'I'll trouble you to watch your language in the House of the Lord, young man.'
Glancing up to apologise, I met the glare of the blue-haired woman.
'You,' she said with a look of contempt, 'I might have known. I'm going to call the police.'
'Oh no you're not,' I said, suppressing my instinct to flee, standing up, looking her right in the eye, 'I'm leaving now on important police business. Do not interfere.' It must have been the way I said it, for she was speechless as I strode from the church.
Heading back to the dentist's, I picked up Sorenchester Life.
'Are you here for an appointment?' asked the receptionist.
'No, I've come for this.' I said, holding up the magazine. 'I need to borrow it. I'll bring it back.'
Hurrying into the street before she could protest, I turned to the article, which was only accredited to NW. Looking in the index, I discovered that Witcherley Publications, Editor R. Witcherley, Contributing Editor N. Witcherley, owned the magazine and, since none of the other contributors had the initials NW, concluded that Narcisa was the author. I couldn't help noticing the names of other Bugle journalists, including Phil Waring and even Ingrid on the list of writers. I'd never realised there was a connection between the Bugle and Sorenchester Life, much less been invited to write for it, and resentment began to bubble until I forced myself to simmer down and consider.
'OK,' I said, thinking out loud, 'she wrote it and then what? Did she give the notebook to someone else?'
'I'm sorry, I don't know,' said a little old guy in a flat cap and muffler, scuttling away, as if I was the loony that sits next to you on the bus.
A bizarre thought sprouted. Perhaps Editorsaurus Rex was behind the crimes. He would certainly have access to Narcisa's notebook and could easily have hired someone to carry out the dirty deeds. It was possible, of course, that Narcisa was, herself, the master criminal, though I didn't think she looked the type. Still, I could think of no sensible reasons why either of them would have done it. Why would they need to steal? I knew they were wealthy enough to own a holiday home abroad.
I decided to approach the Editorsaurus. My next stop would be the Bugle's offices.
16
I'd always suffered with butterflies in my stomach when entering Editorsaurus Rex's presence. On the whole, this had been because I was trying to work out what I'd done wrong. This time, I was pretty much going to accuse him or his wife of stealing, or worse, and it felt like I'd got a flock of vultures flapping around inside. Nevertheless, despite a brief, panicky dither on the stairs, I was determined to give it my best shot.
Taking a deep breath, I strode into the main office, looking like I meant business. Ingrid turned away as I headed for Rex's den, which hurt more than my fist when I thumped on his door in the style of Hobbes. There was no reply. I hesitated, caught between knocking again and barging straight in.
'He's not in.'
Though she was still talking to me, there was no smile, just polite indifference.
'Rex is away. Duncan's in charge.'
I grimaced. So, Duncan was back already; he had stitched me up with Hobbes.
'But I need to talk to Rex … umm … or Mrs Witcherley,' I said. 'It's important.'
'Then you're out of luck. They're away together.'
My plan had fallen at the first hurdle. 'I don't suppose you know where?'
She shrugged. 'Romania, I suppose.'
'Romania? Why Romania?' It seemed I couldn't get away from the place.
'It's where she comes from, or at least, her family did. They've got a holiday home in the mountains out there. Now, excuse me, I've work to do.' Spinning back to her computer, she stabbed at the keys.
I slouched away, no longer the hound hot on the trail, more like a whipped puppy. Leaving the building, I stopped, uncertain what to do, the fires of enthusiasm having been all but extinguished, shivering as the wind flung hard, stinging nodules of snow into my face. For want of a better idea, I headed back to Blackdog Street where, with luck I'd hear some good news and, if not, at least I'd get a cup of tea.
I opened the door of number 13, bracing myself when I saw Dregs lying there, watching and waiting, but he greeted me with a single wag of his tail, a mournful look in his eyes, almost as if it was bath time again. Mrs Goodfellow was stirring a pot on the stove when I entered the kitchen and, whatever it was smelt delicious, though I was never destined to taste it. She'd been shopping and piles of groceries were heaped on nearly every surface.
'Any news?' I asked, though her expression had already told me.
She shook her head. 'I'm cooking his favourites for when he comes back. What about you, dear? Have you found out anything?' Her voice shook, as if she'd been crying, though there were no tears.
'Not much.' I sat at the table in front of a huge, bloody leg of lamb in a dish. 'I think my editor and his wife might know something, only they've gone to Romania.'
She sighed. 'Have they, dear? Well, I expect you'd like a cup of tea and a bit of dinner?'
Glancing at the clock, I nodded. It was nearly one.
Though the cup of tea was up to standard, the bread in the cheese and pickle sandwiches was, perhaps, a little dry. This wasn't a complaint, merely an indication of her state of mind. I covered up my disappointment, eating to fill the emptiness.
I was still at the table, comfortably full and warm, when, my brain, unfreezing, started working. If Hobbes had been onto something, perhaps that had led to his disappearance. Perhaps he, too, had uncovered the link between Romania and the Witcherleys, who, of course, employed Phil, who had some connection to Tony Derrick. It struck me then that Hobbes's sketches might have been more than idle doodles. The fact of his having drawn Tony and Narcisa together, and then sketching Barrington-Oddy's attackers, sparked a possibility. I'd just assumed both assailants were men, but could one have been a woman? The taller, skinny one, whose face had been hidden by a scarf and a hat might have been. Another idea nudged into my head: Hobbes had discovered fibres with the faint scent of flowers. Could that have been Narcisa's perfume?
Then, of course, Pete Moss had sold some of his foul Carpati cigarettes to a woman who was organising a party, and had mentioned that she'd been with a ratty bloke. It had to be Narcisa and Tony. Probably, anyway. I'd even heard her party at the Blackdog Café and was willing to bet all the thumping music was to cover the break-in at the museum. By then, I'd nearly convinced myself the Witcherleys were up to their necks in crime, with Tony as their accomplice. A deluge of congratulation and excitement bursting over me, left me gasping with self-admiration, thinking I was really getting the hang of the detective game.
Unfortunately, I couldn't see how my brilliance would help, especially now the Witcherleys were in Romania and Phil and Hobbes were still missing. I discounted the idea that Hobbes had gone after them – he wouldn't without telling Mrs Goodfellow. It was then I realised his car had vanished as well. We'd left it outside Tony's squalid squat and it hadn't been there when I'd gone back with Kev. Nor had it been at the police station. Had he retrieved it and then gone missing? Or had Tony stolen it? Or was there another explanation? Detecting wasn't so easy after all.
Dregs padded in, sitting gloomily on my foot, sighing, and I wondered whether my initial idea had merit.
I jumped up. 'Where's his lead? I'm going to see if he can find Hobbes.'
'Are you, dear?' The old girl was attacking a vegetable with a cleaver. 'It's on the hook by the back door. I hope you find him, because he'll be hungry and I ought to tell you, dear, he can get rather wild when he's hungry. You'd best take the leg of lamb. I'll wrap it for you.'
'But it's not cook—' I began. 'Oh, yeah. Right.'
Wrapping the bloody leg in a tea towel, she dropped it into a carrier bag. Though Dregs watched, he'd been fed and was far too interested in the prospect of a walk to spare a thought for raw meat. Besides, he preferred his meals nicely cooked. Mindful of the cold, I donned my overcoat and trilby, and clipped him to the chunky length of
chain and led him out.
'Take care, dear,' she said as I shut the door, 'and good luck.'
'Right then, Dregs,' I said. 'Find Hobbes. Got it? Find Hobbes.'
He looked at me and then bounded down the road with a woof. I struggled to hold him back, pleased how well my experiment was working, until he came to an abrupt halt by the nearest lamppost and gave vent to pent-up emotions, letting off steam in the cold air. I'd not taken into account that he'd been inside all morning. At last he finished and, after a rapturous bout of sniffing, set off with an excited woof.
Though I'd got him on a short chain and was hauling back with all my strength, I struggled to keep up, my strides growing longer and longer, sure that, sooner or later, I'd crash to the pavement, yet, amazingly, keeping going. My hat blew off as we turned into Pound Street; I never saw it again. On reaching the main Fenderton Road, Dregs had enough sense to keep away from the traffic because, so far as I could see, the only way I could even slow him was by flinging myself to the ground and acting as an anchor.
The overcoat had been a mistake, for sweat was already trickling down my chest, sticking the shirt to my back. I glimpsed my reflection in a car's tinted window; my face was puffed out, as red as a robin's chest, my hair was sticking up in damp clumps. When I managed to unbutton the coat, it flapped like heavy wings. I wasn't used to such exercise, and the cheese sandwiches were making sure I couldn't forget them.
I kept going, though my head, in contrast to my leaden body, felt light and I wondered when my lungs would give up the struggle. It was, surely, a race between them and my heart as to which exploded first. I think the speed camera on the outskirts of Fenderton flashed as we went by, although it might just have been the lights in my head. My tongue lolled like the dog's, though he was in his element, running with boundless enjoyment, apparently oblivious to the dying man he was dragging behind.
When he made a sharp turn to the right, darting across the road, I didn't. Inertia, plus both feet happening to be off the ground, meant I carried straight on until the chain, jerking in my hand as it twisted round a pole, snapped tight. The next thing I remember, I was sprawling on my side on the pavement, gasping for breath like a landed fish, panicking that my lungs had collapsed under the impact. Cars and lorries thundered past. No one stopped to help.
Though I guess I was just winded, it was ages before I could breathe normally, sit up and audit my other injuries. My wrist was raw and tender where the lead had chafed, my shoulder felt as if it had been wrenched from its socket, the side of my face was bruised and bleeding, my hip was throbbing and sore, blood was pounding through my head, and I hoped the stickiness inside my clothes was only sweat. Nothing seemed too serious but the experience gave me an insight into how Tony must have felt when Hobbes tackled him. Using the pole as support, I climbed back to my feet. A sign on top thanked me for driving safely.
I brushed myself down as well as I could, while my pulse and breathing dropped to sustainable levels. The clip on the chain had snapped off and there was no sign of Dregs, which was good, because I'd half-expected to see him flattened in the middle of the busy road. I was furious, coming close to abandoning him, going home, licking my wounds. Yet, worst luck, I recognised my responsibility for the daft brute. Groaning and swearing, picking up the bag of lamb from the gutter, I hobbled across the road into a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac that looked familiar. It was Alexander Court, where Mr Roman had lived.
'Dregs!' I yelled and no dog appeared. 'Where are you?'
The net curtains of number 2 opened and a tubby grey-haired woman stared out. I could feel her suspicion burning into me.
'Here boy!' I held up the lead, making a pantomime of searching before turning towards her with a smile and a shrug. Though the curtains closed, I could feel eyes watching as I walked away.
I'd been impressed by Roman's house, yet it was rather small compared to one or two of the others. Most were set well back from the road as if they had something to hide and I caught myself staring at one that lurked behind a high yew hedge. With its Cotswold stone walls and chimneys like turrets, it might have passed as a small castle. Its front lawn, as smooth and neat as a bowling green, was edged with exotic shrubs and naked flowerbeds. A brushed gravel drive led towards a double garage, outside of which stood a Volvo, as glossy and black as a raven.
Carrying on up the road, I called again for the dog, as memory dropped a reminder into my consciousness; a black Volvo – I couldn't help thinking it ought to ring a bell.
Bong! Pete Moss had said the thin woman who'd bought his cigarettes drove a black Volvo. Coincidence? Maybe.
Bong! A second bell rang. A black Volvo had passed us yesterday, a thin woman with eyes like death staring out at me. An image formed in my mind, slowly twisting into shape. It could easily have been Narcisa, camouflaged by lack of makeup. I was almost sure.
Which meant she hadn't been in Romania then and, perhaps, still wasn't. To my surprise, I had a hunch. Perhaps, I'd just seen the same car and therefore, perhaps, it was parked on the Witcherleys' drive.
Needing to know, I turned back. A quick ring on the doorbell would show whether my guess was correct and, if not, which seemed more likely, I could use my lost dog as an excuse for disturbing the occupants. Scrunching though the deep gravel, I reached the polished oak and gleaming brass front door. Behind it was a porch roughly the same size as the lounge in my poor old flat. I caught a faint tang of metal polish as I reached out to press the glinting doorbell.
I waited. And waited, wondering if it had worked. Pressing again, I was on the point of giving up when Editorsaurus Rex appeared, dressed in jeans and a faded red sweatshirt. I'd never seen him casual before and the sight made me even more nervous than usual. A faint frown crossed his jowly face as, shuffling across the porch, he opened the front door. He was wearing fluffy white socks and sported a lurid mark on his neck, like a love-bite. I gulped, astonished my guesswork had paid off.
'Capstan?' his voice boomed. 'What the devil do you want? Have you been fighting? You're not getting your job back if that's what you think.'
It didn't seem worthwhile correcting him. 'Good Afternoon,' I said. 'I was … umm … wondering if you'd seen Inspector Hobbes today?'
Rex shook his head. 'Hobbes? I haven't seen him since you brought him along to my office. Damn it, Capstan, you should have learned to fight your own battles at your age. How old are you? Twenty-nine? Thirty?'
'Thirty-seven.'
He shook his head again. 'Is that it, then? And, please tell me, why you've got a dog chain in your hand?'
'I've lost a dog.'
'As well as Hobbes? It smacks of gross carelessness. Well, I'm sure when you find Hobbes he'll find your dog for you. Good Afternoon.' He closed the door in my face.
My mouth opened and closed, my hands fluttering stupidly. There'd been so much I'd wanted to ask, yet, as usual, he'd steamrollered me. Frustrated and angry, I started back down the drive, pausing by the garage, its doors gleaming with brass fittings set in varnished, panelled wood, below a row of glinting windows. Curiosity prompted a peek inside. To the left was a large silver car, a Daimler I think. Far more interesting to me was Hobbes's small car on the right.
I tried the garage doors. They were locked. I dithered, trying to think. Rex, it seemed, had lied and, unless he'd stolen the car, Hobbes must have been there, and, perhaps, still was. Maybe I'd been correct to think Rex was up to no good. My best course of action, I came to the conclusion, was to call the police and get professional help.
Jogging back along the drive, heading down the road to number 2, I presumed, in the circumstances, she'd allow me to use her phone. The net curtains moved as I trotted down the garden path by the side of a lawn, heavily decorated with gnomes. Though I rang the bell and waited, the door didn't open. Stepping back, I unleashed my most ingratiating smile on the window. The net curtains twitched again.
'Good afternoon. I wonder if I might … umm … use your phone? It's a sort of an emerge
ncy.'
Nothing happened. I rang the bell again and waited. A car, speeding up the road, stopped. A door slammed.
'Please can I come in? It's rather import … oof!'
A heavy hand, seizing my shoulder, turned me round. It belonged to a large, hard-faced, young policeman, though not one I recognised. For no reason, I felt guilty.
'Now, what d'you think you're up to, sir?' he said, politely enough but without removing his hand.
'I wanted to use the telephone.'
'There's a public call box opposite the village shop. Why don't you use that?'
'Because it's an emergency and I haven't got any money.'
'So you thought you'd get some here, did you?'
I was confident I could explain myself. 'No, I just wanted to use the phone. You see …'
The front door opening, the fat woman stood before me, red-faced, quivering with rage. 'Well done, officer,' she said. 'I've been watching him. He's been up and down the road, casing the joints. I'll bet he was the one who broke into poor Mr Roman's.'
'Look …'
'You can tell at a glance he's up to no good. What a scruffy, dirty, ugly, little man! He's obviously had a go at someone and been given a taste of his own medicine. What a brute! It wouldn't surprise me to learn he's a murderer, too. It's a good job I spotted him in time.'
'But …'
'And he's armed, just look at that vicious chain.'
'It's for …'
'Thank you, Madam.' The policeman, raising his hand to dam the torrent, looked me straight in the eye and smiled. 'Now, what have you got to say for yourself, sir?'
'I'm not a burglar. The chain's for my dog.'
'Oh really?' he said. 'I see no dog. Would you mind if I take a look in your bag, sir?'
I'd almost forgotten about it. 'It's not important,' I said.
'I'll be the judge of that, sir.' Taking it from me, he tipped it out.
A bundle wrapped in a blood-stained tea towel rolled down the path.
'Murder!' screamed the fat woman.
The policeman stepped back, a look of shock on his face. He poked the bundle with his foot and the meat jutted out.
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 25
