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

by Martin, Wilkie

  'Bad luck, Andy.' Hobbes sounded sympathetic. 'Sometimes the letters run against you. Anyway, we're older than you and have had longer to pick up vocabulary.'

  I nodded. 'Well done both of you.' At least I could play at being a good loser. I went up to bed shortly afterwards with a mug of cocoa.

  'Make sure you clean your teeth when you've finished.' Mrs Goodfellow looked stern. 'We wouldn't want them rotting away would we?'

  'No, we wouldn't.' I made a special trip to the bathroom just to make sure she didn't have an excuse for leaping out on me. Then I slept until late on Monday morning.

  Once again, fresh clothes had been left on the dressing table. I supposed I ought to thank the old girl for that and for the meals, and for making my bed, too. When I was enjoying a leisurely bath, I noticed the sander still tucked under the sink and I wondered what Hobbes used it for. I wondered what was behind the door in the cellar. I wondered what was up in the loft. I wondered if I'd been born under a wondering star.

  Though I'd only glimpsed inside the loft, I'd had an eyeful of colours and pictures. There was much to look into in this house, yet, now he'd entrusted me with a key, I had access all the time.

  So did Mrs Goodfellow. The bathroom door swung open. 'No need to get up, dear.' She beamed her toothless smile, flicking a duster around.

  I dropped back into the water, covering myself with my hands, squirming. 'Do you mind?'

  'Of course not, dear.' She fixed her bright little eyes on me and chuckled. 'And don't mind me either. I'll only be a few minutes.'

  'Couldn't you dust later? It's rather embarrassing.'

  She tittered. 'From what I've seen, there's no reason for you to be embarrassed, dear. Now, Mr Goodfellow, he might have been embarrassed.'

  'Mrs Goodfellow, please!'

  'Oh alright, dear. Don't get into a state. I'll go and dust the old fellow's room. He's out already, you know.' She sat on the corner of the bath. 'Do you know, someone broke into the church last night? He's gone to investigate and he's upset. He doesn't like crimes on his patch and there have been a few recently. Now, the other year, there was a spate of car break-ins and—'

  'Mrs Goodfellow,' I squeaked, 'please!'

  'Oh, sorry, dear, I'm going.' She left me, closing the door behind her; her grin was the last thing to vanish, like she was a toothless, wrinkled, Cheshire cat.

  Washing in haste, getting out the bath, I dried myself and scurried to my room where I tried to dress while leaning against the door. I could hear her flapping round in the bathroom as I went downstairs. At least I thought I'd heard her, for when I walked into the kitchen, she was stirring a copper pot.

  'All dressed and safe from prying eyes, eh?'

  I nodded, forcing a laugh to show how nonchalant I felt.

  'Lovely teeth,' she cackled. 'Now would you like to get them stuck into something?'

  'Like what?' I asked, nervously.

  'Like bacon and eggs with mushrooms. It's what the old fellow had.'

  'Mmm, it sounds lovely,' I said. I was wrong. It was better than that; it was divine. The scent of the frying mushrooms started me drooling and, when the bacon and eggs had been added, I feared my mouth would spill over. It tasted even better than it smelled and then I stuffed myself with toast and her superb marmalade, all washed down with fresh orange juice and as much tea as I could fit in. A little embarrassment seemed a small payment for such a breakfast.

  'The old fellow asked what you were going to do today,' said Mrs Goodfellow when, having finished eating, my mouth became available for talking. 'He says he'll be down the church for a while if you want to meet him there. Mind you, he said it a while back when you were sleeping like a puppy. Then he said he'd have to go to Pigton, so, if he wasn't at the church, he'd be somewhere else and you were to do what you wanted to do. He reckoned you had to go to the Bugle sometime to get a name changed on a cheque, so he wouldn't be worried if you didn't show up. And he asked, if you were in the Bugle's office, if you'd find out where someone called Philip Waring lives. And—'

  'Say no more,' I said, desperately trying to hold back the torrent of words. 'I'd better go.'

  Standing up, I nodded and walked away, stepping out into the street, shutting the front door behind me, jumping down the steps. A flurry of sleet spattered the icy pavement at my feet and the cold wind had returned. Despite shivering, I was too proud to go back and pick up the old overcoat I'd found in the wardrobe. Since I had to pass the church on the way to the Bugle, it struck me as a good idea to look in. Hobbes might still be there and, even if he'd already gone, someone should be able to tell me what had happened. And if no one could then, maybe, I'd pick up sufficient divine inspiration to deal with Editorsaurus Rex. I'd bet bloody Phil, the editor's blue-eyed boy, never had problems like mine. Bastards the both of them. Still, I might be able to find Phil's address and then I'd do my best to ensure he had a really hard time at Hobbes's hands and, with luck, at his feet too.

  Cold thoughts almost took my mind off the cold wind and, besides, it was only a short walk to the church. I was still glad to rush inside, pushing through a party of tourists, grateful for shelter. I can't claim I knew the church all that well, as I'd only been in once before, during a sudden downpour when returning from the pub. The dark, sombre atmosphere combined with the massive, mediaeval architecture and ancient treasures had impressed me then and still did.

  A guy in a dog collar minced by. 'Excuse me, Vicar,' I said, 'has Inspector Hobbes left already?'

  'Indeed he has,' he replied in a voice often described as fruity.

  'Oh well. I'd hoped to catch him. I hear there was a break-in last night?'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'Was anything taken, Vicar?'

  He nodded.

  'What?'

  'Who wants to know?'

  'I do. My name's Andy Caplet and I've been helping the Inspector for the last few days.'

  'You don't look like a policeman and, I'm not the vicar, by the way, I'm the curate. The name's Kevin Godley; just call me Kev.'

  I shook the hand he held out. It was cold, limp and flabby like a dead man's and gripped for rather longer than I liked. I jerked my arm away.

  'I'm not a policeman. I'm just hanging out with Hobbes.'

  'Oh, I see. A camp follower.'

  I wasn't too chuffed with the stress he put on the word 'camp'.

  I asked again. 'Can you tell me what was taken?'

  'I can. Some lost sheep has swiped our Roman cup.'

  'A Roman cup? Was it valuable?'

  He nodded. 'I should think so. It was made of gold.'

  'Wasn't it protected?'

  'Yes, of course. It was displayed in a safe built into the wall, with a bullet-proof glass front until someone got it out last night.'

  'How?'

  He shrugged. 'They ignored the glass and cut through the mortar. Your Inspector mentioned an angle grinder but I don't really know what that is.'

  'I think it's a tool.' I scratched my head. 'What's this cup look like anyway?'

  Kev nodded towards a desk by the main door, where there were piles of books and pamphlets for sale. 'There's a photo in one of those pamphlets. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must go, I've got a service to arrange.'

  'It's OK,' I said. 'For Vespers?' I felt rather proud at my display of ecclesiastical knowledge.

  'No.' Kev grinned. 'I meant a service for my motorbike and it's a Honda, not a Vespa. I can't abide those scooters with their piddly little motors. No, give me seven-fifty CCs throbbing between my thighs and I'm a happy curate. See you, Andy.' He patted my shoulder and walked away.

  He disappeared behind a screen and I turned towards the desk, flicking through a pamphlet until coming across a photograph of the Roman cup, a large, heavy-looking goblet, plain, apart from a few foreign words in the form of a cross on the base. The pamphlet cost 50p and I was, literally, penniless but, as the severe, blue-rinsed woman in charge was occupied with a visitor, I folded the pamphlet, slipping it
surreptitiously into my trouser pocket.

  'That's fifty pee, sir.' The severe woman glared at me, her angry eyes glittering through horn-rimmed glasses.

  'What is?' It was a feeble bluff but I'd never stolen anything before and I could feel the adrenalin coursing through my veins.

  'The pamphlet in your pocket. Please pay for it or put it back. If not, I'll call the police.'

  Panicking, I ran for it and, once I'd started, I couldn't stop. It was a stupid thing to do and I wouldn't dream of doing anything like it again and I would have paid if I could have and, anyway, the pamphlet was overpriced. In truth, I had no excuse – and I didn't even manage to keep it. It must have fallen from my pocket when, barging through a group of pensioners by the front door, I stumbled up the steps, before fleeing down The Shambles, weaving through the hordes of shoppers. Then, stunned by my own folly, heart pounding, I ducked down an alley, scrambling over a tall wooden fence, cowering in the backyard of a house. Out of sight, I got my breath back and listened for any sign of pursuit. I was just beginning to believe I'd got away with it when someone let the dog out.

  It was a big animal, with rough, black hair and gleaming white fangs, and a deep prejudice against trespassers in tweed and I amazed myself at how fast I could move with a beast with the bulk and temperament of an angry bear snapping at my vitals. I jumped up, straddling the top of the fence, pulling up my leg before the brute could take a chunk out of it. The creature howled its disappointment and I thought I was safe. However, the fence was obviously in league with him. With a crack and a lurch, it buckled and collapsed beneath me. For a moment dog and I stared at each other. Then it gave a deep, resounding woof and I took to my heels with a yelp of terror.

  I put it down to the beneficial effects of all my recent exercise that I made it from the alley before he caught me and brought me down at the feet of the gangly policeman. The severe woman was with him.

  She pointed at me. 'That's him, officer, he's the one. Arrest him.'

  The policeman, grabbing the dog's collar, pulled him off, handing him to his owner who had just emerged from the house, his fat red face quivering with rage.

  'That's him.' He pointed at me. 'Arrest him for breaking my fence and cruelty to animals.'

  'But …' I said. It was too late.

  My hands were suddenly and surprisingly restrained by handcuffs and I was being led through the streets by the policeman, escorted by an angry woman, a furious man and a frustrated dog. People enjoy a good spectacle and I soon became the centre of a crowd, as wild and inaccurate rumours flew around. My sole consolation was that the excited dog, deprived of my blood, turned on his master, sinking his teeth into a fatted calf. The fat man, bleeding, roared and smacked the dog round its ears, while the woman denounced me as Sorenchester's answer to the Antichrist.

  'What have you been doing, Andy?' asked a soft, familiar voice.

  I turned and smiled weakly. 'Oh hi, Ingrid.' I made an attempt at nonchalance. 'It's just a misunderstanding. I'm sure it'll be sorted out soon.'

  'He robbed the church!' the severe woman shouted.

  'He smashed my fence down and he's been tormenting my dog. Aghh!' The angry man grew angrier as the dog nipped his other calf. 'Get off you brute.' He aimed a kick, losing the crowd's sympathy.

  The woman was screaming, 'Search his pockets! Search his pockets!' at the policeman, who looked stunned by the whole procedure.

  'All in good time, madam,' he said. 'At the station.'

  'Don't you 'madam' me. If you won't search him, I will.'

  She pounced on me, and the dog, recognising a fresh target, pounced on her, growling like an over-revved scooter.

  The crowd was taking sides. A spotty youth cheered on the dog and the angry man floored him with a punch. The youth's friend knocked the angry man onto his back and then it was mayhem. Quite a few joined in and even the dog had his day, snarling and snapping at random. Ingrid was swept away in a torrent of retreating townsfolk. The policeman gasped, 'Christ!' as the angry man, having staggered back to his feet, was hurled through the plate glass window of a dress shop. Fists and feet flew and a thrown bottle knocked the policeman cold. By then I was in a state of pure terror, my heart pounding, my mouth dry, doing whatever I could to protect myself, which was not easy in handcuffs. I don't know what came over me but, noticing the policeman was in real danger of being trampled, I somehow hoisted his limp body over my shoulder and staggered through the affray, taking several hits as I did so.

  A voice boomed, echoing off the buildings as if a cannon had been fired. 'Stop this at once.'

  The crowd went quiet. The dog fled. I looked up with my left eye, the right one, having taken a punch, had closed as tight as a clam. It was Hobbes, standing before us, hands thrust in the pockets of his coat, a scowl sculpting his face into that of a gargoyle.

  'This is the police. I order you to disperse immediately or there will be trouble.'

  'There's only one of him. Get him!' A big man in a red sweater incited the mob from the back. At least, he started at the back but the general retreat was so fast, he quickly found himself alone at the front.

  He stared at Hobbes, quivering. He looked at the crowd.

  'You were saying?' said Hobbes, conversationally.

  The idiot was brave, I'll give him that. Brave, if not bright. Screaming incomprehensibly, putting his head down, he charged. Hobbes stood, watching. What happened next was a surprise. I expected Hobbes to hit him, yet all he did was shift his weight and pivot like a bullfighter as the idiot hurtled past, head-butting a lamppost, flopping back into his arms.

  'This young fellow's going to have a headache,' said Hobbes, examining a gaping, oozing wound on the man's forehead and lying him down on the kerb. He gave a wolfish grin. 'Still, I doubt he had much brain to damage. Are you alright, Andy?'

  I nodded and sank to the pavement with the policeman still over my shoulder, groaning as I helped him down.

  'It was brave, rescuing Constable Poll like that,' said Hobbes. 'He might have been badly hurt if you hadn't. How are you doing, Bean?'

  PC Poll's eyes opened. 'Could be better, sir.'

  By then more police officers were appearing and the crowd had dispersed, except for a few onlookers gawping from a distance. Several dismembered bodies lay scattered in the road. I gasped; I hadn't realised things had got so bad. Hobbes picked up one, twisting its head round. 'Gottla geer,' he said like a bad ventriloquist, 'gottla geer.'

  I stared, horrified. It took several long dark moments before I worked out that the bodies were mannequins from the dress shop. When the relief hit me, I must have fainted.

  9

  The world looked strange. My knees were pressed into my armpits, my knuckles scraped against a tatty rug and a great weight was forcing my head down. I could see my feet and the bottom drawer of a rusty filing cabinet upside down between the legs of a chair. As I groaned, the weight lifted, a hairy hand took me by the shoulder, easing me upright and, though I'd seen some strange things when waking, Hobbes's leathery face peering into mine was the most unnerving. Yet, I was sitting in his office, the handcuffs were off, and he was looking at me with an expression wavering between concern and amusement.

  'How are you feeling?' he asked.

  'Not too bad. What happened?' I was determined to act cool, despite not understanding what I was doing there.

  'You fainted. Now put this on your eye and cover it up. It looks like a baboon's backside.'

  He handed me an ice pack and I applied it with another groan.

  'That's some shiner you've got.' He grinned. 'We had a doc take a look at it and it's only bruised. By heck though, you do have an eye for trouble.'

  'It wasn't my fault.'

  'No. Not entirely. I had the story from young Poll before they carted him off to the hospital. He's got a touch of concussion and it might have been a lot worse if you hadn't got him out when you did. Mind you,' he said and chuckled, 'it might have been a lot better if you hadn't got him into
it in the first place.'

  'I didn't mean to. I didn't want to be arrested. Will I be charged?'

  'Of course not. I can't have it said that I harbour criminals under my own roof. I gave the gentleman twenty pounds towards fixing his fence and we agreed he won't be taking the matter any further. In addition, your pockets being empty, there was no evidence of theft and, besides, the lady is currently undergoing treatment for shock and dog bites and is unwilling to talk.'

  'What about the dog?'

  'I had a word with the man about his dog, just before the ambulance came for the worst casualties.' Hobbes's grin grew broader. 'We agreed he should never have been keeping a dog that is so evidently a danger to himself and the public.'

  'What's going to happen to it? It's mad and vicious and should be put down.'

  'So the man said,' said Hobbes, 'but I pleaded for a reprieve.'

  'What? Why? It's dangerous.'

  'Probably, which is why I'm going to look after him. His name's Dregs, according to his former master.'

  I groaned, not being keen on dogs since one ate my football when I was six. I've always blamed it for my failure to shine as a sportsman. At least, I've blamed it when not blaming my father. 'Where is he now?' I looked suspiciously round the office.

  'They patched him up, though he wasn't much hurt and he's taking Mrs Goodfellow to the shops. They're going to pick up some dog biscuits. He says he's a bit fussy and won't touch the cheapuns, so they're off to the posh shop.'

  'He told you that did he?'

  'Yes.'

  'So you've talked to him?' Now, it seemed Hobbes was speaking with animals. I wasn't as surprised as I would have been when I'd first met him.

  'He says I'm welcome to take his basket and any leftover food and reckons his wife will be glad to see the back of him.'

  'His wife? He can't have a wife. It's impossible.'

  'I admit it's unlikely,' said Hobbes, 'though I understand the dog was what made him so angry, and the fact that his wife hated it didn't help his temper.'