Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (10 page)

'I
don't know,' I admitted.

'In
which case, how about coming with me, if you're still interested in police work
now you're not working for the
Bugle
?'

I
pondered for a moment. I had more than a few misgivings, but then I realised
he'd shown me things that had rocked my perception of the world and, deep
within, a seed of curiosity had sprouted. I was astonished to discover how much
I wanted it to grow, for it might change my life, which, just then, felt like a
great idea.

'I'd
like that,' I said and, though a sensible part of me was screaming no, my new
spirit of curiosity, proving more powerful, stifled it. 'And, if the
Bugle
doesn't want me, maybe I can go freelance.'

Hobbes,
nodding approvingly, patted me on the back, knocking me to the floor, and
helped me back to my feet. 'Take a seat. I've got a few things to tell you.' He
indicated the sofa.

We
sat side by side and he turned to me with a grin that might have revived my
sensible part, had the scent of baking bread, wafting in from the kitchen, not
soothed my nerves.

'I
took another look into the grave the other night,' he said, 'and the box you'd
been jumping around on was, in fact, a plastic wheelie bin, resting on the
remains of the original coffin, which the ghouls had evidently broken into
decades ago. However, the wheelie bin contained a fresh body. Well, fairly
fresh.'

'Murder,
then?' The thought of how close I'd been to a corpse, not to mention how close
I'd been to becoming one, made me feel sick. Fighting back the feeling, I
forced myself to concentrate.

'Almost
certainly, though let's not be too hasty.'

'It
could hardly have been suicide.'

'No,
I think we can rule out suicide.' He looked thoughtful. 'That's unless he was
very inventive. It seems to me that, if someone wants to hide a body, where
better than in a grave? It's the last place anyone would look for one and, if
it hadn't been for us keeping an eye on those ghouls, someone would probably
have got away with it. It still begs the question of why anyone would dig it up
again.'

'Umm
… whose body was it? You say it was a he?'

'He
was an adult male and, apart from that, it's hard to tell. There was no ID or
anything and his face was bashed in, so I've got our forensic lads checking
dental records, DNA, prints and so on. The corpse's clothes were muddy, yet the
mud wasn't the same as that in the graveyard. Plus, he was wearing wellington
boots with worn soles.'

'Cheese
and pickle?' said Mrs Goodfellow's shrill voice from behind.

Gasping,
shocked by the suddenness of her voice and how silently she'd got there, I
stared at her over my shoulder. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes
glittering like a sparrow's.

'Would
you boys like a cheese and pickle sandwich? Or are you going out for your
dinner?'

'A
sandwich would be lovely,' said Hobbes.

'It
would be very nice,' I said, voice quavering to match hers.

'I'll
do it right away. I expect you'll be hungry.'

She
was correct. Hospital breakfasts are inadequate, at least for me. I turned back
to Hobbes, expecting her to leave.

'Tea?
Or coffee?' Her voice rang in my ear.

My
heart jumped and I clutched my chest, which must have looked somewhat
theatrical, yet was genuine. I had a sudden panic that my much-abused ticker
was going to burst from my rib cage. Unexpected noises had always alarmed me
and I seemed to be getting worse at dealing with them.

'Tea,
please,' said Hobbes.

'Hahaha,'
said I, nodding my head, 'and the same for me.'

She
smiled and I watched her walk towards the kitchen, making sure she left the
sitting room. Her startling appearances were doing me no good at all.

'With
all the excitement recently,' said Hobbes, 'I haven't had time to interview Mr
Roman's staff, so I thought we might do that this afternoon. Unfortunately,
Superintendent Cooper has suggested I should concentrate on the grave case and
let sleeping Mr Roman's lie. She believes it was just a minor burglary case,
that I've already proved no one else was involved in Roman's death, and that
there are more important cases to attend to.' He paused, looking thoughtful. 'The
trouble is, I'm intrigued, because, though it may only have been a break-in, it
led to suicide; I want to know why.'

'So,
what are you going to do?'

'Interview
Roman's staff, as I said.'

'Won't
the superintendent be angry?'

'Not
if I don't tell her.' He grinned. 'And I'm not really supposed to have you
working with me now you've got the push from the
Bugle
. I'm not planning
on telling her about that either.'

'Will
there be any danger?'

'If
we're lucky.'

Nodding,
I wondered again why I'd agreed to go with him. Perhaps, I was crazy. More
likely, I just wasn't good at saying no.

'Tell
me,' I asked, as a thought occurred, 'what, exactly, is your job?'

He
looked at me, obviously puzzled. 'I'm a police officer, a detective inspector
to be precise.'

'I
know that but, what I mean is, don't you get assigned to things like the flying
squad, or traffic, or fraud, or something? That is to say, don't you have a
speciality?'

Hobbes
displayed his happy wolf grin. 'You sound just like my old Super. He would
demand that I stuck to his orders, even when I pointed out that policing was
policing and that I would always do whatever it took. He kept insisting that I
was wilfully disobeying his orders, even when I pointed out how foolish they
were.'

'Did
he get mad?'

'Yes,'
said Hobbes, 'he got quite mad in the end, poor chap. Still it was only when he
took to throwing pointy cabbages at passers-by from the station roof that they
had to take him away – not that they were much danger to anyone, because he'd
over-boiled them.'

'You
mean he literally went mad?' The news shocked and scared me. If Hobbes had been
responsible for driving a police superintendent mad, what chance did I have of
keeping my sanity? Of course, I'd already agreed to stay in his house and to continue
working with him when I didn't need to, so already I wasn't acting entirely
rationally. Thinking about it, I had, in the last few hours, been nearly buried
alive by ghouls, burned in my own bedroom, and caught handfuls of live mice
patted to me by an old lady in an attic. Perhaps there was no reason to fear
going mad, maybe I had already tipped over the edge. I chuckled as Hobbes
continued.

'Went
mad? I don't know if he actually went mad, because the lads reckoned he must
already have been mad to try and tell me what to do in the first place.'

'What
about your new superintendent?'

'Superintendent
Cooper is a very sensible woman and only makes suggestions and I can't wilfully
disobey a suggestion. Besides, I think she's mostly happy to let me police in
my own way.'

'Sensible
indeed.' I knew I wouldn't care, or dare, to reprimand him.

'Your
dinners are on the table,' Mrs Goodfellow piped up by my right ear.

'Aghh!'
Springing lightly across the room, catching my foot on the coffee table, I
stumbled against the standard lamp.

Hobbes
caught the lamp before it fell and guffawed, shaking his head. 'By heck, Andy,'
he said, wiping his eyes, 'your comic tumbling turn ought to be shown on the
telly. Funniest thing I've seen since they took the old superintendent away.'

Mrs
Goodfellow beaming, nudging me in the ribs, whispered, 'I'm glad to see you
getting on so well with the old fellow. I haven't heard him laugh so much for
months.'

After
rubbing my bruised shin, I followed the laughter into the kitchen, Mrs
Goodfellow reaching up and patting my back.

Still,
there were compensations to staying at Hobbes's, as I discovered on the kitchen
table. The old woman had prepared a huge plateful of sandwiches and, sitting
down, I grabbed one from the top, took a bite and savoured the wonderful
carnival of textures and flavours filling my mouth. Now, cheese and pickle
sandwiches were not something I'd normally rave about, but, the crusty bread
still being warm and fragrant from the oven, the primrose-yellow butter
dripping through like honey, the cheese tasting tangy and sweet, and all cut to
a satisfying thickness, then it was a meal fit for a king.

Mrs
Goodfellow clicked her tongue and Hobbes frowned, gesturing for me to stand. He
lowered his head. 'For what we are about to receive, may the Good Lord make us
truly thankful. Amen.'

'Amen,'
said Mrs Goodfellow.

I
felt the blood rushing to my face.

'Don't
worry,' said Hobbes, sitting and helping himself to a sandwich, 'you weren't to
know our customs, but you will next time. Now, tuck in.'

I
tucked in. The steaming mug of tea Mrs Goodfellow poured for me was excellent,
too. Hobbes was well looked after and, evidently, so would I be during my stay.
I quite forgot my embarrassment and my problems at that scrubbed table. Perhaps
madness had something going for it.

Eventually
Hobbes finished and pushed his chair back. 'Thank you,' he told his
housekeeper, 'that was most excellent.'

'Yes,
indeed,' I enthused, 'it was really good.'

She
grinned gummily and blushed like a schoolgirl.

'Right,
then,' said Hobbes, 'to business.'

'To
business!' I raised my mug in a facetious toast.

A
baffled frown wrinkled his forehead.

As
he got up from the table and left the house, I followed, meek as a lamb, though
the butterflies were, once again, taking wing in my stomach at the prospect of more
of his driving. I was, however, spared, at least temporarily, for he led me
down The Shambles in a brisk five-minute walk. Despite the pale sun shining in
a watery sky, a fierce north-easterly wind obliterated any warmth and I was
glad of my tweed suit, which, in addition to its insulating properties, must, I
felt, be giving me a most distinguished air. When a couple of women chatting
outside the church smiled as we walked by, my back straightened and my chin
lifted, until self-doubt launched a counter attack: they'd probably smiled because
I looked so ridiculous and old-fashioned. Yet there was no time to brood for Hobbes,
shoulders hunched, shambling but surprisingly fast, was getting ahead of me. I took
great, long, strides to keep up, stumbling on a cracked paving stone.

A
portly youth smirked. 'Enjoy your trip?'

Ignoring
him, I hurried after Hobbes, who having turned onto Up Way, entered the 'Bear
with a Sore Head'. It was great to slam the door in the face of the biting wind
and appreciate the log fire glowing from the far side, casting shadows against
the low-beamed ceiling. Customers lounged in pairs or small groups around
brass-rimmed tables, a shaven-headed barman in a gaudy silk waistcoat pulled a
pint of cider for a red-faced, giggling girl, and a plump, pretty woman,
probably in her late-forties, in a white apron, chatted to a tall, slim man in
a smart, grey suit, who was leaning against the bar. He turned as we approached
and stepped towards me, hand outstretched. It was bloody Phil.

Grinning,
he shook my hand, squeezing my fingers, maintaining his grip for slightly
longer than felt comfortable.

'Hiya,
Andy. I hardly recognised you. Nice clothes.'

'Hello,'
I said.

'I
was very sorry to hear about your flat.' He smirked. 'It must have been a real
bummer, and then losing your job! Rex might have been a bit kinder.'

'Thanks,'
I said, hating his smug concern.

'Still,
you're looking good and that suit really is something else, very much the
country gent.'

I
snarled internally. 'Did you enjoy the opera?' I asked, with a friendly smile.

'Not
much. The tenor tended to sing flat and it turns out that poor Ingrid is
allergic to lobster. We had to leave before the interval and she threw up all
over me.'

'Poor
girl,' I sympathised, concealing my delight.

Hobbes
beckoned.

'I'm
sorry,' I said. 'I've got to go. See you.'

I
stepped round Phil to where Hobbes was introducing himself to the lady in the white
apron.

He
smiled as I approached. 'A friend of yours?' He nodded towards Phil, who was
just leaving the pub.

'No,'
I said, 'that was Phil. He's a git.'

The
lady frowned. 'He seemed a very pleasant young man to me. He's a reporter but
very polite and well-spoken, unlike that one at the pet show. My sister said
she'd never heard such language, and in front of the kiddies, too, and all
because a hamster nipped him.'

'Mrs
Tomkins,' said Hobbes, 'may I introduce Andy Caplet, who's assisting me on this
case? Andy, this is Mrs Tomkins, who used to be Mr Roman's cook. She has
graciously agreed to talk to me for a few minutes. Would anyone like a drink?'