3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (18 page)

‘Well,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, ‘there are still some biscuits left, or there’s bread and jam.’

‘Come on, lady,’ said Kathy, ‘you must have something in the freezer.’

‘We don’t have a freezer.’

‘Jeez!’ She looked shocked. ‘No freezer? How do you store things?’

‘I make them fresh every day.’

‘No kidding? I’ll bet you don’t have a microwave either?’

Mrs Goodfellow shook her head.

‘Fancy that,’ said Kathy. ‘I had no idea. I guess that means you made the crusty beef thing and my hamburgers … and the fries.’

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Goodfellow.

‘Then,’ said Kathy, ‘I apologise for putting you to so much trouble. I had no idea what I was asking.’

‘It was no trouble,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, smiling. ‘You weren’t to know that the old fellow insists on good home cooking.’

‘I do indeed,’ said Hobbes, ‘and the lass does us proud.’

‘She really does,’ I said, gushing. ‘She’s brilliant.’

Mrs Goodfellow blushed, but looked pleased.

‘I’m glad to hear my daddy’s so well looked after,’ said Kathy, reaching out and patting his arm.

‘He is,’ I said, ‘though he can look after himself. We’ve just been camping up in the hills and he cooked really well. He even caught most of what we ate. Apart from the leaves and roots.’

Kathy nodded. ‘Mom said he was kinda practical. And that he loved the outdoors.’

Hobbes grinned and scratched his head and I almost believed that he, too, blushed.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, ‘I can rustle up pancakes in a few minutes. How would that suit you?’

‘That would suit me just fine, Mrs Goodfellow.’

The old girl beamed and, having cleared the table, set to with flour, milk and eggs in her massive mixing bowl. Without even being asked, I started on the washing up, trying to prove what a useful addition to the household I was, or at least trying to demonstrate that I wasn’t a complete waste of space. When I’d finished, I found a tea towel and not only dried up, but also began to put bits and pieces away, until Mrs Goodfellow stopped me.

‘I’ll do the rest, dear. I’d like to be able to find them again.’ She turned to Kathy: ‘I’d normally rest the batter for a few minutes but, since it’s urgent, I’ll just go ahead.’

Opening a cupboard, she took out a pair of enormous black frying pans that anyone might imagine would snap her bony wrists.

‘Would you boys care for a pancake?’ she asked.

‘No thank you, lass,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’ve had an elegant sufficiency already.’

Although not at all hungry, I had too many fond memories of the last time she’d made pancakes to resist. ‘I … umm … wouldn’t mind a small one.’

They turned out so delicious and so fluffy that I overrode the fullness in my stomach and overdid the gluttony. Even so, I utterly failed to keep up with Kathy’s unhealthy appetite. When, six pancakes and most of a tin of golden syrup later, she’d finally finished, it was clear how she’d achieved her bulk.

Hobbes led her back to the sitting room, while I helped make coffee, finding, under direction, the correct cups. Kathy had turned her nose up when offered tea.

Mrs Goodfellow allowed Dregs back in and presented him with a plate of beef wellington, which, rather than wolfing down, he ate slowly, with his eyes half closed, savouring every mouthful, like the gourmet he imagined he was. I’d even seen him sniffing the cork from a bottle of Hobbes’s good wine, looking every bit the connoisseur.

‘What do you think of Kathy now?’ I whispered. ‘Perhaps she’s not all that bad.’

‘We’ll see, dear’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘I’ll make an effort to like her for the old fellow’s sake, but she reminds me too much of her mother, and not at all of him.’

‘She takes after him in the eating stakes,’ I said.

‘No, she doesn’t. He appreciates good home cooking and he’ll have a pudding now and again because he knows I like making them, but he hasn’t really got a sweet tooth. Anyway, he’s not as fat as … he’s not fat.’

Later, while making my way up to my room, I overheard Kathy and Hobbes.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I sure would love to stay for a few days.’

‘Good,’ said Hobbes.

My mind was in turmoil and the dull ache gripping my guts was nothing to do with how much I’d eaten. There were only three bedrooms, so where was she going to sleep? It seemed most likely she’d be offered my room and, although I was supposedly only staying there until I’d found a place of my own, the truth was that I hadn’t looked for anywhere else, having found a comfortable berth that was more homelike than anywhere else I’d ever stayed. Even though there had been a time when I would have given anything to get away from Hobbes to find somewhere safe, those days were long gone. I’d developed a quite unexpected regard for him and, besides, there was the old girl’s cooking, not to mention her eccentric kindness. Finally, there was Dregs, who’d scared me silly (or sillier, according to Hobbes) when he’d first arrived with his delinquent ways, but I’d grown used to the shaggy beast and liked having him around. He’d become part of the family and it was beginning to look as if I wouldn’t be for much longer.

I stretched out on my bed. It wasn’t mine, of course: nor was the room. I was merely the occupier, with no more right to stay there than the spider Mrs Goodfellow had evicted earlier in the day. I hadn’t felt so insecure for a long time.

I’d grown complacent. I’d not had a job in ages, had no income, nowhere else to live, and was entirely dependent on Hobbes’s generosity. That wasn’t all, for, in a strange way, I’d become addicted to excitement and got a real buzz from the way things happened when he was around. Yet, like other addicts, part of me suspected it wasn’t quite healthy.

It was dark when I crept downstairs, hoping for a cup of tea or cocoa. Hobbes heard me and called me into the sitting room.

I walked in, blinking in the brightness.

Kathy, looking perfectly at home, was sprawling comfortably on the sofa, at the end where I normally sat. Hobbes was on the oak chair.

‘Take a seat,’ he said, gesturing towards the sofa.

Kathy, shifting fractionally, allowed me to squeeze in.

‘I thought you should know,’ said Hobbes, ‘that Kathy will be staying for a few days.’

‘At least,’ she said.

Hobbes smiled. ‘But, obviously, there aren’t enough bedrooms.’

I nodded, guessing what was coming.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘a little reorganisation will be required.’

The cold, heavy feeling in my stomach spread to my legs.

‘So, just for tonight, Kathy is going to sleep in my room and I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

‘No,’ I said, grateful that I wasn’t going to be kicked out immediately, ‘that’s not fair. I can sleep on the sofa. Anyway, you won’t fit.’

Hobbes shook his head. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve slept in far worse places.’

‘But,’ I said, reluctantly, knowing I was cutting my own lifeline, ‘it’s your house. If Kathy is going to stay, I’ll have to move out.’

Kathy nodded. ‘He’s right, you know, but I don’t want anyone to be put out on my account.’

I smiled back and felt rotten.
Put out:
she could hardly have chosen better words. A cat gets put out, evicted from warmth and comfort and forced out into the bleak, cold night, but at least I wasn’t going to be put out that particular night. I put on a brave mask.

‘That’s very good of you to offer,’ said Hobbes, ‘but you have nowhere else to go, unless you want to go back to your parents.’

I shook my head. ‘I’d rather not, but I should be able to find somewhere to stay round here.’

‘It won’t be easy,’ said Hobbes, ‘without any money. You’d have to get a job.’

‘I know. I’ve … umm … been meaning to.’

‘Everyone should have a job,’ said Kathy. ‘Otherwise, how they gonna live?’

‘I don’t want you to leave,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’ve thought about it and, as you say, it is my house and in matters such as this I will make the decisions. Therefore, as I said, I will sleep on the sofa tonight, and tomorrow I’ll clear some space in the attic. The lass has been saying I should. I think she’s worried the weight will bring the house down.’

Kathy snorted as she suppressed a laugh.

‘There’s plenty of room up there for me to make up a bed,’ he continued, ‘and I will be perfectly comfortable.’

‘It doesn’t seem fair,’ I said, though the relief almost made me dizzy.

‘I agree,’ said Kathy. ‘I don’t see why my daddy has to give his bed up.’

Hobbes shrugged. ‘Nevertheless, that is my final word.’

His tone of voice indicated that he meant it.

12

I found it difficult to relax that night, being acutely aware of the stranger in the room next door, as well as feeling guilty that Hobbes was downstairs. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with the sofa, besides a little old age fading and scuffing, but it was no place for such a big guy to spend the night and I don’t know how he managed, for next morning, after mowing his overnight bristles, taking a shower and dressing in his smart suit, he showed no hint of tiredness or stiffness. Despite the Sunday morning clamour of the church bells and the scent of frying bacon, Kathy was a no-show for breakfast. Although conceding the possibility that she was jet-lagged, I was more inclined to put it down to laziness.

Hobbes had just finished his third huge mug of tea when the phone rang and he went to answer it.

‘That was Sid,’ he said, on his return. ‘There was a break in at the bank overnight.’

‘A break in?’ I said, always quick on the uptake. ‘Was anything stolen?’

‘It’s unlikely someone broke in to make a deposit. Now I have a slight problem. I was intending to escort the lass to church this morning, so would you mind going with her instead?’

‘Of course,’ I said, biting back on my objections, hiding my disappointment that I would not be taken to the crime scene and still determined to be on my best behaviour. ‘It’ll be my pleasure.’

‘Thank you, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, who’d just reappeared in her Sunday best, a slightly-too-big green frock, patterned with orange flowers. She had inserted her previously-owned false teeth and had topped off the entire creation with a saggy, baggy black hat with artificial daisies. ‘Go and put on a suit. A good thick one would be best as it’s chilly outside.’

‘OK … I’ll wear the dark one.’

‘And quickly, or you’ll be late,’ said Hobbes, heading out. ‘I’ll be off. Dregs, stay.’

Dregs, a connoisseur of crime scenes, slumped under the table as Hobbes left.

Hurrying upstairs, I pulled out the heavy, dark woollen suit that, like my entire wardrobe, had once belonged to Mr Goodfellow and which, like everything else, fitted uncannily well. The last time I’d worn it had been to the funeral of a murdered man, when, although I hadn’t realised until later, my then girlfriend had been the killer. In fairness to her, the victim hadn’t been nice. Then I tentatively removed the bandage round my head and gazed in the mirror for a moment, impressed by the rainbow colours beneath.

‘Very smart, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow as I came downstairs ready for action. ‘Let’s go. You can carry this.’

She handed me a large paper bag. To my surprise, it was full of aubergines.

Leaving the house, turning left down Blackdog Street, we headed for the church. The wind was tossing litter and leaves around, ruffling my hair, making me shiver as if it were thrusting icy fingers through my clothes. I wished I’d put on an overcoat, and maybe a trilby, though I doubted it would have stayed on long. A brief shaft of sunlight stabbing through the heavy grey cloud only seemed to make the day colder, and I was pleased when we reached the church door and could leave the wind to its mischief.

Someone was playing a sprightly tune on the organ and the ancient stonework was decorated with flowers, fruits, and sheaves of wheat and barley. Although not a churchgoer, except for the occasional wedding, funeral or christening, it seemed busy to me, with plenty of bums on seats. I recognised a few of them from the Feathers and elsewhere.

‘There’s always a good congregation for the harvest festival,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, guiding me towards a pew.

After apologising for standing on an old gentleman’s gouty foot, and nodding at my friend Les Bashem and his pack of young werewolves, I sat down beside her.

‘Is the harvest festival today?’

She nodded.

‘Is that why we’ve brought aubergines?’

She nodded.

‘Is that the vicar coming in?’

She nodded a third time, adding a slight frown.

‘Should I shut up now?’

She nodded and the service started. Although I made an effort to pay attention, I was itching to find out what had happened at the bank and kept drifting away. It seemed strange that Sid’s bank had been targeted twice in such a short time. I wondered why, and what had been taken. After all the publicity last time, I couldn’t believe anyone would be so rash, or stupid, to risk the wrath of Hobbes.

Mrs Goodfellow nudged me. I was the only one still seated, apart from a very old chap in a wheelchair. Embarrassed, I rose to my feet and joined in the singing of ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’, rather enjoying myself, until I realised everyone else was singing ‘Come Ye Thankful People, Come’. That was probably the highlight for me, and by the time the vicar took to the pulpit for his sermon, my mind had moved on to lunch; in particular, the magnificent fruit pie I’d noticed the old girl had baked. As a result, I couldn’t remember much of the vicar’s spiel, except for a bit about someone toiling in the vineyard of the Lord, which struck me as odd, since there were no vineyards round Sorenchester. Even so, I made a real effort to fidget as little as possible, lowered my head to conceal my yawns, and tried to look intelligently interested, though my eyes seemed terribly heavy. The thump of my forehead striking the pew in front and the pain it caused made me yelp. I avoided looking towards Mrs Goodfellow, who I feared would be seriously annoyed. Fortunately, my cut didn’t reopen.