Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (5 page)

He
started the engine and we sped back to Sorenchester, stopping with a squeal of
brakes. Opening my eyes, I got out, wrinkling my nose on account of the stench
of burned rubber, noticing the bumper touching the police station wall. He led
me through a side-entrance straight to his office.

It
was not the first time I'd been in a police station. I'd once become involved
in an unfortunate incident at the Wildlife Park, although I have always
maintained my innocence; my arrival and the hippopotamus's disappearance being
entirely coincidental, but that's another story, one entirely different to what
the
Bugle
published, without my contribution. Yet, Hobbes's office
looked unlike anything I'd seen before, except, perhaps, when I'd watched
reruns of
Dixon of Dock Green.
The furniture, not that there was much,
would have been at home in a junk shop: a battered and dented mahogany desk
with brass fittings, two substantial oak chairs, looking as though they might
once have been upholstered, a rusting filing cabinet, with a black, Bakelite
telephone on top. Cardboard boxes had been stacked in one corner and a hat
stand, constructed from lustrous dark wood with bullhorns for hooks, lurked
behind the door. A vast aspidistra on the window ledge, gave the room a gloomy,
greenish tinge like being in the jungle. A small table with a gas ring stood in
the corner opposite the entrance, supporting a dented copper kettle, a stained
white teapot, a few tins and two chipped mugs. The room smelt of dust, old
books and, of course, the feral scent of Hobbes. Mounds of papers littered the
desk, along with a solitary picture frame. I glanced at it, expecting a
photograph of … actually, I'm not sure what I'd expected: maybe his family,
assuming he had one. I wouldn't have bet on a sepia photograph of Queen
Victoria.

'I
see you're admiring my picture of the queer old dean.' The room shook as he
laughed. 'Right, d'you fancy a cup of tea?'

'Yes,
please,' I said.

'Good.
Make me one as well, would you?' A banana-sized finger pointed to the kettle.

'Oh,
right. Of course. Umm … do you take milk or sugar?'

'Two
lumps of each, please. When you're done, I'll show you to the canteen.'

The
kettle, being already full, and discovering a box of matches on top of one of
the tins, I lit the gas and rummaged for tea bags. There weren't any, just
loose leaves in a tin caddy, for which my training as tea-boy at the
Bugle
had not prepared me. Still, I had learned of the possibility of making tea
without bags; Phil had been telling Ingrid how tea tasted 'so much nicer if
made properly', while I'd listened sarcastically, never thinking I might one
day be grateful. When the kettle boiled, I poured a little into the pot,
swirling it round to warm it and then, since there wasn't a sink, opened the
window, flinging out the contents. A roar of anger followed, prompting me to
slam it shut and duck out of sight. Hobbes, sitting behind his desk, writing on
a form, merely snorted. I tipped three spoons of tea into the pot, inundating
it with boiling water and picked up the chipped mugs.

'Careful
with those,' said Hobbes, 'they're Chippendale.'

'Oh
right, of course.'

I
held them with exaggerated care. They showed images of Chip and Dale, the
cartoon chipmunks. I grimaced, putting them down, Hobbes grinning as he
returned to his paperwork. Sprawling in the spare chair, I waited while the tea
mashed.

His
fountain pen looked the size of a matchstick in his great paw, and he wrote
slowly, his brow furrowed, the pink tip of his tongue between his lips, looking
like a monstrous schoolboy, lost in a world of his own. Occasionally, he would
hum a few bars of a tune I thought I nearly recognised. For those few quiet
minutes he looked at peace with the world and himself and had a strange air of
vulnerability. I almost felt friendly towards him.

The
tea smelt fantastic as I poured it out and placed the Chip mug on the desk beside
him. He was dreamily stirring it with a finger as I sat back down, taking a sip
from the Dale mug, the fragrance steaming away any last vestiges of hangover. I
relaxed, closing my eyes, leaning back in my chair. The office was warm, the
distant hum of the world seemed far away and I felt strangely happy until, upending
my mug, I got a mouthful of tealeaves. Spluttering, I spat the dregs back.

'Manners,
Andy,' said Hobbes, shooting me a disapproving look, putting down his pen,
picking up his mug and standing up. 'Right, give me a top-up and have one
yourself if you like and I'll take you to the canteen.'

Having
drained the teapot into our mugs, I followed him through the dark panelled
doorway into a large, airy and untidy room where half a dozen officers and
civilians were hard at work. Some looked up from their computer screens as we
passed, seeming surprised to see me, one or two nodding as Hobbes acknowledged
them with a gesture like a benediction. Turning into a corridor, he pushed open
a double door and the rich warm scent of fried bacon overwhelmed me. I'd quite
obviously not really been hungry earlier. What I'd experienced then had been a
passing peckishness, but this was the real thing. Ordering an all-day
breakfast, though lunchtime approached, I proceeded to stuff my face, while
Hobbes sat quietly, as if in deep thought. When I'd eaten enough to allow some
of my attention to wander from the plate, I noticed, with suppressed amusement,
that his little finger, on raising his mug, was crooked like that of an old
lady at a vicarage tea party. He left the canteen as I polished the plate clean,
returning as I finished off the last slice of toast and marmalade.

'Right,
Andy, I want to take a proper look at Roman's house. Let's see what we can
find.' He hustled me from the canteen to the car.

Feeling
fully awake and fit by then, I was really able to appreciate the journey, which
only went to show the advantage of having felt like death earlier. Hobbes, I
decided, knew only one way to drive: with the accelerator pressed flat against
the mat. For him, speed limits were restrictions applying, and only applying,
to other road users. It was the same with one-way signs and he regarded red
lights as optional. As we hurtled past the speed camera on Fenderton Road, he
waved his warrant card in the instant it flashed. Gripping my seat, wide-eyed, speechless,
I sat, anticipating a violent end at any second. As we passed the cemetery, I
tried to take my mind off the fear by imagining which plot I'd fill, assuming
they didn't cremate me. Would, in fact, enough of me survive the inevitable
smash to make a funeral worthwhile? My strategy was not working so well as I'd
hoped and, once again, I was considering flinging myself into the road when
Hobbes, with a crazed chuckle, spun the wheel to the right.

'This
is it,' I said to myself, shutting my eyes as we turned in front of a council
lorry, 'I'm going to die.'

I
didn't and, when I looked again we'd made it into Alexander Court, a quiet side
road lined with tall trees, behind which stood a scattering of large, old
houses. Hobbes braked as we approached the end of the road, gravel crunched,
and he skidded to a halt on the drive of a house, impressive, even by comparison
to the others.

He
smiled as we got out. 'Roman's empire. Nice isn't it?'

'Not
bad,' I said.

From
its high gables, its banks of chimneys, rising like towers, its neat rows of
glittering, leaded windows, looking out over formal gardens, seemingly large
enough to form a small farm, I guessed it dated from Victorian times.

 'He
was well off, then?'

'Rolling
in it,' said Hobbes. 'At least by normal standards. He admitted, if that's the
right word, that he was a wealthy man, though I gather times had been harder in
the recent past. He wasn't forthcoming on the source of his wealth, though I
suspect his parents left him plenty. They certainly bought this place just
after the last war and he inherited it. Mr Roman lived quietly and rather well
and, for the most part, without the necessity of having to work for a living.
He enjoyed foreign holidays, good restaurants, Saville Row suits and those sorts
of things and, until fairly recently, kept a cook, a maid and a gardener. It
seems he spent his time playing the fiddle and painting.'

'A
gentleman of leisure? Lucky bastard.' I grinned. 'I've always wanted to be like
that.'

'May
I remind you the lucky bastard hanged himself?' Hobbes's stare nearly knocked
me backwards.

'Sorry,'
I mumbled, 'was he … umm … a good painter?'

He
shrugged. 'From what I've seen, he was a decent draughtsman with a real eye for
colour, though with something of a magpie style. One work would be reminiscent
of Cézanne, the next Rousseau or maybe Matisse. He even appears to have gone
through a Daliesque phase. In my estimation, his paintings look good but reveal
little of the artist, except to suggest he was intimately acquainted with the
works of the masters. His work is more pastiche than original, if you follow
me.'

Though
my knowledge of art is poor, in truth almost non-existent, I nodded as Hobbes
stood before me, his voice soft, his demeanour thoughtful. It was hard to
believe he was the same man who'd just threatened my life with his lunatic
driving.

'Come
on,' he said, approaching the front door. 'Let's take a look inside. Stay
behind me and don't touch anything. Right?'

I
stood back, expecting him to have a key. Instead, he thumped the door once with
both fists and, as it swung open with a tortured creak, I followed him inside.

Mr
Roman obviously hadn't tidied up after the burglary. The finely patterned
carpet, though well worn, was deep and soft, sprinkled with shards of broken china.
Hobbes strode into what he called the drawing room, where the French window had
been boarded up and slivers of glass glittered on the floor. Dropping to his
hands and knees, he crawled about, apparently oblivious to the risk of cuts. He
searched thoroughly, occasionally grunting, once or twice sounding as if he was
sniffing, while picking up a number of wedge-shaped slivers of dried mud from
the carpet, which, he remarked, came from the soles of a well-worn pair of
boots.

I
soon grew bored watching his broad backside and studied the room, which, though
a mess, was a rich mess. However, something about the old ornaments and
furniture, something to do with their colours and chunkiness, suggested they
weren't British. Engaging my brain for a moment, I remembered Hobbes talking
about the foreign-looking jewellery left behind in the burglary and Roman's parents
having bought the house just after the war. Perhaps, I thought, they had been
foreigners who'd arrived in Britain at the time and, perhaps, they'd done
something bad, or had acquired something they shouldn't have, when Europe was
in turmoil. And what if someone had tracked the hiding place down after all
these years? I tried my theory out on Hobbes, who sniffed and stuck his head
under a sideboard.

Crawling
backwards, he squatted on his haunches, staring up at the panelled wall and
down at the turquoise patterned carpet, scratching his chin with a sound like
someone sawing wood. At first, I couldn't see what had interested him. Then I
became aware of faint scuffs on the carpet, suggesting the sideboard had been
pulled away from the wall on one side and then pushed back. As I turned my
head, the light striking the wall revealed a thin vertical crack along one side
of the panelling. My heart lurched with excitement.

Hobbes
stood up, hauling the sideboard out the way, poking the panelling with his
thumbnail until a section swung back with a ping, revealing a wall safe. It
wasn't locked but it was empty. He glanced at me over his shoulder, raising his
shaggy eyebrows.

Leaning
forward, he sniffed and poked the combination lock with the tip of a
fingernail. 'There's no sign of forced entry but the burglar's been in here
alright. Hallo, what's this?'

There
was a scrap of screwed up paper in an ashtray. He picked it up, spreading it
out, revealing a page from a small, cheap, wired jotting pad, much like
journalists used at the
Bugle
, just like I should have had with me.
Someone with large, sprawling, handwriting had scrawled five numbers on it in
black biro. Hobbes, after studying them for a second or two, twiddled the
combination dial, using the tips of his horny nails, smiling when the lock
clicked.

'What
does it mean?' I asked.

'It
means the burglar knew the combination to the safe, which suggests an inside
job – except it wasn't, unless Mr Roman burgled his own house. Besides, whoever
did it didn't have a door key.' He nodded at the boarded-up French window.

'What
about the servants?'

'He'd
got rid of 'em about a year ago during a temporary financial problem. Still, it
might be worth having a word with them at some point. Well, well, well, there's
something else here.'

Taking
the paper, he turned it over, holding it up to the light, laying it down on the
sideboard, pulling a pencil from his coat pocket. As he delicately rubbed the
lead over the page, faint, white indentations began to stand out, slowly turning
themselves into letters. Even I could tell the small, neat, carefully formed
capitals were in a different hand to the one that had jotted down the numbers.