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

by Martin, Wilkie

  'What are you here for? I've done nothing.'

  'Nothing?' said Hobbes. 'I'm not sure about that. Didn't you knock out a customer's teeth on Wednesday?'

  Featherlight scowled. 'That's a lie. I did no such thing – it was on Tuesday and it wasn't all of them. I didn't hear the customer complain.'

  'He was unconscious.'

  'He was out of order, whinging about a dead mouse in his beer when it was only a bit of one.'

  Hobbes raised his eyebrows. 'Well, fair enough, but this is just a social visit.'

  Featherlight, grunting, concentrated on his beer, several of his bellies resting on the counter. At least he'd changed his vest since the last time I'd been in, though it didn't smell as if he'd washed it and a dark patch down the front looked rather like blood.

  'What are you gawping at?' he glared. 'D'you fancy a knuckle sandwich?'

  'We've already eaten, thank you,' said Hobbes, 'but a couple of beers would go down well. We'll have two pints of this.' He tapped a handle.

  'No, I'd rather have a lager.'

  '… and a pint of lager for Andy.'

  'Coming right up, Mr Hobbes,' said a piping voice with no body.

  I leaned over the bar to find Billy Shawcroft grinning up at me. 'Hello, ice cream man.' He turned on the lager tap and simultaneously pulled Hobbes's pints.

  'I'm not an ice cream man,' I said, puzzled. 'I'm a journalist … or was.'

  Billy chuckled. 'No, I mean 'I scream, man'. You were screaming your head off in Mr Hobbes's car the other night.'

  'Oh!' I blushed. 'I suppose I might have cried out when I saw you roll up and couldn't see anyone driving. I was tired and it was a dark and stormy night and it just got to me. It was nothing.'

  'Well, you gave me a laugh anyway.' Smiling, he pushed a glass of lager towards me. 'There you go.' Turning away, he topped off Hobbes's glasses and lifted them onto the counter.

  'Cheers Billy.' Hobbes handed over some cash.

  'Very kind of you, Mr Hobbes,' said Billy, putting a little of it into the till and the rest, including at least one twenty pound note, into his pocket.

  Sitting down at a greasy table by the bar, Hobbes drained one of his glasses in a single slow movement. Joining him, I was about to make a comment when he raised his hand to shut me up. He appeared to be listening, though I could hear nothing other than the usual bar noises. Looking around the shabby pub, filled with its usual mix of lowlifes, students and weirdoes, I doubted that Featherlight had ever decorated the place, apart from periodically replacing the dartboard in the corner. The pub was impregnated with decades of smoke, spilt beer, sweat and Featherlight's cooking, the furniture was chipped, dented and stained, the floor covered in a grey-brown growth that might once have been carpet. It was a gruesome place with a foul-tempered landlord, yet retaining a loyal clientele. I wondered whether they went there through choice, or bravado, or simply because nowhere else would have them.

  Hobbes, still listening, I spotted a knothole in the side of the bar near to his ear and surmised Billy was on the other side. Hobbes's gaze flicked round the room before settling on one of the group playing darts, a medium-sized man in his mid-thirties with short hair, long sideburns and tinted spectacles. Despite the cold outside, he was wearing a flowery blue Hawaiian shirt, showing off a chunky gold chain around his neck and the matching Rolex on his wrist. I'd seen him around town, I was nearly certain, but couldn't quite remember when.

  As Hobbes stood up and ambled towards him, the man's eyes widened, he turned and ran. Although, he was at least six strides nearer to the door than Hobbes and wearing expensive-looking trainers, Hobbes came within a shoelace of grabbing him. The man slammed the door behind him.

  'I only wanted to play darts with him,' said Hobbes.

  Featherlight scowled. 'Don't you go scaring away my customers.'

  'I'll see if he wants to come back.' Hobbes opened the door, stepping into the night. Throwing back the dregs of my lager, I followed.

  He was thundering up Vermin Street, hot in pursuit of the man in the shirt. I jogged after them, the lager sloshing uncomfortably round in my stomach, noticing that, despite the man's head start, Hobbes was gaining on him fast. I puffed along as well as I could but there was no way I could keep up. I'm sure I'd have fallen behind at the best of times and, with the earlier horror, a full meal and the lager, not to mention my heavy tweed suit, I had no chance at all. Turning sharp left into Rampart Street, the fugitive barged through a group of young ladies waiting at the Pelican crossing, knocking two to the ground. Hobbes stopped to help them, letting me catch up.

  'Are you alright?' he asked.

  'Just out of breath,' I gasped, leaning against a shop's wall.

  'I wasn't talking to you.' He stepped into the road, halting the traffic to allow one of the girls to retrieve the scattered contents of her handbag.

  A car driver, held up for a few seconds, honked his horn repeatedly, leaning out the window, shouting abuse. Hobbes waited, smiling, as the girl picked up her belongings. Then, having escorted her back to the pavement, he sauntered towards Mr Impatience, drawing himself up to his full height. The man cringed, his face turning as pale as the moon as Hobbes bent and looked in at his window. I couldn't make out what he said. I did, however, hear the driver yelp, 'Have mercy.'

  Hobbes nodded and let him drive off. 'A little courtesy goes a long way,' he remarked and, having assured himself of the girls' well-being, saluted and loped off along Rampart Street. The fugitive was long out of sight. I offered a sickly smile to the ladies, who seemed more stunned by Hobbes's intervention than by the collision, and toiled behind him as he sped up Hedbury Road. It wasn't long before I gave up; all the exercise was killing me and I had to rest, bending forward with my hands on my knees, gasping, contemplating the cracks in the pavement and wondering whether I should throw up. By the time I felt better, Hobbes had vanished. Though I began walking towards where I'd last seen him, it wasn't long before I realised it was pointless. I rested on the wall by the Records Office.

  Then I spotted the guy we'd been chasing. He'd doubled back and was sneaking into the town centre. He crossed the road and into the Records Office car park, ignoring me completely.

  A wild thought entered my head; I could arrest him. I'd heard of a citizen's arrest, though I wasn't really sure what one was. Nor had I any clue why we'd been pursuing him, yet Hobbes was a policeman and, therefore, must have had a reason, probably a good one. The man's shirt was drenched with sweat despite the first crystalline hints of frost and he looked exhausted. I stepped towards him at the same moment he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes bulging behind his tinted lenses, he gasped and ran before I could lay hands on him. Hobbes was still on his trail. I started after the man as he fled downhill through the car park, by the side of the wall, and out the far gate. Hobbes passed me, his stride long and loping and, despite his heavy boots, almost silent. He didn't appear to be breathing hard, though his coat flapped around him like an enormous bat's wings. As he disappeared through the gate, I realised they were getting away from me again and reckoned I might save a few seconds by going straight over the wall. Taking a running jump, I scrambled up and over.

  'Look before you leap' is a wise maxim, though I doubt whoever coined the phrase knew anything of supermarket trolleys. I didn't hit the ground running as I'd expected, I hit a supermarket trolley, sprawling. The lazy individual who'd abandoned it there instead of returning it to the trolley park probably never thought of the danger, that someone might drop into it, that the impetus of that someone's landing would set the trolley rolling downhill. Despite frantic struggles, I was stuck on my back in the wire shell, legs in the air, helpless as an overturned tortoise as the speed inexorably picked up. Typically, I'd fallen into that rare breed of supermarket trolley that runs freely, and my teeth rattled with every crack in the pavement. There was an instant when I experienced the sensation of flying, followed by a bone-jarring smack as the trolley left the kerb and landed in the road.
Raising my head, peering between my knees, I could see the cars hurtling along Beechcroft Road directly ahead. I gulped and my struggles grew frantic though no more productive. I shouted for help.

  It was no use. The front wheels hitting a pothole, the trolley tipped over, flinging me in front of a speeding van. Too dazed to move, all I could do was close my eyes and prepare to be smashed into oblivion. I heard the screeching of brakes before something seized my legs.

  I found myself flat on my back on the pavement, winded and shocked, smelling hot metal and burnt rubber.

  Hobbes squatting next to me, grinned. 'By heck, Andy, you do lead an exciting life. Are you alright?'

  I nodded as well as I could and sat up, rubbing bruises and grazes. The van driver and crowd of concerned onlookers began dispersing when they saw I was still alive.

  'Did you catch him?'

  'No,' said Hobbes. 'I thought I'd be able to talk to him any time, whereas I only had one opportunity to save you.'

  'Thanks.' I really was grateful because, for the third time in as many days, I'd been sure I was going to die. 'And … umm … sorry about the one that got away.'

  'Don't mention it.'

  The pavement was seeping coldness into my bones and I was glad when Hobbes helped me to my feet, though I needed his support for a while. As I was counting my injuries, bloody Phil drove past in a new blue Audi and stared. What a day I was having! Still, enough was enough. 'I want to go home now.' My words came out perilously close to being a sob.

  'OK,' said Hobbes. 'I'll come back with you.'

  Strangely, I was pleased, although only an hour or two earlier he'd been crunching bone like a wild animal. I was happy I was going to sleep under his roof and that Mrs Goodfellow would be after my teeth. He led me back, humming to himself.

  'What's the tune?'

  'Ribena Wild.'

  'I don't think I know it.'

  'You must do,' he said. 'It was playing on Pete Moss's car stereo. You know, Ribena wild rover for many a year?'

  I grimaced and was relieved to get back to 13 Blackdog Street. I went straight to my room, dressing in thick, stripy pyjamas and, despite the horrors of the day and the not-so-distant thump of music, quickly fell into a deep sleep.

  7

  Coming awake to the faint tang of smoke triggered a memory of fear. I jerked upright with a racing heart, yet there was no fire, just a lingering hint of cigars, noticeable over the scent of lavender. Though my eyes were open, I could see nothing apart from a feeble glimmer of street lighting through heavy curtains. The lack of curry and sock pong made me realise I was not in my own room, or even in my own flat. The time, I guessed, was somewhere in the aptly-named wee hours, and I desperately needed to relieve myself, but, apart from the fact of being in a bed, I had no point of reference. It took a couple of minutes of disorientation to work out I was in Hobbes's spare bedroom, and that my room had burned, along with my socks.

  My drowsy brain failing to remember where the door was, I was forced to fumble and grope around the walls until locating it allowed me to lurch towards the bathroom, getting there in the nick of time. Afterwards, I washed my hands, in case Mrs Goodfellow was lurking, although the faint, ladylike snores from her room were reassuring. On the way back, and considerably more at ease, I noticed Hobbes's door was open. Greatly daring, I peeped inside. The curtains had not been drawn and light from Blackdog Street showed he wasn't there. I was blurry with fatigue, a biting draught from his open window making me shiver, so I groped my way back to bed, instantly dropping back into sleep. At some point, I was vaguely aware of a clunk, as if a window was closing, and it was light when I woke again.

  Yawning and stretching was good, despite a superficial tenderness from a hundred bruises and scrapes. My burned hand didn't feel too bad beneath its dressing, just a little stiff and tight. I hadn't slept so well for ages and was able to take pleasure in the ache of muscles, muscles that had barely been active during most of the previous decade. My stomach being empty, I lay a while, relishing the anticipation of what Mrs Goodfellow would prepare for breakfast. There was sufficient light for me to notice that yesterday's underwear and shirt, carelessly tossed into the corner, had vanished and miraculously been replaced with clean, pressed garments, lying neatly folded on the dressing table, alongside a fluffy white towel. I got up and went to the bathroom.

  Both Hobbes's and Mrs Goodfellow's doors were shut and the house had an odd stillness, suggesting I was alone. After washing, returning to my room and dressing, I went downstairs, to find that the kitchen, apart from a mouth-watering aroma of roasting beef, was empty. A note lay in the middle of the table. It had been written on pink paper with a fountain pen and the writing was infested with loops and the occasional blot.

  Dear Andy,

  I trust you slept well. The lass and I have gone to the Remembrance service and didn't want to disturb you. We will be back around noon. Please help yourself to breakfast – there's bacon and eggs in the pantry and a loaf in the bread bin. I recommend the marmalade. The lass makes it herself out of oranges.

  Hobbes.

  PS. There was a break-in at the museum last night.

  I shrugged away a sense of disappointment. There was nothing for it but to look after myself. I've never been a dab hand at cooking and reckoned marmalade sandwiches would do me well enough. A pat of primrose-yellow butter lay in a white china dish on the table, alongside a pot with a hand-written label declaring its contents as marmalade. Filling the kettle, setting it on the hob and lighting the gas, I located the bread in a cream-coloured, enamel bread bin with a wooden lid. On opening it, I hit a snag: the bread was all in one lump - and I'd usually known it to come in slices. A childhood memory surfaced from when I was staying at Granny Caplet's while mother was in hospital having my baby sister, who died. Granny was using a big, shiny knife with a serrated edge to cut a Hovis loaf. A similar knife lay on a gleaming, wooden breadboard next to the marmalade.

  Sawing energetically produced two slices or, more accurately, wedges of the fragrant, crusty, brown bread, which I buttered and marmaladed while waiting for the kettle to boil. As soon as it did, I made tea, taking the loose leaves in my stride. Then, satisfied with my achievements, sitting down at the table, I tucked in. Hobbes had been right to claim the marmalade was excellent. It held just a hint of whisky smokiness, lending a satisfying warmth and depth to the citrus tang and sweetness.

  I drank a mug of tea, cut another hunk of bread and remembered the last breakfast in my flat: left-over chop suey, still in its foil box. Washing down the congealed mess with the warm, flat, dregs of a can of Special Brew, I was blissfully unaware of the cigarette butt until it caught in my throat. As smoking is a vice I've never indulged in, and I was pretty sure I'd been alone when I got home from Aye Ching's takeaway, it was a mystery. I never did get to the bottom of it, unlike the bottom of the can. At least, I couldn't imagine anything quite so horrible happening in Mrs Goodfellow's kitchen.

  Smoke seemed to be on my mind a lot and it was almost as if I could smell it again. Actually, I could. The kettle was glowing red, its wooden handle carbonising. I'd forgotten to turn off the gas, though in my defence, I was more used to electric kettles. Jumping up, I grabbed the smoking handle, releasing it with a yelp, lucky my hand was still partially protected by its dressing. A souvenir of Margate tea towel was hanging on a rail by the sink and, grabbing it, wrapping it around the handle, I hurled the incandescent kettle into the sink and turned on the tap.

  My cheerful waking mood dissipated, unlike the cloud of steam that arose around me with a hiss. I flapped the tea towel to clear the air, bewildered why it was making things worse, nearly setting the curtains alight before realising it was on fire. It, too, ended up in the sink. I opened the back door and, when the smoke and steam finally cleared, grew even more miserable on seeing the red, plastic washing-up bowl with a perfectly circular hole right through it. I spent the next half-hour with the bread knife, cursing and muttering as I chipped and peele
d congealed lumps of red plastic from the sink and from the bottom of the kettle.

  I could just imagine Phil's smug grin should he ever find out about my misfortunes, which reminded me of seeing him in his new car the previous evening. He hadn't been alone: someone had been in the passenger seat, someone with a ratty face and tinted glasses. It had been the man we were chasing and I felt guilty about not mentioning it to Hobbes, though I had been a little distracted at the time.

  'I said get yourself some breakfast, not set fire to the kitchen.' Hobbes was standing framed in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing a smart, if old-fashioned, suit with a dark-blue pinstripe and a poppy in the buttonhole, his cheeks were shaved smooth and his hair was plastered flat.

  I gasped and the knife clattered into the sink. 'I'm sorry,' I said, 'I … umm … had an accident.'

  'Just the one?' He looked around, frowning. 'Tell me.'

  As I did, he roared with laughter. I had to repeat my tale of woe for Mrs Goodfellow. Doubling the audience doubled the mirth.

  Hobbes wiped his eyes, shaking his head. 'By heck, Andy, if laughter's the best medicine, you should be available on prescription. Aye well, there's no real harm done. I'd better go and change into my work things.' He went up to his room.

  Mrs Goodfellow winked as she headed towards the stove, pulling on her pinafore. 'Well done, dear, you've snapped the old fellow out of it. He usually becomes quite morose on Remembrance Sunday.'

  'Oh,' I said. 'Is that today? I … umm … used to keep an old poppy in my flat, one I'd found. It saved me having to buy new ones.'

  Mrs Goodfellow was bending down to open the oven with her back to me and I still felt the reflected force of her frown.

  'I was joking,' I said, though I had actually neglected to buy one. 'Why does it make him morose?'

  'It brings back memories.' She basted the joint, poking it with a fork. 'He remembers too many faces from the past. Old comrades, old enemies, old times.'