'All aboard,' said Hobbes. 'Next stop's the cop shop.'
As I got in the front seat, Tony shuffled into the back, like a condemned man.
'Seat belt, Tony,' said Hobbes. 'I wouldn't want any harm to come to you.'
The car sprang forward again and, as I closed my eyes, I heard a whimper as if from a scared baby. Tony would have to come to terms with Hobbes's driving in his own way. The ride seeming smoother than normal, I considered opening my eyes until Hobbes spoke.
'One hundred and forty. That's quite fast, eh, Tony?'
He did not reply.
Not surprisingly, we made the five miles back to the police station in three minutes, which I supposed meant we'd slowed down at times. The car pulled up abruptly and with barely a screech.
'The brakes aren't bad either,' said Hobbes, as I opened my eyes.
He had to lift the pale-faced, trembling Tony from the back seat and carry him into the police station. On reaching the interview room, he plopped him onto a chair with a soft thud, watching as he slithered to the floor like a sack-full of quivering jelly. My legs, though shaking, still held me up and I looked down on the sad mess with a heady feeling of superiority.
'It's a bit nippy in here,' I shivered.
'Would you like a cup of tea?' asked Hobbes.
'I'd love one,' I said.
'Great,' he smiled. 'So would I and you'd better make one for our guest as well. He looks like he could do with one. Make it a sweet one; he's looking somewhat stressed.'
Having descended from superior being to tea-boy in less than fifteen seconds, I muttered under my breath as I headed for Hobbes's office to perform my menial task, though I perked up on realising I'd been presented with an opportunity. While the kettle got hot, I rummaged through some of his things, although I felt guilty, almost as if I was committing burglary. At first, I didn't find a great deal of interest, since nearly everything was locked away, apart from the piles of old reports and other such stuff on the floor. Yet, taking another look at the newspaper cutting, I was staggered how much the moustached, uniformed policeman looked like a younger version of Hobbes.
Then, not expecting much, I tugged at the drawer in his desk, a spine-tingling thrill of naughtiness running through me as it opened. I found more or less what I expected in a desk drawer: a variety of junk, some stationery, pencil stubs, a chipped twelve-inch wooden ruler and a battered tobacco tin. However, the contents of the tin were interesting. On top lay a handful of bent, flattened and distorted bits of metal, looking very much like damaged bullets. Underneath, was a faded, purple ribbon attached to a dull, black cross, bearing the legend 'For Valour', beneath images of a crown and a lion. It took a few moments for the meaning to sink in: it was a Victoria Cross, Britain's highest military decoration. Stunned, I remembered Mrs Goodfellow telling me that he'd been decorated, and I didn't feel the need to turn it over to know whose name was engraved on the back.
Yet, I was puzzled why he kept such a glorious award in a tin at the back of a drawer filled with rubbish. If I'd ever won something like that, if I'd ever won anything at all, I'd have it displayed where it might impress people. My father proudly showed off his dental certificates, yet I'd never even passed my cycling proficiency test.
At least, I didn't think so, because when the badges were handed out I was in hospital with a broken collarbone and cracked pelvis after having failed to notice the road works in time, crashing through a wooden barrier and plummeting down a hole. Though it had hurt like hell, I didn't cry when they pulled me out, or laid me in the ambulance, or during treatment. It wasn't until I lay in the hospital bed, plastered and helpless, that the tears overwhelmed me. My parents had been visiting and I'd wet the bed, because I didn't know how to get to the toilet and couldn't speak over mother's crying and father's sarcasm.
Footsteps approaching, I crammed everything back, scuttling towards the kettle, which had started to boil. I was pouring it out when Hobbes entered, giving me a quizzical look.
'Alright, Andy?'
'Umm … yeah. Why d'you ask?'
'Because you're pouring boiling water into the tea caddy. Never mind, I expect a good strong cup of tea will do us all a power of good.'
'Oh, bugger, I'm sorry!'
I poured the run off into the teapot, trying to retrieve the situation while he rummaged behind the filing cabinet, pulling out a side-handled baton.
'I always enjoy using this,' he said, whacking it into the palm of his left hand.
'You can't,' I cried, appalled. Although I didn't think much of Tony Derrick, I was damn sure Hobbes shouldn't use a baton on him.
'Why not? It does the job and it's quicker than getting someone in.'
'No, it's wrong.'
'Of course it isn't. And even if it was, who's to know?'
'I'd know,' I said. 'I really don't think you should do it.'
'OK,' he shrugged. 'You can do it.'
'Me?'
'Why not?' He grinned. 'It makes a smashing noise, you'll enjoy it.'
'No.' He was going to overstep the mark and my hands trembled because I was going to stop him. 'I absolutely refuse to do anything of the sort.' My sentiments were strong, though my voice was a squeak.
'Well, in that case, shut up and let me get on with it. Just bring the tea in, if you can salvage any, and I'll get to work.'
Managing to squeeze something vaguely tea-like from the brown sludge I'd created, I filled three mugs and carried them through, unsure what else to do.
Hobbes held the door of the interview room to let me in. I put the tray close to Tony, who sat slouched at the desk and, who, to judge by his grimace, was not impressed by my efforts. His eyes widened when Hobbes stepped inside, twiddling the baton between his fingers as though it weighed no more than a chopstick.
'Right, this won't take long,' said Hobbes, eyeing the baton, swinging it round in a circle above Tony's head. 'These things are ever so good. We got 'em for testing but weren't allowed to keep 'em, apart from this one that accidently fell behind my cabinet. Right, a couple of good, sharp whacks should get things going. It usually does.'
I felt a numbing chill along my spine. Though it was cold in there, I don't think that was the reason. Tony shivered, looking like he was going to cry and I gulped, stepping towards him, certain that any protection I might offer would be about as much use as a soggy cardboard shield against a battle-axe, yet determined to do something.
The baton, whooshing through the air, rapped hard against the radiator. Tony, jumping from his seat, slumped to the floor with a low groan, nearly matching the gurgles of the heating pipes.
'What's up with him?' asked Hobbes, looking surprised. 'He was the one moaning about the chill in here. A good whack usually shifts the air-lock in these old pipes.'
I sagged back into a chair, shaking my head. It would have been far too difficult to explain. At least, I think it would have been. I wondered how Hobbes managed to live among ordinary people, although no one else appeared to doubt his humanity. Even PC Wilkes, who had sussed his 'unhumanity', hadn't taken the next step to enlightenment. I pondered the question of whether Hobbes knew the truth about himself. He'd told me he'd been adopted; if he'd been raised as a human, perhaps he regarded himself as one of us.
'Daydreaming again, Andy?' He ran his hand along the radiator. 'Ah, good, can you feel the heat, Tony?' He turned, lifting the whining figure back into his seat.
I emerged from my deep thoughts with a jerk.
'I've done nothing,' Tony shouted. 'I want a lawyer and I want to make a phone call.'
'And I want a decent cup of tea,' said Hobbes. 'Sadly, we can't always get what we want. So shut up, have a drink and then we'll enjoy a pleasant chat. Won't we?'
'I've done nothing.'
Hobbes, sitting across the desk from him, took a sip of tea and grimaced, his eyes widening. Standing up, clutching his throat, he dropped to the ground and lay still.
'You've done him in,' Tony jumped up, pointing a shaking fing
er at me. 'You've poisoned him.' He flung away his mug, slopping tea across the floor.
I sat as if I'd been nailed to the chair, unable to speak, unable to do anything other than stare at the inert body, sprawled like a clubbed elephant seal. What had I done? I knew I wasn't much cop at making tea, yet …
Hobbes sat up with an evil grin. 'Andy, I've had better bilge water than this. It's worse than the stuff from the canteen, which is saying a lot.'
'I thought you were dead.' A muscle in my cheek twitched.
'No thanks to your tea that I'm not. I'll get George Wilkes to make some; he's not bad.' Rising with a smirk, he called for Wilkes. Tony was shaking like he'd just emerged from an icy pond and had forgotten his towel.
Hobbes sat down and smiled at him. 'It's time we had a good chat.'
1 3
'Right then,' said Hobbes, sitting back in the chair, clasping his great hands behind his head. 'Let's treat this as a friendly little chat between old friends who happened to bump into each other.' Frowning at the quivering wretch, he leaned across the table. 'I take it, that you have no objection to a chat between old friends.'
Tony shook his head, a portrait of misery.
Hobbes grinned. 'Good. Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin. What have you been doing with yourself since the little misunderstanding over Billy Shawcroft? I heard you'd gone into a monastery.'
Tony nodded. 'I did, only I didn't stay long. I couldn't be doing with all the praying and getting up early, though I kinda liked wearing those robe thingies.'
'Cassocks?' I suggested.
'No, it's true.' He gave me an angry glare. 'But the thing is, I thought a monastery'd be more fun. I'd heard they, like, brewed beer and stuff but my lot didn't. They dug gardens and kept bees and went to church, every day – several sodding times! We didn't even get Sundays off. I mean to say, it's a bit bloody over the top, isn't it?'
Hobbes nodded, rocking back in his chair, which, teetering on two legs, emitted alarming creaks.
'They wouldn't even let me eat chocolate, so after about six weeks, I gave them the shove.'
'That's funny,' said Hobbes, 'I was informed that they asked you to leave following some inappropriate remarks to a nun.'
Tony flinched. 'That's not true. Well, it is sort of true, though it wasn't my fault, was it? I thought nuns would be a bit like the girls in 'Naughty Naturist Nuns'. Have you seen it?'
Hobbes shook his head.
'Ah, you should,' said Tony and sighed. 'Bloody good it is. But they're nothing like that. All I did was tell one of them about it and, next thing I knew, the chief monk was calling me in for a bollocking. Afterwards, we agreed I wasn't quite ready for monastic life. Do you know, monks aren't supposed to think carnal thoughts? Not even about nuns. So I left.'
'Incredible,' said Hobbes. 'Do go on.'
'Then I did some stuff. This and that, you know. I worked as a barman, worked in a shop and worked my way back here.'
'And who are you working for now?' asked Hobbes, as PC Wilkes entered, bearing three steaming mugs of tea.
He placed them on the table, departing with a grin, which I ignored.
'No one,' said Tony. His hand shook as he reached for a mug and spilt a few drops. Taking a sip, he pulled a face and put the mug down.
'And yet you had thousands of pounds in your wallet,' Hobbes pointed out, 'how come?'
Tony took another slurp of tea. 'I've got generous friends.'
'Like Philip Waring?'
'Yeah, he's a good mate. Very generous.'
'How long have you known him?'
'Years and years.'
Hobbes, taking a gulp from his mug, turning towards me, grimaced. 'Nearly as bad as yours,' he said, turning back towards Tony, with what I guess he believed was a friendly smile. 'Years and years? Really? I find that an intriguing remark. You know, of course, that Mr Waring only came to live in Sorenchester a year ago? But I suppose you must have met him somewhere else?'
'Uh, yeah.' Tony nodded, slouching. 'That's right.'
'Where did you meet him?'
'It was so long ago, I can't quite remember.'
'Try.'
I had an inkling Tony wasn't being completely honest.
'Uh … I'm thinking.'
His eyes widened as Hobbes stared at him with a deepening frown that threatened to rival the Grand Canyon.
'Do go on.' Hobbes growled softly, like a lion on the hunt. 'Where did you first meet your most generous friend, Mr Waring? I'd love to know.'
'Uh … Blackpool.' Tony was no longer slouching but leaning back as far as he could.
'Blackpool?' Hobbes sounded almost amused, though his brows were still furrowed.
'Yeah.' Tony clutched at straws. 'Blackpool. I was working on the … uh … donkeys and we got chatting and he invited me for a beer. Yeah, that's how it was.'
'What did you chat about?'
'Uh … this and that.' He nodded, as if reassuring himself of the facts. 'Deckchairs … candyfloss … seaweed. Those sorts of things I expect.'
Hobbes snorted. 'Of course, that makes it all clear. Just one thing, when, exactly, was this?'
'Uh … twenty years ago.' Tony, scratching his head theatrically, screwed up his weasely face. 'More or less.'
'So you really have known him a long time,' said Hobbes. 'He must have been really generous taking you for a beer, so soon after meeting you. It sounds like you two hit it off. Good for you.' He paused, looking thoughtful. 'Though, I suppose you actually bought the beers?'
Tony looked confused. 'Why me? He was flush. As I remember, he'd just had a win on the geegees and insisted on getting the beers in.'
'A win on the geegees? How amazing,' said Hobbes. 'What a lucky lad – winning on the geegees and then meeting you. Incredible, some might say, as he must have been about ten years old at the time. I know modern kids grow up fast but it's not really likely is it?'
'I don't know. Maybe I got my sums wrong.'
'By a decade?' Hobbes raised his eyebrows. 'D'you know what I think?'
'No.'
'I think, you're not telling me the truth.' His eyebrows puckered into a savage scowl. 'I would advise you to be honest. You know I like honest people.'
He sprang with such predatory intent that it made me gasp. Tony, jerking backwards, would have fallen had Hobbes not grabbed his shirtfront. The frightened man clutched at Hobbes's hand as he was dragged upright, dangling, his trainers barely scuffing the lino, his watery eyes bulging like a rabbit's with myxomatosis as Hobbes, grinning, pulled him closer, his teeth looking as sharp as steak knives. Tony whimpered, hanging limp like a rag doll.
'You nearly hurt yourself,' said Hobbes. 'It's lucky I caught you. I knew a fellow once who broke his spine falling off a chair and never walked again. Still, such is life. Accidents can happen at any time. Now, are you ready to tell me the truth about Philip Waring?'
Hobbes, setting Tony's feet back onto the floor, held him up by the head. Though the room had begun to warm up, I shivered again, because of a horrible vision of the ratty skull, cracking like a new-laid egg, spilling its contents over the floor. I could only imagine what was passing through Tony's mind – and hope it wasn't Hobbes's fingers.
'Alright,' Tony squeaked as if the words were being squeezed from him. 'I'll tell you what I can.'
Hobbes shoved him back into the chair. There were dents in his forehead, the size and colour of plums.
'That's better,' said Hobbes, quietly resuming his seat, pulling a tattered notebook and a pencil stub from his pocket. 'Now, when did you really meet him?'
Tony swallowed. 'Uh … about two weeks ago.'
'Go on,' said Hobbes.
'It was like this. I was back in town and had got myself the squat but I was broke and on the lookout for some fast cash. Anyway, I'd got just enough for a pint in the Feathers, so I was supping it, keeping my ears open, thinking what to do, when this posh ponce walks in, taking off his jacket, hanging it over a stool and ordering a single malt
.'
A slight smirk flickered across Tony's face. 'Featherlight slipped him a malt vinegar and it didn't half make his eyes water. Anyway, when he was spluttering, I sort of noticed his wallet was still on the bar. Taking my chance, I grabbed it and ran. I thought I'd got away but he collared me in the car park.'
Tony took a sip from his mug. Hobbes sat quietly, occasionally scratching in his notebook. I relaxed and the room grew warm and stuffy.
Tony continued. 'I reckoned I was in for it, cos he was a fit bugger. He'd either give me a bloody good shoeing or turn me over to you bastards, or both. He didn't, though. He took his wallet back, said he was a reporter and offered me twenty quid for my story, cos he was writing a piece about crime in the town. Well, I was hardly going to turn down twenty quid, was I?'
'I noticed,' said Hobbes, 'that you said he was a fit bugger. Why?'
'Well he was a fit bugger.' Tony looked puzzled for a moment. A look of shock erupted across his pasty face. 'Hey! I don't like what you're getting at. I've done nothing to him. I'm not a killer. You know I'm not.'
Hobbes snarled. 'I don't know any such thing. Billy would have been dead if I hadn't turned up in time – and it was you who'd put him in harm's way.'
'I never knew what she was up to. I swear I didn't – and I did help you find him, which was why you let me off. All I knew was that the old witch was willing to pay good money for him, cos he's so bloody small. She said a kid would've been better, though she didn't want no kids, cos of all the fuss when one goes missing.'
'You didn't care what was going to happen to him,' said Hobbes. 'You sold him and forgot about him.'
'I never hurt him.'
'Did you hurt Philip Waring?' He leaned towards Tony like a tiger preparing to pounce on a tethered lamb.
'No, not me.' Tony's face was as white as a sheep.
'So who did?' asked Hobbes quietly, sitting back.
'No one.' Tony looked more disconcerted by Hobbes's sudden quietness than by his aggression.
'So,' said Hobbes and smiled, though his unblinking gaze was merciless, 'where is he?'
'Don't ask me.'
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 20
