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

by Martin, Wilkie

  'Oh, that's alright, then,' I said, my sarcasm unremarked and wasted. I wondered if he really believed what he'd said.

  When I opened my eyes, we were hurtling towards a crossroads – and we were on the minor road. Whimpering, I tried to close my eyes again, finding all my muscles had taken fright and refused to comply. As we crossed the dotted line, a blue car sped towards us from one direction, a white van approaching from the other. Though I don't know how, we avoided them both by the thickness of a layer of paint, zipping up the road ahead, leaping the traffic-calming bumps with the exuberance of a spring lamb and landing with a sickening thud. I know it was sickening because it made me sick. I only just managed to wind down the window in time. Mrs Goodfellow's cottage pie decorated the side of the car like lumpy go-faster stripes.

  'Are you alright?' Hobbes asked.

  'Never felt better in my entire life,' I said, my groan becoming a retch, ending as a hysterical laugh. I flopped back in the seat. He was staring at me, with a puzzled expression.

  'Everything's just wonderful,' I giggled. 'Live fast. Die young. Leave a beautiful corpse. Or one smashed into a million bloody quivering fragments. Oh, yes, everything in the garden's roses.'

  Hobbes was still frowning as we took the next speed bump. I guessed we were doing seventy. We'd have been faster if the wheels had stayed in contact with the road for longer.

  'Yeehah!' I screamed.

  Without looking away from me, Hobbes spun the wheel, skidded into Cranberry Lane and braked rapidly and smoothly. Only my seat belt prevented a close encounter of the painful kind with the windscreen. I stopped my crazed giggling, watching a small, dishevelled, black cat flee across the road in front of us, pursued by a fat ginger tom. At least we hadn't killed them and the thought calmed me until his foot stamped on the accelerator and the car leaped forward. Just to think, a couple of days earlier I'd believed I'd been getting used to his driving. No way. It's just that nerves can only take so much before exhaustion leads to acquiescence.

  'I can go faster if you like.' At least he was looking the way we were going.

  'No. Please.' I gulped. 'How did you do that?'

  'Do what?'

  'Stop before those cats ran out! You weren't even looking, for God's sake.'

  'Language, Andy. I stopped the usual way, by pressing on the brake pedal and I don't need to look to find it, it's always in the same place.'

  'Umm … why did you stop?'

  'Because I didn't want to run over the animals.' He looked puzzled.

  'What I mean is, how did you know they were there?'

  'Oh, I see. Well, you learn to anticipate such things when you've been driving as long as I have.'

  I thought, just for a moment, before he turned away, I could detect a hint of embarrassment in his expression. As he tugged the wheel, the car danced into Aristotle Drive. Phil's driveway was the first on the right, which meant we had to cross the road. Hobbes could have waited until the post-office van had passed but, no, he turned in front of it, the brakes screeching as we came to a standstill.

  'Here we are,' he said. 'Not too bad a journey, eh?'

  My head shook. I wasn't disagreeing, it was just that every part of me was shaking. Taking several long, deep breaths to calm myself, I staggered from the car, making sure not to look at my mess down the side, still queasy.

  Phil's house looked as smart as all the others along the road. There was a small garden in the front and the brown, brittle leaves of the neatly trimmed beech hedge rattled in the breeze. The grass had grown long and straggly. Phil was evidently not a conscientious gardener, at least not in November. Two milk bottles stood, pale and neglected, by the doorstep.

  'How do we get in? Have you got a key? Or one of those big metal rams they use on the telly?'

  'Usually,' said Hobbes, 'I ring the doorbell first.'

  He raised his hand, his fingernail appearing to slide forward like the point on a biro, and pressed the button. The bell rang somewhere inside. We waited in silence.

  'Then, I usually knock.'

  He raised his hand again, forming a mighty fist and knocked. The door shuddered, flying open, revealing a hall painted in magnolia, carpeted in beige, with a wooden door on the left side, a glass door leading into the kitchen at the far end and a staircase on the right. As we stepped inside, it was quiet: as quiet as the grave and nearly as cold. Everything was very neat and clean, smelling of bleach and detergent, without even a hint of socks. Hobbes opened the door on the left and I glanced into the lounge, disgusted by the enormous television, the hi-fi, the black leather suite and the deep, cream carpet.

  'Stay there.' He prowled through the lounge, disappearing through an archway at the far end, reappearing a few moments later through the kitchen door.

  'No one in there,' he said, 'though there's a defrosted single-portion lasagne on top of the oven. Let's take a look upstairs.'

  He led the way. A fish tank stood on a windowsill halfway up and its inhabitants danced and fluttered as we approached.

  'They're hungry.' He sprinkled the water with flakes from a tub by the side. As the fish gorged amid an ecstasy of splashing and popping, he nodded, carrying on to the landing.

  Five closed doors stood before us. Opening them one by one, he revealed first a bathroom and then four other rooms, one, stinking of cologne, with an en-suite bathroom, obviously Phil's bedroom. I sniffed in disapproval. The double bed with its black satin sheets had not been made and raised the question of why he needed a double bed. If he'd laid a finger on Ingrid … never mind his finger, if he'd laid anything on her, there was going to be trouble. Hobbes moved on, barely glancing into the sparsely furnished spare room and a box-room filled with sports gear and heavily loaded bookcases.

  He headed straight into the last room, done out as an office, starting the computer in the corner, leafing through a diary while it warmed up, or whatever computers do. I'd never quite come to terms with them. I wasn't technophobic or anything, but machines just hated me. One computer had lost an article I'd struggled with for over two hours. I still maintain it wasn't my fault, it was just that the can of lager had got all shaken up as I ran from the Old Folks' Origami Extravaganza to file my report before deadline and it could have happened to anyone. Rex didn't see it like that, of course. After a long and vicious rant he'd assigned Phil to be my mentor. I couldn't believe it, for I'd been working for the Bugle far longer than he, and the worst part was when the bastard agreed. Rex loved Phil, just because he got reports in the paper every day. Luck always seemed to be on his side.

  While Hobbes was hunched over the computer, jabbing away at the keys, I stood looking out the window, watching the expectant birds hopping around on the empty bird table in the back garden. A fluffy grey cat, springing from a shrub, completely missed them all as they scattered into the bushes.

  Phil's business cards were stacked on the windowsill. Typical, I thought, for him to have business cards. For what reason? He didn't need that sort of thing to prove what a pretentious bastard he was. As I sneered, a thought occurred. They might have a use, one he would never have thought of. Hobbes, appearing engrossed by something on screen,

  I slipped a few into my pocket.

  'That's interesting,' said Hobbes.

  I started guiltily but he was still looking at the screen.

  'It appears Mr Waring was researching an article on Mr Roman's death and had linked it to the body in the graveyard, too.'

  'Oh?' I said. 'He was probably trying to give himself an alibi.'

  'Enough, Andy,' Hobbes growled.

  I flinched.

  'There's no evidence that Philip Waring has committed any crime and it appears more likely he has been a victim of one. Investigative journalism can be dangerous, you know.'

  Of course I knew. I had, after all, been mauled by a hamster in the course of my work. Besides, I was working with Hobbes. How much more dangerous could it get?

  He looked at the diary again. 'Last night he was going to me
et someone called 'T'.

  ''T' for Tony?'

  'Possibly,' he mused. 'However, there may be other possibilities. Mr Waring obviously expected to return, otherwise he wouldn't have defrosted the lasagne. There's no evidence of a struggle or of anyone else being here in the last few days, so he left of his own accord. I think we ought to catch up with Tony Derrick and see if he is the contact.'

  'So how are we going to find him?'

  'With patience and skill,' he grinned. 'I called in on Billy earlier. Tony wasn't in last night and no one had heard from him. Mind you, Tony's not the sort to have friends and most of his acquaintances are not the sort to talk.'

  'He was in Phil's car on Saturday night and Phil is always pretending to be friendly.'

  'Pretending?' He grimaced. 'Everyone else I've spoken to remarked on his friendliness.'

  'That's cos he's a phoney.'

  'Well, someone is,' said Hobbes with a scowl. 'It hardly matters anyway. He's a member of the public and I suspect he's in trouble. Therefore, it's my job to get him out of trouble.'

  Affronted by Hobbes's implication that I might be the phoney, I made up my mind to show him evidence proving how much of a git Phil was, even if I had to make it myself. All of a sudden in a sulky mood, I followed him around the house, barely noticing what he was up to, silently sneering at Phil's taste in everything, especially his cabinet filled with sporting trophies. The guy was unbelievable, even owning Wagner CDs and no one has that sort of crap, except to impress the feeble minded. Well, it didn't work on me. And then there was his book collection. Why have all those volumes on Roman Sorenchester? As for his spice rack and everything else in the sodding house, I found it all too much.

  I was happy to leave. The whole house reeked of his achievements. I wasn't jealous; I was just glad he was out of the picture.

  1 0

  Still in a deep sulk when we got back into the car, not inclined to pay attention to anything, I was barely aware of Hobbes's mobile chirruping and him answering.

  Turning towards me, putting the phone back in his pocket, sticking the key in the ignition, he said, 'There's been a robbery with violence.'

  'Oh.'

  'I don't like such crimes on my patch. They make me angry and that is a bad thing … for someone.'

  'Oh.'

  'Don't you want to hear about it?' He sounded puzzled. 'I thought you'd be interested.'

  With a huge effort, I forced myself to be fair. 'Sorry,' I said, 'I'm just upset about Phil.' I was being truthful, in a way.

  'I understand,' he said. 'It's a bad feeling when a comrade goes missing, though, for some reason, I'd formed an opinion that you didn't like him. I believe everyone deals with bad news in their own way.'

  I nodded. Again, I felt I might not be entirely in the right. Ignoring the feeling, I asked about the robbery.

  'I'll tell you on the way over.' He started the car's engine with a throbbing series of revs and in moments we were hurtling along the road. I didn't know where, because with Hobbes behind the wheel, ignorance was, if not blissful, less terrifying.

  'It happened this morning,' he said, 'just out of town on the Green Way.'

  'The Green Way? Isn't that an old Roman road?'

  'So it's said. Why?'

  'Oh, I don't know. It's just with the Roman Cup going missing and the bracelet – wasn't that something to do with the Order of St George? – and wasn't St George a Roman?'

  'I am aware,' said Hobbes, 'that St George is venerated by Eastern European churches, who believe he was a tribune in the Roman army. If I remember rightly, the despotic Emperor Diocletian had him beheaded.'

  'So he was a Roman.' I enjoyed the brief elation of triumph.

  'If the old tales are true.' He shrugged. 'What are you getting at?'

  'Well, everything seems to have a Roman connection: Roman cups, Roman saints, Roman roads.'

  'Not to forget the unfortunate Mr Roman,' said Hobbes with a grin.

  'Yes, well. Though it does make you think, doesn't it?'

  'It does. And I expect you're going to tell me all about Mr Waring's collection of books on Roman Sorenchester.'

  'Does he have one?' I asked, innocently. 'Well, how strange, he never told me he was interested in antiquities. I wonder where he got them from.'

  'He is a Friend of Sorenchester Museum and many of the books are on loan from there.'

  'Then he'd have known all about the museum and he'd be likely to know what was in the store.'

  'Quite possibly and I'm sure it will be extremely useful to have a word with him. However, it's really not difficult to make all sorts of dubious Roman connections round here. After all, they founded the town. And there are three hundred and twenty-seven Friends of the Museum. I checked because, you're absolutely right, the burglars knew exactly what they were looking for and where to find it.'

  'OK,' I said, 'I was only saying. It just hit me, that's all. Now, what happened this morning?'

  The car's engine roared. Now and again car horns blared, sometimes coinciding with wild and erratic movements. I, however, saw no evil, though it is amazingly difficult to keep your eyes closed when peril is all around.

  'What I know,' said Hobbes, 'is that a robbery occurred at a house used by a Mr Arthur Barrington-Oddy – and I have no evidence to suggest he's a Roman. Apparently, when Mr Barrington-Oddy opened his front door to answer the doorbell, two masked men were standing there …'

  'Two men? How very interesting.'

  '…and, before he had a chance to defend himself, they overpowered him, rendering him unconscious by means of a noxious substance that caused minor burns to the skin around his mouth and nose.'

  'What would do that?'

  'Chloroform sounds most plausible at this stage. Mr Barrington-Oddy woke some time later feeling giddy and ill but managed to reach a telephone and call for help. He is now recuperating in hospital.'

  'So, what was stolen?'

  'He doesn't know, because he's only renting the house. However, he could tell a display cabinet had been broken into.'

  'So, whose house is it?'

  He laughed. 'Give us a break, Andy, I was only on the phone a minute, not long enough to ascertain all the facts. Anyway, if detecting was that easy then anyone could do it.'

  'Even me, you mean?'

  'Well perhaps not everyone. Now, hold tight!'

  The car, lurching and banking, gravel scrunching, we stopped with a skid and I opened my eyes. We'd stopped within an inch of a police car, from which a pale-faced, grey-haired constable was emerging.

  'Here we are.' Stopping the engine, Hobbes opened the door.

  Undoing my seat belt with shaky hands, I got out onto a gravelled drive. A turreted old house stood in front of us, lurking in the shadows of a large, tree-infested garden that I suspected would look right impressive in the summer, though it was desolate in grey November. A gleaming plaque on the studded door, above a polished brass knocker in the shape of a bear's head, indicated the house was called Brancastle.

  The constable saluted. 'Good afternoon, sir.'

  'Afternoon, George,' Hobbes nodded. 'What's going on here then?'

  'A forced entry, sir, and a robbery. Mr Barrington-Oddy has already been released from hospital and is returning by taxi. He may be able to answer some of your questions.'

  'Good,' said Hobbes. 'In the meantime, I'd better take a look around. Andy, would you stay here with PC Wilkes?'

  'Yeah, OK.'

  Hobbes squatted down, crawling over the gravel towards the front door, PC Wilkes and I, standing by the police car, watching until he disappeared inside the house.

  'Weird,' said Wilkes. 'Was he sniffing then?'

  'Umm … it sounded like it.'

  'I don't know what it is but something about him gives me the creeps.'

  'I know what you mean,' I said.

  'Yeah.' Wilkes grimaced. 'I know he's a copper, and a good one, and there's less crime on his patch than most others and a better clean up rate, but
there's something unnatural about him. No … not unnatural; if anything he's too natural. Unhuman, is that the right word?'

  'Inhuman?' I suggested.

  Wilkes pondered. 'Maybe not – inhuman sounds like he's cruel or something and he isn't. Well, not really.'

  I agreed. 'I see what you're getting at.' I thought for a moment about all his oddities. 'Unhuman sums him up rather well.'

  'Still,' said Wilkes, 'he's a feature of Sorenchester Police. All the regional coppers know him by reputation at least. I guess he must be about due for retirement. Mind you, that's what I thought when I transferred here, nearly twenty years ago. What's your connection with him?'

  'I'm staying with him temporarily, because my flat burned down last week. By the way, my name's Andy. Andy Caplet.'

  'George Wilkes.' He nodded, his broad, slow face brightening with a smile of recognition. 'You're the journalist aren't you? The bloke from the Bugle? I've heard about you. What on earth did you do to get saddled with the Inspector?'

  'I don't know.' I frowned. 'I've left the Bugle now. I'm freelance.'

  'Yeah, I heard you'd got the boot. And aren't you the guy that got his ear chomped at the pet show?'

  I acknowledged the fact.

  He laughed. 'I can still remember your photo in the paper: what an expression! Yeah, that's it, you're doing it again.' He continued to laugh, leaning against the police car, until a taxi turned into the drive, scattering gravel. Then wiping his eyes, grinning, he stood upright, patted me on the back and stepped towards the taxi.

  Rage and fury built within me and, though I wanted to say something fine and biting, a retort to cut him down to size, I couldn't think of anything. 'Hah!' I said, frustrated, turning away, wishing I had something to kick. Anything.

  Then I had a brilliant idea. Walking towards the door of the house, my hand casually thrust into my jacket pocket, climbing up the steps, I peeked into the entrance hall, seeing no sign of Hobbes. Casually, removing my hand from the pocket, letting one of Phil's cards flutter to the dark, parquet floor, I used my foot to push it partly under the rug.

  It was a lovely rug with a startling pattern of flowers, trees and birds woven amid brilliant colours and I guessed it was very old. My parents' friends, the Moffatts, used to have one a bit like it, which they'd picked up in Turkey, having beaten a desperate peasant down to a ludicrously low price. I'd heard them boast about it many times, yet this was far finer than theirs.