3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (11 page)

We turned onto what appeared to be the main street, which took us towards an unexpectedly broad market square with a war memorial and a drinking fountain in the middle. The Badger’s Rest, an old-fashioned and tatty pub, filled the nearest corner, while the police station, relatively modern, yet possibly even tattier, occupied the opposite one. A glance into the pub showed it was full of morose, down-at-heel drinkers. I led Dregs towards the police station, passing one small, dejected shop, allegedly a mini-supermarket, with its pathetic display of wrinkled, yellowing vegetables in a rack outside. The other buildings in the square appeared to be houses, one or two of them apparently derelict and covered in ragged posters for the approaching autumn fair. Near the police station, one place really stood out, looking clean, freshly painted in bright pink, with baskets bright with flowers hanging from brackets. A sign printed in large, frilly letters declared it was Pinky’s Tearoom.

I took the most direct line towards the police station, striding there with due urgency, only to find it was locked. A faded sign pinned to the door said: ‘back in 5 minuets’. I couldn’t stop myself looking around for a dance hall.

‘Are you after the cops, love?’ asked a soft female voice.

I turned to see a plump, pretty, blonde woman, dressed in a trouser suit in the same shocking pink as the tea room.

‘Yes,’ I said, trying not to stare.

‘They’ll be down the Badger’s. I’d look in there if I were you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it, love.’

‘Umm … are you Pinky?’

Her big blue eyes widened in surprise. ‘I am. How did you know?’

‘Just a hunch.’

‘Are you a detective?’

‘No … not really … it’s sort of a complicated story.’

‘Well, come in for a cup of tea and tell me.’

Although I did fancy a drink and had money in my pocket, duty called. ‘Maybe later, but I must tell the police something: something important.’

‘Alright then. See you, love,’ She turned and headed towards her tearoom in a cloud of perfume.

Leaving Dregs by the drinking fountain, I walked into the pub, its door opening with a horrible creak and the murmur of conversation immediately dying. The silence was broken only by the door creaking back and somebody coughing. As my eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, I felt something zip past the tip of my nose and heard a clunk.

‘Three!’ said a male voice.

‘That wanker put me off,’ said a deeper, angry male voice.

I jerked backwards as the next dart flew past my face, wondering what sort of idiot would throw when someone was almost in the firing line, and what sort of idiot would position a dartboard between the door and the bar. It wasn’t exactly welcoming, but then, as I looked around, nor was the rest of the pub. Dingy was the first word that came to mind, followed by dirty, dismal, disgusting, and smelly. As the third dart hit the board, I took my chance and scuttled towards the bar and, I hoped, safety. I couldn’t see any policemen, just a bunch of drunken, scruffy men hunched on plastic covered stools, glasses in their hands, watching me. One man, flat on his back on the worn, sticky lino, began emitting blood-curdling snores.

The barman, a tall, skinny old man, whose cardigan was so riddled with holes it might have made a passable fishing net, nodded. ‘You’re not from around here, are you? I know that ’cos we don’t get many strangers in here.’

‘I can’t understand why not,’ I said, smiling, trying to establish friendly relations.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’

‘No… umm … it’s quite quaint, really.’

‘It’s a total shit hole,’ said the man. ‘Are you blind?’

‘I nearly was,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it dangerous having the dartboard there?’

The barman shrugged. ‘I didn’t put it there. What’s your poison?’

Although I hadn’t intended buying a drink, I thought doing so might endear me. ‘A half of lager, please.’

Someone sniggered.

‘We don’t serve poncey drinks in here, mate,’ said the barman. ‘We’ve got bitter or scrumpy.’

‘OK … umm … I’ll have a half of scrumpy.’

‘We don’t sell halves, except if it’s for a lady.’

‘I’ll have a pint then.’

Turning, he sauntered towards a plastic barrel and poured my drink into a glass that was so chipped and greasy I feared it might be harbouring bubonic plague at the very least. He returned and placed it in front of me. I took a sip, surprised to find it wasn’t bad.

‘I went to the police station,’ I said, adopting my most ingratiating expression and leaning on the bar, ‘but it was closed. A lady said I might find a policeman in here.’

‘You might,’ said the barman, ‘but that’s none of my business.’

‘Isn’t it?’ For a moment, I was stumped. Then I had an idea and addressed the drinkers: ‘Is there a policeman in here?’

There was silence, apart from a thud from the dartboard, a very rude word and the deeper, angry male voice complaining that I’d put him off again.

‘A policeman?’ said a youngish man with a thin moustache and a plastic cigarette balanced on his lip. ‘In that case, I reckon you’ll be wanting Sam,’

‘Who’s Sam?’

‘Sam,’ said the man, grinning, ‘is a police officer.’

‘I gathered that, but where is he.’

‘In here.’

‘I see … umm … are you Sam?’

‘No, but I, too, am a police officer.’

‘Well, perhaps you could help me?’

‘Perhaps I could, but you’ll be wanting Sam.’

I addressed the pub again: ‘Which one of you is Sam?’

Though there was no reply, everyone, except for the two playing darts, was watching me, as if I was a strange curio. Rare inspiration struck.

‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ I said, pointing at the man lying on the floor, who had stopped snoring, but had started drooling.

‘Yep,’ said the other police officer and, as if suddenly realising what he was supposed to do, rose to his feet, a trifle unsteadily, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Constable Jones. Sergeant Beer is, regrettably, indisposed at the present time. How may I help?’

I shook his hand. ‘My name is Andy Caplet and I have something to report.’

‘Go on, then.’

‘Umm … it might be better at the police station.’

‘He’s come to make a confession,’ said the barman with a grin that was as lacking in teeth as the bar was in comfort. ‘I reckon he’s run over a sheep.’

‘I haven’t run over a sheep. I don’t have a car.’

‘Has it been stolen?’ asked Constable Jones, pulling a notebook from the pocket of his trousers.

‘No, I’ve never had one.’

‘Then, how did you get here?’

‘I walked.’

‘I believe you, sir. What brings you to these parts?’

‘I’m on holiday.’

This provoked a general guffaw from the onlookers. It seemed I was the best entertainment they’d had for weeks. With the exception of Sergeant Beer, I was the focus of everybody’s attention and even the darts had stopped flying.

Constable Jones was shaking his head and grinning. ‘No, really, what are you doing here?’

‘I’m really on holiday.’

‘Escaped from some sort of institution, have you, sir? We don’t get tourists round these parts, and walkers don’t usually wear tweed.’

‘I haven’t escaped from anywhere, I am on holiday and what I choose to wear is my own business. I really have got something terribly important to report.’

‘Important, eh? Why didn’t you say so?’

‘I haven’t had the chance.’ I said, starting to get flustered. ‘I’ve found a skeleton. Well, my dog did.’

The levels of public amusement increased.

Constable Jones made a pantomime of looking about him. ‘Your dog, sir?’

‘He’s outside. He found a man’s skeleton on Blacker Knob. It’s been there for about three years.’

That stopped the laughter and Constable Jones’s expression switched to serious. ‘You’d better come with me, sir.’

Taking my arm, he led me outside, where Dregs introduced himself by thrusting his nose into the constable’s groin before jumping up and licking his face. Jones, pushing him down, led us to the police station and unlocked the door.

‘Come in, sir,’ he said, ‘and bring your dog. I’ll open Interview Room number one and then I’d be obliged if you’d tell me your story.’

Blackcastle police station, its shoebox entrance hall painted a blotched khaki, the front desk chipped and covered in scrawls, wasn’t much to write home about. The place stank of damp and feet, with an underlying aroma of urine. Jones, unlocking a battered door to the side of the desk, ushered me through a grim, open plan office, with three empty desks, towards Interview Room number 1, which was, so far as I could see, the only interview room.

‘Take a seat, sir. Not the wooden one: that’s mine. Would you like a cup of tea? Or would you prefer to finish your scrumpy?’

I sat down on the cheap, white, plastic chair, behind a manky, old wooden table and, realising I was still carrying my drink, gulped it down and asked for tea. Jones left us for a few minutes, giving me time to adjust. Besides the background stink, the room retained a residual pong of stale coffee and vomit. If I’d stretched out my arms, I could have touched two walls at the same time, had they not been blackened by mould. There was a tiny square of frayed, brown carpet beneath the table and Dregs, having sniffed it with evident interest, rubbed his bottom on it. I tried to ignore him.

‘Right sir,’ said Jones, returning with a chipped mug, containing industrial-strength tea, and setting it on the table in front of me, ‘I’ll need to take down a few details.’

Sitting down, taking out a notebook and a pencil, he prepared himself. I gave my name and address and, despite my concern that he’d react at the mention of Sorenchester, he did not appear to recognise it. Then I explained why I was in the area, avoiding any mention of Hobbes, and how Dregs and I had come across the skeleton.

‘That, sir,’ said Jones, pleasantly, ‘is an interesting account, but I wonder if you could enlighten me on one point before we move on? When we were in the Badger’s, you said the skeleton had been there for about three years. What makes you think that?’

‘Umm … it was just a guess really. I’ve never seen a skeleton before, but there was no flesh on him and his clothes, or what was left of them, looked modern.’

‘Him, sir? What leads you to suppose it was a male skeleton?’

‘Well, I don’t know really. It was quite big and the skull had brow ridges, but I’m just guessing.’

‘You had no idea there’d be a body there?’

‘None at all. I’d never been there before.’

‘Could you point out the location on your map?’

‘Umm … I’m not sure … I don’t have a map.’

‘I find it interesting that someone who has never been around here before manages to walk straight from Blacker Knob to Blackcastle without a map. How did you manage it?’

‘I reckoned that, if I headed … umm … east, I’d find the town. I left a trail so I can take you back.’

‘How did you know you were on Blacker Knob?’

‘I didn’t know,’ I said, surprised at the acuity of Jones’s questioning and getting agitated, ‘… I think someone must have told me.’

‘Who? When?’

‘I can’t remember.’ As I floundered, I wished I’d paid more attention to Hobbes when he was giving me a cover story.

‘I’m forming the opinion,’ said Jones, ‘that you are withholding information. I wouldn’t advise you to do that, sir.’

A small flare of anger erupted. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘the important thing is that I’ve found a skeleton. The man may have been murdered and …’

‘Murdered, sir? That’s a new one. What makes you think he might have been murdered?’

‘I don’t know … it looked like he’d had a bump on the head.’

‘Did you bump him off, sir?’ Constable Jones’s gaze held me in a tight grasp.

‘No … no. It wasn’t me,’ I said, squirming, but unable to break his stare.

An electric bell rang, making me jump.

‘Wait here,’ said Jones.

When he left, I tried to reassure myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong and, consequently, had nothing to fear. Unfortunately, I was still worried about what was going to happen, even though I had, essentially, told the truth and had held nothing important back. All I had omitted was Hobbes; admittedly that was a rather large omission and I wished he’d turn up and explain. I finished my mug of tea, which wasn’t as bad as it looked, and burped as the scrumpy bubbled back, with a sharp overtone of onion, or was it garlic? Dregs seemed to be taking my discomfiture in his stride, or rather his sleep.

Jones was talking. I assumed he was on the phone, until I heard a woman speaking. The voices faded and I sat in silence for a few minutes until Constable Jones returned, wearing hill walking gear.

‘Sorry about the wait, but I had to brief Mrs Duckworth about your information.’ He said the name as if he expected me to recognise it.

‘Who,’ I asked, ‘is Mrs Duckworth?’