Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (15 page)

My
cheerful waking mood dissipated, unlike the cloud of steam that arose around me
with a hiss. I flapped the tea towel to clear the air, bewildered why it was
making things worse, nearly setting the curtains alight before realising it was
on fire. It, too, ended up in the sink. I opened the back door and, when the
smoke and steam finally cleared, grew even more miserable on seeing the red,
plastic washing-up bowl with a perfectly circular hole right through it. I
spent the next half-hour with the bread knife, cursing and muttering as I
chipped and peeled congealed lumps of red plastic from the sink and from the
bottom of the kettle.

I
could just imagine Phil's smug grin should he ever find out about my
misfortunes, which reminded me of seeing him in his new car the previous
evening. He hadn't been alone: someone had been in the passenger seat, someone
with a ratty face and tinted glasses. It had been the man we were chasing and I
felt guilty about not mentioning it to Hobbes, though I had been a little
distracted at the time.

'I
said get yourself some breakfast, not set fire to the kitchen.' Hobbes was
standing framed in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing a smart, if
old-fashioned, suit with a dark-blue pinstripe and a poppy in the buttonhole,
his cheeks were shaved smooth and his hair was plastered flat.

I
gasped and the knife clattered into the sink. 'I'm sorry,' I said, 'I … umm … had
an accident.'

'Just
the one?' He looked around, frowning. 'Tell me.'

As
I did, he roared with laughter. I had to repeat my tale of woe for Mrs
Goodfellow. Doubling the audience doubled the mirth.

Hobbes
wiped his eyes, shaking his head. 'By heck, Andy, if laughter's the best
medicine, you should be available on prescription. Aye well, there's no real harm
done. I'd better go and change into my work things.' He went up to his room.

Mrs
Goodfellow winked as she headed towards the stove, pulling on her pinafore.
'Well done, dear, you've snapped the old fellow out of it. He usually becomes quite
morose on Remembrance Sunday.'

'Oh,'
I said. 'Is that today? I … umm … used to keep an old poppy in my flat, one I'd
found. It saved me having to buy new ones.'

Mrs
Goodfellow was bending down to open the oven with her back to me and I still
felt the reflected force of her frown.

'I
was joking,' I said, though I had actually neglected to buy one. 'Why does it
make him morose?'

'It
brings back memories.' She basted the joint, poking it with a fork. 'He
remembers too many faces from the past. Old comrades, old enemies, old times.'

'Was
he in the forces?'

Shutting
the oven, she straightened up and faced me. 'He was a soldier, a decorated war hero,
though he doesn't talk about it much. Now, I've got the vegetables and
Yorkshire puds to see to.'

Hobbes
a war hero? There was more to him than I'd supposed. His heavy footsteps
clumped down the stairs and he reappeared in everyday apparel before I could
ask any more.

'Let's
leave the lass to get on with dinner,' he said, 'and I'll tell you what's
happened at the museum.'

'Oh,
yes. The break-in.' Following him through to the sitting room, I made myself
comfortable on the sofa.

Hobbes
rested his boots on the coffee table. 'Since it's just round the corner, I took
a quick look while you were still snoring. It's rather a peculiar case. Someone
dug a hole through the wall to get in.'

'It
sounds like hard work. Why not just break a window or force a door?'

'The
windows and doors have alarms fitted. Whoever got in must have known – though
any visitor might have noticed.'

'Do
you know who did it? Surely they've got CCTV?'

'They
do, but only on what are regarded as valuable exhibits. None of them was taken,
so nothing was recorded.'

'It
sounds like something was taken.'

'Correct,'
said Hobbes. 'The only item that appears to be missing is a bronze bracelet
from the store, an interesting piece, according to Mr Biggs, the curator,
though of no great value, worth a few hundred pounds at most.'

'Someone
put in a lot of effort to steal a piece of no great worth. Why?'

He
shrugged. 'I don't know yet. Mr Biggs says the bracelet is probably fifteenth
century and of central European origin. The museum only received it a few weeks
ago and he hadn't got round to classifying it. It's in the shape of a sleeping
dragon, with its tail coiled around its neck. Unusual.'

'Whoever
went to so much bother to nick it must be a nutter,' I said, scratching my
head. 'One thing, though – wouldn't he have made a lot of noise digging through
a wall? Did no one hear anything?'

Hobbes
shook his head. 'Not so far as we know. There was a private party at the
Blackdog Café last night and they were playing loud music.'

'Yeah,'
I said, 'I heard. It had stopped when I went to the bathroom.'

'When
was that?'

'I
don't know. The middle of the night? It was dark and you weren't in your room.'

'I
was out looking for the gentleman in the flowery shirt.'

'Did
you find him?'

'Not
yet.'

'Why
were you after him?'

Hobbes
grinned. 'I'd received information that he'd suddenly come into money and
wanted to ask him about it.'

'Did
Billy tell you? Is that why you paid him?'

Hobbes
nodded. 'Billy is a valuable ally in the fight against crime, and the man we
were after, he's called Tony Derrick, has never done an honest day's work in
his life, yet has suddenly acquired a wallet full of cash.'

'Tony
Derrick, eh? It sounds like you know him.'

'Yes,
he's lived around here for most of his life and was involved in Billy's kidnapping,
which is why Billy has issues with him, and why Tony wasn't pleased to see me
again.'

I
was indignant. 'You said the kidnapping nearly became a murder. If the bastard
tried to kill Billy, how come he's not in prison?'

'Tony
wasn't going to kill him. He might be a loathsome, sneaking rotter, but he's
not a killer, just an opportunist. If he sees a chance, he'll steal. Billy was
blind drunk and Tony robbed him. That would normally have been as far as it
went had someone not made it clear that she was willing to pay good money for
someone like Billy.'

'He
sold him? That's outrageous, yet who would want to buy him? And why?'

'Dinner's
ready.' Mrs Goodfellow was just behind my right ear.

I
leaped up, twisting in mid-air, landing and facing her, wishing she'd stop
doing it.

'You're
keen, dear, I can see you're hungry.' She turned to Hobbes. 'Did you see how
fast the young fellow was?'

Hobbes
chuckled as he stood up. 'He's fast enough on his feet where vittles are
concerned, yet maybe not so nippy when chasing villains, eh, Andy?'

I
made a weak attempt at a laugh while he told her about my misadventure with the
supermarket trolley. Her reedy cackle joined his deep guffaws. Entering the
kitchen, I was feeling more than usually ridiculous. But no one would laugh
when my book came out. I would edit out the unflattering parts, make myself the
hero. I would be cool, debonair, successful and people would respect me.

Still,
I forgave their laughter when Mrs Goodfellow served lunch, a sirloin of beef,
cooked to a succulent, tender perfection, fiery horse-radish to die for (or of,
perhaps, if you were reckless with your helpings), crispy roast-potatoes and
parsnips, and the most gorgeous, lightest, tastiest Yorkshire puddings in the
whole world. Her gravy was the most delicious ever made, without even a hint of
Bisto, and even the cabbage tasted special. She was an expert and I'd never
before been presented with such a meal. For afters, she served the best rice
pudding in the universe, one for which you would not blame little green men
from Mars for invading merely in order to sample a spoonful. Nothing was quirky
or exotic, everything was just superb and my palate, more used to dodgy pub
grub and takeaways, went into overload. I couldn't talk, even if I'd wanted to,
while the meal lasted, lost in my own little ecstasy. Only when I'd finished
did I realise she was no longer with us, and that I'd never yet seen her eat
anything. I sat back in my chair with a feeling of enormous well-being.

'Coffee?'
She'd done it again.

'Yes,
please,' said Hobbes. 'Thank you for dinner, lass.'

I
nodded, too shocked to speak. She smiled, bustling around, as Hobbes took me
back to the sitting room and resumed talking, as if there'd been no
interruption.

'Strange
individuals find their way to Sorenchester,' he said.

I
looked at him and agreed.

'And
strange events happen. Billy was caught up in one with a very weird individual
until I put a stop to it. A clue pointed to Tony's involvement and, after I'd
nabbed him, he made some amends by providing vital information. After I'd
persuaded him, of course. I can be very persuasive.'

'Umm
… why didn't he go to prison? And who was the weird individual? And—'

'One
at a time, Andy,' said Hobbes with a smile. 'Firstly, Tony did not go to prison
because he was never charged. Any evidence was burned in the rescue. However,
shortly after our little chat, Tony enrolled in a monastery. I hoped he'd go straight
but it was a forlorn hope; Tony will always be what he is. It's not all his
fault, he had a difficult childhood, but he's always been one to make the worst
of things. At least in the monastery he was delivered from temptation for a
short time. I didn't know he'd come back, though Billy says he reappeared about
a month ago. He was broke then.'

'Tony
broke, you could say,' I smirked.

Hobbes
nodded. 'Yet, in the last few days, he's been flashing handfuls of cash around
and I don't believe he's got himself a proper job.'

'I'm
sure I've seen him around town before,' I said slowly. 'I thought so in the pub
and I'm surer now. What's more I think I saw him again last night.'

Hobbes
shrugged. 'Of course you did. We were chasing him.'

'Yeah,
I know. It was when I was lying on the pavement.' I paused. I'd be dropping
Phil in it, right up to his silk-collared neck. Could I do such a thing to a
former colleague? Of course I could. 'One of the cars that went by,' I said,
'belonged to Phil from the
Bugle
and I'm pretty certain Tony was in the
passenger seat.'

'Really?'
Hobbes raised his eyebrows. 'Then I'd better have a word with this Phil some
time. Do you know his surname and where he lives?'

He
nearly had me there. I'd grown so accustomed to thinking of him as 'Bloody
Phil' or 'Phil the Git' that it took me a few moments to remember. 'It's
Waring. I don't know his address, though they'll have it at the
Bugle
.'

'Thanks.
Your information might prove useful.'

Gotcha
you smug git! I thought. Maybe Ingrid would now see him for what he was. I just
hoped I'd be there when Hobbes had his word with him. It might be entertaining.

'Here
are your coffees,' said Mrs Goodfellow in my ear. She placed the tray on the
table before us.

Hobbes
laughed and took a great slurp from his mug. I poured a drop of milk into mine,
took a sip and gasped.

He
poured himself a second mug from the huge cafetiere. 'Mind, it's hot.'

It certainly was; the tip of my tongue was
par-boiled and tender and it was a few minutes before I risked another sip, by
which time he was well down his third mug. When mine was cool enough to enjoy
without agony, he was becoming twitchy and tense. Though I had a few moments of
horror in case he was going to do the bone thing again, all he wanted was to
get out and take another look at the museum. Having nothing better to do, I
drained my mug and went with him.

The
biting wind of the previous day had lost its teeth and grown gentle under a
pale sun. It only took us five minutes to walk down Blackdog Street, turn right
up Ride Street, past the Blackdog Café, and reach the museum, which was just
opening its iron gates for the afternoon. A small group of visitors started
moving inside and we joined them, passing beneath a genuine Roman arch into the
foyer. I expected Hobbes to push past the tourists, yet he seemed content to
wait his turn. When he showed his ID, the woman behind the desk nodded and
waved him through with a smile. All she could see was the reassuring presence
of a policeman. And me. All I warranted was a suspicious glance.

'It's
alright,' Hobbes explained. 'He's with me.'

She
smiled at him and let me in. I admit to feeling disgruntled. Surely, in my
tweed suit and tie, I looked most respectable? More respectable than he did in
his flappy old gabardine coat.

'C'mon
Andy,' he beckoned. 'This way.'

We
walked through a hall filled with Roman antiquities and, though I'm not much of
a history student, I wished I could have stayed for a proper look. For some
reason, I'd never visited before, which, seeing all the wonderful things on
display, struck me as foolish. A bit of history would undoubtedly have been
healthier than spending so long in pubs, especially in the Feathers. The
thought of the cat in the stew pot turned my stomach. What had ever possessed
me to eat there? I knew what Featherlight was like.