3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (6 page)

‘Thanks,’ said Hobbes, reaching for a bottle in the middle of the table. Pulling off the foil capsule, he gave three sharp smacks to the bottom of the bottle, making the cork rise up. Pulling it out with a gentle pop, sniffing it with a nod of approval, he flicked it across the kitchen, straight into a flip top bin.

‘Would you care for a little, Andy?’ he asked.

‘Yes, please.’

Having filled three glasses with the dark red, almost purple liquid, he pushed one towards me and took one for himself. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ I said, sniffing, satisfying myself that it really was wine, and taking a sip. It was rich and fruity, with a warm velvety feel and was more than acceptable. Since living at Hobbes’s I’d developed a rudimentary palate and considered I now knew enough to avoid anything likely to dissolve my teeth or blind me.

We sat in silence for a few moments, sipping, enjoying the flavour, relaxing as the sizzling garlic, combined with the other cooking aromas, set my mouth watering.

‘Is he really a vampire?’ I whispered.

‘I really am,’ said Sid, who was suddenly standing right behind me.

Jerking with shock, I knocked over my glass. Sid caught it and handed it back without a drop spilling.

‘We have sharp ears as well as sharp teeth,’ he said.

‘Not to mention sharp reflexes,’ said Hobbes.

‘Hardly, old boy, I’ve slowed down with age.’

‘Age?’ said Hobbes, looking severe. ‘More like your drunken life style.’

‘Drunken? I haven’t touched a drop since 1950.’

‘Since it’s only ten-past eight, now,’ said Hobbes, ‘you’ve lasted all of twenty minutes.’ He handed a glass to the old vampire.

‘Much obliged,’ said Sid, raising it to his lips. ‘Good health!’

If he was a vampire, and I had few doubts anymore, he was a cheerful one.

‘The soup will be ready in just a few minutes,’ he said, taking a seat at the head of the table.

‘What is it?’ I asked, raising my voice over the rumbling of my stomach.

‘It’s borscht, my own recipe and I hope you like it.’

‘It smells great,’ I said, unsure what borscht was, but unwilling to expose my ignorance.

‘It does indeed,’ said Hobbes and refilled his glass. ‘It’s very good of you to have us.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Your invitation was most opportune. You see, my house is currently under siege, and getting out is a trifle tricky.’ Hobbes took a gulp of wine and stretched out his legs.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Sid, ‘the barbarians at the gates. I’ve been keeping an eye on the news. I’m always a little nervous with crowds, because they are, in my experience, only one step removed from turning into mobs and taking up flaming brands and pitchforks.’

‘You’ve had no more trouble of that sort since moving here, have you?’ said Hobbes.

‘No, and for that I give you thanks, old boy.’

‘I’m just doing my job.’

‘Like you were last night,’ said Sid. ‘It’s regrettable someone caught your antics on camera, but otherwise you did well. I don’t like losing our money.’

‘Your money?’ I said, surprised, for the news had suggested the gang was trying to steal over a million pounds in gold sovereigns and, although Sid’s house suggested he was comfortably off, he didn’t strike me as a millionaire.

‘In a manner of speaking. The gold actually belongs to Colonel Squire, but since he was depositing it in my bank, I have a stake in it.’

Colonel Squire, the owner of Sorenchester Manor and several estates, was reputed to be very rich indeed.

‘That’s right,’ said Hobbes. ‘The colonel said he was diversifying his investments.’

‘But why was he doing it at night?’ I asked. ‘Why not during normal banking hours?’

‘There are two good reasons,’ said Sid. ‘Firstly, the colonel is rich enough to make the bank jump to his command. Secondly, he wanted me to accept the deposit personally and, if I have to go out, I prefer to do it at night. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll serve the soup.’

Rising, he strolled across to the stove, very light on his feet for one so portly, and, returning with a vast tureen, ladled out generous portions into three large, white bowls. The soup was red and frothy.

I looked at it, then at Hobbes. He smiled.

‘What is this?’ I asked, trying to sound calm, trying to dispel a rising horror.

‘Borscht,’ said Sid, fetching a basket of thickly sliced, crusty bread and a butter dish. As if that explained everything.

‘Yes, but what’s actually in it, besides garlic.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Sid with a chuckle, ‘that the colour is worrying you.’

I nodded, feeling sick.

‘It’s made with beetroot, and don’t worry, there’s no blood in it.’

‘Oh, good,’ I said, relieved. ‘I didn’t really think there would be.’

‘Of course not,’ said Sid, looking solemn.

I felt no fear. Whatever he was, he was no threat.

‘Please, help yourself to bread,’ said Sid, ‘and eat. I hope you enjoy it.’

After Hobbes had said his customary grace, I did eat. The borscht had a robust, almost earthy flavour with a hint of sweetness, not to mention a satisfying nuttiness and a strong meaty flavour, with just a hint of sourness that piqued my taste buds. In fact, it was so good I even entertained the possibility that it might equal one of Mrs G’s soups, though it felt disloyal to think so. Maybe it was because of my extreme hunger, or the contrast to Mother’s well-meaning horrors.

I tucked in, listening with half an ear to Hobbes and Sid talking about Rocky, the Olde Troll, who’d apparently fallen asleep while out standing in his field, and had woken up covered in graffiti. Although the brisk application of a wire brush had restored him to pristine condition, Rocky had complained bitterly about the loss of his lichen patina. Then, when I might have expected more talk of old times and old acquaintances, the conversation turned to gold and banking. I was surprised to learn that Hobbes kept a deposit box in Grossman’s Bank, a box he hadn’t touched since 1922.

‘Help yourselves to more borscht,’ said Sid as I finished the bowl. ‘There’s plenty.’

‘I don’t mind if I do,’ I said. ‘It’s delicious.’

‘Delicious? I should jolly well think so. I’ve had plenty of practice since my wife died.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Don’t be, young fellow. She had a good life. Until she married me, of course.’

Hobbes, with a laugh, helped himself to more and said: ‘Your Queenie was a good woman; she was like a mother to the lass.’

Once again, I experienced the strange sense of dislocation that struck whenever I was confronted with the age of Hobbes and some of his associates. Although I’d never plucked up the courage to ask how old he was, I had ascertained that, despite appearances, he was old enough to have been a policeman for some years before joining up as a soldier in the Great War. Mrs Goodfellow, ‘the lass’ as Hobbes called her, had been orphaned during the Blitz in the next war, and yet still ran Kung Fu classes in the church hall. It was no great step to accept Sid as older, far older, than his smooth, plump skin suggested.

When we’d finished the borscht, Sid gathered up our bowls, stacked them in the dishwasher and returned to the table with three sundae dishes filled with another dark red, frothy substance. ‘Raspberry mousse,’ he said, before I could embarrass myself. ‘I hope you like it.’

It was sweet and tart and fruity and smooth and utterly delicious. Hobbes didn’t say another word until he’d scraped the dish clean. Then he said four words: ‘Is there any more?’

Sid, looking well pleased, fetched him another dish, which went the same way. Although I would have loved to indulge my taste buds, I couldn’t, for my belly was so tight I didn’t dare and it was all I could do to find room for my wine.

Afterwards, Sid took us through to the lounge, painted a cosy, bright orange, dominated by an enormous book case, and containing a pair of magnificent green leather chesterfield sofas. A capacious armchair was positioned where its occupant might watch the vast television on the wall in total comfort, while benefiting from the fire that was dispelling any hint of autumnal chill and imbuing the air with the soft, soothing scent of warm, ripe apples. Hobbes and I, sprawling, replete, took a sofa each, while our host, having returned to the kitchen, brought in a steaming jug, whence arose the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee, adding to my feeling of comfort and ease. Having filled three translucent white porcelain cups and passed them to us, Sid approached a large, beautifully polished drinks cabinet.

‘Could I interest either of you in a snifter of brandy?’ he asked. ‘I fancy one myself.’

Hobbes nodded.

‘I’ll stick to coffee,’ I said. ‘Brandy is a bit strong for me these days.’

‘No problem,’ said Sid, pulling out a pair of brandy glasses, filling them and handing one to Hobbes. ‘Perhaps you’d like something else?’

‘Umm … I don’t know … I …’

‘How about a cocktail? I suggest one the youngsters used to drink in the Old Country.’

‘Maybe. Which old country? You don’t really come from Transylvania, do you?’

He laughed. ‘No, I come from a small village in Norfolk. The Old Country was a wine bar I used to own.’

‘You wouldn’t know it,’ said Hobbes. ‘It was way before your time. After he sold it, it became the Black Dog Café.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Sid, ‘I’ll make you one and see if you like it.’

With a sinister chuckle, he set to work with three bottles and a crystal glass.

‘This,’ he said, handing me the results of his alchemy, ‘is a Brain Haemorrhage.’

It was an apt name. Floating in a colourless fluid was what appeared to be a small clump of brain with great bloody streaks running through.

Although I tried to act cool, I failed to suppress a shudder and a grimace. ‘What is it?’

‘Two parts peach schnapps, topped with a measure of Irish cream and drizzled with grenadine. It’s normally drunk in a single quaff. I’m sure you’ll like it. Enjoy.’

Though my brain said ‘no’ and my stomach said ‘no room’, I felt, for the sake of my honour, that I should give it a try. Taking a deep breath, I gulped it down, finding it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. In fact, it was rather pleasant, with a sweet, fruity taste. Overcome with a sudden fatigue, I slumped in the chesterfield, resting my eyes, while Hobbes and Sid enjoyed a heated discussion on the subject of sticklebacks.

Having exhausted the topic, Sid asked about the investigation.

‘It’s too early to tell yet,’ said Hobbes, ‘but we have several lines of inquiry. Firstly, how did the gang know the gold would be delivered to the bank at that time?’

‘Someone must have told them,’ said Sid.

‘That would seem likely, so we are working on the theory that it was an insider job. I’d be obliged if you’d let me have a list of anyone who knew, but it may not have been malicious; it may have been carelessness.

‘Secondly, we’re holding three of the gang in the nick, and I may persuade them to talk. Unfortunately, my first impression is that we caught the foot soldiers, who know very little and that the boss got away.

‘Thirdly, there’s the van. When we find it, it’s likely to provide some clues – and it shouldn’t be hard to find, as it’s quite distinctive, having a hole in its roof and a huge dent where it hit a tree. I’d have caught them this afternoon, had my car not broken.’

‘But, surely, old boy, they’ll burn the van to get rid of any clues? That’s if they haven’t done so already.’

‘I fear you may be right.’ Hobbes sighed. ‘Still, I do have one further line of inquiry, because I got a good view of the driver and I’d recognise him anywhere. In fact, I thought for a moment that I did recognise him. Unfortunately, I didn’t get much of an impression of the other man, except that he was tall and wearing a tweed suit. I suspect that one was the boss.’

‘What are you going to do next?’ asked Sid. ‘Won’t all the reporters get in your way?’

‘Maybe, but I don’t really know what they want from me. Andy reckons they’ll hang around until they’ve got a story, or they’ll make one up.’

‘He’s probably right. They can be extraordinarily persistent until the next big news breaks. Do you remember what they were like that Walpurgis Night when Skeleton Bob Nibblet got stuck up the chimney? That could have become a very sticky situation. Another brandy?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Hobbes.

Sid got to his feet. ‘Another Brain Haemorrhage, Andy?’

Although I could easily have dropped off in the warmth of the crackling fire, and my head, already fuzzy, felt as if it were spinning, I opened my eyes and sat up. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ I said, ignoring a sober portion of my brain whispering that I’d already had too much.

Sid fetched the drinks. ‘Here’s to solving crime … Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

Having taken a gulp of neat brandy, Sid, looking thoughtful, said: ‘What I’d suggest is that you get away for a few days, until things quieten down. After all, you’ve already done enough. You saved the money and the bank’s reputation and arrested three of the gang.’