Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (23 page)

I'd
nearly forgotten about it. A sudden cold feeling gripped my stomach and again,
for a moment, I wished I hadn't done it.

'What
is it, George?' Hobbes walked towards us.

'A
business card, sir. The name on it is Philip Waring of the Sorenchester and
District
Bugle
. Isn't he the journalist who's gone missing? I wonder
what he was doing here.'

'I've
never heard of the chap,' said Barrington-Oddy, from the drawing room.

Hobbes
took the card with a glance that made my stomach leap in terror. Had my little
ploy backfired?

'Perhaps,'
said PC Wilkes, 'it was dropped during the struggle with Mr Barrington-Oddy.
Perhaps this Waring was one of the men who did it.'

'Precisely
what I was thinking, constable,' said Barrington-Oddy, approaching, looking at
the card in Hobbes's hand. 'It's screwed up and grubby: hardly what a chap
would leave if he desired an appointment.'

Saying
nothing, my pulse racing, my breath coming in rapid gasps, I turned away so it
wouldn't be obvious, trying to feel triumphant that my scheme was working. I'd
dropped Phil right into the shit and Ingrid would be mine. Yet, somehow, I felt
no pleasure. Now I'd really got him, confusion overwhelmed me and, though part
of me was cheering, another part cowered in fear of discovery. I made a
decision to dispose of his other cards as soon as possible.

In
addition, my conscience was insisting that I stop right there, confessing my
little ruse before any harm came of it. Yet, if I did, I'd be a laughing stock
to the police, Hobbes would be furious and I wondered whether I might even have
committed a crime. Besides, I daren't let Barrington-Oddy know; there'd always
been something about a barrister's eyes that gave me the creeps.

'Very
interesting,' said Hobbes. 'Well spotted, Wilkes. Now you'd better be getting
back to the station.' He turned towards Barrington-Oddy. 'We'll be on the lookout
for Philip Waring. There is a good chance he can help us with this
investigation. And I'll be in contact with the house agent to find out what's
been taken. Good afternoon, sir.'

He
shook Mr Barrington-Oddy's hand and we left him framed in the doorway of a
house that might have featured in a gothic horror film. I was glad to be out of
it, glad to leave his fierce barrister's eyes behind. Wilkes, saluting, slipped
into his car and headed back to Sorenchester. I expected we'd follow him back
to the station. Instead, on leaving the gardens, we turned left.

'Where
are we going?'

'To
have a word with the next door neighbour. The evidence suddenly seems to be
pointing at Philip Waring, doesn't it?'

'Apparently,'
I said, 'though I don't think we should jump to conclusions.'

'Oh,'
said Hobbes quietly, 'I never do that. However, I thought you'd be overjoyed
your suspicions appear to be well-founded.'

I
nodded, feeling sick – and not from his driving. We'd only gone a couple of
hundred yards when he turned left down a narrow, rutted lane, pulling up next
to an angular stone building a few bumpy moments later.

'This,'
he said, 'is the Olde Toll House. Of course, it was never really a tollhouse.
It's a deliberate misspelling, because people were alarmed by its original
name.'

'Why?
What's was it called before?'

'The
Olde Troll House. We're going to have a quick word with the Olde Troll himself.
His name's Leroy but he likes to be called Rocky.'

'We're
going to see a troll?'

'Not
just any old troll.' He grinned. 'Rocky is a friend of mine, so be careful what
you say; he's a little sensitive about his appearance.'

I
didn't know what to think. Life had not prepared me for meeting trolls. Still,
come to think of it, life hadn't prepared me for meeting ghouls either and I'd
got away with it: just about, anyway.

'This
way.' Hobbes, springing from the car, beckoned me through the deepening gloom.
I followed, my breath curling like dragon smoke in the clammy air as he headed
towards an open porch, where a king-sized pair of green wellingtons stood
beside a heavy walking stick. Though the bright red door was closed, someone
had pinned a note to it, saying, 'I'm in.' A great chain hung from the ceiling.
Hobbes pulled it and a low chime I could feel through my feet bonged through
the structure. There were a few seconds of vibration and then silence. The door
opened.

'It's
a bit late for trick or treating,' said a guttural voice. A face, pale and
round as the full moon before age had cratered its surface appeared, smiling,
from the blackness within. ''ello, 'obbes. 'ow the devil are you old boy?'

'Pretty
well, Rocky.' Hobbes shook his hand. 'This is Andy who's helping me with some
cases.'

'Delighted
to meet you, laddie,' Rocky beamed. 'Now come on into the parlour. I've just
made a pot of tea.'

We
followed him into a small room, where a cheerful fire made the shadows dance.
It felt so much cosier than Barrington-Oddy's dank study.

'Please
make yourselves comfortable,' said Rocky, 'and I'll get some light.' Poking a
taper into the fire, he lit an oil lamp, placing it on a low sideboard.

Only
then did I get a proper sight of him and gasped, because he looked so normal.
That is, he would have passed for a rather chubby, human male, six foot tall,
broad, bald, clean shaven, wearing well-worn khaki corduroy trousers, a checked
shirt and a blue cardigan with a hole in the left elbow. I guessed he was in
his mid-sixties.

'I'll
fetch the tea,' he said, leaving the parlour through a door opposite to where
we'd entered.

'He
doesn't look like a troll,' I whispered.

'Shhh,'
said Hobbes. 'As I said, he's sensitive about his appearance. Please don't
bring it up again.'

I
shut up, wondering whether Hobbes was having another joke at my expense, like
with the so-called gnome, yet, when Rocky returned with the tea tray, there was
something odd about him, though it was difficult to say quite what. His
movements weren't right, his arms and legs not bending quite as they should
have, while his shovel hands were huge, even bigger than Hobbes's great paws,
though hairless and pale. When he handed me a mug of tea I discovered they were
as smooth as marble. And, despite the roaring fire in the grate, as cold as
marble, too.

'There
are biscuits if you want some. I've got a tin of them 'obnobs, or there's
crumpets for toasting, if you'd prefer.'

'Just
a cup of tea,' said Hobbes. 'Oh, go on then, let's have a crumpet.'

Rocky
returned to the kitchen, coming back carrying another tray with a full
butter-dish, a smoke-blackened toasting fork and a plate of crumpets. A
delicious, warm aroma filled the little room as he toasted them at the fire, while
Hobbes informed him about the recent crimes, culminating in the attack on
Barrington-Oddy.

'D'you
know Mr Barrington-Oddy?' Hobbes asked.

Rocky
shook his head. 'I've seen 'im out in 'is car once or twice but 'aven't spoken
to 'im. 'e keeps 'is self to 'is self.'

'What
about the owner?'

Rocky
buttered a crumpet, passing it to me on a plate before answering. 'I don't know
the missus too well. She's much younger than 'e was and I reckon she only
married the old boy for 'is money. Mind you, 'e 'ad a lot and no one to share
it with. I know 'e thought 'e'd made a good bargain and, to be fair, she stuck
to it and made 'is last years 'appy ones. I knew the old man well enough. 'e
came 'ere after the last war, did old Nenea. Poor as a church mouse 'e was
then, though 'e 'ad a way with business and was pretty well set up in the end.
'e never married 'till 'is declining years.'

'D'you
know where he came from?' Hobbes asked.

'Nenea?
Yes of course. Now where was it? 'e used to call it the old country. It was
where Dracula came from, though 'e said 'e wasn't from that part. Romania,
that's it.'

'Interesting,'
said Hobbes. 'Now, have you seen any suspicious strangers around these parts in
the last day or two?'

Rocky
handed him a crumpet.

I'd
already sunk my teeth into mine. It was warm, the butter dripping from it like
honey from a honeycomb. Hobbes took a bite. 'Excellent,' he pronounced.

'Strangers?'
Rocky scratched his head with a sound like two pebbles rubbing together. 'Well,
there was a car as went speeding off down the lane this morning. Blue it was.
One of them German ones. An Audi. Old Fred in the village, 'is son used to 'ave
one like it. Nice car. It 'ad two folks in it and they was goin' real fast so
as I couldn't recognise 'em and I 'adn't seen the car round 'ere before.'

My
mouth dropped open. Phil's car was a blue Audi. Maybe the seed of guilt that
had sprouted in my conscience would shrivel and die. Maybe, I'd been right all
along and my prejudice against him didn't necessarily mean he wasn't a genuine
villain. It was only then that I finally acknowledged to myself that I had been
prejudiced. It was because he was slim, because he was better educated, better
spoken and, I winced, a better journalist than I would ever be. It was no
wonder Ingrid preferred him. I began to wallow in self-pity.

Hobbes,
having finished his crumpet, was talking. 'That's most helpful. You see an
individual I wish to interview owns a blue Audi. I don't suppose you were able
to get its number?'

'Sorry,
Old Boy, it was all covered in muck: too thick to see through. Fancy another
crumpet?'

'Though
it's tempting, we'd better not.' Hobbes smiled. 'I've got to think of my figure
and Mrs Goodfellow doesn't like it if I ruin my appetite by eating between
meals.'

''ow
is the young lass?' asked Rocky. ''as she got over losing that daft 'usband of
'ers?'

'She's
doing well,' Hobbes said, 'and rather enjoying having a young man around the
house. Mind, she's only locked him in the cellar the once. So far.'

I
smiled, stupidly pleased to be described as a young man. No one had called me
that for a decade. I confess a little anxiety was there, too. How many more
times was I likely to be locked down there?

'Still,'
Hobbes continued, 'she hasn't actually got over losing Mr Goodfellow; she can't
because she hasn't really lost him. She knows exactly where he is and can't be
bothered to fetch him back. She reckons he's happy where he is and she's happy
he's not getting under her feet.'

'Glad
to 'ear it.' Rocky laughed, reminiscently. 'I remember the first time you
brought 'er round 'ere. A skinny little lass, cooing over 'er rag dolly. We 'ad
crumpets then an' all. They grow up so fast.'

'Indeed
they do.' Hobbes chuckled. 'You must come round to supper sometime. I'm sure
she'd be delighted.'

Rocky
smiled. 'That'd be nice, Old Boy. I 'aven't been gettin' around so much
recently, cos me old joints are turning to chalk but I'd like to see the lass
again.'

I
gawped in astonishment and confusion. Not for the first time since I'd met
Hobbes, I didn't get it. I mean, how old was this Rocky? And why did both he
and Hobbes refer to Mrs Goodfellow as 'the lass'? And as for Mr Goodfellow,
what on God's good earth had happened to him? I'd assumed he was dead and had
accepted his old suits without too much thought, except for a vague feeling of
spookiness.

It
struck me how peculiar it was to feel so comfortable, so at home, in Rocky's
parlour. He was a bloody troll, for Christ's sake and trolls, at least in all the
stories I could remember, were bad things, savage, wild creatures who killed
people and threatened to gobble up Billy Goatgruff, or whatever his name was.
Yet, this one was giving me tea and crumpets in a cosy parlour while chatting
with an old friend. It was all far too difficult to comprehend. Still, it says
something about the change in me that, despite appearances, I had no doubt
Rocky wasn't human and, what's more, was sanguine about it. What a difference a
few days with Hobbes had made to my life! There was so much more going on than
I'd ever imagined. Mind you, I never entirely discounted the likelihood that
I'd gone quietly insane. And, if I had, so what? Things were still looking up.

Hobbes
and Rocky plunged into a deep conversation about the old days and though I
started to listen, the warmth and the crumpets conspired to make me drowsy. I
remained vaguely aware of the trickle of melted butter down my chin and the
rise and fall of their talk. I think they were discussing a mutual friend,
who'd gone down with the Titanic and turned up in Bournemouth but it's possible
I was dreaming.

I
awoke to total confusion and the chimes of Big Ben, apparently coming from the
clock on the mantelpiece.

'Six
o'clock already,' said Hobbes. 'Time we were getting back for our suppers. Time
for Andy to wake up.'

Hobbes
got to his feet, shaking Rocky's hand. I followed his lead. It was like shaking
hands with a statue, except there was flexibility and a pulse, and I was
grateful for his gentleness, my bandaged hand still being a little sore.

'Thank
you for your hospitality,' Hobbes said and I nodded my agreement. Stepping
outside, we made our farewells, got into the car and sped home.