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

by Martin, Wilkie

  As I hurried away, the lager sloshing in my stomach, my foot struck an empty bottle on the kerb, which, rolling into the gutter, shattered. Stopping to kick the broken glass down a nearby drain where it wouldn't be of danger, I noticed the label.

  'Dracula's Bite Romanian Export Beer', it said in blood-red gothic letters. Stepping into the road, I picked it up, examining it beneath a streetlight. Billy had been right to claim the label, showing a white-walled, red-turreted castle on a hill surrounded by trees, was picturesque. 'Castle Bran, legendary Carpathian home of Count Dracula', I read. I don't mind admitting it worried me. What worried me more was the roar of the swerving motorbike.

  As I flung myself back onto the pavement, the bike screeched to a stop. A menacing, helmeted figure in black leathers stepped off, coming towards me, removing his heavy gauntlets. I thought I was in for it.

  'It's Andy isn't it? Are you alright?' asked the figure, removing his helmet, revealing himself as Kev the Rev.

  'Oh,' I said, relieved, 'umm … yes I'm alright. I'm sorry if I got in your way.'

  'You didn't really. I was just passing and, seeing you looked kind of lost, I thought I'd better stop and see if I could help.'

  'It's good of you.'

  'Well I am a reverend, I'm meant to be good, though it's not always easy. Anyway, to coin a phrase, why the long face?'

  'It's not me, I'm alright. I'm worried about Inspector Hobbes.'

  'I'm not surprised,' said Kev, 'he's a very worrying bloke. What's he done to you?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Nothing yet you mean. I remember him putting the fear of God into me when I started getting into trouble, which is why I ended up doing what I do.'

  I understood what he meant. Hobbes had the power to terrify with a glance, a word or an action, though it was not only Mrs Goodfellow who was worried about him. I had to admit it; so was I.

  'No, he's gone missing and I'm looking for him.'

  'Fuckrying out loud. How can he go missing? He's about as inconspicuous as a tiara on a turtle. Have you asked anyone?'

  'Yeah, he was last seen leaving the station with a guy called Tony Derrick who's a right little weasel.'

  'Now, now,' said Kev, 'we are all God's children. Mind you, I know what you mean. I've known Tony since I was a boy and he really is a nasty little shit. They say he had it tough; his mum left when he was a nipper and his dad was a violent alcoholic swine, but, may God forgive me, every time I meet him, I struggle against an urge to throttle the bugger. Tell you what, though, if you like, I know where he's been living, I'll give you a lift there, and you can ask him. I've got a spare lid in the box.'

  'Thank you,' I said.

  'You can hold onto me if you like.'

  A couple of minutes later I was sitting on the back of his bike, my trilby replaced by a smelly helmet, thinking that Hobbes's driving hadn't been so bad after all. It wasn't that Kev did anything unusual for a motorcyclist, it was just that I'd never been on a bike before and was wishing I'd never been on one at all. Clinging to the back stanchion, refusing to put my arms around Kev, I hoped I'd live long enough to die of the frostbite I was convinced was eating my extremities. Yet, in a few minutes, we were safely outside Tony's.

  The street was still deserted except for the cat on the mattress and there was no sign of anyone being home. Getting off the bike, approaching the front door, I knocked. Total silence. Total darkness. I returned to Kev.

  'No luck?'

  I shook my head. 'Umm … you don't happen to know anything about Romania, do you?'

  He frowned. 'That's an odd question. Why do you want to know?'

  I didn't tell him everything, though I did mention that Hobbes had been, or, I hoped, still was, working on a case involving Romania. And I did tell him about Dracula's Bite beer and Pete Moss.

  'I know Pete,' said Kev, 'he's a rogue, though one with a good heart.'

  'He was arrested tonight,' I said, 'for smuggling.'

  'It's not the first time.' Kev's breath curled in the breeze and his mouth curled into a smile. 'He once had the brilliant notion of smuggling fake Viagra into the country. He stuffed the pills into condoms and swallowed them. The trouble was, one burst and, well, he rather stood out when he tried to get through Customs. He was so obviously a hardened criminal.'

  'Leave it out. I'm not in the mood.'

  'Which is precisely what his girlfriend told him when he got home.'

  'Shut up.'

  'Sorry,' Kev shrugged, 'I was only trying to cheer you up. Tell you what, I'll give you a lift home. I wouldn't worry about Hobbes, he can handle himself, which is, incidentally, what Pete had to do. Sorry. No, I bet he's back home right now. Jump on.'

  Dropping me outside the front door of Blackdog Street, he drove away with a cheery wave. I went inside, to be greeted by Dregs as a long-lost friend. A glance at Mrs Goodfellow's face sufficed to tell me Hobbes hadn't returned. Sitting together on the sofa, we talked occasionally, flicking between television channels, starting at every sound from outside. Despite my afternoon nap, I was still whacked and went up to bed before midnight. She said she'd wait up a little longer.

  As I lay in bed, dozing, I couldn't stop myself listening for the front door opening. Sleep kept its distance, my mind ticking over, trying to make sense of everything and I was still awake when the church clock struck one and the old girl came upstairs. I awoke with daylight filtering into the room through inadequately closed curtains. Swirling inside my head were dream images as substantial as mist and, like early morning mist, they soon evaporated, leaving only a residue of unease.

  The clock said it was nine-thirty. I got up, opening the curtains, sitting back on the bed, yawning and stretching. Hearing movement from Hobbes's room, I leaped back to my feet, with a punch of the air and a suppressed cheer. It would have been far too embarrassing to let him know I'd been worried, so I pulled myself together and strolled out, as if on my way to the bathroom, intending to look in and say Good Morning, before finding out where he'd been and what he'd been doing.

  His door, standing ajar, I poked my head inside. Hobbes wasn't there but Dregs was, walking round and round, sniffing and whimpering like a lost puppy. He was delighted to see me and even more delighted to smell me. Secretly gratified, I tried to push the beast down and keep his cold nose from my groin. I succeeded, though his long wet tongue curled across my face in a sneak attack.

  'Get down,' I said and he sat, looking up as if expecting me to do something. I wasn't used to dogs and my first experiences with him had been unpleasant, yet, now I felt safe, there was something reassuring about his presence. 'So Hobbes isn't back?'

  Dregs's ears perked up and he began sniffing round the room again.

  'He must be somewhere,' I said. 'A bloke like him can't just vanish.' The dog tilted his head to one side as I explained. 'He's too big to hide, though I still don't know how to find him.'

  Dregs wagged his tail, sniffing the carpet and giving me an idea. Dogs, I knew, could follow trails, so maybe Dregs could find Hobbes. But first I needed breakfast.

  When washed and dressed I went downstairs. Mrs Goodfellow being out, I was forced to make my own tea and toast, managing the feat without any involuntary arson, eating and drinking in silence, vaguely aware of Dregs padding about above. My mind was apparently in neutral, yet something must have been going on behind the scenes because, to my surprise, I experienced a moment of inspiration. It felt almost as if someone had flicked a switch in my brain, turning on a floodlight, letting me realise what a spluttering, smoky, little candle normally illuminated my thoughts. Hurrying to the sitting room, I searched for Sorenchester Life, needing to see the photo of the Editorsaurus and wife. The magazine had gone; Mrs Goodfellow must have thrown it away.

  A minute or two later, and to my surprise, I was running down Blackdog Street heading for the police station, barely noticing the icy air whipping my face, the slippery pavements still white with frost and the grey, frigid sky. I was gasping and sweaty when I a
rrived but I'd run all the way and felt mightily impressed with myself.

  'Has Hobbes been in?'

  The desk sergeant shook his head. 'Not yet. Can I help you, sir?'

  'No, not really. I need something from his office.'

  'Sorry, sir, I can't allow you in, if you're not with the Inspector. I'm afraid it's no entry.'

  'It's important.' I raised my voice. 'Very important.'

  'Sorry, sir, and I'd be obliged if you'd stop shouting and go about your business.'

  'But it is my business! He's gone missing and there's something in his office I think might be a clue.'

  'The Inspector can look after himself. He probably has good reasons for being absent and if he really has gone missing then it's police business.'

  Though I argued, the sergeant was immovable. 'It's only a magazine I want.' When I tried to push past, he moved surprisingly quickly, holding me in an arm lock.

  'Please leave, sir,' he said, still polite, though the pressure on my arm hinted it could become extremely painful.

  Leaving, muttering furiously, yet afraid of getting myself banged up in a cell, I stamped up and down outside, fuming and fretting, unsure what to do next. Someone walked out and stood in my way.

  A soft Irish accent addressed me. 'Are you alright, there?'

  I stopped and Pete Moss, clown, entertainer and smuggler grinned at me.

  'Yes,' I said. 'Or rather, no… umm … maybe.'

  'It's best to cover all your options,' said Pete with a nod. 'Don't I know you? Yeah, weren't you with Hobbes the other day? You're not a copper, right?'

  'That's right. I'm Andy.'

  Reaching for my hand, shaking it, he said, 'Hobbes is a decent fellow, for a copper. He's pretty straight, even if he always makes me feel like a naughty schoolboy before the headmaster, though I've never seen a headmaster as ugly as he is. Jaysus! He gave me a turn the night I was discovered at the theatre.'

  'Were you auditioning?'

  'Not exactly. He discovered me backstage when I was … acquiring some bits for my act. I thought I was for the high jump and ran for it, fancying myself as an athlete in those days. Once, I even entered the London marathon.'

  I was impressed. 'How did you do?'

  'I walked it.'

  'You won?'

  He laughed. 'No. I really did walk most of it.'

  'Is that a joke?'

  'Actually, no.' He shrugged. 'I did try, only I hadn't run in my shoes enough and got blisters, hence, my abysmal performance. Even so, I was well fit when Hobbes came after me and, seeing the size of him, I reckoned I'd get away easily but – Jaysus! – he's bloody fast, like an avalanche.'

  'What happened?' I was fascinated despite the urgency and the frost nipping my ears.

  'He collared me pretty damn quick and I thought he'd run me in but he didn't. He made me put all the stuff back, gave me a good talking to and then, I don't know why, he took me shopping and paid for the stuff I needed from his own wallet.'

  'Amazing,' I said because there were no words to do justice to my thoughts.

  'I reckoned I was for it again when he pulled me over the other week,' said Pete, 'yet he got me to the gig on time. Sadly, I reckon I'm really in trouble after this latest incident. They caught me red-handed with contraband cigarettes and bloody awful beer.'

  'Carpati cigarettes and Dracula's Bite beer?'

  He nodded. 'Correct. The fags aren't so bad if you like that sort of thing but the beer is …' He tailed off. 'Well, let's just say it's not Guinness.'

  'So I've heard, from someone who got drunk on it.'

  He looked shocked. 'Someone got drunk on it? Jaysus! Is he alright? He must be made of sterner stuff than me. I can only manage to force down a few sips, to impress customers with its hoppy, fruity characteristics.'

  'Billy said it tasted of oven cleaner.'

  'He's the little fellow at the Feathers?'

  I nodded.

  Pete shrugged. 'I've heard tell he'll drink anything. I wouldn't put it past him to have tried oven cleaner.' He grimaced. 'How is Hobbes?'

  'He's gone missing. I'm worried.'

  'Don't be, he can look after himself if anyone can.'

  I shook my head and told of my concerns. I probably said more than I should have, though I had the feeling I could trust Pete.

  His blue eyes looked grave. 'I wish I could help but I've got to make a few arrangements before my case comes up. Look, I don't know if it's of any use, I've only sold a few of those Carpati cigarettes round here recently. Most were to Featherlight or to a lady who was arranging a party. She was a skinny old biddy. I can't remember her name, though she drives a black Volvo. I only met her because she was with a ratty-looking fellow I'd bumped into at the Feathers. He told her my fags were OK and she bought a load of boxes. It was a nice profit and all tax-free, so I wasn't going to complain.'

  Pete, I decided, though a nice enough guy for a criminal, didn't half go on when I wanted to hurry. Besides, I was getting cold. 'Sorry,' I said, 'I've got to go. Thanks for your information.' I didn't think it would be much use.

  I hurried to a newsagent on the lower part of The Shambles, spending a frustrating ten minutes looking through the magazine racks for Sorenchester Life.

  The girl manicuring her nails behind the till acknowledged my existence when I'd got to the muttering stage. 'Can I help you?'

  'I'm looking for Sorenchester Life.'

  'Is there life in Sorenchester?' She smirked.

  'I mean the magazine Sorenchester Life.' I almost growled. Hobbes was definitely catching.

  'You're standing right in front of it. On the third shelf.'

  I'd been looking straight at it, only not at the issue I wanted. 'I was looking for last month's. Have you got it?'

  'We did have. Last month.'

  'Do you know where I could get it?'

  'Haven't a clue.'

  'Thanks, you've been a great help.'

  I stomped out the shop as the girl went back to her nails. For want of anything better to do, feeling helpless, I started walking back towards Blackdog Street, looking around, hoping to spot Hobbes. I was out of luck. However, I did spot a plaque for a dental surgery and, on impulse, stepped inside. The waiting room was nearly full. Although it smelled of fear and sounded of drills, I ignored everything, except for the table upon which teetered a tower of dog-eared magazines. I found the right issue of Sorenchester Life near the top, flicking through until I came to the picture of the Editorsaurus and Narcisa.

  As I stared at the caption, Mr Rex Witcherley and wife, Narcisa, enjoy a joke, I tried to remember which letters Hobbes had underlined, with an idea that something was starting to make sense at last. I thought back to Hobbes highlighting the faint impressions on the scrap of paper he'd found at Mr Roman's, the few letters standing out forming the enigmatic message, EX WITCH IS A JOY OK and read the caption again to make sure. Mr Rex Witcherley and wife, Narcisa, enjoy a joke.

  An ashen-faced man spoke to the pretty young receptionist. 'I've got to make an appointment for root canal surgery.'

  'Brilliant! That's fantastic!' I cried.

  Shocked faces stared at me.

  'Sorry.' Replacing the magazine, I hurried away, glad to escape; dentists reminded me of my father and made me edgy. Nonetheless, I was almost dancing on reaching the street, where a few dusty snowflakes were swirling. I had solved a clue and the fact that Hobbes had done it first hardly detracted from the satisfaction.

  I could have cheered until I realised I still didn't understand anything. All I knew was that someone had written out the caption from the magazine, leaving an impression on the paper, which had then been used for writing down the combination of Mr Roman's safe. So what?

  My sense of satisfaction having died by the time I reached the church, I sneaked inside, hoping for divine inspiration. I really wanted to be up and searching for Hobbes but I'd got nothing to go on except for the one clue, assuming it was a clue, and my hare-brained notion of Dregs as a tracker-
dog.

  The blue-haired lady at the book counter was belittling a confused Japanese couple, and didn't notice me creep into a pew where I sat, head bowed. Somehow, it felt even colder in the church than outside and I wished I'd taken the time to put on my overcoat.

  All I had to work on was my clue and Hobbes's sudden obsession with Narcisa. It was time for deep thinking. So, someone had written the caption on the note pad and someone with different handwriting had scrawled the combination for the safe on the sheet below. But why would anyone copy such a caption? It wasn't interesting, just a few bland words in a dull magazine. I couldn't imagine anyone doing it.

  Then it struck me and it was obvious. The reporter who'd covered the ball would have made notes, as most reporters didn't forget their notebooks, and I remembered thinking at the time that the paper had been torn from a small, cheap, wired jotting pad, much like we used at the Bugle.

  Feeling like a bloodhound finally picking up the trail, I understood why they bayed, and might have yelled in triumph had I not been in church. Clenching my fists and shaking them at the ceiling was as far as I let myself go. I was convinced a reporter had jotted down the caption in the notebook and that whoever had written the combination to Mr Roman's safe on the following leaf had access to the notebook. Therefore, it was probable the reporter had been involved with the break-in at Mr Roman's!

  A mischievous part of my brain reminded me that Phil was a reporter. However, I knew his writing and was pretty sure he was in the clear. Therefore, I needed to discover who had actually written the article. I ground my teeth because I hadn't thought to look before.

  I'd have to return to the dentist's. 'Damn.' My mutter came out louder than anticipated.