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

by Martin, Wilkie

  Hobbes beckoned.

  'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I've got to go. See you.'

  I stepped round Phil to where Hobbes was introducing himself to the lady in the white apron.

  He smiled as I approached. 'A friend of yours?' He nodded towards Phil, who was just leaving the pub.

  'No,' I said, 'that was Phil. He's a git.'

  The lady frowned. 'He seemed a very pleasant young man to me. He's a reporter but very polite and well-spoken, unlike that one at the pet show. My sister said she'd never heard such language, and in front of the kiddies, too, and all because a hamster nipped him.'

  'Mrs Tomkins,' said Hobbes, 'may I introduce Andy Caplet, who's assisting me on this case? Andy, this is Mrs Tomkins, who used to be Mr Roman's cook. She has graciously agreed to talk to me for a few minutes. Would anyone like a drink?'

  'A coffee please,' she said.

  'A pint of lager.' I reckoned I could do with a drink.

  'And I'll have a quart of bitter. No, better make it a lashing of ginger beer, I'll be driving soon.' Hobbes nodded at the barman and placed his order.

  'How much?' he asked when the drinks were poured.

  The barman shook his head. 'On the house, Inspector.'

  I smiled at Mrs Tomkins who did not reciprocate; evidently she had not yet forgiven me for my remark about Phil. Hobbes, escorting her to a round table, pulling out a chair for her, sat down opposite.

  After a few pleasantries, he got down to business.

  'How long did you cook for Mr Roman?'

  'Twelve years. It was part-time; I didn't live in like in the old days. None of us did.'

  'And why did you leave?'

  'Because we were no longer required. That was almost a year ago now, I suppose.'

  Hobbes nodded. 'So I'd heard. Do you know why?'

  'No.' She shook her head. 'At least, not for certain. I believe he might have had some money troubles. He had to sell a painting, but not one he'd done, one of the good, old ones he was fond of, one his parents had brought from wherever they came from. Did you know they weren't British? To be honest, I was glad it had gone: it gave me the creeps. It was a nasty, evil-looking king holding a dagger. I suppose it must have been worth a bob or two.'

  'Though,' said Hobbes, 'not enough to enable him to keep his staff on.'

  'Apparently not,' said Mrs Tomkins.

  He continued. 'What did you feel about Mr Roman when he sacked you?'

  Her face flushed. 'I was pretty angry. We all were, especially Jimmy, the gardener. It was all so sudden. One day we had jobs, next day he called us in and gave us our marching orders and a cheque for a month's pay. Two thousand quid doesn't go far and I had a lad at college to support. Still, it all worked out pretty well in the end. I got a job here. It's close enough to walk to and the pay's better. So's the company.'

  I'd been listening, nodding and sipping lager quite happily, until she mentioned her pay. Two thousand pounds a month? For a cook? For a part-time cook! I'd been getting a quarter of that at the Bugle. It wasn't fair. I muttered under my breath, railing against Editorsaurus Rex and his antediluvian pay scales, until Hobbes growled at me to shut up.

  He turned back to Mrs Tomkins. She'd not much liked Mr Roman, who'd been brusque, though not actually rude, to her and to the other staff. She believed Anna Nicholls, the maid, and Jimmy Pinker, the gardener, had also disliked him. She had, however, loved the house and mentioned how conscientious Anna had been with her dusting and vacuuming, moving the furniture nearly every day, despite its bulk. Hobbes listened intently, occasionally scratching with a pencil in a small leather-bound notebook he'd taken from his coat pocket. She could cast no light on why Mr Roman had been burgled, or why he might have committed suicide. Neither Anna nor Jimmy had kept in touch, though she'd heard they shared a flat in Pigton. Eventually, Hobbes thanking her, drained his ginger beer, rose from the chair and led me out.

  Still fuming about my wretched cheque, I came close to marching into the Bugle's offices to confront the Editorsaurus, but Hobbes was restless, itching to interview Anna Nicholls and Jimmy Pinker. My resolve proved as firm as wet tissue paper and I found myself walking beside him to his car.

  I cursed my weakness as we set off to Pigton. Very quickly though, I was cursing his driving. What on Earth was wrong with me? I didn't need to be with him, I could have been cadging a lager off someone, somewhere with a fire and a jukebox, somewhere where I was not in constant fear.

  I gritted my teeth, clinging to the seat as we hurtled into Pigton, stopping outside a damp-stained, concrete block of flats. Getting out, I followed him up the steps to the door, which, though it had once been an electronic security door, was hanging open from one twisted hinge, a stench of smoke and stale urine emerging from inside. We entered, heading towards a concrete staircase, where three boys, about fourteen years old, slouched on the tiled floor below, smoking and giggling. Hobbes approached them.

  'Hullo, hullo, hullo,' he said, and I swear that's what he said, 'what's going on here then?'

  One of the boys spoke from deep within a grey hood. 'We're just chilling, so don't go giving us no hassle, man.' His two companions giggled again and I caught a whiff of their smoke. It wasn't tobacco.

  'It doesn't surprise me you're chilly,' said Hobbes. 'It is draughty out here and a seat on cold tiles could give you piles. Why don't you go to a nice warm café?'

  'Ain't got no money, 'ave we?' The biggest of the lads, sporting a stud through his lip, his face erupting with pimples and pale whiskers, sneered.

  'Tell you what,' said Hobbes, squatting down to their level, 'I'll trade you.'

  His right hand flashed forward, ripping the spliffs from their mouths. He stubbed them out on the palm of his left hand, the three lads staring open-mouthed and wide eyed, and reached into his coat pocket for his horrid, hairy, little wallet, removing a ten-pound note, handing it to the smallest youth. 'There you go, boys. Remember, smoking can damage your health. And now you can have a nice warm drink in the café. Can't you?'

  There was a moment's silence and all three stood up, obediently, looking completely bemused, being quite polite. The one in the hood even said, 'Thanks,' as they walked away.

  'Just chilling.' Hobbes snorted and chuckled. 'Where do they pick up these expressions? In Pigton of all places?' Scrunching up the remains of the cigarettes, he took them outside and let them blow away on the wind. When he returned to the lobby, he bounded up the stairs onto the second floor. I puffed after him.

  He knocked on a door. After a short pause it opened a little, restrained by a chain. A scared young woman, with short dark hair and huge blue eyes, tear-stained behind heavy glasses, peered through. On seeing Hobbes, she gasped, recoiling, trying to slam the door. He used his fingers to keep it open.

  'Sorry to bother you, Miss Nichols.' He showed her his ID with his free hand. 'I'm Detective Inspector Hobbes from Sorenchester. I was wondering if I might have a word with you?'

  'Oh, you're the police.' She smiled. 'Please come in.'

  Unchaining the door, she let us in. She was small, dark and neat, dressed in old jeans and a faded T-shirt, her smile transforming her into something of beauty. 'I'm ever so sorry about your fingers,' she said, 'but we've had some trouble with burglars in the flats, I thought you might be them.'

  'Fingers?' Hobbes looked intrigued. 'What's wrong with my fingers?'

  'I trapped them in the door.'

  'Think no more of it. By the way, the young fellow lurking behind me is Andy, who's assisting with my enquiries into a burglary at Mr Roman's house.'

  'Mr Roman's been burgled? How dreadful. How's he taking it? Please take a seat.'

  Indicating a saggy, threadbare old sofa, she seated herself in a corduroy beanbag. Everything was clean and orderly, the scent of Flash and polish trying hard to mask the stink of boiled cabbage from the tight, ugly kitchenette, yet it was a poky little flat, with threadbare carpets, mouldy walls and sparse furniture. Piled in the far corner, still in their boxes,
were iPods, laptops, a plasma television and various other items I couldn't make out.

  'I'm afraid to say,' said Hobbes, 'that Mr Roman took it rather badly and committed suicide.'

  'How awful.' She wiped away tears. 'Poor man.'

  'Hadn't you seen anything about it in the news?' I asked.

  'No, I've been busy. I clean at the hospital and I'm doing all the overtime I can get. Money's been so tight since we lost our jobs at Mr Roman's.'

  She noticed Hobbes's glance at the boxes.

  'Jimmy picked those up. He said he'd had a bit of luck on the horses.' She turned her face away, wiping her eyes.

  'Where is Jimmy?' Hobbes's voice was gentle.

  'I don't know.' Her tears began to flow. 'He's gone. We'd argued about money and things and he stormed out saying someone in Sorenchester owed him and it was time he paid up. He never came back.'

  'When was that?'

  'Last week.' She sniffed. 'On Thursday. I don't know what to do.'

  'Do you have a photo I could take?' Hobbes looked troubled.

  Nodding, she pulled one from her handbag.

  He studied it and grimaced. 'Thank you. I'll look into it. In the meantime, do you know any reason why Mr Roman might have been burgled or killed himself?'

  'No.' She shook her head. 'He wasn't the sort who'd make enemies, though I don't think he had many friends either. Some of his stuff must have been worth a bit, but I don't believe he had much spare money.'

  'Were you upset when you lost your job with him?'

  She nodded.

  'And Jimmy?'

  She closed her eyes a moment and spoke in a quiet, controlled voice. 'Jimmy was furious and said some wild things, but he wouldn't do anything like burglary … I don't think so … would he?' She hesitated and even I could see the appeal for reassurance in her eyes. She must have had suspicions.

  Hobbes shrugged. 'People sometimes do desperate or silly things when they need money badly.'

  'You think Jimmy did it?' Her face was a mask of misery.

  'I don't know,' said Hobbes. 'However, he seems to have gone missing the day Roman's place was burgled. It may just be coincidence.'

  He asked me to give her some privacy, so I stood outside, while he spoke softly to her. I couldn't hear very much, yet her tears had stopped by the time he left and she gave him a grateful smile. It struck me as peculiar how she'd responded to him. Though her first reaction had been terror, as soon as he'd shown his ID it was as if all she could see was the reassuring bulk of a policeman.

  It was starting to get dark when we left the flats, and the pavements were awash with people, many spilling over into the road. Most, those wearing dark blue, looked morose, but small groups sporting red and white favours were smiling and making all the noise.

  Hobbes sighed. 'The football's finished already. I'd hoped to get away before the crowds. Oh, well, it can't be helped. Looks like Pigton lost again and to Hedbury Rovers, too.'

  To my astonishment, he eased the car through the crowds with care and consideration. I pointed this out.

  'There are far too many uncertainties to proceed any faster with safety,' he said, 'there's too much I can't predict and too many variables to consider. A member of the public might step into the road or stumble or get pushed and the public is astonishingly prone to damage if hit by a car, even a small one such as this.'

  I would have liked to question him more about his philosophy on driving, because, it seemed to me that he was normally close to the edge of disaster and, in my opinion, the public, specifically myself, was astonishingly prone to damage if smashed into a tree or a wall or an oncoming vehicle at the speeds he went.

  I was trying to phrase a question in such a way as not to offend him when the trouble started.

  A bottle flew from the mass of Pigton supporters, glancing off the shoulder of one of the red and white Hedbury fans, shattering the plate-glass window of a shop, Sharif Electrical Supplies. The fan turned with an expression of anger and pain, hesitated, shook his head and continued walking, rubbing his shoulder. Someone in the crowd, leaning through the shattered window, grabbed a watch. Someone went for an iPod and within a few seconds it had become a free-for-all. People seized radios, food mixers, steam irons, anything. The shopkeeper, a plump, bearded guy in a white robe, ran out, waving his arms, shouting, trying to save his goods.

  A fist struck the side of his head. I felt a sick sensation of utter helplessness, chilling like ice in my stomach as the shopkeeper fell, a pack forming around him. When one beer-bellied, tattooed lout raised his booted foot to deliver a kick, I couldn't watch and turned away. Though most of the onlookers looked as horrified as I was, no one was going to the poor man's aid.

  'Can't you do anything?' I asked, but the car had already stopped, the door was open and Hobbes was gone. It all went quiet.

  Three men were lying motionless on the pavement as he helped the shopkeeper to his feet. A phalanx of about a dozen shaven-headed thugs, muscling through the crowd, charged as Hobbes pushed the shopkeeper behind him. I'm not quite sure what happened next, since those in the rear of the charge blocked my view. There was a loud crack, as if heads had knocked together, and then most of those who'd been following were sprawling over those who'd been in front. Hobbes was standing exactly where he had been, his great teeth glinting red in a shaft of light from the setting sun that had just peeped below the evening clouds.

  By the time two police vans arrived, uniformed officers bursting from them, looking mean, the trouble had ceased. All was weirdly quiet, except for the moaning of the debris piled at Hobbes's feet. The police looked at the shop front, then at the groaning heap, and then at Hobbes. I sensed indecision. They must have suspected him of being responsible, yet no one appeared willing to accost him. Their relief was evident when he flashed his ID.

  'These men attacked the shop,' he said. 'It was a set-up, using the cover of the football crowds. Fortunately, I happened to be passing and prevented the situation getting too ugly, though Mr Sharif was assaulted by this gentleman.' He poked a groaning man near the bottom of the heap with his boot. 'This man broke the window.' He pointed at a body near the top. 'This one,' he hauled one from the middle, collapsing the pile into individual moaning invalids, 'tried to put the boot in.'

  'These good people,' said Hobbes, pointing at a group, shamefacedly holding electrical goods, 'witnessed the attack. Didn't you, lads?'

  They stared, dumfounded and, one by one, nodded.

  'I see they've picked up a few items for safekeeping with the intent of returning them to Mr Sharif. If they put them back immediately, we will say no more about it. Right?'

  They returned the goods.

  'Great.' Hobbes turned his bulk towards the police officers. 'I'll leave it in your hands.'

  Smiling, he strode back to the car, got in and began threading it through the crowd. People, talking in small groups, pointing at us, raised their thumbs or nodded as we passed. I acknowledged their gestures, feeling the warm glow of satisfaction and reflected heroism.

  All too soon, the crowds thinning and Hobbes's foot growing heavier, we were hurtling back down the dual carriageway towards Sorenchester. He was humming sonorously over the engine. It was a tune I thought I ought to recognise and I tried to decipher it, since it took my mind off the speed, though, whenever I was getting close, the car would swerve or brake and my thought process would tumble like a pile of child's bricks. I never did get it.

  6

  We'd parked outside the police station and were heading for the entrance when it occurred to me to ask to see what Jimmy looked like. Hobbes, stopping, fished in his coat pocket, pulling out the photograph and holding it under a light. Jimmy, more than a little pie-eyed to judge by his expression and the number of empty glasses heaped around him, was smiling. I'd guess he was about thirty, small, with dark, slicked-back hair, an undergrowth of stubble sprouting from chin and cheeks. He was in a black shirt and jacket and, since the flash had turned his eyes red and his s
kin deathly pale, looked extraordinarily sinister.

  'I wouldn't want to meet him on a dark night,' I said, sniggering, unthinking.

  'I suspect you already have,' said Hobbes.

  Realisation hit me like a punch to the stomach. 'It was Jimmy in the bin?'

  He nodded. 'I fear so, though I won't know for certain until the forensic lads report. Of course, his face had been bashed in, but the bits left looked like bits on the photograph, though not necessarily in the same place.'

  'Poor Anna,' I said, feeling sorry for the little woman. 'Who could have done it?'

  He shrugged. 'I don't know yet, but I agree, Miss Nicholls will be distraught. Still, in my opinion, she could do far better than Jimmy Pinker.'

  'Umm … d'you think Jimmy is connected with the burglary?'

  'I'll be surprised if there isn't a connection, but shouldn't we go to my office? Or do you prefer standing out here?'

  The wind, whistling around my ears, left them feeling as though they'd been boxed.

  I shivered. 'Let's go in. I'm getting cold.'

  'Not as cold as Jimmy.' Putting the photograph back in his pocket, he turned towards his office, sniffing the air. 'I wouldn't be at all surprised if there was a frost tonight.'

  All I could smell was car fumes, burnt rubber and, blown in from afar, a subtle hint of chips. I followed him inside, making tea, while he, slouching at his desk, wrote laboriously on a sheet of paper. I supposed it was a report, although I wasn't sure he actually reported to anyone.

  It gave me time to sit and think about the case. If Jimmy had been the burglar, then who'd killed him? Perhaps, whoever it was had wanted to get their hands on his swag, if he'd actually stolen anything that was. But why? And who had buried the body? And why in that particular grave? What really puzzled me was why whoever had done it had then returned and dug it up again. The whole affair was grotesque, yet it felt right that Hobbes was investigating. I just wondered what my role was.

  Though no answers came, more questions did. Was the body, in fact, that of the burglar and, if so, had Mr Roman been responsible? It might explain why Hobbes had found him so distracted, why he'd made up such a bizarre story and killed himself. Still, I found it incredible that a respectable man would murder and dispose of the body in such a crazy manner. Why would he? And, of course, it couldn't possibly have been Roman who'd dug it up again, because he was dead by then. So, perhaps Roman hadn't killed Jimmy at all and we were looking for someone else. I concluded that I didn't know what the hell was going on and that merely thinking about it would give me a headache.