect you'll be hungry again by now.'

  I nodded, the hot scent of charred steak from some nearby eatery moistening my mouth. Swallowing, I got into the car, as if hypnotised. 'Can you drop me at the Greasy Pole?'

  Hobbes was easing the car through the car park as he waited his opportunity to flatten the accelerator pedal. 'The Greasy Pole! By heck, Andy, you do like flirting with danger. Have you heard what Eric does with his—? No, that's unfair, it was never proven, although you won't ever find one of our lads in there, except when we have to escort the rat catchers.'