Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (37 page)

The
door, leading into the kitchen, swinging open, I dropped to my knees in the
rich loam of a border, flattening myself against the wall, praying nobody
decided to venture out.

A
whiny voice spoke. 'Shouldn't I at least give him a drink?' It was Tony
Derrick.

'He's
been in there for ages and …' he paused and muttered. 'OK. Keep your hair on. I
was only asking.'

I
could hear him moving about, splashing water, opening and shutting doors.

'Where
d'you keep your coffee? Thanks … sugar? Milk? OK … cream it is then. Uh, which
one's the fridge? I got it … single or double? Chocolate biscuits? Right … can
I have one? I'm starving.'

The
stream of questions continued for a minute or two and then there was silence.
After a while, risking poking my head up, I satisfied myself the kitchen was
empty again. Tony had spilt coffee by the sink and a couple of broken biscuits
were valiantly attempting to soak up a dribble of cream splashed on the floor
beneath the stainless steel door of what I took to be the fridge.

It
meant there were at least two people inside, Editorsaurus Rex and Tony and,
since Narcisa's car was parked outside, it was likely she was home, too. In
which case, who was the 'he' Tony had mentioned? Hobbes? Or Phil?

A
timid part of my brain suggested I was jumping to all the wrong conclusions. I
tried to ignore it, because part of me was convinced Hobbes was inside and,
since he'd been looking for Phil, he might also be there.

Keeping
my head below the windows, I crept along the side of the wall like a commando,
except commandos usually carry weapons they're trained to use and are not
dressed in soggy tweed that's growing ever soggier. The shadows were
lengthening and I guessed it had gone four o'clock. Though the huge, red sun
was blinding, it wouldn't be long before it no longer peeped over the hedge.

On
reaching the spot where the kitchen-extension met the old part of the house, I
stood up straight, stretching cramped muscles, noticing a small, dilapidated
shed in the far corner of the back lawn, somewhere I thought would make a
brilliant hiding place. Scurrying behind it, I looked back, shocked to realise
I'd been in full view of the upper windows of the house, but it seemed I'd got
away with it. I resolved to be more vigilant, for a momentary carelessness
might waste all my efforts and would lead, at best, to intense embarrassment.

Two
fears were competing: first, if Hobbes and Phil were being held captive, I,
too, soon might be; second, if, by chance or stupidity, I'd got everything
wrong, Rex might simply spot me trespassing, call the police and I'd be a
laughing stock again. My timid side just wouldn't shut up, urging me to run
before I got into something I couldn't get out of. I forced myself to ignore
what seemed only common sense, feeling I owed Hobbes something. Yet for a
while, all I could do was lurk behind the shed, where the shadows concealed me.

Buttoning
my coat, pulling up the collar, thrusting my hands into the pockets, I looked
around in the half-light. To one side was a steaming compost heap, to the
other, a heavy lawn roller, smothered under a blanket of enormous spiders'
webs. Imagining the enormous spiders that had created it, I couldn't stop
shuddering, so I forced myself to concentrate on my mission. I peeked round the
side of the shed, observing the garden, bright and ruddy in the glow of the
setting sun, encircled by a hedge, dotted here and there with tall trees. There
was an ornamental pond, a covered swimming pool and a tennis court. A strange
vision of Rex floundering about in white shorts, or diving into the water made
me snigger, despite, or because of, my nerves. My imagination failed to conjure
up an image of Narcisa doing anything similar.

A
light coming on in one of house's upper windows, I jerked back behind the shed,
very cautiously risking another look, hoping the dusk would conceal me.
Narcisa, clad in a glossy blue gown, sat down in front of a dressing table by
the window, dabbing something behind her ears, turning as if to speak to
someone. Another figure moved into view and, though I could only see his back,
his green Hawaiian shirt screamed it was Tony Derrick. He leaned on the window
ledge, seemingly entirely at home in her bedroom. When she finished speaking he,
nodded, kissing her on the lips and left.

I
couldn't take that sort of thing standing up and had to sit on the roller,
despite the spiders. Surely, Narcisa and Tony weren't lovers? What could she
see in the weasely, whiney, grubby lowlife? If it came to that, what could he
see in her? To be fair, she'd looked OK, elegant even, in the
Sorenchester
Life
photo, if only because of the crust of makeup. Yet, perhaps neither
was fussy. I couldn't understand how Rex fitted in and why he didn't just throw
Tony out. I shook my head, glad I didn't live that way.

When
I looked again, she'd removed her robe and was wearing only a flimsy,
shimmering slip, held up by coat hanger shoulders. Her neck was scrawny, as if
it had been stretched, and encircled by a triple string of pearls. As she ran a
bony hand through her hair, I turned away, feeling like a peeping Tom. Yet, I
had to take another look and this time, to my horror, she was quite bald, apart
from a few fluffy, brittle tufts reminiscent of a lawn in a drought. Her sleek
blonde hair was nowhere to be seen as she touched up her makeup. Then she
stood, disappearing from view for a minute or so, returning in a loose, purple
robe with a heavy gold chain around her neck. Bending, picking up her wig, she
sat at the table to fit it, the sleeves of her robe slipping down revealing a
bracelet. Even from such a distance I was sure it was the one stolen from the
museum.

She
walked away and the light went out.

As
the last lingering tentacles of sunlight slithered below the hedge, I berated
myself for failing to make real progress. I was convinced Narcisa had the
dragon bracelet and reckoned it was a safe bet she'd stolen the other articles
as well. So what? I didn't know why she'd taken them, or why Phil and Hobbes
had vanished, or even if there was a genuine connection between the events. Of
course, her ancestry might explain her interest in Romanian artefacts but why
those particular ones? Surely, there were millions of old Romanian bits and
pieces in the world? There had, in fact, been a fair number in Mr
Barrington-Oddy's cabinet, yet only one had been taken. It dawned on me that
asking unanswerable questions and beating myself up wasn't helping. I was
prevaricating, yet I couldn't really blame myself, since I'd never done
anything so frightening before. My nervous terrors were not at all alleviated
by being alone in the dark.

A
childhood memory returned, of an old book of fairy stories at Granny Caplet's, its
grotesque illustrations scaring me silly. In particular, the skinny old witch
in
Hansel and Gretel
had such a look of cruel wickedness she had haunted
my dreams for months. I began to understand my unease, for the shed bore an
uncomfortable resemblance to her tumbledown cottage, or it did in my
imagination. I tried to laugh it off, for I was starting to believe Hobbes's
tall tales. Even so, I couldn't stop myself patting the rotting wood, as if to
reassure myself it was not built of gingerbread. He'd really had me going about
that, and, despite everything, I smiled, coming to a decision.

'Right then, Andy,' I addressed myself,
'let's get out of here. It won't get any easier.' Forcing my mouth into a
determined, devil-may care grin, I stood up, just as something rushed towards
me, something too black to be mere shadow. I gasped as it sprang, knocking me
onto my back.

It
could have been worse, I thought, as Dregs's long, stinky tongue snaked over my
face.

'Bloody
dog,' I muttered, patting his hairy head.

I
was all over dog drool and he was all over exuberance.

The
back door of the house opened and Tony Derrick spoke. 'No, I'm not getting
twitchy. I really heard something. I'm gonna take a look.'

A
torch beam flashed across the lawn. Dregs, releasing me, loped towards it with
a woof. Diving back behind the shed, I lay still, trembling.

Dregs
growled the way he did when he wanted to play.

Tony
screamed. 'Get it off!'

'Shut
up,' said Narcisa, 'or the neighbours will be round complaining.'

A
bright light flooding the garden, my hidey-hole was no longer dark.

'Get
it off me!' Tony sounded as if he was going to cry.

'It's
only a dog.'

'Get
the bastard off!'

'Shut
up, he's not hurting you.'

Something
hissed and Dregs yelped.

'That's
got rid of him,' said Narcisa.

'About
bloody time. What is that stuff?'

'Pepper
spray. It's not nice but he'll get over it, poor mutt.'

'Poor
mutt?' Tony spluttered. 'It was Hobbes's bloody dog, you know? And Hobbes won't
be too far away. You'd better hide the spray.'

She
laughed. 'You're right, he isn't far away but, don't worry, he'll be no
trouble.'

'What
d'you mean?'

'You'll
see,' she said. 'Now come along. There's still plenty to do.'

Their
footsteps receded and a moment later the light went out. Dregs had come to my
rescue again and I just hoped he wasn't going to suffer too much for it. Standing
up, I brushed myself down. Narcisa's assertion that Hobbes wasn't far away gave
me reason to believe I was doing the right thing, yet her confidence that he'd
be no trouble had me worried, even more worried than the prospect of running
into her pepper spray.

Drawing
a deep breath, I tiptoed across the darkened lawn, creeping around the outside
of the house, peeping into every room. The furniture and carpets looked
expensive and comfortable and nothing seemed out of place, except that I couldn't
see anyone. As the upstairs lights were off, it was a puzzle, because, so far
as I could tell, no one had left the house. I was baffled, though I was sure of
one thing – I didn't want to be standing outside for too long. A brutal gust
caught me in the back of the neck and goose pimples erupted over my skin.

'C'mon,
you idiot,' I muttered, my breath steaming, 'you've got to do something.'

I
stole round to the back door, which was locked. The kitchen behind it lay in
darkness, though a small ventilation window above my head was open. Pulling
myself up by the frame, kneeling on the narrow sill, I squeezed my head and
shoulders through the window, standing up, carefully, wriggling and squirming.
I'd got so far through that I was starting to worry about what I was going to land
on, when something snagged. I couldn't slither forwards or push myself back
and, losing my footing, ended up balanced on my ribs, a hard, pointy knob
sticking into my solar plexus, despite the layers of clothes. An involuntary
groan, partly pain, mostly despair, squeezed out and a new proverb came to
mind: 'Don't try to squeeze through inadequate gaps in inappropriate clothing.'
It wasn't snappy, yet I wished I'd thought of it beforehand. I writhed and
wriggled and it made no difference.

Soft,
heavy footsteps approached and there was nothing I could do except cringe and
wait for whatever happened next.

'What's
going on in here?' asked Editorsaurus Rex.

At
such times it's impossible to be nonchalant, though I did my best, smiling,
keeping my chin up, as the kitchen light flickered on. I'd been discovered in a
most embarrassing position. Slumping, dangling, I awaited my doom. A pair of
fluffy white socks sailed into view across a sea of glossy black and white
tiles and a soft, moist hand lifted my head.

'Capstan,
what the Devil are you doing?' The Editorsaurus's voice sounded strange and
there was curiosity instead of the fury I'd anticipated. My head dropped.

'Just
hanging about,' I said, attempting an ingratiating grin.

'Oh,
that's all right then. So long as you're not burgling.'

'Oh
no, sir. I'd never do such a thing.'

'I'm
very glad to hear it. Now, are you going to stay there all day, or are you
coming in for a drinkie?'

I
realised why he sounded so odd – he was dead drunk, though his speech was
controlled and precise rather than slurred.

'I'd
love a drink, sir, only I appear to be stuck.'

'I'm
not surprised, it's far too small for you.' His voice grew angry. 'Not too
small for Narcisa's rat-boy, though. Oh no, he squeezed himself in all right.
Nasty, dirty, little sneak. Are you sure you're not burgling?'

'No,
sir, I'm here for a drink. If you wouldn't mind giving me a hand?'

'Sorry
Capstan. Of course, you are. It's very good of you to visit me on my birthday
and I see you've brought a present. Thank you.' He took the plastic bag from
me. It had been dangling from my arm for so long it was almost part of me.

The
next few moments were painful and undignified. He lifted and shoved me, the
window frame creaking, as if on the point of collapse. There was a tearing
sound, a handful of buttons clattered across the tiles and I slithered
backwards, feet scrabbling, landing heavily on my back in the garden. By the
time I'd recovered my breath and got to my feet, Rex was lumbering away,
swaying like an elephant, my bag twisting in his hand. I banged on the door but
he was oblivious.