'Don't just stand there, boy,' said Father, 'go and fetch them.'
Though I tried to argue, he wouldn't listen. He sent me running along the beach, trying to retrieve my clothes, my towel and my dignity, while the bullying wind kept tossing everything just out of my reach and the tourists pointed and laughed. It had been so long ago and yet it still made me cringe.
Still, it was all in the past, irrelevant to my current life and, cramming the thoughts back into a dark recess, I indulged my body with a long stretch. Clean sheets were still a novelty and the faint fragrance of lavender was relaxing. I thought I should get up. I'd obviously missed the afternoon and wondered what we might be getting for supper.
Apart from a faint murmur of traffic rising from the street outside, the house lay in silence. Barefoot, I padded across to the window, poking my head between the curtains, looking out on the twilit town where the streetlights had just flickered into life, a handful of huddled people hurrying beneath their glow. A glimmer off the window of a parked car suggested there might already be a hint of frost. A movement from the roof opposite made me jump and my thoughts flew towards Hobbes, though it was only a ragged flock of starlings practising touch and go before roosting.
Somehow, Hobbes had tracked down Tony Derrick; somehow his bizarre crawling around on rooftops had contributed. I supposed he might have spotted Tony during his nocturnal excursion and followed him, or possibly he'd picked up his scent – I could hardly fail to have noticed that he appeared to use his nose rather like a dog – and, perhaps, an unhuman possessed other senses, ones I couldn't even imagine. Yet I knew speculation would not get me anywhere.
I guessed he'd been interviewing Tony Derrick as I slept, which was good, for the atmosphere in the interview room had grown too heavy for comfort. It was also a disappointment, since I'd have liked to see how he prised further information from the human rat. I hoped he'd found Phil, alive and well, even if it meant I'd lose any chance of hitting it off with Ingrid. Sighing, I drew the curtains and dressed, not bothering to turn on the light. Muzzy-headed and heavy after my nap, I thought a cup of tea might perk me up. There were no lights on and no sound of movement as I picked my way downstairs, though something delicious was cooking in the kitchen.
I put the kettle on, trying to avoid looking at the cellar door, for one day, I feared curiosity would drive me down there. A click suggested the front door had opened, the kitchen door, pushed to, flew open and I was engulfed in dog. Though Dregs had apparently decided I was one of the pack, a friend, and showed delight at seeing me, his enthusiasm seemed almost as bad as his earlier aggression. He was exuding tail-wagging bonhomie and an overpowering doggy odour as he alternately thrust his head into my groin or leaped at my face to favour me with a good licking. Behind the disgust, I almost felt pleased.
'Get down, you daft brute,' I said, patting his head, making an effort to keep it where it could do least harm.
'Hello, dear.' Mrs Goodfellow materialised at my side.
As I flinched, the dog took the opportunity for one last lick.
She smiled. 'Did you sleep well? You've got to be careful not to overdo things. There's not many can keep up with the old fellow.'
'Yes, I think I needed it. Now I need a cup of tea.'
'I'll make it,' she said. 'I don't want you setting fire to anything.'
Afterwards, filled with tea, I felt better until she sidled up.
'Would you give me a hand, dear?'
'No.' I recoiled. 'You've got enough. You can have my teeth when I've finished with them but not my hands.'
She hooted with laughter, her gummy mouth beaming hilarity. 'No, dear. Could you give me a hand to wash Dregs? He stinks and I don't want a dirty dog in my nice, clean house.'
'Oh. I see what you mean … umm … do you think it's wise? He's a big dog.'
'That's why I need help. I'll hold him down and you can wash him. I've got some special dog shampoo.'
I didn't really have a choice. 'OK.'
'Right, let's get him up to the bathroom. I'll carry him and you can open the doors. Alright?'
Dregs was sniffing the flip-top bin in the corner when she bent and took him by surprise. He yelped and kicked as her scrawny arms seized him, sweeping him off his feet. Big, frightened eyes looked to me for sympathy, as I led the way upstairs.
I shrugged. 'Sorry mate, but she's right, you do stink.'
Part of me thought I ought to be carrying him, yet the old girl was already jogging upstairs as fast as I could go. At the top, I flung open the bathroom door and, as I shut it behind us, the prisoner, recognising his cruel fate, howled.
After I'd filled the bath with lukewarm water, Mrs Goodfellow dunked him like a biscuit, amid a frenzy of splashing and kicking until the futility of resistance struck him, making him stand stock still, a picture of abject misery. Lathering his rough coat with dog shampoo, I rubbed it in. Now and again, his memory failing, he restarted the struggle, yet he stood no chance and, in a strange way, it made me feel better that I'd been knocked out by her; I, too, had stood no chance.
Eventually, as she lifted the defeated creature from the water, I helped towel him down. When freed from her iron grip, he still retained sufficient sogginess to drench us as he shook his coat, shedding all gloom and resentment in that glorious act of sweet revenge, scampering round the bathroom, rubbing himself on every surface, playful as a puppy, until Mrs Goodfellow, opening the door, released him into the community. He threw himself downstairs while we did our best to dry ourselves and clean up.
'The old fellow will be back for his supper soon,' she said, scrubbing away a muddy patch.
'Good,' I said, 'what is it?'
She smiled. 'I like to see a young man with a healthy appetite. It's steak and kidney pudding, one of his favourites. I hope you like it?'
'I don't know. I've had steak and kidney pie and that was alright.'
'The old fellow likes the pudding best – it was his first decent meal after getting out of hospital in the war.'
'Was he wounded?'
'He was shot as full of holes as a colander.'
'Where was he shot?'
'In the Arras area. They thought he'd die until one of his mates patched him up and held him together.'
I was shocked, finding it difficult to imagine him ever being hurt, for he exuded such an air of invulnerability that it didn't seem right that he could bleed like anyone else. Yet, I'd recognised the sensitivity in his paintings and seen occasional compassion in his actions. Perhaps, he wasn't so very different.
Arras? I groped in the haze of memory; surely it had been a battle in the First World War? Hobbes was amazing.
'I'm glad he pulled through,' I said.
Mrs Goodfellow beamed. 'So am I dear, otherwise neither of us would be here.'
I couldn't disagree. He'd saved my skin three times already. 'Has he ever rescued you?' I asked.
She nodded, giving the bath a final wipe and standing up. 'It was during the Blitz. Our house got bombed and my family was killed. All I remember is a horrible noise and the ceiling falling down. I was buried and it felt like I lay in the dark forever. Then everything lifted and the big policeman was kind. That was the old fellow.'
It was another shock, for, although I'd worked out that Hobbes was ridiculously old, I'd assumed she was as well, because she looked ancient. The idea of her being so much younger flabbergasted me.
'I'm sorry about your family,' I said, 'but he's good at saving people isn't he?
'Yes, and it didn't stop there, because he looked after me right up to my marriage.'
I would have liked to ask her about that, specifically what had happened to Mr Goodfellow and why I'd acquired his clothes but the chimes of the church clock, striking six, put an end to our chat.
'I'd better get back down to the kitchen. I don't like to keep him waiting.'
He didn't turn up. About quarter to seven, she fed me, saying it was a pity to let good food spoil when I was so obviously star
ving yet, despite the steak and kidney pudding tasting truly, fantastically delicious, I didn't really enjoy it, because she never went away and kept looking at the clock and checking the oven.
He still hadn't appeared by the time I'd finished.
'I hope he's alright,' she said. 'He's not normally late for his supper and if he is, he lets me know.'
'I expect he's just busy and has lost track of time. He'll be back soon, I'm sure.'
He wasn't. She tried his mobile without reply. I phoned the station, learning that he hadn't been seen since mid-afternoon when he'd released Tony Derrick. By half-past eight, Mrs Goodfellow looked frantic. Dregs, on the other hand, had fallen asleep in a corner and snored, as if his inner pig was trying to emerge.
At last I made a decision. The snoring had started to bug me and I couldn't stand any more of Mrs Goodfellow sitting down, standing up, looking at the clock and going to peer out the front door. Her nervousness was infectious. 'I'll go and see if he left a note at the station, and I might have a word with Billy Shawcroft. Hobbes says he knows what's going down.'
Mrs Goodfellow looked grateful and I felt relieved to be out of the house, though I was glad of the long overcoat I'd found. Turning up the collar, an icy wind slapping my ears, I wished I had a hat. Actually, Mrs Goodfellow had dug out a rather fine trilby, which I'd been too embarrassed to wear in public, even if I'd thought it made me look rather cool when posing before the mirror. Returning briefly, jamming the hat onto my head, thrusting my hands into my pockets, I strode towards the police station, my breath curling like smoke. Catching a glimpse of myself in a shop window, I thought I looked a bit like Sam Spade or some other hero of film noir. Even though I laughed at myself, some of the image and attitude stuck.
Though the streets were quiet, I couldn't ignore an impression that dark things lurked in the shadows. It was fanciful, maybe, but I was beginning to see Sorenchester differently, to see the world differently. There were more things in heaven and earth than I'd dreamt of before Hobbes. I hoped he was alright.
15
A verbal altercation was taking place by the desk when I reached the police station. Though keeping my distance, I gathered it had kicked off after a van was pulled over for speeding. The cops, looking in the back, finding it loaded with suspected contraband, had arrested the driver, who was insisting loudly and coherently that it wasn't contraband at all but props for his clown act. The Irish accent being familiar, I swiftly recognised it as belonging to Pete Moss.
No one having eyes for me, I slipped past.
The rest of the station was deserted, the big office standing in darkness. Without an audience, I opened Hobbes's door with no problem and turned on the light. His room appeared the same as always and I began to suspect I was on a fool's errand. Still, I decided, I might as well have a bit of a nose around, though I felt reluctant to rummage too deeply, in case he returned. A mess of papers littered the desktop and I was about to push them aside when I noticed the doodle. Actually, it was far better than a mere doodle, more like a portrait in ink, unmistakably the face of Narcisa Witcherley, which puzzled me. Why her? I wondered. It occurred to me, thinking back to his rather gallant manner on meeting her in Rex's office, that he might have the hots for her, for she did possess a certain feminine charm, though she'd not impressed me, being too stretched, too plastered with make-up, and being a smoker of unusually noxious cigarettes. There was another sketch of her with Tony Derrick of all people, and I wished I had Hobbes's ability for, although the portraits were accurate, Tony's held a hint of weasel, while Narcisa's suggested arrogance and coldness.
Yet it made no sense to have wasted his time drawing when he was working on a case. Maybe, he'd done it subconsciously, as I'm prone to do, though my doodles look like doodles.
I uncovered another sketch showing two men standing together, one wearing a long coat, a trilby hat pulled low and a scarf wrapped around his face, the other sporting a short jacket and a balaclava to conceal the bits of his face not obscured by sunglasses. The significance was clear; they were the villains who'd attacked Mr Barrington-Oddy.
On pushing the drawings aside, I noticed the fax from the house agent, confirming the ring was fifteenth-century Romanian, yet disputing that it had anything to do with the Order of St George. It was, in fact, a relic of a different order, the Order of the Dragon and, according to the agent, a rare and valuable object. However, Mrs Iliescu, loathing it and needing the money, had offered it for sale. The fax incorporated a copy of her advert, including historical details about Sigismund, the Holy Roman Emperor establishing the Order of the Dragon in 1408 and having the dragon ring fashioned for one of his vassals, a chap with the unfortunate name of Vlad, in about AD 1430. I felt a wavelet of satisfaction that I hadn't been entirely wrong about the Roman connection after all.
Skipping the baffling details about the Troy weight in gold and the quality of the rubies, I found a photograph of the ring, an exquisite object, shaped like a winged dragon, its tail coiled around its neck, resembling the bracelet. Despite the fax being rather blurred, I could understand Mrs Iliescu's point of view, because there was something loathsome about it, despite the quality of the craftsmanship. Yet, she obviously had great faith in its value, for its price was fifty thousand pounds – a hell of a lot of money for such a small item.
I speculated that the bracelet, though only of bronze, might be worth a similar amount to, say, a collector. Few have such money available and anyone really desiring it, my putative collector for instance, might resort to stealing as the better option. I was impressed by my insight: I was starting to think like a detective. Hobbes was starting to rub off on me.
Yet all my brilliant reasoning had got me no closer to finding him. Deciding I might as well head to the Feathers and ask Billy, I was on the point of leaving when I noticed a copy of Sorenchester Life beside the desk, open on the picture of Editorsaurus Rex and wife. Bafflingly, Hobbes had underlined some of the letters in the caption, presumably, I thought, subconsciously, for they made no sense to me.
Still, it refuelled my speculation that he'd developed some sort of crush on Narcisa and led to a sort of reluctant curiosity about the sort of sex life he enjoyed, if he enjoyed one at all. Maybe, if there were any females of his kind he could, though I felt almost certain any human female would be repulsed by his looks, if not by his Hobbesishness. Not that I was in any position for smugness, since my last hint of an amorous encounter had been when Dregs had become affectionate. I left the police station deep in thought.
It was a quiet night at the Feathers. That is, no one was actually fighting. Featherlight Binks was in an unusually convivial mood, acknowledging my arrival with a grunt that I took as a welcome. On reaching the bar, Billy Shawcroft approached, his pale face evidence of yesterday's drinking binge.
'Evening,' I said. 'Can I have a nice pint of lager?'
'Of course you can, mate,' said Billy and, under his breath, 'though it's not so nice in this dump.'
'Thanks,' I said. 'Did you enjoy your free beer last night?'
He shuddered. 'Enjoy is not the word. I must have been mad. That Romanian stuff's corrosive.'
'Romanian?' Everything was Romanian.
'Yes, Romanian,' Billy whispered, one eye watching Binks, pouring my pint. 'Dracula's Bite they call it and, though it's got a nice label, it's bloody awful and I've still got a man-sized hangover. If you think I look bad, you should see it from my side.'
Smiling, speculating about whether a dwarf-sized hangover should be a hangunder, I reached into my pocket, completely forgetting I was broke. Embarrassed, I admitted my predicament, 'Umm … I'm really sorry but I'm right out of cash.'
'Forget it. It's on me,' said Billy. 'I'm glad to do a favour for a friend of Hobbes. I'm indebted to the old devil.'
'Thanks, you're very kind.'
'You might not think so after you've tasted it.' He frowned. 'I feel like death.'
'I'm sorry to hear it, but you'll live.'
H
e groaned. 'Will I? Please say I won't. It's bloody well-named that Dracula's Bite; it makes you feel undead and you just long for a stake and I don't mean the sort you have with chips.'
'Why did Featherlight buy such bad beer?'
'It was cheap. Some Irish guy turns up from time to time selling dodgy cigarettes and last time he'd got some crates of beer. The boss bought 'em, thinking he was being shrewd but the stuff's terrible, even by our standards.'
'Would that be Pete Moss?' I asked, leaning on the bar so I could hear Billy more easily.
'Yeah, that's him. The boss is gonna punch his lights out next time he turns up, which is why he's so cheerful tonight.'
'He might have a bit of a wait,' I said. 'Pete was at the police station. He's been nicked for smuggling.'
'Lucky bastard,' said Billy, grinning. Then, clutching his head, he moaned. 'Oh God, I shouldn't move my face in the state I'm in.'
'You'll be OK,' I reassured him and took a slurp of lager, which wiped the smile off my face. Standing upright, I peeled my sleeves off the bar. 'By the way, have you seen anything of Hobbes today?'
'No. Why?'
'Well,' I said, 'he didn't turn up for his supper and didn't phone to say he'd be late. His housekeeper says it's not normal and she's worried.'
'He can look after himself. He'll turn up.'
'You're probably right. Except … umm … he was last seen with Tony Derrick.'
Billy, grimacing, held his head again. 'Well in that case, I hope Hobbes gives the bastard a right good walloping. Tell you what, I'll keep my eyes open and my ear to the ground and let you know if anything turns up, OK?'
He turned to serve an impatient customer.
I finished my drink, apart from the mysterious selection of brown lumps at the bottom. 'Goodnight,' I said, walking towards the door.
Featherlight responded by merrily chucking a soggy rag at me. When I saw what came out as it splattered against the wall, I was mightily relieved he'd missed. Slithering down the wall like a giant slug, it flopped onto a chair, just as the bloke Billy had served sat on it. I closed the door behind me, stepping into the frosty street, as a bellow of rage rang out and Featherlight answered with a roar. Normal service had resumed and I wondered whether Mrs Goodfellow would shortly be adding to her collection.
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 23
