3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (2 page)

For the next half hour or more, I struggled to keep still, forcing myself not to wriggle, scratch or sigh. Instead, I stared at the deep, brown carpets, the heavy plush furniture, and the porcelain figurines that had to be dusted twice a day. It seemed like an aeon had passed when Father went to the bathroom, leaving the paper behind. I grabbed it, flicked rapidly through and was disappointed there was nothing about the robbery. I guessed the story had broken too late. Wishing the bungalow had thicker internal walls, I tried to ignore Father’s rumblings.

‘Did you know there was a gold robbery in Sorenchester last night,’ I asked when he returned, still doing up his trousers.

‘When are you going back there?’ he asked. ‘The sooner the better, I say, before you demolish the bungalow.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Mother. ‘He’s no trouble, really. He’s going to stay with us for a few days, aren’t you, Andy? I counted four changes of clothes in his bag and I can always wash them if he needs more. It’ll be no bother. He’s lost weight and looks like he could do with some good home cooking.’

‘That would be really nice,’ I said, ‘but, since Father’s better, I think I really must go back today. Hobbes might require my assistance.’

‘God help him if he does,’ said Father.

‘Sorry,’ I said, trying to ignore Mother’s look of disappointment, ‘but I’d better get there as soon as possible.’

2

My departure was hastened by the sight of the lump Mother disinterred from the freezer, intending to warm up for our lunch. Too polite to ask what it was, convinced nothing edible should be such a mottled grey, and certain it should not have such a peculiar, rainbow sheen, I made my excuses. Grabbing my bag, saying my farewells and promising to keep in touch, I set off for Sorenchester. It was approaching midday, and I was hoping to be back in time for dinner, as Hobbes habitually called lunch. Not that I was overly concerned about being late, because I was confident Mrs Goodfellow would rustle up something delicious, should I look hungry enough, and I had a talent for looking hungry. Just as importantly, I was desperate to find out about the attempted gold robbery, straight from the Hobbes’s mouth.

My first problem arose on reaching the bus stop, when an increasingly frantic search through my pockets revealed a horrible truth: I’d lost my return ticket. In desperation, I counted out all the money on me, a scanty collection of silver and copper coins, my heart sinking as I realised it totalled less than one pound. Although I could have returned to
Dunfillin
and begged, I did have a modicum of pride, and besides, the bus was approaching. As it stopped, I made up my mind. I was nothing if not decisive.

The doors opened and I stepped aboard, where the driver, a spotty young man with short, greasy hair, smirked at me as if he’d never seen anything so funny.

‘How far can I get for ninety-eight pee?’ I asked, clutching my change in a sweaty grasp.

With a shrug and a long-suffering sigh, he consulted a dog-eared scrap of paper. ‘Ninety pence will get you to the Deerstone stop.’

‘Will I be over the hill, then?’

‘Looks like you’re already over the hill, mate,’ said the driver, displaying an irregular set of teeth with a greenish tinge.

‘I mean,’ I said, ‘will that take me past the top of Nobby Hill?’

‘That it will, mate.’

‘I’ll do it!’ Counting out ninety pence, I dropped it into the slot and picked up my ticket.

The bus was three quarters empty, with an ingrained residue of sweat mingled with diesel fumes. I took a seat by the window, reasonably pleased, because, after Nobby Hill, which was renowned both for height and steepness, the road to Sorenchester was relatively flat and I thought it would be a moderately easy walk from there. Certainly, it was going to be a long one, fifteen miles I’d guess, but it was a nice day and I hoped to thumb a lift. Even if I couldn’t, I reckoned I’d make it to Sorenchester in four hours or thereabouts.

As we chugged though town, although glad to be going home, my mind was ticking over and barely aware of anything happening in the dusty streets, until we pulled up at a stop.

‘All aboard,’ said the driver, as the doors opened. ‘Hurry up!’

‘I am hurrying,’ said a woman. ‘I just need a moment to put my clothes on.’

Instinctively my head turned towards a pretty young student, dressed in tight jeans and t-shirt. She was shoving a large laundry bag aboard. I settled back down, amused, but disappointed.

It wasn’t long before we reached Nobby Hill, where the bus, slowing to little more than jogging pace, strained to reach the summit. Massive trees flanked the sides of the road, glowing green under a sun that was still fierce for the time of year, although here and there a dash of tawny and the reddening of rowans hinted at the changing season. A pair of puce-faced hikers toiling up the hill made me even gladder I was riding the bus. Yet, all too soon, having reached the summit, we dipped towards the Deerstone stop.

‘It’s the end of the road for you, mate,’ said the driver, as if I was thinking of staying put.

We stopped and I disembarked, pleased I’d remembered my bag. I watched the bus drive away, took a deep breath, slung my bag over my shoulder and began walking with my thumb stuck out in the time-honoured signal. Half a dozen cars and a lorry passed by almost immediately, all of them ignoring me, and then there was nothing: absolutely nothing. After about twenty minutes, I began to wonder if hitching a lift had been a fanciful idea, although it had seemed reasonable enough on a road that was normally busy. There was nothing I could do but shrug, keep walking, and wonder what had happened to the traffic.

The sun was making the road ahead shimmer. I guessed I’d been walking for an hour with nothing passing in either direction, and home felt a weary distance away, when, at last, I heard a car’s engine. A muddy green Land Rover drove towards me along a rutted side road. Hoping it was heading for Sorenchester, I stopped, waggling my hitcher’s thumb and trying to look like a perfect passenger. To my delight, the Land Rover slowed down and stopped.

The driver’s window opened and I stepped forward, leaning in, seeing my benefactor, a young man in a checked shirt, corduroy trousers and a baseball cap, was looking at me expectantly.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Home.’ He pointed along the road to Sorenchester.

‘Me too,’ I said, nodding. ‘Can I have a lift?’

‘Yes, but, I’m going home …’

‘That’s fine. Just take me as far as you’re going.’

‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Hop in.’

I hopped, shut the door and belted myself in. ‘Thank you. It’s very kind of you.’

‘It’s nothing.’

He was right. Setting off towards Sorenchester, he turned almost immediately into a dusty lane and came to a stop by the side of an old red-brick farm house.

‘Home,’ he said, grinning. ‘I tried to tell you.’

‘Thanks very much,’ I said, gritting my teeth, getting out and trudging back the way we’d just come. At least it was downhill.

That was the only vehicle I laid eyes on, apart from a distant glimpse of a tractor in a field. The cylinder of hay it was carrying reminded me of a giant Swiss roll, an unfortunate analogy, as I was already starting to feel ravenous and guessed it was lunchtime. No doubt that was why the farmer had been heading home. The sun was at its zenith, sweat was sticking my shirt to my back and I had to keep moving my bag from shoulder to shoulder, aware they were starting to chafe, and, as if to distract me from that particular woe, a blister was coming up on my heel. Licking dry lips with a dry tongue, I wished I’d had the foresight to bring a drink and my thirst wasn’t helped by seeing a sign to the Red Dragon Inn. I wondered how much ice-cold lager they’d let me have for eight pence. None whatsoever, I suspected. I trudged on.

The road really was remarkably empty. Nothing, besides the occasional bird, was moving, and I could almost believe I was the only human left in the world. I guessed there’d been a major accident or something that had meant the road was closed, and it now seemed a very long road, a very hot road, and one that was increasingly hard on my feet. Eventually, a most welcome downhill section took me to the tiny village of Northsorn, about half way to Sorenchester, where I beheld the Squire’s Arms, a fine, old-fashioned, thatch-roofed pub, just off the road.

On reaching it, I loitered near the front door, which was wedged open, and stared longingly at the rows of beer pumps, considering my chances of begging for a drink. Unfortunately, there was a huge, shaven-headed, scowling man behind the bar. He reminded me, with his dim-witted, ugly, malevolent face, massive, thick arms and general look of belligerence, of ‘Featherlight’ Binks, the landlord of the Feathers in Sorenchester. He did not look the sympathetic type. Giving up on beer, I considered getting a drink from the tap in the gents’ toilet but, since it was on the far side of the bar room and I’d have to walk there under the scrutiny of that scowl, I hesitated. When he glared at me, flexing his biceps, displaying an impressive red rose tattoo and giving an impression of great strength, I gave up. I’d just have to keep walking.

However, my situation wasn’t quite as bad as it seemed, for the River Soren appeared out of the fields next to the Squires Arms and ran beside the road for a short distance. Coming across a flat, grassy spot beneath the shade of a fine old cedar tree, I laid down my bag, removed my shoes and socks, rolled up my chinos to my knees and plunged my feet into the stream. Although the initial shock made me gasp, it was soon blissful. I sighed, wiggling my toes as a large rainbow trout rose to inspect them before taking fright and concealing itself within a mass of streaming weeds. When my feet were sufficiently cool, I knelt on the bank, splashed my face and felt much better, despite still being desperate for a drink. Yet, the river, glinting, gleaming, gurgling and burbling, held enough drink for thousands. It was tempting, though I dithered a while, trying not to think of all the bugs it might contain and what the trout did in it. The temptation was too strong. Lying flat on my stomach, leaning over the stream, I opened my mouth and drank greedily. Though a little earthy, the river water was cool, fresh and delightful.

Gulping it down, drinking my fill, I was happy until rough hands grabbed my ankles and lifted them, plunging my head under the surface, causing water to pour up my nose, and explode into my sinuses. Panicking, in pain, desperate for air, flailing, writhing, squirming and kicking, unable to escape, I was certain I was going to drown until I was released to slide into the river. I grazed my hands on the pebbly bottom before, pushing up and kicking, I made it to the surface. Gasping for air, I floundered as the current took me.

‘Help!’ I screamed.

‘We don’t like poachers,’ said the man from the pub, bending to pick up my bag and hurl it.

It hit the water in front of me and I grabbed it, clinging like the proverbial drowning man clings to a proverbial straw, and with about as much effect.

‘I can’t swim well!’ I cried, raising my hands and sinking.

‘Well, stand up, you daft bugger,’ said the man. ‘Then take your sodden bag and clear off.’

My feet touched bottom and I struggled to stand, finding the river was only waist-deep, though the flow was strong and the pebbles underfoot offered little grip. It was a relief to reach the bank, to drag myself ashore and to lie there panting, while my brutal assailant laughed his ugly head off. I wished Hobbes were there to sort him out.

Then, getting to my feet and drawing myself up to my full height, I turned to face him. ‘Can I have my shoes back, please?’

He threw them. I nearly caught the first one. The second caught me on the ear.

‘Now get lost,’ he yelled, taking one giant step towards me.

Clutching my shoes and bag, I fled down the road until it felt safe to stop and catch my breath. After rubbing my ear, I sat on the verge to pull on my socks, which luckily I’d stuffed into my shoes. Then, to my surprise, I heard a car approaching. Unfortunately, it was heading in the wrong direction and was a police car that turned up the lane beside the Squire’s Arms and sped into the hills.

Having put on my shoes, I stood back up and resumed my walk, leaving a trail of drips on the hot asphalt.

I could hardly believe what had just happened. Even Featherlight Binks had to be subjected to some degree of provocation before resorting to violence, and I’d noticed how he usually managed to restrain himself until he’d taken as much of a customer’s money as he was likely to get before punching him or throwing him out. Besides, Featherlight had never, to my knowledge, tried to drown anyone in the river, although this might have been because the Soren was a five minute walk from the Feathers and his rage rarely lasted that long. However, according to Hobbes, he had once made an attempt at drowning a complaining customer in a pan of spicy cat stew.

I couldn’t understand what I’d done to provoke the man, although I’d have been the first to admit I was not to everyone’s taste. There’d been no reason for accusing me of poaching, although I had seen a trout when bathing my feet. I’d never heard of anyone poaching trout with their toes. Hobbes had once told me that he’d been fishing with bears, who’d used their paws to hook in salmon, but I had nothing in common with bears, other than that my bedroom had once been the den of a retired circus bear, called Cuddles, whose mortal remains, now stuffed, occupied the attic of 13 Blackdog Street. That was according to Hobbes; Mrs Goodfellow insisted he’d discovered it in a skip and brought it home as a curio.