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

by Martin, Wilkie

  Ingrid smiled. 'Great … but I was going to ask you to let me know when you find anything out about Phil.'

  Though I heard what she said, a thought gripped me. Perhaps Wilkes had only laughed at me when we first met because I was so funny. For the first time, I managed to see the hamster incident from another's viewpoint, seeing that it had been amusing, or would have been if it had happened to someone else. And the riot I'd accidentally sparked, maybe that had a funny side, too. Recalling the pained expression on my face in the newspaper, a snigger sneaked out and then laughter engulfed me.

  Ingrid's pretty face contorted in outrage and, for some stupid reason, that boosted the hilarity. Leaning on the counter, I tried to stop myself collapsing into a giggling heap. I was a joke and life was a joke and she couldn't see it.

  'What's wrong with you?' Her voice veered towards fury. 'How can you laugh when poor Phil's in trouble? It's not funny. You disgust me. At least the Inspector's taking it seriously and he doesn't even know him. Goodbye!'

  Opening the door, she stamped away, leaving me helpless, half-blind with tears, struggling for breath, with no chance of explaining myself. Then, at last, a wave of despair broke over me, submerging the hysterics. If I'd been alone, I might have cried. The sergeant sat watching, as if he saw the same sort of thing every day.

  I pulled myself upright, taking a deep breath, smoothing my emotions into a superficial calm. Remorse about Phil's card was gnawing at my conscience and it was getting harder to keep it caged at the back of my mind.

  'Are you alright now, sir?' asked the desk sergeant, 'because the Inspector would like a word with you. He'll be in his office.'

  'I'm OK,' I said.

  Trying to stroll casually through the police station, I stubbed my foot on the carpet and stumbled. Ignoring the smirks, I carried on until, reaching Hobbes's door, I jerked it open before stepping briskly inside. At least, I envisaged it that way. In reality the door opened inwards and I nearly tore my shoulder from its socket as my head banged against wood. Hearing a snigger, embarrassment heated my face.

  'Come in,' said Hobbes.

  He looked up from behind his desk, a sheet of paper in his hand. 'Oh, it's you. There was no need to knock.' He peered at me. 'Are you feeling alright? Your face is extraordinarily red.'

  'I'm fine. It's just a little warm in here.'

  A smile flickered. 'Sit,' he said. 'I've just received this.' He waved the paper at me. 'The house agent faxed the inventory through for Brancastle.'

  I made myself comfortable. 'Oh yes? What was stolen then?'

  'It's long and detailed though, so far as I can tell, only one item is missing.'

  'That's what old Barrington-Oddy thought.'

  Hobbes nodded. 'Apparently he is more observant than he claims. It looks like the only thing stolen was a ring.'

  'A ring? Is that all? There were all sorts of valuable things in the house.'

  'Indeed,' he said. 'It is suggestive.'

  'So, what's so special about a ring?' I attempted humour. 'Is it a ring of power, forged by the evil Lord Sauron to control mortal men, doomed to die?'

  He looked puzzled. 'No. At least I don't think so. Why do you mention Sauron?'

  'Sorry. He's just a character in a film about rings.'

  'I know. You need to learn to separate fact from fiction, or you'll go the same way as PC Norman, who used to work with me until he started insisting he was communicating with goblins. It was ridiculous yet, as he was still capable of doing his job reasonably well, I kept him on until the day the goblins told him to take his clothes off and direct the traffic onto the golf course.'

  'What happened to him?'

  Hobbes sighed. 'We found him standing stark naked in the middle of the ring road, waving his truncheon and screaming, 'No man is an island.' When I asked, 'What about the Isle of Man?' he went to pieces and we had to scoop him up and take him away for his own safety. The superintendent put the whole incident down to a PC gone mad.'

  'What,' I asked, 'has that to do with the ring?'

  'About as much as your remark about Lord Sauron. Now listen, Rocky was correct to say a Romanian gentleman owned the house and, according to the inventory, the missing ring is Romanian, too. It is very old, made of gold and in the form of a dragon with ruby eyes.'

  'A dragon? Like the bracelet? So, it's something to do with the Order of St George?'

  'It sounds plausible. I'll get one of the lads to call the agent to see if there's any more information.'

  'I bet it is,' I said. 'I bet this case is all to do with Romania and the Order of St George.'

  Hobbes shrugged. 'We'll see. We have Mr Roman's suicide following the break-in at his house. Jimmy, the gardener, the probable culprit, was stabbed to death, buried and dug up so something could be removed from his grave. Afterwards came the break-in at the museum to steal a bracelet. Then the Roman cup was taken and now this ring has been stolen.'

  Seeing that he was thinking aloud, I kept quiet.

  He scratched his ear. 'What puzzles me is how Mr Waring fits into all this and where he's got to. The discarded cigarette butts suggest Tony Derrick was involved with, at least, the break-ins at Mr Roman's, the church and at the museum. Plus, he knows Mr Waring, whose business card was discovered at Brancastle.'

  I nodded, shifting uncomfortably. In my heart, I'd already accepted that Phil wasn't a criminal, that I'd just resented him because he was the better man and, though deep down I still held a grudge, my malice didn't go so far as to wish him real harm. I hoped he was still alive. 'D'you really think Phil's involved?'

  Hobbes's expression was thoughtful. 'Let's just say there are no indications that he is, except for circumstantial evidence. There is, of course, the business card that would seem to place him at one of the incidents.' He paused, staring hard at me. 'I can't work that one out.'

  This was it. I gulped. 'I think I can.'

  'Go on, then.' Leaning forward, he rested his head on one hairy paw.

  I couldn't look him in the eye and, my lungs seemingly too tight to breathe, it was an age before I forced a faint voice. 'It's … umm … my fault.'

  'Yours, Andy? I am surprised.'

  'Yes. Oh God, I don't know how to say this.'

  'Take your time.'

  'OK. I'd better just spit it out. It's no use putting it off any longer. It's my fault.'

  'So you said.'

  I thought I could detect the beginnings of a growl.

  'Oh God.' I stared at my hands. They were shaking and fluttering in time with the butterflies in my stomach.

  'OK. I'd better just get it off my chest. It's my fault.'

  'I'm sure it is,' said Hobbes and I was sure the growl was present.

  'I … umm … really don't know how to say this.'

  'I know I said take your time but I didn't mean take all day. Out with it. And quickly.'

  'Right … umm … you know Phil's business card? The one Wilkes found under the mat?'

  'Yes.'

  'Right. OK. Oh God. Umm … well, it was like this. I put it there.'

  'You, Andy? Why?'

  What else could I do except tell the truth?

  'Because I … umm … because I was jealous, I suppose. Phil is everything I'm not. He's like what I want to be, yet I can't be like him and, because I can't, I came to detest him, to hate his success, to hate that people liked him. And then there was Ingrid.'

  'Do go on,' said Hobbes, and I felt sure I detected rising anger in his voice.

  Still unable to look at him, I took another deep, gulping breath. 'When we were round at Phil's place and you were looking at his computer, I picked up a couple of his cards. The thing is, I'd kind of convinced myself he was a villain and thought that if I put his card at the scene then you'd see him in the same light. I'm sorry.'

  'Sorry?' roared Hobbes, his voice rumbling like a volcano, 'I should think you are sorry. It was a despicable act.'

  Flinching, nodding agreement, I lifted my head, still unable to
raise my eyes above his chest, bracing myself for when he blew his top. 'I really am sorry. I was sorry from the moment Wilkes found it and I keep wishing I hadn't done it. If there's anything I can do to help make amends?'

  And then he exploded.

  I cringed, sweating, caught between running for my life and curling up and taking his wrath. Yet, when I finally dared to look up, he was laughing. Tears poured down the furrows in his face as he rocked back and forth in his chair.

  'By heck, Andy!' He guffawed. 'Promise me you'll never be a criminal. You'd make things far too easy for us. We do like some sort of challenge, you know?'

  'Umm … I don't understand.'

  He wiped his eyes. 'Did you honestly believe I'd fallen for your silly trick? I am a detective you know. I should feel insulted; I might have been if you weren't so funny.'

  Stunned, shocked, confused, humiliated, relieved and indignant in quick succession, I finally settled on being relieved, with a seasoning of confusion. It seemed he did not intend tearing me limb from limb. 'But how?'

  'How? Well, firstly, I observed you removing the cards from the box.'

  I didn't see how he could have done, unless he'd got eyes in the back of his head, which he hadn't. I didn't think so, anyway.

  'Secondly, the card was not under the mat when I entered Brancastle and only appeared after you came looking for me. Thirdly, Mrs Goodfellow found several other cards in your jacket pocket when she took it away for cleaning. Fourthly, you had not exactly hidden your feelings towards Mr Waring and, fifthly, I've heard you muttering under your breath more than once that you wished you'd never hidden 'the bloody card.' Excuse my language.'

  'So you knew it was me all the time? Why didn't you say anything?'

  'Because it amused me and gave you the chance to make good.' He chuckled. 'The lass and I had a talk about it and decided you weren't a bad lad really. Still, I'm glad you've owned up at last. She'll be pleased when I tell her.'

  'Not as pleased as I am,' I said, dizzy with relief. 'It's been horrible, especially when Phil went missing. It's true I wanted him out the way, though not like this, and, anyway, I don't think Ingrid likes me very much.'

  'That's a shame. However, you can't make people like you,' he said, 'and sometimes the more you try the less they do. It's the way things are. You have to be yourself and be hopeful.'

  I nodded, looking into his corrugated mess of a face, wondering how it felt to be Hobbes, feeling an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Who, I thought, could befriend him? I supposed Mrs Goodfellow, the olde troll, Augustus and maybe Billy Shawcroft might, but they were all outsiders and oddities. Everyone else just seemed to regard him either with respect as a copper who got the job done, or as a figure of fear. Surfing a wave of sympathy and well-being, I reminded myself that, in his own grotesque way, he'd shown me nothing but kindness, except for when he'd shown me terror and horror. Still, with the chains of my guilt released, the world felt a lighter, more hopeful place.

  'I still don't really understand what's going on,' I said.

  'D'you mean with life, the universe and everything? Or with these crimes?'

  'The crimes.'

  'So you understand life, the universe and everything?' He grinned. 'You're a genius on the quiet then?'

  'No, I didn't mean that. I mean I'm often confused and I'm specifically confused about all these robberies. As far as I can see, there's some Romanian thing connecting them all, yet it doesn't explain why anyone would want the things they took.'

  'You're right,' he said. 'I have a bad feeling, though. I fear trouble is afoot and I'm rarely wrong. Anyway, first things first; I ought to see how Tony's getting on and have another word with him.'

  We headed for cell number 2. When the sergeant opened it, there was a woof and a black, hairy creature bounded out, bouncing around us.

  'I put Dregs with him so he wouldn't feel lonely,' said Hobbes.

  I was shocked. 'Couldn't he have hurt him?'

  'Most unlikely. He's a big dog and can look after himself.'

  'I meant the other way round.'

  'I never thought of that,' he said, chewing his lip, peering into the cell and patting the dog's head. 'However, Tony appears to be in one piece.'

  He stepped into the cell. 'How are you feeling? A little better? Good. It's not pleasant to faint. So I've been told.'

  Tony was sitting on the bench, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. When Dregs squeezed past me and bounded in, he squealed, 'Keep it away.'

  Hobbes grabbed Dregs's collar. 'Sit,' he said.

  The dog sat, wagging his tail, staring at Tony who cringed further up the wall.

  'Now then, Tony, are you ready to continue our friendly little chat? Or would you like a bit of dinner? I am obliged to warn you that the stew from our canteen might be construed as cruel and unusual punishment, yet some of the lads seem to thrive on it. At least, they go back for more.'

  'I am hungry,' said Tony, adding pathetically, 'I never had no breakfast.'

  'No problem,' said Hobbes. 'I'll ask the sergeant to arrange something. We'll continue our talk later, eh? It's a shame I'm not going to let you out because my housekeeper's made chicken soup for lunch. At least I think so, because I heard her plucking the chicken this morning. Would you like Dregs to stay with you? No? Suit yourself. He probably should go home anyway.'

  Hobbes turned away, Dregs walking to heel like the hero of an obedience school, as the sergeant locked the door.

  'See he gets some grub,' said Hobbes and turned to me. 'We'll leave him to stew and get our dinners.'

  The thin November sun radiated genuine warmth, though a chill wind dominated the shadows as we proceeded along The Shambles towards the church, the clock striking one as we waited to cross the road into Blackdog Street. I was far away, thinking of chicken soup, when a woman in a black Volvo drove past, her dull eyes staring at me from a dead head. I shivered, yet, it must have been some sort of illusion, for the driver turned her head and drove away.

  'Did you see that?' I asked, as the traffic lights changed and allowed us to cross.

  'What?'

  'I don't really know.'

  'Then, nor do I,' said Hobbes with a frown.

  I shrugged, yet something still troubled me, as if she ought to have been familiar.

  Lunch was nearly ready when we got in. Hobbes messed about in the back garden with Dregs, while I flopped down on the sofa, flicking through Sorenchester Life, stopping when I reached the photo of Editorsaurus Rex. 'Mr Rex Witcherley and wife, Narcisa, enjoy a joke,' I read and slapped the open magazine down on the table, afraid I'd been the joke. Everyone else apparently found me a source of amusement, yet, I had to admit, in my heart of hearts, that I doubted Rex would ever have given me so much thought. I'd just been an employee, a useless oaf he'd finally got rid of. Perhaps I was laughable as a journalist, a complete fool. Still, at least now I'd confessed my appalling trick, I could be an honest fool and, maybe, I could even help to put things right.

  I tried to think deeply about the cases and see what I could make of them. The only connection seemed to be something to do with Romania – and Phil didn't fit, unless he was Romanian and I had no reason to suspect so.

  'It's on the table!' A shrill voice rang in my ear.

  I gasped, collapsing into the sofa. I had not yet developed immunity to Mrs Goodfellow's sudden appearances.

  'Thank you,' I said, rising on shaking legs, sure that one day I'd suffer heart failure. At least, it would stop people laughing at me.

  As I joined Hobbes in the kitchen, it occurred to me that, if I expired, I wouldn't be able to enjoy Mrs Goodfellow's cooking any more. Her chicken soup was to die for, or, more rationally, a great reason to live. As usual, she disappeared when we were eating. Unusually, I could hear her rummaging round in the cellar.

  'She's searching for her roots,' said Hobbes, dunking a chunk of crusty bread into his soup and slurping with massive enjoyment.

  I nodded, trying
to make sense of his enigmatic statement, speculating whether it might have something to do with whatever lay behind the mysterious door. However, when she emerged after a few minutes with a basket of turnips and parsnips, I understood. Yet, the door still irked me. What did it conceal and would I ever get the chance to find out? Should I even try when it might be dangerous? Whatever the answers, there were other more important puzzles to solve first, not to mention concentrating on maximising my enjoyment of the soup.

  We'd finished and were sitting on the sofa drinking tea, when a yawn erupted from deep within. A disturbed night, an exciting morning and a belly tight with chicken soup combined to induce an overwhelming fatigue and that first yawn was like the pattering of small pebbles that presage a landslide. Within moments I was engulfed and yawning uncontrollably.

  'Ooh.' Mrs Goodfellow's voice seemed to reach me from a distance. 'Hasn't he got lovely teeth? And so many of 'em.'

  I made a feeble attempt to clamp my mouth shut and vaguely noticed Hobbes carrying me upstairs over his shoulder. That was all until I woke up, the gloom and stillness suggesting dusk. I lay in bed in my pyjamas with no memory of changing; I'd bet Mrs Goodfellow had looked after me.

  I shrugged; she'd seen more of me than any woman since I was eight. Still half asleep, I winced as an old memory forced itself to the forefront of my thoughts. Though Father didn't believe in wasting good money on holidays, the doctor had insisted that Mother needed a break, because of what had happened to my sister. So, Mother, Father and I went to Tenby. We were sitting on the beach in late September and I decided I wanted a swim, though the sea was foaming as a teasing wind goaded it to a fury. While changing, goose pimples modestly concealed behind the soft folds of a towel, having just reached the awkward point, having stepped out of my pants, I was bending to pick up my new, stripy swimming trunks when a vindictive gust tore along the beach, whipping up the sand into a stinging cloud. Turning my face away, seeing my trunks taxiing for take-off, I tried to pin them down with my foot, but only stepped on the edge of the towel, tugging it from my hand. My despairing lunge for the trunks failing, they accelerated, skimming the sand and flying. A moment later, my towel, too, took flight like a fluffy seagull, its edge slapping my cheek in farewell. I stood, exposed and humiliated, convinced the eyes of the entire world were pointed at me. All my clothes were blowing away as well.