Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (19 page)

The
woman was screaming, 'Search his pockets! Search his pockets!' at the
policeman, who looked stunned by the whole procedure.

'All
in good time, madam,' he said. 'At the station.'

'Don't
you 'madam' me. If you won't search him, I will.'

She
pounced on me, and the dog, recognising a fresh target, pounced on her,
growling like an over-revved scooter.

The
crowd was taking sides. A spotty youth cheered on the dog and the angry man
floored him with a punch. The youth's friend knocked the angry man onto his
back and then it was mayhem. Quite a few joined in and even the dog had his
day, snarling and snapping at random. Ingrid was swept away in a torrent of
retreating townsfolk. The policeman gasped, 'Christ!' as the angry man, having
staggered back to his feet, was hurled through the plate glass window of a
dress shop. Fists and feet flew and a thrown bottle knocked the policeman cold.
By then I was in a state of pure terror, my heart pounding, my mouth dry, doing
whatever I could to protect myself, which was not easy in handcuffs. I don't
know what came over me but, noticing the policeman was in real danger of being
trampled, I somehow hoisted his limp body over my shoulder and staggered
through the affray, taking several hits as I did so.

A
voice boomed, echoing off the buildings as if a cannon had been fired. 'Stop
this at once.'

The
crowd went quiet. The dog fled. I looked up with my left eye, the right one, having
taken a punch, had closed as tight as a clam. It was Hobbes, standing before
us, hands thrust in the pockets of his coat, a scowl sculpting his face into
that of a gargoyle.

'This
is the police. I order you to disperse immediately or there will be trouble.'

'There's
only one of him. Get him!' A big man in a red sweater incited the mob from the
back. At least, he started at the back but the general retreat was so fast, he
quickly found himself alone at the front.

He
stared at Hobbes, quivering. He looked at the crowd.

'You
were saying?' said Hobbes, conversationally.

The
idiot was brave, I'll give him that. Brave, if not bright. Screaming
incomprehensibly, putting his head down, he charged. Hobbes stood, watching.
What happened next was a surprise. I expected Hobbes to hit him, yet all he did
was shift his weight and pivot like a bullfighter as the idiot hurtled past,
head-butting a lamppost, flopping back into his arms.

'This
young fellow's going to have a headache,' said Hobbes, examining a gaping,
oozing wound on the man's forehead and lying him down on the kerb. He gave a
wolfish grin. 'Still, I doubt he had much brain to damage. Are you alright, Andy?'

I
nodded and sank to the pavement with the policeman still over my shoulder,
groaning as I helped him down.

'It
was brave, rescuing Constable Poll like that,' said Hobbes. 'He might have been
badly hurt if you hadn't. How are you doing, Bean?'

PC
Poll's eyes opened. 'Could be better, sir.'

By
then more police officers were appearing and the crowd had dispersed, except
for a few onlookers gawping from a distance. Several dismembered bodies lay
scattered in the road. I gasped; I hadn't realised things had got so bad.
Hobbes picked up one, twisting its head round. 'Gottla geer,' he said like a
bad ventriloquist, 'gottla geer.'

I
stared, horrified. It took several long dark moments before I worked out that
the bodies were mannequins from the dress shop. When the relief hit me, I must
have fainted.

The
world looked strange. My knees were pressed into my armpits, my knuckles
scraped against a tatty rug and a great weight was forcing my head down. I
could see my feet and the bottom drawer of a rusty filing cabinet upside down
between the legs of a chair. As I groaned, the weight lifted, a hairy hand took
me by the shoulder, easing me upright and, though I'd seen some strange things
when waking, Hobbes's leathery face peering into mine was the most unnerving.
Yet, I was sitting in his office, the handcuffs were off, and he was looking at
me with an expression wavering between concern and amusement.

'How
are you feeling?' he asked.

'Not
too bad. What happened?' I was determined to act cool, despite not
understanding what I was doing there.

'You
fainted. Now put this on your eye and cover it up. It looks like a baboon's
backside.'

He
handed me an ice pack and I applied it with another groan.

'That's
some shiner you've got.' He grinned. 'We had a doc take a look at it and it's
only bruised. By heck though, you do have an eye for trouble.'

'It
wasn't my fault.'

'No.
Not entirely. I had the story from young Poll before they carted him off to the
hospital. He's got a touch of concussion and it might have been a lot worse if
you hadn't got him out when you did. Mind you,' he said and chuckled, 'it might
have been a lot better if you hadn't got him into it in the first place.'

'I
didn't mean to. I didn't want to be arrested. Will I be charged?'

'Of
course not. I can't have it said that I harbour criminals under my own roof. I
gave the gentleman twenty pounds towards fixing his fence and we agreed he
won't be taking the matter any further. In addition, your pockets being empty,
there was no evidence of theft and, besides, the lady is currently undergoing
treatment for shock and dog bites and is unwilling to talk.'

'What
about the dog?'

'I
had a word with the man about his dog, just before the ambulance came for the
worst casualties.' Hobbes's grin grew broader. 'We agreed he should never have
been keeping a dog that is so evidently a danger to himself and the public.'

'What's
going to happen to it? It's mad and vicious and should be put down.'

'So
the man said,' said Hobbes, 'but I pleaded for a reprieve.'

'What?
Why? It's dangerous.'

'Probably,
which is why I'm going to look after him. His name's Dregs, according to his
former master.'

I
groaned, not being keen on dogs since one ate my football when I was six. I've
always blamed it for my failure to shine as a sportsman. At least, I've blamed
it when not blaming my father. 'Where is he now?' I looked suspiciously round
the office.

'They
patched him up, though he wasn't much hurt and he's taking Mrs Goodfellow to
the shops. They're going to pick up some dog biscuits. He says he's a bit fussy
and won't touch the cheapuns, so they're off to the posh shop.'

'He
told you that did he?'

'Yes.'

'So
you've talked to him?' Now, it seemed Hobbes was speaking with animals. I
wasn't as surprised as I would have been when I'd first met him.

'He
says I'm welcome to take his basket and any leftover food and reckons his wife
will be glad to see the back of him.'

'His
wife? He can't have a wife. It's impossible.'

'I
admit it's unlikely,' said Hobbes, 'though I understand the dog was what made
him so angry, and the fact that his wife hated it didn't help his temper.'

'Oh.
I understand now. I thought you'd been talking to the …' I let the sentence
fade away as the colour rose to my cheeks.

He
laughed. 'Maybe that knock on your head is more serious than it seems.'

'Sorry.
I got a bit confused.'

'As
if I'd have a conversation with the dog.' He chuckled. 'I wouldn't do such a
thing – not till we've been properly introduced.'

He
guffawed and I responded with a feeble twitch of the lips.

'Anyway,'
he said, changing the subject, 'did you get the editor to rewrite your cheque,
or were you too busy fomenting civil unrest?'

'No,
not yet.' I felt a sinking sensation in the stomach. I didn't fancy confronting
Editorsaurus Rex just then, with an ice pack pressed to my throbbing eye, with
torn knees on my trousers and blood splashed over my shirt – at least it wasn't
mine.

'Right
then,' said Hobbes. 'If you're feeling better, there's no time like the
present. Come on.'

I
followed him of course. By then I didn't even think about it, though I'd have
much preferred to curl up quietly somewhere in the dark. I struggled to keep
up, while attempting a cool and heroic demeanour for the shoppers. He burst through
the doors of the
Bugle
building, bounding upstairs to the main office.

'Can
I help you?' asked a male voice on my ice-packed side.

'I
doubt it,' said Hobbes, marching straight towards Rex's door.

'You
can't go in. He's busy,' said the voice. I didn't recognise it. Rex hadn't
wasted any time in replacing me.

Hobbes
opened the door and walked in, with me bobbing in after him, shrugging
apologetically. Rex rose from behind his desk as if someone had cut loose a
hot-air balloon.

'What
do you mean by this interruption?' His stare fixed on me. 'It's Capstan, isn't
it? Didn't I sack you? What are you doing here?'

'Sit,'
said Hobbes. 'We'll not take long. I am Inspector Hobbes, of the Sorenchester
Police.'

Rex,
deflating, slumped into his chair. A skinny woman sitting opposite him turned to
stare at us and I recognised her from
Sorenchester Life
: she was Mrs
Witcherley. Her face, beneath a trowel-full of makeup, looked young and soft,
her blonde hair shone with youthful lustre, yet her neck, though concealed
under strings of lustrous pearls, suggested she was approaching sixty. She sat,
legs crossed, cigarette in hand, pungent fumes coiling from between her glossy
red lips. Apart from the smoker's pout, she showed no expression.

'Firstly,'
Hobbes continued, 'Mr Caplet requires you to amend a cheque. Andy?' His hand
propelled me towards the desk.

'Sorry
to disturb you, sir.' I felt very much the humble supplicant. 'Umm … you appear
to have written the wrong name on my severance cheque.'

'So
what do you expect me to do about it?'

'Umm
… change it, please.'

'You're
damn lucky I gave you a cheque at all.' Rex scowled. 'You misled me about your
interests and abilities, you consistently failed to file reports on time, if at
all, and you were a constant drain on the resources of this newspaper. Now, run
along.'

Hobbes
leaned over the desk. 'It would be advisable to pay him, sir.' Without
apparently doing anything, he reeked of menace.

Rex,
jerking back into his chair as if he'd been punched, nodded. 'Only joking,
Capstan. I will, of course, write you another immediately. What name should I
put on it?'

'Andrew
Caplet,' said Hobbes. 'And, if I were you, I would amend the figure, too, just
in case anyone happened to let slip what a deplorable and possibly illegal wage
you've been paying him.'

Rex,
nodding again, pulled a chequebook from his desk, popping the top off his
fountain pen, writing on a cheque, blotting it carefully, tearing it off and
handing it to me.

'Thank
you, sir,' I said as I glanced at it. It was for two thousand pounds. 'Thank
you very much.' Folding it, I put it in my inside pocket.

'Good,'
said Hobbes. 'Now I'd like to have a word about a member of your staff.'

'Oh
yes?' said Rex. 'By the way, may I introduce Mrs Witcherley, my wife.' He
gestured towards the woman who, nodding, exhaled an acrid cloud.

'Delighted
to meet you, Mrs Witcherley,' said Hobbes, taking her hand, raising it to his
lips. For a moment I thought he was going to bite her and, from the way her
eyes widened, I suspected the same thought had crossed her mind, yet her lips
unpuckered into a smile.

'Delighted,
Inspector,' she murmured.

'Mrs
Witcherley and I have no secrets,' Rex said. 'Please feel free to ask
anything.'

'Andy,
you'd better step outside.' Hobbes strode across the carpet and opened Rex's
door. 'I'll see you at home for lunch.'

Raising
a hand in an ignored gesture of farewell, I cringed back into the main office.
All eyes were looking at me, except for Basil Dean's strange one that always
did its own thing.

Ingrid
bustled towards me. 'Hi, Andy. What's happened to Phil?'

'Eh?'
I asked, coherently, taken aback.

'Phil.
What's happened to him?'

'Something's
happened to him?'

'What?'

'I
… umm … don't know.'

Oh,'
she said, 'I thought you'd come here because of him.'

I
was confused. 'Has something happened to Phil?'

'We
don't know, which is why I'm asking you. I assumed the Inspector had come to
investigate.'

'Investigate
what?' I was enormously miffed to find her concerned about Phil when I was so
obviously battered and bruised and she'd last seen me handcuffed in the middle
of a riot.

There
were tears in her eyes. 'He hasn't turned up for work today, and he's not at
home.'

'Bloody
Phil,' I muttered.

She
stared at me as if I'd just booted a puppy.

'I
meant, bloody hell, Phil's missing.' I said, trying to inject the authentic
note of concern for the git.

She
was crying, looking worried. 'No one knows what's happened to him. I went round
to his house when he didn't ring in. His milk's still outside, he didn't
respond when I knocked and he's not answering his mobile.'

'Oh,'
I said, 'I wouldn't worry. He's probably working on a story and if he is
missing, Hobbes'll find him, or someone will – like with the body last week.'

She
didn't appear to find my words very comforting. 'You think he might be dead?'
She sobbed, her pudgy little hands covering her mouth. 'Poor Phil.'

'Oh
no,' I said, attempting reassurance, 'I'm sure he's not dead. Not yet. Well,
probably not anyway. Look, I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation.
He'll turn up, just you wait and see.'

He
probably would turn up, I thought, though I wished he wouldn't. Yet, I smiled,
Hobbes would still want a word with him when he reappeared.

'I
suppose you're right.' She sniffed and moved slightly closer.

I
raised my arm on impulse, with the idea of wrapping it around her shoulders, to
comfort her, yet I couldn't see past her swollen red eyes and the little bead
of mucus glistening at the corner of her nose. I recoiled, my arm dropping to
my side.

'Sorry,'
I said, 'but I've got to go.' It occurred to me that this was a good time to
start undermining Phil. 'I'm sure Hobbes will find him. He probably guessed
Hobbes wants to see him, to grill him about a serious crime, and has done a
runner.'

'Is
he in trouble?' asked Ingrid. 'I don't believe it.'

'You'd
better believe it,' I said, raising my voice so everyone could hear. 'I'm
afraid Phil is wanted for questioning about some pretty heavy stuff and could
go down for a long time. He's been linked to some despicable characters
involved in theft and kidnapping and now he's disappeared. Well, it doesn't
prove anything, but it makes you think.'

On
that climactic note I left, well satisfied with the shocked look on Ingrid's
face and the interest I'd stirred up in the others. Phil would have a job
explaining his way out of it. I gloated as I strolled along The Shambles back
to Blackdog Street. I heard footsteps running as I reached the church.

The
dog brushed past me, with Mrs Goodfellow clinging to his lead like a
water-skier behind a speedboat, except water-skiers aren't known to carry big
red shopping bags.

'Alright,
dear? What have you been doing to yourself?'

'I,
umm …' I said, and she was gone.

I
heard a cry of 'Whoa!' as they flashed past the front door, heading down Ride
Street in the direction of the park, making me wonder what I would do for
lunch.

I
needn't have worried. They'd reappeared by the time I got home, the dog
trotting obediently to heel, tail wagging, tongue lolling, the epitome of
friendliness. They pushed by when I opened the door. As I followed them into
the kitchen, she put down a bowl of water, which he lapped up noisily, before
sprawling under the table.

Mrs
Goodfellow attended to lunch, which had been slowly cooking in the oven and
filling the house with enticing smells. It was just a cottage pie, though not
like the soggy, tasteless travesties in the Bellman's. This was a pie of delights,
as I discovered on Hobbes's return. As usual, we ate in silence, which felt
right, because Mrs Goodfellow's meals were deserving of reverence. Still, it
bothered me that she never took food with us.