Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (33 page)

'I'm
sorry about your family,' I said, 'but he's good at saving people isn't he?

'Yes,
and it didn't stop there, because he looked after me right up to my marriage.'

I
would have liked to ask her about that, specifically what had happened to Mr Goodfellow
and why I'd acquired his clothes but the chimes of the church clock, striking
six, put an end to our chat.

'I'd better get back down to the kitchen. I
don't like to keep him waiting.'

He
didn't turn up. About quarter to seven, she fed me, saying it was a pity to let
good food spoil when I was so obviously starving yet, despite the steak and
kidney pudding tasting truly, fantastically delicious, I didn't really enjoy
it, because she never went away and kept looking at the clock and checking the
oven.

He
still hadn't appeared by the time I'd finished.

'I
hope he's alright,' she said. 'He's not normally late for his supper and if he
is, he lets me know.'

'I
expect he's just busy and has lost track of time. He'll be back soon, I'm
sure.'

He
wasn't. She tried his mobile without reply. I phoned the station, learning that
he hadn't been seen since mid-afternoon when he'd released Tony Derrick. By half-past
eight, Mrs Goodfellow looked frantic. Dregs, on the other hand, had fallen
asleep in a corner and snored, as if his inner pig was trying to emerge.

At
last I made a decision. The snoring had started to bug me and I couldn't stand
any more of Mrs Goodfellow sitting down, standing up, looking at the clock and
going to peer out the front door. Her nervousness was infectious. 'I'll go and
see if he left a note at the station, and I might have a word with Billy
Shawcroft. Hobbes says he knows what's going down.'

Mrs
Goodfellow looked grateful and I felt relieved to be out of the house, though I
was glad of the long overcoat I'd found. Turning up the collar, an icy wind
slapping my ears, I wished I had a hat. Actually, Mrs Goodfellow had dug out a
rather fine trilby, which I'd been too embarrassed to wear in public, even if I'd
thought it made me look rather cool when posing before the mirror. Returning
briefly, jamming the hat onto my head, thrusting my hands into my pockets, I
strode towards the police station, my breath curling like smoke. Catching a
glimpse of myself in a shop window, I thought I looked a bit like Sam Spade or
some other hero of film noir. Even though I laughed at myself, some of the
image and attitude stuck.

Though
the streets were quiet, I couldn't ignore an impression that dark things lurked
in the shadows. It was fanciful, maybe, but I was beginning to see Sorenchester
differently, to see the world differently. There were more things in heaven and
earth than I'd dreamt of before Hobbes. I hoped he was alright.

A
verbal altercation was taking place by the desk when I reached the police
station. Though keeping my distance, I gathered it had kicked off after a van was
pulled over for speeding. The cops, looking in the back, finding it loaded with
suspected contraband, had arrested the driver, who was insisting loudly and
coherently that it wasn't contraband at all but props for his clown act. The Irish
accent being familiar, I swiftly recognised it as belonging to Pete Moss.

No
one having eyes for me, I slipped past.

The
rest of the station was deserted, the big office standing in darkness. Without
an audience, I opened Hobbes's door with no problem and turned on the light.
His room appeared the same as always and I began to suspect I was on a fool's
errand. Still, I decided, I might as well have a bit of a nose around, though I
felt reluctant to rummage too deeply, in case he returned. A mess of papers
littered the desktop and I was about to push them aside when I noticed the
doodle. Actually, it was far better than a mere doodle, more like a portrait in
ink, unmistakably the face of Narcisa Witcherley, which puzzled me. Why her? I
wondered. It occurred to me, thinking back to his rather gallant manner on
meeting her in Rex's office, that he might have the hots for her, for she did possess
a certain feminine charm, though she'd not impressed me, being too stretched,
too plastered with make-up, and being a smoker of unusually noxious cigarettes.
There was another sketch of her with Tony Derrick of all people, and I wished I
had Hobbes's ability for, although the portraits were accurate, Tony's held a
hint of weasel, while Narcisa's suggested arrogance and coldness.

Yet
it made no sense to have wasted his time drawing when he was working on a case.
Maybe, he'd done it subconsciously, as I'm prone to do, though my doodles look
like doodles.

I
uncovered another sketch showing two men standing together, one wearing a long
coat, a trilby hat pulled low and a scarf wrapped around his face, the other
sporting a short jacket and a balaclava to conceal the bits of his face not
obscured by sunglasses. The significance was clear; they were the villains
who'd attacked Mr Barrington-Oddy.

On
pushing the drawings aside, I noticed the fax from the house agent, confirming
the ring was fifteenth-century Romanian, yet disputing that it had anything to
do with the Order of St George. It was, in fact, a relic of a different order,
the Order of the Dragon and, according to the agent, a rare and valuable
object. However, Mrs Iliescu, loathing it and needing the money, had offered it
for sale. The fax incorporated a copy of her advert, including historical
details about Sigismund, the Holy Roman Emperor establishing the Order of the
Dragon in 1408 and having the dragon ring fashioned for one of his vassals, a
chap with the unfortunate name of Vlad, in about AD 1430. I felt a wavelet of
satisfaction that I hadn't been entirely wrong about the Roman connection after
all.

Skipping
the baffling details about the Troy weight in gold and the quality of the
rubies, I found a photograph of the ring, an exquisite object, shaped like a
winged dragon, its tail coiled around its neck, resembling the bracelet.
Despite the fax being rather blurred, I could understand Mrs Iliescu's point of
view, because there was something loathsome about it, despite the quality of
the craftsmanship. Yet, she obviously had great faith in its value, for its
price was fifty thousand pounds – a hell of a lot of money for such a small
item.

I
speculated that the bracelet, though only of bronze, might be worth a similar
amount to, say, a collector. Few have such money available and anyone really
desiring it, my putative collector for instance, might resort to stealing as
the better option. I was impressed by my insight: I was starting to think like
a detective. Hobbes was starting to rub off on me.

Yet
all my brilliant reasoning had got me no closer to finding him. Deciding I
might as well head to the Feathers and ask Billy, I was on the point of leaving
when I noticed a copy of
Sorenchester Life
beside the desk, open on the
picture of Editorsaurus Rex and wife. Bafflingly, Hobbes had underlined some of
the letters in the caption, presumably, I thought, subconsciously, for they
made no sense to me.

Still, it refuelled my speculation that he'd
developed some sort of crush on Narcisa and led to a sort of reluctant
curiosity about the sort of sex life he enjoyed, if he enjoyed one at all.
Maybe, if there were any females of his kind he could, though I felt almost
certain any human female would be repulsed by his looks, if not by his Hobbesishness.
Not that I was in any position for smugness, since my last hint of an amorous
encounter had been when Dregs had become affectionate. I left the police
station deep in thought.

It
was a quiet night at the Feathers. That is, no one was actually fighting.
Featherlight Binks was in an unusually convivial mood, acknowledging my arrival
with a grunt that I took as a welcome. On reaching the bar, Billy Shawcroft
approached, his pale face evidence of yesterday's drinking binge.

'Evening,'
I said. 'Can I have a nice pint of lager?'

'Of
course you can, mate,' said Billy and, under his breath, 'though it's not so
nice in this dump.'

'Thanks,'
I said. 'Did you enjoy your free beer last night?'

He
shuddered. 'Enjoy is not the word. I must have been mad. That Romanian stuff's
corrosive.'

'Romanian?'
Everything was Romanian.

'Yes,
Romanian,' Billy whispered, one eye watching Binks, pouring my pint. 'Dracula's
Bite they call it and, though it's got a nice label, it's bloody awful and I've
still got a man-sized hangover. If you think I look bad, you should see it from
my side.'

Smiling,
speculating about whether a dwarf-sized hangover should be a hangunder, I
reached into my pocket, completely forgetting I was broke. Embarrassed, I
admitted my predicament, 'Umm … I'm really sorry but I'm right out of cash.'

'Forget
it. It's on me,' said Billy. 'I'm glad to do a favour for a friend of Hobbes.
I'm indebted to the old devil.'

'Thanks,
you're very kind.'

'You
might not think so after you've tasted it.' He frowned. 'I feel like death.'

'I'm
sorry to hear it, but you'll live.'

He
groaned. 'Will I? Please say I won't. It's bloody well-named that Dracula's
Bite; it makes you feel undead and you just long for a stake and I don't mean
the sort you have with chips.'

'Why
did Featherlight buy such bad beer?'

'It
was cheap. Some Irish guy turns up from time to time selling dodgy cigarettes
and last time he'd got some crates of beer. The boss bought 'em, thinking he
was being shrewd but the stuff's terrible, even by our standards.'

'Would
that be Pete Moss?' I asked, leaning on the bar so I could hear Billy more
easily.

'Yeah,
that's him. The boss is gonna punch his lights out next time he turns up, which
is why he's so cheerful tonight.'

'He
might have a bit of a wait,' I said. 'Pete was at the police station. He's been
nicked for smuggling.'

'Lucky
bastard,' said Billy, grinning. Then, clutching his head, he moaned. 'Oh God, I
shouldn't move my face in the state I'm in.'

'You'll
be OK,' I reassured him and took a slurp of lager, which wiped the smile off my
face. Standing upright, I peeled my sleeves off the bar. 'By the way, have you
seen anything of Hobbes today?'

'No.
Why?'

'Well,'
I said, 'he didn't turn up for his supper and didn't phone to say he'd be late.
His housekeeper says it's not normal and she's worried.'

'He
can look after himself. He'll turn up.'

'You're
probably right. Except … umm … he was last seen with Tony Derrick.'

Billy,
grimacing, held his head again. 'Well in that case, I hope Hobbes gives the
bastard a right good walloping. Tell you what, I'll keep my eyes open and my
ear to the ground and let you know if anything turns up, OK?'

He
turned to serve an impatient customer.

I
finished my drink, apart from the mysterious selection of brown lumps at the
bottom. 'Goodnight,' I said, walking towards the door.

Featherlight
responded by merrily chucking a soggy rag at me. When I saw what came out as it
splattered against the wall, I was mightily relieved he'd missed. Slithering
down the wall like a giant slug, it flopped onto a chair, just as the bloke
Billy had served sat on it. I closed the door behind me, stepping into the
frosty street, as a bellow of rage rang out and Featherlight answered with a
roar. Normal service had resumed and I wondered whether Mrs Goodfellow would
shortly be adding to her collection.

As
I hurried away, the lager sloshing in my stomach, my foot struck an empty
bottle on the kerb, which, rolling into the gutter, shattered. Stopping to kick
the broken glass down a nearby drain where it wouldn't be of danger, I noticed
the label.

'Dracula's
Bite Romanian Export Beer', it said in blood-red gothic letters. Stepping into
the road, I picked it up, examining it beneath a streetlight. Billy had been
right to claim the label, showing a white-walled, red-turreted castle on a hill
surrounded by trees, was picturesque. 'Castle Bran, legendary Carpathian home
of Count Dracula', I read. I don't mind admitting it worried me. What worried
me more was the roar of the swerving motorbike.

As
I flung myself back onto the pavement, the bike screeched to a stop. A menacing,
helmeted figure in black leathers stepped off, coming towards me, removing his
heavy gauntlets. I thought I was in for it.

'It's
Andy isn't it? Are you alright?' asked the figure, removing his helmet,
revealing himself as Kev the Rev.

'Oh,'
I said, relieved, 'umm … yes I'm alright. I'm sorry if I got in your way.'

'You
didn't really. I was just passing and, seeing you looked kind of lost, I
thought I'd better stop and see if I could help.'

'It's
good of you.'

'Well
I am a reverend, I'm meant to be good, though it's not always easy. Anyway, to
coin a phrase, why the long face?'

'It's
not me, I'm alright. I'm worried about Inspector Hobbes.'

'I'm
not surprised,' said Kev, 'he's a very worrying bloke. What's he done to you?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing
yet you mean. I remember him putting the fear of God into me when I started
getting into trouble, which is why I ended up doing what I do.'

I
understood what he meant. Hobbes had the power to terrify with a glance, a word
or an action, though it was not only Mrs Goodfellow who was worried about him.
I had to admit it; so was I.

'No,
he's gone missing and I'm looking for him.'

'Fuckrying
out loud. How can he go missing? He's about as inconspicuous as a tiara on a
turtle. Have you asked anyone?'

'Yeah,
he was last seen leaving the station with a guy called Tony Derrick who's a
right little weasel.'

'Now,
now,' said Kev, 'we are all God's children. Mind you, I know what you mean.
I've known Tony since I was a boy and he really is a nasty little shit. They
say he had it tough; his mum left when he was a nipper and his dad was a
violent alcoholic swine, but, may God forgive me, every time I meet him, I
struggle against an urge to throttle the bugger. Tell you what, though, if you
like, I know where he's been living, I'll give you a lift there, and you can
ask him. I've got a spare lid in the box.'

'Thank
you,' I said.

'You
can hold onto me if you like.'

A
couple of minutes later I was sitting on the back of his bike, my trilby
replaced by a smelly helmet, thinking that Hobbes's driving hadn't been so bad
after all. It wasn't that Kev did anything unusual for a motorcyclist, it was
just that I'd never been on a bike before and was wishing I'd never been on one
at all. Clinging to the back stanchion, refusing to put my arms around Kev, I
hoped I'd live long enough to die of the frostbite I was convinced was eating
my extremities. Yet, in a few minutes, we were safely outside Tony's.

The
street was still deserted except for the cat on the mattress and there was no
sign of anyone being home. Getting off the bike, approaching the front door, I
knocked. Total silence. Total darkness. I returned to Kev.

'No
luck?'

I
shook my head. 'Umm … you don't happen to know anything about Romania, do you?'

He
frowned. 'That's an odd question. Why do you want to know?'

I
didn't tell him everything, though I did mention that Hobbes had been, or, I
hoped, still was, working on a case involving Romania. And I did tell him about
Dracula's Bite beer and Pete Moss.

'I
know Pete,' said Kev, 'he's a rogue, though one with a good heart.'

'He
was arrested tonight,' I said, 'for smuggling.'

'It's
not the first time.' Kev's breath curled in the breeze and his mouth curled
into a smile. 'He once had the brilliant notion of smuggling fake Viagra into
the country. He stuffed the pills into condoms and swallowed them. The trouble
was, one burst and, well, he rather stood out when he tried to get through
Customs. He was so obviously a hardened criminal.'