Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (21 page)

Phil's
house looked as smart as all the others along the road. There was a small garden
in the front and the brown, brittle leaves of the neatly trimmed beech hedge
rattled in the breeze. The grass had grown long and straggly. Phil was
evidently not a conscientious gardener, at least not in November. Two milk
bottles stood, pale and neglected, by the doorstep.

'How
do we get in? Have you got a key? Or one of those big metal rams they use on
the telly?'

'Usually,'
said Hobbes, 'I ring the doorbell first.'

He
raised his hand, his fingernail appearing to slide forward like the point on a
biro, and pressed the button. The bell rang somewhere inside. We waited in
silence.

'Then,
I usually knock.'

He
raised his hand again, forming a mighty fist and knocked. The door shuddered,
flying open, revealing a hall painted in magnolia, carpeted in beige, with a
wooden door on the left side, a glass door leading into the kitchen at the far
end and a staircase on the right. As we stepped inside, it was quiet: as quiet
as the grave and nearly as cold. Everything was very neat and clean, smelling
of bleach and detergent, without even a hint of socks. Hobbes opened the door
on the left and I glanced into the lounge, disgusted by the enormous
television, the hi-fi, the black leather suite and the deep, cream carpet.

'Stay
there.' He prowled through the lounge, disappearing through an archway at the
far end, reappearing a few moments later through the kitchen door.

'No
one in there,' he said, 'though there's a defrosted single-portion lasagne on
top of the oven. Let's take a look upstairs.'

He
led the way. A fish tank stood on a windowsill halfway up and its inhabitants
danced and fluttered as we approached.

'They're
hungry.' He sprinkled the water with flakes from a tub by the side. As the fish
gorged amid an ecstasy of splashing and popping, he nodded, carrying on to the
landing.

Five
closed doors stood before us. Opening them one by one, he revealed first a bathroom
and then four other rooms, one, stinking of cologne, with an en-suite bathroom,
obviously Phil's bedroom. I sniffed in disapproval. The double bed with its
black satin sheets had not been made and raised the question of why he needed a
double bed. If he'd laid a finger on Ingrid … never mind his finger, if he'd
laid anything on her, there was going to be trouble. Hobbes moved on, barely
glancing into the sparsely furnished spare room and a box-room filled with
sports gear and heavily loaded bookcases.

He
headed straight into the last room, done out as an office, starting the
computer in the corner, leafing through a diary while it warmed up, or whatever
computers do. I'd never quite come to terms with them. I wasn't technophobic or
anything, but machines just hated me. One computer had lost an article I'd
struggled with for over two hours. I still maintain it wasn't my fault, it was
just that the can of lager had got all shaken up as I ran from the Old Folks'
Origami Extravaganza to file my report before deadline and it could have
happened to anyone. Rex didn't see it like that, of course. After a long and
vicious rant he'd assigned Phil to be my mentor. I couldn't believe it, for I'd
been working for the
Bugle
far longer than he, and the worst part was
when the bastard agreed. Rex loved Phil, just because he got reports in the
paper every day. Luck always seemed to be on his side.

While
Hobbes was hunched over the computer, jabbing away at the keys, I stood looking
out the window, watching the expectant birds hopping around on the empty bird
table in the back garden. A fluffy grey cat, springing from a shrub, completely
missed them all as they scattered into the bushes.

Phil's
business cards were stacked on the windowsill. Typical, I thought, for him to
have business cards. For what reason? He didn't need that sort of thing to
prove what a pretentious bastard he was. As I sneered, a thought occurred. They
might have a use, one he would never have thought of. Hobbes, appearing
engrossed by something on screen,
obbes was reading
something on screen

 I
slipped a few into my pocket.

'That's
interesting,' said Hobbes.

I
started guiltily but he was still looking at the screen.

'It
appears Mr Waring was researching an article on Mr Roman's death and had linked
it to the body in the graveyard, too.'

'Oh?'
I said. 'He was probably trying to give himself an alibi.'

'Enough,
Andy,' Hobbes growled.

I
flinched.

'There's
no evidence that Philip Waring has committed any crime and it appears more
likely he has been a victim of one. Investigative journalism can be dangerous,
you know.'

Of
course I knew. I had, after all, been mauled by a hamster in the course of my
work. Besides, I was working with Hobbes. How much more dangerous could it get?

He
looked at the diary again. 'Last night he was going to meet someone called 'T'.

''T'
for Tony?'

'Possibly,'
he mused. 'However, there may be other possibilities. Mr Waring obviously
expected to return, otherwise he wouldn't have defrosted the lasagne. There's
no evidence of a struggle or of anyone else being here in the last few days, so
he left of his own accord. I think we ought to catch up with Tony Derrick and
see if he is the contact.'

'So
how are we going to find him?'

'With
patience and skill,' he grinned. 'I called in on Billy earlier. Tony wasn't in
last night and no one had heard from him. Mind you, Tony's not the sort to have
friends and most of his acquaintances are not the sort to talk.'

'He
was in Phil's car on Saturday night and Phil is always pretending to be
friendly.'

'Pretending?'
He grimaced. 'Everyone else I've spoken to remarked on his friendliness.'

'That's
cos he's a phoney.'

'Well,
someone is,' said Hobbes with a scowl. 'It hardly matters anyway. He's a member
of the public and I suspect he's in trouble. Therefore, it's my job to get him
out of trouble.'

Affronted
by Hobbes's implication that I might be the phoney, I made up my mind to show
him evidence proving how much of a git Phil was, even if I had to make it
myself. All of a sudden in a sulky mood, I followed him around the house,
barely noticing what he was up to, silently sneering at Phil's taste in
everything, especially his cabinet filled with sporting trophies. The guy was
unbelievable, even owning Wagner CDs and no one has that sort of crap, except
to impress the feeble minded. Well, it didn't work on me. And then there was his
book collection. Why have all those volumes on Roman Sorenchester? As for his
spice rack and everything else in the sodding house, I found it all too much.

I
was happy to leave. The whole house reeked of his achievements. I wasn't
jealous; I was just glad he was out of the picture.

Still
in a deep sulk when we got back into the car, not inclined to pay attention to
anything, I was barely aware of Hobbes's mobile chirruping and him answering.

Turning
towards me, putting the phone back in his pocket, sticking the key in the
ignition, he said, 'There's been a robbery with violence.'

'Oh.'

'I
don't like such crimes on my patch. They make me angry and that is a bad thing
… for someone.'

'Oh.'

'Don't
you want to hear about it?' He sounded puzzled. 'I thought you'd be
interested.'

With
a huge effort, I forced myself to be fair. 'Sorry,' I said, 'I'm just upset
about Phil.' I was being truthful, in a way.

'I
understand,' he said. 'It's a bad feeling when a comrade goes missing, though,
for some reason, I'd formed an opinion that you didn't like him. I believe
everyone deals with bad news in their own way.'

I
nodded. Again, I felt I might not be entirely in the right. Ignoring the
feeling, I asked about the robbery.

'I'll
tell you on the way over.' He started the car's engine with a throbbing series
of revs and in moments we were hurtling along the road. I didn't know where,
because with Hobbes behind the wheel, ignorance was, if not blissful, less
terrifying.

'It
happened this morning,' he said, 'just out of town on the Green Way.'

'The
Green Way? Isn't that an old Roman road?'

'So
it's said. Why?'

'Oh,
I don't know. It's just with the Roman Cup going missing and the bracelet –
wasn't that something to do with the Order of St George? – and wasn't St George
a Roman?'

'I
am aware,' said Hobbes, 'that St George is venerated by Eastern European
churches, who believe he was a tribune in the Roman army. If I remember
rightly, the despotic Emperor Diocletian had him beheaded.'

'So
he was a Roman.' I enjoyed the brief elation of triumph.

'If
the old tales are true.' He shrugged. 'What are you getting at?'

'Well,
everything seems to have a Roman connection: Roman cups, Roman saints, Roman
roads.'

'Not
to forget the unfortunate Mr Roman,' said Hobbes with a grin.

'Yes,
well. Though it does make you think, doesn't it?'

'It
does. And I expect you're going to tell me all about Mr Waring's collection of
books on Roman Sorenchester.'

'Does
he have one?' I asked, innocently. 'Well, how strange, he never told me he was
interested in antiquities. I wonder where he got them from.'

'He
is a Friend of Sorenchester Museum and many of the books are on loan from
there.'

'Then
he'd have known all about the museum and he'd be likely to know what was in the
store.'

'Quite
possibly and I'm sure it will be extremely useful to have a word with him. However,
it's really not difficult to make all sorts of dubious Roman connections round
here. After all, they founded the town. And there are three hundred and twenty-seven
Friends of the Museum. I checked because, you're absolutely right, the burglars
knew exactly what they were looking for and where to find it.'

'OK,'
I said, 'I was only saying. It just hit me, that's all. Now, what happened this
morning?'

The
car's engine roared. Now and again car horns blared, sometimes coinciding with
wild and erratic movements. I, however, saw no evil, though it is amazingly
difficult to keep your eyes closed when peril is all around.

'What
I know,' said Hobbes, 'is that a robbery occurred at a house used by a Mr
Arthur Barrington-Oddy – and I have no evidence to suggest he's a Roman.
Apparently, when Mr Barrington-Oddy opened his front door to answer the
doorbell, two masked men were standing there …'

'Two
men? How very interesting.'

'…and,
before he had a chance to defend himself, they overpowered him, rendering him
unconscious by means of a noxious substance that caused minor burns to the skin
around his mouth and nose.'

'What
would do that?'

'Chloroform
sounds most plausible at this stage. Mr Barrington-Oddy woke some time later
feeling giddy and ill but managed to reach a telephone and call for help. He is
now recuperating in hospital.'

'So,
what was stolen?'

'He
doesn't know, because he's only renting the house. However, he could tell a
display cabinet had been broken into.'

'So,
whose house is it?'

He
laughed. 'Give us a break, Andy, I was only on the phone a minute, not long
enough to ascertain all the facts. Anyway, if detecting was that easy then
anyone could do it.'

'Even
me, you mean?'

'Well
perhaps not everyone. Now, hold tight!'

The
car, lurching and banking, gravel scrunching, we stopped with a skid and I
opened my eyes. We'd stopped within an inch of a police car, from which a
pale-faced, grey-haired constable was emerging.

'Here
we are.' Stopping the engine, Hobbes opened the door.

Undoing
my seat belt with shaky hands, I got out onto a gravelled drive. A turreted old
house stood in front of us, lurking in the shadows of a large, tree-infested
garden that I suspected would look right impressive in the summer, though it
was desolate in grey November. A gleaming plaque on the studded door, above a
polished brass knocker in the shape of a bear's head, indicated the house was
called Brancastle.

The
constable saluted. 'Good afternoon, sir.'

'Afternoon,
George,' Hobbes nodded. 'What's going on here then?'

'A
forced entry, sir, and a robbery. Mr Barrington-Oddy has already been released
from hospital and is returning by taxi. He may be able to answer some of your
questions.'

'Good,'
said Hobbes. 'In the meantime, I'd better take a look around. Andy, would you
stay here with PC Wilkes?'

'Yeah,
OK.'

Hobbes
squatted down, crawling over the gravel towards the front door, PC Wilkes and I,
standing by the police car, watching until he disappeared inside the house.