Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (3 page)

'And
what did you do with the body? Poor little thing.'

'I
did the only thing I could.' He grunted. 'What anyone would have done in the
circumstances. I ate it.'

'What?'

'Stewed
in cider with onions and carrots. Very tasty. Very tender. Mrs Goodfellow had
some too, though only the juice. She can't chew you know.' He licked his lips.

I
stared at him, disgusted, scared by the sly, crazy look in his eyes, feeling totally
lost for words. I mean, what can you say to someone who has just admitted to
eating stewed gnome? I became aware my mouth had fallen open.

'What's
that doing out?' Mrs Goodfellow had materialised behind us. 'It's for your
supper tomorrow.' She glared at Hobbes with an expression of half-amused
exasperation, like a mother gives to a naughty child. 'I thought I'd stew it in
cider again. I remember how much you enjoyed it last time.'

I
stared at the old woman and then at Hobbes. I'd fallen among despicable people
and didn't like it. I now understood why everyone spoke of him in hushed tones.
I'd known he had a reputation, everyone knew it, but I'd never guessed he'd be
the sort to devour a gnome. Three minutes earlier, I hadn't even realised the
poor little creatures existed, except in fairy tales and suburban rockeries,
yet these horrible people relished them stewed. I wanted to leave and began to
feel vulnerable. Why, I wondered, had he let me eat so many of the biscuits?
For what was he saving his appetite?

'The
butcher said he'd send his bill next week, if it's convenient,' said Mrs
Goodfellow.

'Yes,
of course.' Hobbes glanced at me.

'He
says he'll let me know next time he gets any in, because he knows how much you
like a bit of rabbit.'

'Rabbit?'
I said.

He
shook silently, an expression of manic glee on his face, an explosive guffaw
bursting forth, followed by a long, rumbling laugh.

'Sorry
Andy,' he said after a while and started again. 'Your face, you should have
seen your face! Gotcha.'

He'd
gotcha'd me alright. I'm no cook, so how could I have guessed what it was? But
a gnome? Feeling an utter fool, I tried to laugh it off. 'Yeah, you really had
me going. I don't know what I was thinking. It's obviously a rabbit.'

'Yes,'
he agreed, 'gnomes are much squatter and,' he paused, smacking his lips,
'they're not such good eating: a little on the stringy side.'

I
forced a laugh through clamped teeth.

'Right,'
he said, 'I'll just put it back and then I'll really tell you about the case.'

Returning
to the sitting room, I slumped back with a sigh and a touch of indigestion. A
few seconds later Hobbes came in, grinning as if he'd done something clever,
sitting next to me with a slow laugh, patting me gently on the shoulder. It
felt like it would leave a fine bruise.

'The
Violin Case, as your paper calls it, has led to the apparent suicide of Mr
Roman, a gentleman who lived in Fenderton. It's all quite tragic. Someone broke
into his house, causing some damage. However, according to Mr Roman, the only
thing stolen was his violin.'

'Was
it a Stradivarius or something?'

'So
far as we know, it was just an ordinary modern instrument, not a cheap one, in
fact rather a good one and more than acceptable for playing in amateur
orchestras. However, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Mr Roman played in the
Fenderton Ensemble and normally played well, according to the other musicians,
though he'd not been up to his usual standard in the day's rehearsals.'

'But
surely he could buy another? Why kill himself?'

'That's
what I want to know. Unfortunately, he wasn't very helpful when I spoke to him.
He seemed overly distressed, even though he was insured. Anyway, a couple of
days after the burglary he disappeared and a woman walking her dog found him
hanging from a tree in Ride Park.'

Though
sorry for Mr Roman and the dog walker, I felt it was going too far to kill
oneself over a lost violin. I said as much.

Hobbes
agreed. 'I suspect there was something else. Maybe he'd had something stolen he
shouldn't have had in the first place: something illegal or embarrassing
perhaps? Or, possibly, someone was after him.'

'An
assassin? Surely not.'

He
shrugged. 'Just speculation, and, though we don't get many assassins around
these parts, a copper's got to keep an open mind. Anyway, the burglary was the
real crime and that's what the lads are investigating. It looks fairly
straightforward. Someone waited till Mr Roman drove out to rehearsal one
evening, climbed over the back gate and snagged his trousers on a splinter.
Forensics has a few fibres to keep 'em happy. It looked to me like our culprit
wore old blue jeans, so I'm not expecting they'll learn much. Once he was in
the back garden, the burglar chucked an ornamental birdbath through the window
to get in.'

'Did
no one hear it being smashed, or see anything?'

'No.
The house is set back from the road and his neighbours are on holiday. I found
quite a pile of cigarette butts and chocolate wrappers under a bush in the
front, so it looks like the perpetrator watched and waited for Mr Roman to go
out. He must have realised there was no one in next door and yet didn't break
in there.'

'So,
Mr Roman was targeted.'

'Very
good, Andy.' He grinned. 'That is what I suspect, though most of the lads
reckon the burglar was disturbed and ran off. They may be right but parts of the
house were well-ransacked so he must have been inside for some time. Oddly,
some unusual jewellery had been tipped out on the bed and left behind.'

'Unusual?'

'Yes,
big and heavy. Middle-European and rather old I'd guess. Probably rather
valuable, too.'

'So,
he left valuable jewellery and stole an ordinary violin. It's crazy.'

'I
agree. That's if he did take the violin, because, how could he have done, if Mr
Roman was playing it at rehearsal?'

I
raised my eyebrows in what I hoped looked like a perceptive manner.

Hobbes
continued. 'I reckon the burglar found something he wanted more, something he
was searching for, perhaps. Oddly, Mr Roman wouldn't say anything and I got the
impression he wouldn't even have called us if he'd had his way.'

All
the tea I'd drunk began to make its presence known. 'May I use your bathroom?'
I asked.

He
looked surprised. 'If you want. There's plenty of hot water.'

He
may have been joking, I didn't think so. 'What I mean is that … umm … I need to
use your … umm … toilet.'

'Well,
you might have said. Upstairs and first on the left. It's in the bathroom.'

I
walked up the gloomy staircase. There were four doors at the top, all closed. I
entered the first, a small room containing a gleaming white bath, a large hand
basin and a toilet with an overhead cistern and chain, a sort I hadn't seen
since I was a boy. As I stood over it, I noticed a chipped mug with a single
toothbrush, a burst tube of toothpaste, two towels with portraits of cats, soap
and some rose-scented talc. Some of the stuff belonged to Mrs Goodfellow, I
supposed. There was nothing unusual, except for the electric sander on the lino
beneath the basin. I speculated that Hobbes used it instead of a razor. I
finished, flushing the toilet, which thundered like Niagara Falls, walked out
and started down the stairs.

'You
forgot to wash your hands, dear.'

I
spun on the spot, maintaining my balance with difficulty. Mrs Goodfellow stood
on the landing, looking me right in the eye, her expression stern.

'What?'

'You
didn't wash your hands.' She tapped her foot impatiently. For some reason she
was wearing wellingtons. She gestured towards the bathroom and frowned.

Meek
and embarrassed, I turned around, washing my hands and drying them. She'd
vanished by the time I headed back down.

I
got back to business. 'Who was with Mr Roman when he discovered the break-in?'

'Some
of the Fenderton Ensemble: its fiddle section to be precise. They'd insisted on
going back with him to practice a piece he'd had trouble with. When they got
inside it was obvious a burglary had taken place and one of them called us. Mr
Roman was in a terrible state, shaking and nearly hysterical when uniform got
there. He was worse when I turned up. Those are the bare bones of it, except
his car hasn't been found yet.'

'It's
very puzzling.'

Hobbes
grinned. 'Aye, lad, isn't it just? Isn't it great?'

I
nodded. I wasn't sure I agreed, even though I'd just experienced a frisson of
excitement, as if I was getting into some real journalism. The last 'big' reporting
job Rex had assigned to me was the Moorend Pet Show. Hamsters, not the fluffy
balls of fun they appear, have teeth like needles, as I'd discovered when
playfully pulling the winner of the rodents' section from his cage to conduct a
mock interview. The kids had loved it when I asked the beast how it felt to be
a champion, holding it up to my ear as if awaiting a reply. They'd loved it
even more when its jaws clamped onto my earlobe, like a bulldog onto a bull,
before seizing my finger which was trying to prise it off. The
Bugle
had
never even printed my article, preferring the photograph of me, cowering in a
corner, the blood-slathered brute bearing down on me. Readers had apparently
found it highly amusing, yet all I remembered was the pain and the humiliation.
For days afterwards laughing people would point at me in the street.

'Anyway,
Andy,' said Hobbes, 'that's what we'll be working on tomorrow. Now, I've my
supper to eat and then I've got to see a dog about a man. I'll see you at the
station, tomorrow morning at eight.'

He
rose like a wardrobe and the interview, if that's what it was, terminated. I
had intended to ask some penetrating questions but they would have to wait. He
showed me to the door and I stepped into the street, silvery light reflecting
from the damp surfaces as I walked away. All in all, the day had not gone so
badly, even though I'd been shouted at, been made a fool of and had been
alarmed, horrified and disgusted. Hobbes had not been as bad as I'd feared.
Nonetheless, I did not fancy meeting him again next morning and, hoping it
might help me sleep, decided to dose myself with a few strong drinks. Not at
the Feathers, though, for Mrs Goodfellow's teeth haunted me.

I
paid a visit to the Bellman's on The Shambles, a pub with little to recommend
it other than being located just down the road from the
Bugle's
offices
and supplying food of a sort. Despite the biscuits, I felt the urge for a
slap-up meal and, popping a couple of Rennies from my pocket to ease the
indigestion, I scurried out of the rain.

The
tough, tasteless chop, the cold, limp, over-boiled vegetables and the lumpy
mashed potato from a packet failed to meet expectations, though I had expected
little. I still ate it all, because I'd paid for it, and even told the fat,
gravy-stained barman it was 'very nice'.

However,
the drink was good and, having knocked back several bottles of strong lager, I
made my way home to Spire Street, number 2, flat 2 and passed out on the sofa,
where I was afflicted by nightmares in which Mrs Goodfellow and my father
argued about the most excruciating method for extracting my teeth.

The
sofa was vibrating, a noise like thunder pounded through my head and I didn't
know what the hell was happening. Only one thing was clear; I stank of stale
pub. It felt like the whole world was shaking and the only explanation making
any sense was that I was in the middle of an earthquake. Panic dragged me to
the front door, unlocked it and wrenched it open. I ran.

After
half a step, something as solid as a wall bounced me back inside.

Hobbes,
standing in the doorway, his great, hairy fist raised for knocking, a scowl the
size of a continent corrugating his brow, greeted me. 'Good morning, Andy. You're
late.'

Swallowing
a scream, I slumped back onto the sofa, my entire body shaking, struggling for
breath as his laughter rumbled through me.

'Did
I alarm you? I did knock.'

I
kept my mouth firmly clamped, certain I would scream if I didn't, not convinced
I'd be able to stop once I'd started. My head ached.

'At
least you're dressed,' he observed, 'but you'd better move yourself, and
quickly; villains don't catch themselves.'

Nodding,
I took a deep breath, trying to calm down, waiting until I'd regained the power
of speech.

'Umm
… what time is it?' I asked.

'Eight-thirty.
You were supposed to be at the police station by eight.'

I
stood up. 'Sorry. I need the bathroom.'

I
fled for sanctuary, last night's lager throbbing in my skull, bladder close to
overflowing, guts ready to burst. For some time, sitting on the toilet, I held
my head, biding my time, trying to round up my stampeded wits. Occasionally, I
heard Hobbes snort like an impatient bull.