Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (6 page)

'What
does it say?' I said, struggling to look over Hobbes's bulging shoulder.

He
stood aside, frowning, puzzled. 'See for yourself.'

I
could make out, quite clearly, that the letters formed the words, though oddly
spaced,
EX WITCH IS A JOY OK
.

'What
on earth does that mean?'

He
shrugged. 'No idea, but it might all become clear, eventually. Then again, it
mightn't. What is most interesting is that I'm certain this bit of paper wasn't
here on my last visit. Anyway, I'm done in this room and at least I now know
someone, other than Mr Roman, knew how to open the safe and they've been back, assuming
it was the same person.'

'So
will it help you solve the case?'

'It
may provide a lead. Possibly more than one. I'm going to take a look in his
files.'

Folding
the paper carefully, shoving it into his pocket, he led me to a small study, a
smart, cosy, little retreat with a green leather chair on casters behind a
leather-topped desk, with a laptop computer and a modern telephone. Rows of books
lined the walls, obscuring polished oak panelling. A fax-machine rested on a
small table in a corner by the desk, beside a brim-full shredder; a filing
cabinet locked by a steel bar occupied another corner. The carpets, as rich and
luxurious as in the rest of the house, gave the impression of comfortable,
modern wealth. There was no sign of the burglary.

Hobbes,
muttering about not having the key, wrenched the locking bar from the filing
cabinet, propping it against the wall, rummaging through the folders inside.

Taking
a seat, I stared out into the back gardens, imagining them in the springtime, an
explosion of colour and life, wondering what fate held for them. Few houses
possessed such a space and I suspected it might all be sold off for development,
which I thought a shame. Hobbes, switching on the laptop, began tapping at the
keys.

'Well,
well,' he said after a few minutes.

'What
have you found?'

'Nothing
of interest, which may be significant.'

I
shrugged. Finding nothing didn't sound very significant to me. It more or less
summed up my journalistic career. The
Bugle
had only ever printed my
stuff when desperate for fillers, or one time, after the office party, when
everyone was a little drunk, and my article sneaked in. At least my piece on
the history of smoking had prompted more letters to the editor than he'd ever
received before. I blamed bloody Phil, who, swaying under the influence of
several crème de menthes, had told me tobacco came from potatoes and was
introduced into the country by Mr Chips, who'd also invented the Raleigh
bicycle. I should never have trusted the git, even though he claimed he'd been
joking.

'By
the way,' said Hobbes, 'when you were staring out the window, did you notice
how soggy the patch of lawn by the French doors looked?'

I
shook my head. 'Is that significant?'

'Probably
not. Right, let's get out of here.'

We
got out. The last thing he did was to pull the front door back into place, wedging
it shut with a piece of wood he broke from a small occasional table.

'Fake
Chippendale,' he grinned. 'It's worthless. Especially now.'

As we
got back into the car and he started the engine, the butterflies in my stomach
began fluttering. The feeling was getting too familiar.

'Where
to?' I asked, expecting to be heading back into town, probably to the police
station.

'To
the cinema in Pigton.' He glanced at his watch. 'We'll be just in time for the
late afternoon show.'

'Are
you off duty?' I asked, hacked off that, if so, he was taking my presence for
granted – not that I had anything planned.

'I'm
never really off duty, but I find films relax the mind and allow me to think. By
the way, I'm on the graveyard shift later and you're welcome to come along.
I've had a tip off and it might be fun.'

The
journey to Pigton proceeded without incident until, as we were hurtling down
the dual carriageway, a white Mercedes van had the temerity to pass us.

'Did
you see that clown speeding?' asked Hobbes, crushing the poor accelerator under
his foot.

'No.'
I stared ahead, helpless.

Despite
the engine squealing like a soul in torment, we would never have caught up had
there not been a steady line of lorries in the inside lane and had not a yellow
Citroen in the outside slowed down, signalling to turn right, blocking the van's
progress.

Hobbes
shook his head. 'Now what's he doing?'

The
van driver made an attempt to squeeze into an inadequate gap in the inside lane,
'undertaking' the Citroen. He failed and red brake lights stabbed through the
gloom.

Hobbes
chuckled. 'Now I've got him.'

I
didn't mean to, but I whimpered as he squeezed us between two lorries, filling
a gap barely big enough for a skateboard. The driver behind hooted and I turned
to see him gesticulating and swearing. Hobbes acknowledged him with a cheery
wave and waited his chance, managing to sneak in front of the van as it tried
to accelerate, controlling its speed and position until, as soon as the inside
lane was clear, he forced it to stop on the verge.

'Right,'
he said, 'let's see what this clown's problem is.'

Once
the immediate prospect of death had receded, I was horrified to hear him speak
so disrespectfully about a member of the public, and might have said something,
had he not already burst from the car and been marching towards the van. Scrambling
after him, I was glad, at least, that the wrath of Hobbes would be directed at
someone else. Despite the glare of the red dipping sun on the windscreen, the
van driver's face was pale and I wondered how I'd look after being stopped in
such a manner.

Hobbes
rapped on the window, which hummed open, and leant into the van. What he said
next took me completely by surprise.

'Who
d'you think you are? Stirling Moss?'

A
soft Irish voice replied, 'No, Inspector, it's Pete Moss – as you well know.'

'You're
a clown.'

I
winced.

'I
am that.'

The
man was wearing full clown make-up and regalia, except for the big boots, which
were lying along the passenger seat, on top of a huge suitcase.

'Why
are you in such a hurry?' asked Hobbes. 'Don't you know speed kills?'

I
nodded vigorous agreement.

'Actually,
Inspector, it's usually the abrupt cessation of speed that kills, but I take
your point. I'm rushing because I'm booked to entertain some sick children at
Pigton Hospital and I'm running late. I got delayed by … business and I'm not
sure quite where I'm going. I'd hate to disappoint those poor kids.'

Hobbes,
smiling, nodded. 'Alright, Pete. Follow me. Move yourself, Andy – and quickly.'

He
hustled me back to the car and I threw myself into the passenger seat, just in
time. From somewhere, he whipped out a blue-flashing light, sticking it on the
roof, and speeding off, Pete Moss's van close behind. He turned on a siren and
we hurtled towards the big town, ignoring traffic lights and give-way signs,
forcing other vehicles out of our way. A sign flashed by saying 'Pigton 10',
yet I could have sworn that within five minutes we were screeching into the
hospital car park.

Hobbes
opened the window, pointing to a low, modern building as the clown got out. 'The
children's ward's over there. Mind how you go in future.'

'I
will that,' said Pete, running towards the hospital, struggling with his case,
a giant boot wedged beneath each arm.

'Nice
chap,' said Hobbes, accelerating away, cutting through the traffic like a
scimitar through tissue paper. 'I barely recognised him under all the makeup. I
knew him when he was a lad, you know.'

'Shouldn't
you turn the siren off?' I asked, embarrassed, as well as scared.

'All
in good time. We've got a film to catch.'

He
turned it off as we reached the cinema car park. I barely had time to get out
before he'd locked up and was marching towards the foyer, pulling out his
wallet and removing some cash. The wallet was small and hairy and strangely
disturbing. I wished I hadn't seen it.

'Two
for screen one, please, miss.' He slapped his money down in front of the
cashier.

Her
hands shook as she handed him the tickets.

'Let's
go.'

I
followed because I'd had no time to consider my options. I didn't even know
what was showing. When we took our seats in the gloom, the auditorium was
half-empty, which was fortunate as he overspilled his seat and I had to make
myself comfortable in the next but one. Though the film was already in progress,
he shuffled out for a quiet word with the projectionist and very soon it restarted.
I don't remember its name: it was a Western and not the sort of thing I'd
normally go for, though it passed the time enjoyably enough. Hobbes barely
moved during the next hour and a half and once or twice I glanced at him as he
watched the screen through narrowed eyes, apparently entranced.

He
emerged from his trance only once, when a spiky-haired, baggy-shirted youth in
the seat in front opened a bumper-sized packet of crisps. From deep inside
Hobbes's chest emerged a rumble of disapproval. The youth, ignoring it, munching
his crisps, kept scrunching the bag, until, after a few seconds, Hobbes leaned
forward and tapped him a crushing blow on the shoulder.

'I
am a police officer,' he whispered, his voice as soft as a hurricane, 'and I
must warn you, that unless you desist from making that noise, and quickly, I
will arrest you.'

The
youth had guts. He rubbed his shoulder, looking back over it, barely flinching.
'On what charge?'

'Rustling,'
Hobbes drawled. 'See there?' He pointed to the screen, where the broken body of
Luke Kinkade dangled from the gallows. 'Some places you can still be hung for
rustling and don't you forget it, boy.'

The
youth had the good sense to turn away and keep quiet. Hobbes settled back with
a contented sigh, watching in rapt silence until a shootout signalled the end.
As we got up to leave, the youth turned, as if planning to say something.
Hobbes put his head to one side, sticking out his tongue, twisting his mouth
horribly, making a hanged man gesture, until the youth fled. I felt rather
sorry for him but Hobbes was smiling like a cheerful wolf.

There
was something of a nip in the air as we left the cinema under a sky seemingly
weighed down with cloud.

'I
enjoyed that,' said Hobbes, walking to the car. 'Now it's time to go home for
supper. A nice dish of gnome, I expect.' He grinned evilly. 'Hop in and I'll
drop you off at your flat or anywhere else you like. I expect you'll be hungry
again by now.'

I
nodded, the hot scent of charred steak from some nearby eatery moistening my
mouth. Swallowing, I got into the car, as if hypnotised. 'Can you drop me at
the Greasy Pole?'

Hobbes
was easing the car through the car park as he waited his opportunity to flatten
the accelerator pedal. 'The Greasy Pole! By heck, Andy, you do like flirting
with danger. Have you heard what Eric does with his—? No, that's unfair, it was
never proven, although you won't ever find one of our lads in there, except
when we have to escort the rat catchers.'

'I
ate a burger and chips there a couple of days ago,' I said.

'And
you're still with us?' There was a hint of admiration in his voice. 'Isn't
nature wonderful?'

As
we reached the main road, the car leaped forward, weaving through the traffic
like a skier down the slalom.

Clutching
the seat until we were back on the dual carriageway and there seemed less
immediate chance of being smashed into eternal darkness, I had a few minutes for
reflection. 'Actually, could you drop me at the Cheery Chippy? I'm not sure I fancy
the Greasy Pole tonight.'

When
at last we stopped, I opened my eyes to find we were outside the Cheery Chippy.
Something seemed odd, disorienting, until I realised he'd gone the wrong way
down a one way street. I didn't know why I was surprised.

'D'you
know this is a one way street?' I asked.

'Of
course. I was only going one way.'

'But
don't the arrows mean anything to you?'

'Arrows
usually mean an attack by them pesky redskins. There ain't too many redskins in
Sorenchester.'

I
nodded, knowing I was wasting my time.

'Right, Andy, off you go and get your chips.
I'll pick you up at your place at ten.' He drove off up the road, forcing two
cars and a bus onto the pavement, and turned out of sight. I heard a screech of
brakes as I stepped into the warm, greasy interior.

Carrying
my haddock and chips home, I turned on the television, eating, relaxing in the
pool of normality. On finishing my meal, I took a leisurely shower, changed my
clothes and watched more telly, luxuriating in my vegetative state, relieved to
forget all about Hobbes for a few minutes. Of course, that careless thought
took me straight back to thinking about him. There was something about him I
didn't understand at all, something that made me want to run and hide. In his
company I felt like a nervous climber must feel on a snowfield, where any false
move or noise might set off the avalanche. I'd been terrified half the day, yet
I'd come to no actual harm, though I feared for the state of my nervous system.
I guessed that with luck, in time, assuming I survived, I would get used to
him. Oh God! I hoped I wouldn't have time to get used to him. I raised my
hands. They appeared steady and for a moment I felt good about my nerves of
steel, until I realised my whole body was trembling in time.