Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (31 page)

'What's
wrong with you?' Her voice veered towards fury. 'How can you laugh when poor
Phil's in trouble? It's not funny. You disgust me. At least the Inspector's
taking it seriously and he doesn't even know him. Goodbye!'

Opening
the door, she stamped away, leaving me helpless, half-blind with tears,
struggling for breath, with no chance of explaining myself. Then, at last, a
wave of despair broke over me, submerging the hysterics. If I'd been alone, I
might have cried. The sergeant sat watching, as if he saw the same sort of
thing every day.

I
pulled myself upright, taking a deep breath, smoothing my emotions into a
superficial calm. Remorse about Phil's card was gnawing at my conscience and it
was getting harder to keep it caged at the back of my mind.

'Are
you alright now, sir?' asked the desk sergeant, 'because the Inspector would
like a word with you. He'll be in his office.'

'I'm
OK,' I said.

Trying
to stroll casually through the police station, I stubbed my foot on the carpet
and stumbled. Ignoring the smirks, I carried on until, reaching Hobbes's door,
I jerked it open before stepping briskly inside. At least, I envisaged it that
way. In reality the door opened inwards and I nearly tore my shoulder from its
socket as my head banged against wood. Hearing a snigger, embarrassment heated
my face.

'Come
in,' said Hobbes.

He
looked up from behind his desk, a sheet of paper in his hand. 'Oh, it's you.
There was no need to knock.' He peered at me. 'Are you feeling alright? Your
face is extraordinarily red.'

'I'm
fine. It's just a little warm in here.'

A
smile flickered. 'Sit,' he said. 'I've just received this.' He waved the paper
at me. 'The house agent faxed the inventory through for Brancastle.'

I
made myself comfortable. 'Oh yes? What was stolen then?'

'It's
long and detailed though, so far as I can tell, only one item is missing.'

'That's
what old Barrington-Oddy thought.'

Hobbes
nodded. 'Apparently he is more observant than he claims. It looks like the only
thing stolen was a ring.'

'A
ring? Is that all? There were all sorts of valuable things in the house.'

'Indeed,'
he said. 'It is suggestive.'

'So,
what's so special about a ring?' I attempted humour. 'Is it a ring of power,
forged by the evil Lord Sauron to control mortal men, doomed to die?'

He
looked puzzled. 'No. At least I don't think so. Why do you mention Sauron?'

'Sorry.
He's just a character in a film about rings.'

'I
know. You need to learn to separate fact from fiction, or you'll go the same
way as PC Norman, who used to work with me until he started insisting he was
communicating with goblins. It was ridiculous yet, as he was still capable of
doing his job reasonably well, I kept him on until the day the goblins told him
to take his clothes off and direct the traffic onto the golf course.'

'What
happened to him?'

Hobbes
sighed. 'We found him standing stark naked in the middle of the ring road,
waving his truncheon and screaming, 'No man is an island.' When I asked, 'What
about the Isle of Man?' he went to pieces and we had to scoop him up and take
him away for his own safety. The superintendent put the whole incident down to
a PC gone mad.'

'What,'
I asked, 'has that to do with the ring?'

'About
as much as your remark about Lord Sauron. Now listen, Rocky was correct to say
a Romanian gentleman owned the house and, according to the inventory, the
missing ring is Romanian, too. It is very old, made of gold and in the form of
a dragon with ruby eyes.'

'A
dragon? Like the bracelet? So, it's something to do with the Order of St
George?'

'It
sounds plausible. I'll get one of the lads to call the agent to see if there's
any more information.'

'I
bet it is,' I said. 'I bet this case is all to do with Romania and the Order of
St George.'

Hobbes
shrugged. 'We'll see. We have Mr Roman's suicide following the break-in at his
house. Jimmy, the gardener, the probable culprit, was stabbed to death, buried
and dug up so something could be removed from his grave. Afterwards came the
break-in at the museum to steal a bracelet. Then the Roman cup was taken and
now this ring has been stolen.'

Seeing
that he was thinking aloud, I kept quiet.

He
scratched his ear. 'What puzzles me is how Mr Waring fits into all this and
where he's got to. The discarded cigarette butts suggest Tony Derrick was
involved with, at least, the break-ins at Mr Roman's, the church and at the
museum. Plus, he knows Mr Waring, whose business card was discovered at
Brancastle.'

I
nodded, shifting uncomfortably. In my heart, I'd already accepted that Phil
wasn't a criminal, that I'd just resented him because he was the better man
and, though deep down I still held a grudge, my malice didn't go so far as to
wish him real harm. I hoped he was still alive. 'D'you really think Phil's
involved?'

Hobbes's
expression was thoughtful. 'Let's just say there are no indications that he is,
except for circumstantial evidence. There is, of course, the business card that
would seem to place him at one of the incidents.' He paused, staring hard at
me. 'I can't work that one out.'

This
was it. I gulped. 'I think I can.'

'Go
on, then.' Leaning forward, he rested his head on one hairy paw.

I
couldn't look him in the eye and, my lungs seemingly too tight to breathe, it
was an age before I forced a faint voice. 'It's … umm … my fault.'

'Yours,
Andy? I am surprised.'

'Yes.
Oh God, I don't know how to say this.'

'Take
your time.'

'OK.
I'd better just spit it out. It's no use putting it off any longer. It's my
fault.'

'So
you said.'

I
thought I could detect the beginnings of a growl.

'Oh
God.' I stared at my hands. They were shaking and fluttering in time with the
butterflies in my stomach.

'OK.
I'd better just get it off my chest. It's my fault.'

'I'm
sure it is,' said Hobbes and I was sure the growl was present.

'I
… umm … really don't know how to say this.'

'I
know I said take your time but I didn't mean take all day. Out with it. And
quickly.'

'Right
… umm … you know Phil's business card? The one Wilkes found under the mat?'

'Yes.'

'Right.
OK. Oh God. Umm … well, it was like this. I put it there.'

'You,
Andy? Why?'

What
else could I do except tell the truth?

'Because
I … umm … because I was jealous, I suppose. Phil is everything I'm not. He's
like what I want to be, yet I can't be like him and, because I can't, I came to
detest him, to hate his success, to hate that people liked him. And then there
was Ingrid.'

'Do
go on,' said Hobbes, and I felt sure I detected rising anger in his voice.

Still
unable to look at him, I took another deep, gulping breath. 'When we were round
at Phil's place and you were looking at his computer, I picked up a couple of
his cards. The thing is, I'd kind of convinced myself he was a villain and
thought that if I put his card at the scene then you'd see him in the same
light. I'm sorry.'

'Sorry?'
roared Hobbes, his voice rumbling like a volcano, 'I should think you are
sorry. It was a despicable act.'

Flinching,
nodding agreement, I lifted my head, still unable to raise my eyes above his
chest, bracing myself for when he blew his top. 'I really am sorry. I was sorry
from the moment Wilkes found it and I keep wishing I hadn't done it. If there's
anything I can do to help make amends?'

And
then he exploded.

I
cringed, sweating, caught between running for my life and curling up and taking
his wrath. Yet, when I finally dared to look up, he was laughing. Tears poured
down the furrows in his face as he rocked back and forth in his chair.

'By
heck, Andy!' He guffawed. 'Promise me you'll never be a criminal. You'd make
things far too easy for us. We do like some sort of challenge, you know?'

'Umm
… I don't understand.'

He
wiped his eyes. 'Did you honestly believe I'd fallen for your silly trick? I am
a detective you know. I should feel insulted; I might have been if you weren't
so funny.'

Stunned,
shocked, confused, humiliated, relieved and indignant in quick succession, I
finally settled on being relieved, with a seasoning of confusion. It seemed he
did not intend tearing me limb from limb. 'But how?'

'How?
Well, firstly, I observed you removing the cards from the box.'

I
didn't see how he could have done, unless he'd got eyes in the back of his
head, which he hadn't. I didn't think so, anyway.

'Secondly,
the card was not under the mat when I entered Brancastle and only appeared
after you came looking for me. Thirdly, Mrs Goodfellow found several other
cards in your jacket pocket when she took it away for cleaning. Fourthly, you
had not exactly hidden your feelings towards Mr Waring and, fifthly, I've heard
you muttering under your breath more than once that you wished you'd never
hidden 'the bloody card.' Excuse my language.'

'So
you knew it was me all the time? Why didn't you say anything?'

'Because
it amused me and gave you the chance to make good.' He chuckled. 'The lass and
I had a talk about it and decided you weren't a bad lad really. Still, I'm glad
you've owned up at last. She'll be pleased when I tell her.'

'Not
as pleased as I am,' I said, dizzy with relief. 'It's been horrible, especially
when Phil went missing. It's true I wanted him out the way, though not like
this, and, anyway, I don't think Ingrid likes me very much.'

'That's
a shame. However, you can't make people like you,' he said, 'and sometimes the
more you try the less they do. It's the way things are. You have to be yourself
and be hopeful.'

I
nodded, looking into his corrugated mess of a face, wondering how it felt to be
Hobbes, feeling an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Who, I thought, could befriend
him? I supposed Mrs Goodfellow, the olde troll, Augustus and maybe Billy
Shawcroft might, but they were all outsiders and oddities. Everyone else just
seemed to regard him either with respect as a copper who got the job done, or
as a figure of fear. Surfing a wave of sympathy and well-being, I reminded
myself that, in his own grotesque way, he'd shown me nothing but kindness,
except for when he'd shown me terror and horror. Still, with the chains of my
guilt released, the world felt a lighter, more hopeful place.

'I
still don't really understand what's going on,' I said.

'D'you
mean with life, the universe and everything? Or with these crimes?'

'The
crimes.'

'So
you understand life, the universe and everything?' He grinned. 'You're a genius
on the quiet then?'

'No,
I didn't mean that. I mean I'm often confused and I'm specifically confused
about all these robberies. As far as I can see, there's some Romanian thing
connecting them all, yet it doesn't explain why anyone would want the things
they took.'

'You're
right,' he said. 'I have a bad feeling, though. I fear trouble is afoot and I'm
rarely wrong. Anyway, first things first; I ought to see how Tony's getting on
and have another word with him.'

We
headed for cell number 2. When the sergeant opened it, there was a woof and a
black, hairy creature bounded out, bouncing around us.

'I
put Dregs with him so he wouldn't feel lonely,' said Hobbes.

I
was shocked. 'Couldn't he have hurt him?'

'Most
unlikely. He's a big dog and can look after himself.'

'I
meant the other way round.'

'I
never thought of that,' he said, chewing his lip, peering into the cell and
patting the dog's head. 'However, Tony appears to be in one piece.'

He
stepped into the cell. 'How are you feeling? A little better? Good. It's not
pleasant to faint. So I've been told.'

Tony
was sitting on the bench, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his
chest. When Dregs squeezed past me and bounded in, he squealed, 'Keep it away.'

Hobbes
grabbed Dregs's collar. 'Sit,' he said.

The
dog sat, wagging his tail, staring at Tony who cringed further up the wall.

'Now
then, Tony, are you ready to continue our friendly little chat? Or would you
like a bit of dinner? I am obliged to warn you that the stew from our canteen
might be construed as cruel and unusual punishment, yet some of the lads seem
to thrive on it. At least, they go back for more.'

'I
am hungry,' said Tony, adding pathetically, 'I never had no breakfast.'

'No
problem,' said Hobbes. 'I'll ask the sergeant to arrange something. We'll
continue our talk later, eh? It's a shame I'm not going to let you out because
my housekeeper's made chicken soup for lunch. At least I think so, because I
heard her plucking the chicken this morning. Would you like Dregs to stay with
you? No? Suit yourself. He probably should go home anyway.'