Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (2 page)

'Pleased
to meet you, Inspector.'

'Likewise.
How is Mr Donahue?'

'Mr
Donahue? Oh … Duncan? He's fine.'

Hobbes,
frowning, released my hand. 'Fine? I heard he's got two broken legs?'

'Ah
… umm … yes.' The question had thrown me for a second, in a similar way that
someone had thrown Duncan, the
Bugle's
crime reporter, from a speeding
car, which was just my luck, for otherwise it would have been his
responsibility to cover Hobbes. 'I mean apart from that, he's OK. Oh … and he
broke his jaw, too, so that's all wired up.'

Hobbes
raised his eyebrows, the eyeballs beneath exceedingly red. Reaching into his
pocket, he pulled out a bottle of Optrex. 'Well, I hope the poor man gets
better soon. It was a nasty incident but, at least, I was able to make a quick
arrest since the perpetrator is an old acquaintance of mine, one Gordon Bennet,
a ne'er-do-well who decided to try his hand at carjacking. The last time I had
occasion to arrest him was for persistent indecent exposure. He claimed he'd considered
giving up but wanted to stick it out for a little longer. I dissuaded him. Now,
if you'll excuse me, I'd better go and bathe my eyes.'

'Oh,
right … too many late nights?'

He
grinned. 'No, too many camels. I have an allergy.' He turned to the old girl.
'Could I trouble you to make a pot of tea? I'm parched and I'm sure Mr Caplet
would like a drink too.'

'Of
course,' she said.

They
both departed, leaving me to my thoughts. Though I had a feeling getting on his
wrong side would be a foolish idea, it seemed he might not be as bad as I'd
heard. Yet, on reflection, I wasn't quite sure if I'd heard much at all; I'd
just seen the expressions on the faces of those who'd met him professionally.
The old lady, on the other hand, scared the wits out of me.

I
tried to calm down by concentrating on
Sorenchester Life
, its glossy
pages, filled with nothing of consequence, having a restful effect, so I was
well relaxed by the time Hobbes strolled back into the room.

'Well,
Mr Caplet,' he said, 'Superintendent Cooper informs me that, due to Mr
Donahue's accident, you will be my shadow for the next week.'

I
nodded. 'That's right. Ed … umm … Mr Witcherley … told me to report on local
policing from your perspective. He wants really in-depth stuff to enlighten and
enthral our readers.'

I
tried to speak with a confidence I didn't feel, yet, only that morning, I'd
been complaining to Ingrid about never getting important assignments. Certainly,
I'd made the odd cock-up in the past, but I felt I'd learned enough in eight
years as a cub reporter to be entrusted with something meaty, though I hadn't
envisaged anything quite as meaty as Hobbes.

'Enthral,
eh?' he said. 'I'll see what I can do. However, you never know what will turn
up and, though much of our work is routine, I ought to warn you it can
occasionally be dangerous or shocking, even in such a quiet little town as
this.'

I
nodded, making a show of nonchalance, though his words chilled me even more
than had the November air. I was not good with danger.

He
sat beside me and continued. 'What's more, we don't work office hours.'

'Nor
do reporters,' I said, which was true, for Phil Waring, the Editorsaurus's
blue-eyed boy, was working round the clock on a story that kept him away from
the office, sometimes for days at a time. More importantly, so far as I was
concerned, it kept the git away from Ingrid.

'Good.'
He smiled, giving me a closer view than I wanted of great, yellow fangs.

I
wondered how my father would react if faced with such a mouth, and felt my left
hand creeping up to protect my throat. Hobbes, not appearing to notice, sitting
back with a huge sigh, closing his eyes, rested his feet on the coffee table.
He'd changed his heavy boots for a huge pair of slippers: they were pale-blue
with a dinky little kitten pattern. I stared, shocked.

He
stretched, yawning. 'Caplet is quite an unusual name. French?'

'It
was originally but, please, just call me Andy.'

'Very
well, Andy. I expect you'll want to hear about what I'm working on at the
moment?'

'Yes,
please … umm … the Editorsaur … Mr Witcherley said you were investigating the
Violin Case.'

'Correct,'
said Hobbes, 'according to the
Bugle's
headline yesterday.'

'Oh,
yes. Body Found in Violin Case – most amusing.' I laughed. 'It was like you'd
really found a body in a violin case.'

He
gave me a funny look. 'We did. Didn't you read the article?'

'No,
I was too busy,' I said truthfully, for Rex had assigned me to sorting out the
stationery cupboard. 'I mean it sounded like someone's body had been found in a
violin case. You know, where you'd normally find a violin?'

He
frowned. 'It was precisely where we did find the body.'

'Oh,
I'm sorry.' I grinned, still not grasping the point. 'It must have been a very
small body, or an outsize case. You're sure it wasn't a double bass case?'

'It,'
said Hobbes, scowling, 'was a very small body.'

Shock
hit me like a slap round the ears. A sick feeling welled up from my stomach.
'Not a child?'

He
shook his head.

'Whose
body?'

'That,'
he said, 'is what we need to establish.'

'But
if it wasn't a child … how could an adult fit into a violin case? And was it a
man or a woman?'

He
pulled his feet off the table, a strange, knowing expression, half a smile,
appearing on his face. I gulped, my flippant mood shattered.

'It's
not easy to fit even a child's body into a violin case, at least without boning
it first. In fact, this body had been mutilated but there was enough left to
prove it was neither a man, nor a woman.'

I
shook my head in confusion. What he was saying made no sense and his casual
reference to boning a child had unsettled me. 'I don't get it,' I said.

'I'm
not surprised. I don't think I do. Would you like to see it?'

'The
body?'

As
he nodded, I flinched as if he'd threatened to nut me, an icy tingle chilling
my spine. I took a deep breath to steady myself. I'd never set eyes on a real
corpse, though, of course, I'd seen plenty in films and on the news when they'd
never seemed real. They'd always felt too far away, always somebody else's
problem, even when the stories had struck me as especially sad or horrific.

Yet,
I was there to show interest. 'Yes, I'd love to see it,' I said.

Hobbes's
frown made me wonder if perhaps I'd sounded over-enthusiastic.

I
bit my lip. 'I mean, I'd be delighted, no … glad … happy … damn it!' I was
babbling, intimidated by the frown that appeared to be deepening. 'Look, I
don't actually
want
to see the body but if it might help me to
understand the case, I think, perhaps, I should. Where is it?'

At
that moment, the clink of crockery announced that the old woman was at my side.
Though the suddenness of her arrival made me gasp, I calmed down on realising
she was carrying a metal tray with a vast brown teapot and essentials,
including a plain, giant mug, a normal-sized mug, decorated with a picture of a
cat, a silver bowl of sugar lumps and a milk jug in the shape of a cow. In
addition, my greedy gaze locked onto a white plate, layered with what must have
been an entire packet of Hobnobs – chocolate ones, I noticed with some approval
and more drool. Their scent made me realise just how long it had been since I'd
scoffed my lunchtime sandwiches.

'Thank
you.' Hobbes beamed, with no trace of anger on his face.

Still,
it was not a pleasant face and I doubted whether even his mother would have
considered him good looking, assuming he actually had a mother. I supposed he
must have, or have had. How old was he? I couldn't have said, for though his
face might have been described as craggy, or possibly leathery, I couldn't
detect any grey in the black bristle of his hair. The dark stubble on his chin,
protruding like spines on a cactus, made me pity any poor razor having to cope
with it.

'Did
you two have time to introduce yourselves?' he asked, as the old woman poured
the tea.

'Umm
… no … not properly.'

'Right
then. Andy Caplet, this is Mrs Goodfellow, my housekeeper. Mrs Goodfellow, this
is Mr Caplet, whom we will call Andy. He'll be working with me for a few days.'

'Delighted,'
said Mrs Goodfellow.

'So
am I,' said I, keeping a wary eye on her.

Her
work done, she drifted away. Hobbes leaning forward, heaping a pyramid of sugar
cubes in his great paw, tipping them into the big mug, stirred the scalding
liquid with his finger.

'Help
yourself,' he said, helping himself to a Hobnob and sliding back into the sofa.

Without
the covering of mugs, the tray revealed its decoration, a chipped portrait of
Queen Victoria. Still, there's no accounting for taste and, despite everything,
Mrs Goodfellow made a brilliant cup of tea. Taking a sip from the cat mug, I
crammed a biscuit into my mouth. Hobbes was still nibbling his as I took
another, trying to fill a chasm within and, for a few minutes, we sat without
talking, just slurping and munching and I could almost have forgotten the body.

Then,
thumping his mug back onto Queen Victoria's lumpy face, Hobbes arose. 'Come on,
Andy. Let's take a look at it. And quickly.'

Putting
my empty mug down, grabbing another biscuit, though only a couple remained, I
realised I'd guzzled nearly the entire packet. Hobbes, I think, had taken only
one.

'Right
then,' I said, lifted by the sugar steaming through my veins. 'Where is it?'

'This
way, I'll show you.'

His
slippered feet scuffing the carpet, he led me through a door, down a short
corridor and into the kitchen. My initial impression was of a cheerful,
old-fashioned sort of room, mellowed red bricks echoing beneath my feet, the
gas cooker looking like a museum piece, a deep, white enamelled sink standing beneath
the window, the shelf of which supported a miniature, yet prolific, jungle of
pot plants. There was no sign of Mrs Goodfellow. The odd, feral smell I'd
noticed earlier seemed stronger, despite a mouth-watering savour bubbling from
a stew pot on the hob.

I'd
assumed the body would be kept in the morgue or a forensic laboratory or
something, so it would not be a lie to say I was surprised, if not alarmed,
when he opened the fridge door and reached inside. I couldn't see over his
shoulder but when he turned he was carrying a metal dish covered in Clingfilm, misted
by condensation. As he clunked it onto the scrubbed wooden table in the centre
of the room, I leaned forward for a better look.

He
peeled back the film. I gasped, horrified, for a body, naked, hairless, not
even two-foot long, filled the dish. It still had four limbs, though the hands
and feet had been hacked off, as had the head; I had no doubt it wasn't human. When
Hobbes turned it onto its back, there was a long gash down the front where
someone had eviscerated it. I turned away, both hands covering my mouth.

'Oh,
my God!' I forced myself to look again. 'What is it?'

Hobbes
shook his head, a strange expression in his eyes, which were no longer red. 'It
looks like a gnome.'

'A
gnome? That's ridiculous. There's no such thing. Is there?'

He
shrugged.

The
horror was growing inside. 'I don't get it. Why would anyone want to kill a
gnome?'

'For
illegally fishing in a garden pond? And, if you don't believe it's a gnome,
what else do you think it might be?' He waved his thick, hairy finger at the
abomination.

I
shrugged, trembling, feeling as if I might be sick, or faint, or both, yet I
couldn't help thinking what a fantastic story this would make, one that would even
impress E. Rex. It could be my ticket to fame and fortune. I could become known
as the reporter who uncovered the gnome.

'The
trouble is,' said Hobbes, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, 'that I can't afford
to spend any time investigating. After all, has a crime actually been
committed? There's no law against killing gnomes. Indeed the law does not
officially recognise them.'

'There
must be something you can do. Have you any idea who could have done such a
terrible thing?'

'Well,'
he said, slowly, eyes wide, 'I suspect it might have been the Butcher of
Barnley. Last time I saw anything like this, he was the culprit for sure,
though he was never charged.'

'The
Butcher of Barnley?' I shuddered, horrid thoughts fluttering into my mind like
bats into an attic, images of blood and guts and death flapping behind my eyes.
'And you said last time – do you mean this sort of thing has happened before?'

He
nodded.

'What
happened?'

'Money
changed hands and the Butcher of Barnley was free to go about his bloody
business.'