3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (35 page)

Squeezing Daphne’s hand to reassure us, I whispered: ‘No one’s here. Let’s move on.’

‘Let’s,’ she murmured.

We walked away, heading by the back of the church and plunging into total darkness beneath a massive yew tree, a tree Hobbes had once told me pre-dated the church by centuries. A layer of dry needles muffled every sound and all I could hear was our breathing. I began to think we were on a wild goose chase.

Far away, someone screamed.

‘Did you hear that?’ I asked, hoping she’d say no, hoping I’d imagined it.

‘Yes,’ she said, getting even closer.

‘Do you think it might have been a fox?’ I asked, grateful for her presence. I could feel at least one of us was trembling.

‘No.’

‘Nor do I. I suppose we’d better go and see what’s happening. Maybe it’s just kids mucking about.’

‘On a night like this?’ she said. ‘Someone’s in trouble and it might be Kathy. Come on, I think it came from over there.’

We ran from the tree’s cover, and there was just enough light from the moon to make out the broad lawns that were leading us down towards Church Lake. My stomach, already tight with worry, contracted when another scream rang out.

‘That didn’t sound like a woman,’ said Daphne.

There was a yell, a splash and a white flash of disturbed water. As we neared the edge, I saw an arm emerge some way out, followed by a head and another arm. The arms flailed wildly and slid beneath the surface.

‘I think someone’s fallen in,’ I remarked, as perceptive as ever.

‘No, he couldn’t have. He’s too far out.’

She was right again, for when the head reappeared, I realised it was probably ten metres from the bank.

‘Perhaps he jumped?’ I said doubtfully.

‘A long jump, but it doesn’t matter. We have to help.’

‘Umm … yeah … how?’ I asked as we reached lake side, both of us breathing hard, the ground getting soggy.

‘Could we throw something?’ asked Daphne. ‘If we can’t, someone will have to wade out to him, unless there are any boats?’

‘Not at this time of year. What could we throw?’

‘Isn’t there a lifebelt around here somewhere?’

‘Yes, there is,’ I cried, thinking back to a lazy summer afternoon. ‘There’s one over by the bench. At least, there was in August. Let’s get it.’

We turned and ran along the bank where, missing my footing I stumbled in, gasping as extremely cold water filled my shoes, but fortunate it was only ankle deep. I scrambled out, my feet squelching, and we continued towards the bench, finding the lifebelt hanging on a post. As I grabbed it, the man yelled again, a frightened, panicky cry and we hurried back to the water.

‘Throw it!’ said Daphne as I tried to gauge the distance.

Once, twice, three times I swung, building up a good momentum before hurling it with a cry of encouragement.

It was a good throw again: far too good. There was a thud, a splash, a groan, and silence.

‘I think,’ said Daphne, ‘that you hit him. And shouldn’t you have held onto one end of the rope?’

‘Damn it,’ I stepped into the dark water, ‘I’ll have to wade.’

It didn’t feel quite so shockingly cold as it had done the first time, or, rather, it didn’t until it reached my knees. I hoped it wouldn’t get much deeper.

‘Careful!’ said Daphne.

I looked back over my shoulder, nodded and took another step. At least, I intended to. Instead, my feet sank into the ooze and were gripped in its soft, clinging embrace, preventing any movement, other than a wild windmilling of my arms that only ended when I fell, face first. I came up, spluttering and gasping and all I wanted was to be back on solid ground. Had Daphne not been there, I would probably have given up. Instead, I decided to play the hero and swim to the rescue. I soon discovered that my heavy overcoat and tweed jacket had other ideas, restricting all movement in my arms so that it was like trying to swim in a straitjacket. I was barely making any progress and, where a more sensible man might have turned back and stripped off, I continued, floundering and gasping.

‘I’m coming,’ I yelled between breaths, even though I could no longer see the casualty. ‘Where are you?’

‘Go away.’

The voice was familiar.

‘Rupert?’

‘Sod off. You hit me in the face.’

Still, I kept going, although the cold was getting to me, stabbing into muscles that were already crying out for oxygen and finding my gasping lungs weren’t up to the task. At last I spotted him. Grasping the life belt, he was kicking for the far shore for all he was worth.

A couple of minutes later, I was in trouble.

‘Have you found him yet?’ shouted Daphne.

My chest felt as if it was being crushed and all I could manage was a feeble whisper: ‘I think I might need help.’

Rupert meanwhile, ignoring, or, to be charitable, ignorant of, my plight, was dragging himself from the lake. Icy water splashed my face and shot up my nose and it struck me how much easier it would be to swim if I took off my coat. Although my hands were too cold to be cooperative, I trod water and, following a brief struggle, undid the buttons. Buoyed by my success, I tried to wriggle from its smothering embrace, only to have it pinion my arms behind my back. The more I struggled, the more it seemed to push me under and the earthy, stagnant flavour of lake water filled my mouth. I raised my face to breathe, the coat over my head and it wasn’t long before I realised I was losing the fight. As the dark waters closed over me again, I kicked frantically back to the surface, managing half a breath of air. It wasn’t nearly enough and it took all my failing will power not to breathe water as I went down again. Though not prone to panic, I came close in the next few seconds. I really thought this was it, the end of Andy.

Just before despair gripped me, a hand did, seizing my collar, supporting me and keeping my head above water. I flapped like an idiot and tried to grab whoever was there until a sharp slap on my cheek knocked some sense back into me.

‘I’ve got you,’ said an authoritative female voice. ‘Lie back, relax and let me do the work.’

Still supporting me, she whipped off the overcoat, turned me onto my back and towed me towards the shore.

‘Is he alright?’ asked Daphne.

‘I guess,’ said Kathy, ‘though why he wanted to undress himself in the middle of a lake beats me. Sometimes he’s an idiot.’

‘I was trying to rescue Rupert,’ I said through chattering teeth.

‘That was Rupert?’ said Daphne.

‘Yes. I thought I’d knocked him out with the life belt.’

‘I hope you knocked the punk’s teeth out,’ said Kathy. ‘Can you stand now?’

‘Umm … yeah.’

‘So, why don’t you?’

I put my feet down and we waded to shore, where Daphne helped us out.

‘What happened out there?’ she asked. ‘I couldn’t see you properly and then you started splashing.’

‘Tell her on the way home,’ said Kathy, ‘otherwise we’ll freeze our butts off.’

My tale of woe was apparently much funnier in the telling than it had felt at the time, and my chattering teeth only added to the amusement. I wasn’t half glad to get back to Blackdog Street. Unfortunately, my front door key was still in my coat pocket and my coat was still in the lake. I stood and shivered while Kathy rang the bell. It seemed a long time before Mrs Goodfellow, still pink from her exertions at Kung Fu, answered the door.

‘Have you two been swimming?’ she asked. ‘You’d better come in at once and warm up. I’ll get you some towels and put the kettle on.’

Kathy and Daphne helped me into the light and the warmth and the night was shut out. I enjoyed a wonderful hot bath and a cup of cocoa before being tucked up in my bed. Daphne kissed me on the cheek and the light went out. It had been an eventful day and that last act made all the pain and the fear seem worth it.

21

A knock on the front door catapulted me from bed, instantly awake, alert, fearing that Denny had found us. I stumbled into a pair of trousers and was still fumbling with the buttons as I rushed downstairs.

‘Hello,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, opening the door, ‘can I help you?’

‘Good morning,’ said a soft voice that seemed strangely familiar and had an accent similar to Daphne’s.

Since it was a woman, my fears were partially assuaged and I continued down at a safer pace, ensuring my trousers were properly secured.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wondered if you might know something about my friend.’

‘I wonder if I might,’ said Mrs G.

‘The thing is, that I passed her flat this morning, but there was police tape everywhere. A nice policeman said there’d been a gas explosion, but that no one had been injured and that Inspector Hobbes might help me find her. Do I have the right address?’

‘You do,’ said Mrs G, ‘but, unfortunately, he’s out.’

She was talking to a slightly plump, blonde woman with enormous blue eyes, who was wearing a long, pink coat with a pink fur collar, pink trousers and pink shoes. I instantly recognised her as Pinky of Pinky’s Tearoom and, although she’d seemed very pleasant back then, I was suspicious.

‘What’s your friend’s name?’ asked Mrs Goodfellow.

‘It’s Duckworth … Daphne Duckworth. Do you know where she might be?’

‘Don’t tell her,’ I said, as I reached the front door.

‘Why not, dear?’

‘Because, for all we know, she might be working for Sir Gerald.’

Pinky’s look of puzzled recognition, twisted into one of anger. ‘I would never work for that loathsome man. What’s he been doing?’

Although she sounded sincere and I was inclined to believe her, I wasn’t yet prepared to take the risk.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but we must be careful.’

‘You seem familiar. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before? Weren’t you in Blackcastle?’

I nodded.

‘Do you know her?’

‘Yes, we’re friends.’

‘Aren’t you the so-called tourist who found Hugh’s remains?’ Now she was sounding suspicious.

‘How do you know about that?’

‘She told me. She didn’t tell me you were friends though. In fact, I had the impression she didn’t much like you.’

‘Things have changed since then.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, ‘you’d better come in, rather than letting all the heat out. Then maybe we can help you.’

Although Pinky still looked suspicious, Mrs G’s gummy smile seemed to reassure her. ‘Alright.’ She stepped inside.

‘You’d better get dressed, dear.’

Suddenly embarrassed by my naked torso, I fled upstairs.

When I came back down, washed, shaved and dressed in the neatly pressed clothes that had been laid out for me, Pinky was on the sofa sipping a mug of tea. She looked up and smiled.

‘Mrs Goodfellow explained about you and Daphne.’

‘Good. I’m Andy Caplet. Andy.’

‘And I’m Lillian Pinkerton. Most people call me Pinky. Nice to meet you again.

‘After what I’ve just been told, I can understand why you were wary, but, if you give her a call at work, you’ll be able to trust me. We’ve been friends since she and Hugh moved into Blackcastle.’

‘I don’t have her number.’

‘But you do have one of these.’ Putting down her mug and getting to her feet, she went to the telephone table, pulled out the directory and opened it. After running her finger down the page, she picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Could you put me through to Mrs Duckworth, please?’

After a moment, she handed me the phone.

‘Hello?’ said Daphne, her voice electronically flattened, ‘is anybody there?’

‘Yes, it’s me …’

‘Andy! How are you today?’

‘I’m fine, but … umm … do you know Lillian Pinkerton?’

‘Pinky? Of course. She’s a good friend. Why do you ask? Has something happened?’

‘No, nothing’s happened. It’s just that she’s with me now.’

‘At the inspector’s house? Why?’

‘She came to make sure you were alright.’

‘That’s nice. Can you put her on?’

I handed back the phone and, leaving them to talk, headed to the kitchen in a quest for tea and breakfast, for I was still muzzy headed and would have preferred to go back to bed for an hour or so. The events of the previous night were trying to resurface from the depths of my mind, but I forced them back under. They would have to wait until I was ready.

There was fresh tea in the pot, but I was reduced to making my own breakfast, since Mrs Goodfellow was rushing out, claiming to have a dental appointment. I didn’t wish to doubt her but, since all her own teeth, plus countless others, were kept in jam jars, it sounded unlikely. Still, it was none of my business, so, cutting a couple of slices of bread, grilling them until they were nicely brown, plastering them with fresh butter and marmalade, I sat down to eat. Although I regretted the lack of bacon and eggs, I could not really feel hard done by, for the old girl’s marmalade was the best. It was a mystery how she did it, for I’d watched her make it and she hadn’t appeared to use anything other than oranges and sugar, yet the flavours she produced just tingled the tongue and set the palette on fire.