3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘Alas, poor Yorick!’ I said, a long-forgotten incident popping unbidden into my head. ‘I knew him, Dregs.’

  It was a conditioned response and I was as unable to restrain myself as Pavlov’s dogs could have stopped drooling at the sound of a bell. It all went back to when my class was studying the graveyard scene in Hamlet and I still remembered the malicious expression of Psycho Simms, our English teacher, who, book in hand, called me and ‘Bill’ Bailey to the front.

  ‘Caplet,’ said Psycho, ‘although you are, perhaps, the most unlikely prince, you will recite Hamlet’s part. Bailey, you play Horatio. Take it from where Hamlet picks up the skull.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ I said, my mind instantly going as blank as the freshly-wiped whiteboard. ‘Alas … umm … alas … alas … alas … umm.’

  ‘Poor,’ said Psycho.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Oh, I see: that’s what comes next.’ I turned towards Bailey ‘Alas, poor … umm …’ I stared at his round, pimply face, struggling to recall the stupid name, growing ever more desperate, my mind empty of everything but embarrassment. As Psycho and the class waited and waited, someone sniggered and the blood burned my cheeks as my dramatic pause seemed to stretch towards infinity.

  Bailey, taking pity, was mouthing the name.

  I nodded, confidence flooding back, and, raising my hand dramatically, staring at an imaginary skull, I came out with the immortal words: ‘Alas, poor Yogi!’

  I never finished the speech. My role ended with a stunning rap on the head from the complete works of Shakespeare, mocking laughter from my classmates and having to write out the scene one hundred times.

  Hobbes appeared with a brace of hares dangling limply from his belt.

  ‘Hello, ’ello, ’ello,’ he said. ‘I take my eye off you for one minute and find you engaged in all sorts of skulduggery.’

  I grimaced.

  ‘I always knew you’d get ahead one day.’

  ‘How can you joke about it?’ I asked, trembling and hoping I’d only picked up a prehistoric relic, not a recently dead skull.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but humour soothes the sting of horror. Give it to me, please.’

  I handed it over, nearly losing my breakfast when he sniffed it. He frowned, turning it over and round, running his hand over it, holding it up and examining it from all angles.

  ‘It’s only a few years old at the most and, judging by the size and the brow ridge, I’d say it belonged to an adult male human. It has received a severe blow to the top which caused a penetrating fracture. Of course, that might have occurred post mortem. I’m not an expert.’

  Carefully, he put it down and began sifting through the rock pile, pushing aside a number of slabs to reveal a skeleton, still partially covered in ragged, faded scraps of clothing and with a pair of boots on the feet. I grabbed for Dregs’s collar, but he made no attempt to go for the bones.

  ‘Again,’ said Hobbes, frowning and thoughtful, ‘the hips suggest an adult male and, to judge from the long bones, quite a tall one.’ He pointed to an arm. ‘The upper bone plate and radius have fused, suggesting he was out of his teens, while the collarbone development indicates he was probably older than his late twenties.’

  Squatting, he peered at the torso, where it was exposed beneath what might have once been a red-checked shirt. ‘There is a little degeneration of the spine and that, together with the wear and tear on his teeth, leads me to speculate that our man was in his mid-forties.’

  His calm assessments felt like soothing balm on my raw nerves and my brain started functioning again.

  ‘How long has he been here?’ I asked. ‘And how did he get here?’

  ‘It’s not easy to be accurate,’ he said, ‘and as I said, I’m no expert, but I’ll take a stab at it. The rocks and slates have protected the body from larger scavengers, so the skeleton is mostly intact and, although small animals have disturbed them to some extent, the bones are in reasonably good condition. The clothing and the boots are modern and appear to be of a type suitable for hill walking. I’d guess the cloth has made many a mouse nest cosier.

  ‘I’d say he’s probably been dead for two, maybe three years, and that someone killed him and carried him here to conceal the body.’

  ‘It was murder then?’ I said, my sick feelings returning.

  ‘It seems likely. Clearly he didn’t bury himself and the skull fracture suggests a violent attack. Assuming that’s what killed him, the wound would have bled considerably, but there’s no sign it bled round here, although that might be down to time and rain. I would also have expected a hill walker to have some sort of backpack and, at least, basic survival gear.’

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘the poor guy was probably killed elsewhere and the murderer hid the body here. He didn’t do a very good job.’

  ‘No,’ said Hobbes, ‘but he wouldn’t expect anyone to be up here.’

  I shivered and it wasn’t because of the cold wind.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, scratching his chin, ‘we should tell the authorities.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘The trouble is that I came here to escape publicity and, although I expect things have quietened down by now, I would rather not draw attention to myself again. You’ll have to go into Blackcastle and tell the police. You could say you were out walking your dog and came across the skeleton on Blacker Knob, which is essentially the truth.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, reluctantly, ‘but how do I … umm … get to Blackcastle?’

  ‘I’ll guide you to the outskirts. It’s not far.’

  ‘You said it was eight miles away!’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Fine. How will I find my way back? I don’t know where here is.’

  ‘That’s a good point,’ he said. ‘I’ll lay a trail.’

  We set off straight away, despite my hints that it was nearly lunchtime. He led Dregs and me to the outskirts of the little grey town, and handed me some money for a bite to eat and to buy a newspaper, asking me to check if interest in him had yet waned. Then he left us.

  Dregs and I followed a potholed track into Blackcastle, walking past a row of seedy terraced houses that might have been transformed into something reasonably attractive had anyone been bothered. A slab pivoted, its front end going down, its back end rising and catching my foot, making me stumble and put my hand on a sturdy-looking garden gate. Giving a sad sigh, it crumbled into dust, falling onto a garden path that was ankle deep in dandelions and grass. As I hurried on, pretending it had been nothing to do with me, a terrier in the next garden along woofed once before relapsing into apathy and going back to chewing what appeared to be a flat cap. Dregs, knowing he was on a mission, ignored him and we turned onto a narrow street, hemmed in by squat, concrete buildings that I imagined estate agents might have referred to as bijou maisonettes. Their grey walls were stained and cracked, the paintwork bubbled and peeled and the doors and window frames were rotten.

  Although some areas of Pigton, the nearest big town to Sorenchester, were rather rundown, I’d never before been anywhere as spirit draining as that godforsaken place. Even Dregs’s normal bounding enthusiasm was dampened and he walked obediently to heel. As we reached the last house of the terrace, an old woman in a shabby brown cardigan appeared to be scavenging from a dustbin and, despite my friendly smile, she flinched and scurried inside, slamming the front door behind her. I blamed Dregs for alarming her, though I found his presence comforting.

  We turned onto what appeared to be the main street, which took us towards an unexpectedly broad market square with a war memorial and a drinking fountain in the middle. The Badger’s Rest, an old-fashioned and tatty pub, filled the nearest corner, while the police station, relatively modern, yet possibly even tattier, occupied the opposite one. A glance into the pub showed it was full of morose, down-at-heel drinkers. I led Dregs towards the police station, passing one small, dejected shop, allegedly a mini-supermarket, with its pathetic display of wrinkled, yellowing vegetables in a rack outsid
e. The other buildings in the square appeared to be houses, one or two of them apparently derelict and covered in ragged posters for the approaching autumn fair. Near the police station, one place really stood out, looking clean, freshly painted in bright pink, with baskets bright with flowers hanging from brackets. A sign printed in large, frilly letters declared it was Pinky’s Tearoom.

  I took the most direct line towards the police station, striding there with due urgency, only to find it was locked. A faded sign pinned to the door said: ‘back in 5 minuets’. I couldn’t stop myself looking around for a dance hall.

  ‘Are you after the cops, love?’ asked a soft female voice.

  I turned to see a plump, pretty, blonde woman, dressed in a trouser suit in the same shocking pink as the tea room.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, trying not to stare.

  ‘They’ll be down the Badger’s. I’d look in there if I were you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, love.’

  ‘Umm … are you Pinky?’

  Her big blue eyes widened in surprise. ‘I am. How did you know?’

  ‘Just a hunch.’

  ‘Are you a detective?’

  ‘No … not really … it’s sort of a complicated story.’

  ‘Well, come in for a cup of tea and tell me.’

  Although I did fancy a drink and had money in my pocket, duty called. ‘Maybe later, but I must tell the police something: something important.’

  ‘Alright then. See you, love,’ She turned and headed towards her tearoom in a cloud of perfume.

  Leaving Dregs by the drinking fountain, I walked into the pub, its door opening with a horrible creak and the murmur of conversation immediately dying. The silence was broken only by the door creaking back and somebody coughing. As my eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, I felt something zip past the tip of my nose and heard a clunk.

  ‘Three!’ said a male voice.

  ‘That wanker put me off,’ said a deeper, angry male voice.

  I jerked backwards as the next dart flew past my face, wondering what sort of idiot would throw when someone was almost in the firing line, and what sort of idiot would position a dartboard between the door and the bar. It wasn’t exactly welcoming, but then, as I looked around, nor was the rest of the pub. Dingy was the first word that came to mind, followed by dirty, dismal, disgusting, and smelly. As the third dart hit the board, I took my chance and scuttled towards the bar and, I hoped, safety. I couldn’t see any policemen, just a bunch of drunken, scruffy men hunched on plastic covered stools, glasses in their hands, watching me. One man, flat on his back on the worn, sticky lino, began emitting blood-curdling snores.

  The barman, a tall, skinny old man, whose cardigan was so riddled with holes it might have made a passable fishing net, nodded. ‘You’re not from around here, are you? I know that ’cos we don’t get many strangers in here.’

  ‘I can’t understand why not,’ I said, smiling, trying to establish friendly relations.

  ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  ‘No… umm … it’s quite quaint, really.’

  ‘It’s a total shit hole,’ said the man. ‘Are you blind?’

  ‘I nearly was,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it dangerous having the dartboard there?’

  The barman shrugged. ‘I didn’t put it there. What’s your poison?’

  Although I hadn’t intended buying a drink, I thought doing so might endear me. ‘A half of lager, please.’

  Someone sniggered.

  ‘We don’t serve poncey drinks in here, mate,’ said the barman. ‘We’ve got bitter or scrumpy.’

  ‘OK … umm … I’ll have a half of scrumpy.’

  ‘We don’t sell halves, except if it’s for a lady.’

  ‘I’ll have a pint then.’

  Turning, he sauntered towards a plastic barrel and poured my drink into a glass that was so chipped and greasy I feared it might be harbouring bubonic plague at the very least. He returned and placed it in front of me. I took a sip, surprised to find it wasn’t bad.

  ‘I went to the police station,’ I said, adopting my most ingratiating expression and leaning on the bar, ‘but it was closed. A lady said I might find a policeman in here.’

  ‘You might,’ said the barman, ‘but that’s none of my business.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ For a moment, I was stumped. Then I had an idea and addressed the drinkers: ‘Is there a policeman in here?’

  There was silence, apart from a thud from the dartboard, a very rude word and the deeper, angry male voice complaining that I’d put him off again.

  ‘A policeman?’ said a youngish man with a thin moustache and a plastic cigarette balanced on his lip. ‘In that case, I reckon you’ll be wanting Sam,’

  ‘Who’s Sam?’

  ‘Sam,’ said the man, grinning, ‘is a police officer.’

  ‘I gathered that, but where is he.’

  ‘In here.’

  ‘I see … umm … are you Sam?’

  ‘No, but I, too, am a police officer.’

  ‘Well, perhaps you could help me?’

  ‘Perhaps I could, but you’ll be wanting Sam.’

  I addressed the pub again: ‘Which one of you is Sam?’

  Though there was no reply, everyone, except for the two playing darts, was watching me, as if I was a strange curio. Rare inspiration struck.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ I said, pointing at the man lying on the floor, who had stopped snoring, but had started drooling.

  ‘Yep,’ said the other police officer and, as if suddenly realising what he was supposed to do, rose to his feet, a trifle unsteadily, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Constable Jones. Sergeant Beer is, regrettably, indisposed at the present time. How may I help?’

  I shook his hand. ‘My name is Andy Caplet and I have something to report.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Umm … it might be better at the police station.’

  ‘He’s come to make a confession,’ said the barman with a grin that was as lacking in teeth as the bar was in comfort. ‘I reckon he’s run over a sheep.’

  ‘I haven’t run over a sheep. I don’t have a car.’

  ‘Has it been stolen?’ asked Constable Jones, pulling a notebook from the pocket of his trousers.

  ‘No, I’ve never had one.’

  ‘Then, how did you get here?’

  ‘I walked.’

  ‘I believe you, sir. What brings you to these parts?’

  ‘I’m on holiday.’

  This provoked a general guffaw from the onlookers. It seemed I was the best entertainment they’d had for weeks. With the exception of Sergeant Beer, I was the focus of everybody’s attention and even the darts had stopped flying.

  Constable Jones was shaking his head and grinning. ‘No, really, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m really on holiday.’

  ‘Escaped from some sort of institution, have you, sir? We don’t get tourists round these parts, and walkers don’t usually wear tweed.’

  ‘I haven’t escaped from anywhere, I am on holiday and what I choose to wear is my own business. I really have got something terribly important to report.’

  ‘Important, eh? Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘I haven’t had the chance.’ I said, starting to get flustered. ‘I’ve found a skeleton. Well, my dog did.’

  The levels of public amusement increased.

  Constable Jones made a pantomime of looking about him. ‘Your dog, sir?’

  ‘He’s outside. He found a man’s skeleton on Blacker Knob. It’s been there for about three years.’

  That stopped the laughter and Constable Jones’s expression switched to serious. ‘You’d better come with me, sir.’

  Taking my arm, he led me outside, where Dregs introduced himself by thrusting his nose into the constable’s groin before jumping up and licking his face. Jones, pushing him down, led us to the police station and unlocked the door.

  ‘Come in, sir,�
�� he said, ‘and bring your dog. I’ll open Interview Room number one and then I’d be obliged if you’d tell me your story.’

  Blackcastle police station, its shoebox entrance hall painted a blotched khaki, the front desk chipped and covered in scrawls, wasn’t much to write home about. The place stank of damp and feet, with an underlying aroma of urine. Jones, unlocking a battered door to the side of the desk, ushered me through a grim, open plan office, with three empty desks, towards Interview Room number 1, which was, so far as I could see, the only interview room.

  ‘Take a seat, sir. Not the wooden one: that’s mine. Would you like a cup of tea? Or would you prefer to finish your scrumpy?’

  I sat down on the cheap, white, plastic chair, behind a manky, old wooden table and, realising I was still carrying my drink, gulped it down and asked for tea. Jones left us for a few minutes, giving me time to adjust. Besides the background stink, the room retained a residual pong of stale coffee and vomit. If I’d stretched out my arms, I could have touched two walls at the same time, had they not been blackened by mould. There was a tiny square of frayed, brown carpet beneath the table and Dregs, having sniffed it with evident interest, rubbed his bottom on it. I tried to ignore him.

  ‘Right sir,’ said Jones, returning with a chipped mug, containing industrial-strength tea, and setting it on the table in front of me, ‘I’ll need to take down a few details.’

  Sitting down, taking out a notebook and a pencil, he prepared himself. I gave my name and address and, despite my concern that he’d react at the mention of Sorenchester, he did not appear to recognise it. Then I explained why I was in the area, avoiding any mention of Hobbes, and how Dregs and I had come across the skeleton.

  ‘That, sir,’ said Jones, pleasantly, ‘is an interesting account, but I wonder if you could enlighten me on one point before we move on? When we were in the Badger’s, you said the skeleton had been there for about three years. What makes you think that?’

  ‘Umm … it was just a guess really. I’ve never seen a skeleton before, but there was no flesh on him and his clothes, or what was left of them, looked modern.’