3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (22 page)

‘Then shouldn’t you go after him?’

‘Umm … yes … I suppose. Sorry about your car. Bye.’

I ran, looking along Goat Street and up Hedbury Road, but it seemed he’d got away. On the point of giving up, I heard an empty drinks can being kicked. It came from the car park on Hedbury Road. A hooded head popped up before ducking back behind the wall.

Stupidly, I ran across the road and vaulted the low wall into the car park.

‘Now I’ve got you,’ I said in triumph, intending to prove that I really was packed full of the right stuff. I was going to show Kathy what I was made of and, hopefully and more importantly, I was going to impress Mrs Duckworth: Daphne.

The mugger, the handbag still tucked under his arm, stood up, eyes glinting from the depths of his hood. He was wearing baggy blue jeans and a pair of boots that looked as if they could kick a man in half, but what I most noticed was that he was taller than me.

‘Give me the bag, at once,’ I said holding out my hand. Despite my bravado, my voice quavered.

‘Piss off!’ he yelled, his voice harsh.

‘Not until you let me have it,’ I said, fighting against leg-wobbling fear.

The mugger, a man of few words, pulled out a knife. ‘I’ll really let you have it unless you back off.’

‘Put that down,’ I said, filled with a sudden bravery and a sense of elation. ‘Just give me the bag, and no one gets hurt.’

‘You having a laugh, mate? Get out of here now, or I’ll stick you.’

I really did laugh. ‘Honestly, it will be so much better for you if you just drop the knife and give me the bag.’

Although I couldn’t see his face, his body posture suggested hesitation, or confusion. Taking a hesitant step forward, he waved the knife.

‘Sorry,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘but I did warn you.’

Hobbes, silent as a hunting tiger, leapt from the shadows and rammed a wheelie bin over the mugger’s head, jamming it down, pinning his arms to his sides. The knife dropped with a clatter, the handbag dropped with a thud, and the mugger fell to his knees amid an outpouring of swearing and maggots. Dregs, sniffing him, bristled and growled.

‘Evening, all,’ said Hobbes, leaning on the bin. ‘Did you and Kathy have a good afternoon?’

‘Umm … yes … it wasn’t bad,’ I said, patting Dregs. ‘We went to the museum.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it. Now, what did you do to annoy this fellow?’

‘Nothing … he mugged a lady and stole her handbag, so I went after him.’

‘That’s very public spirited of you, but it might have been dangerous.’

I nodded, still a little weak at the knees. ‘I wasn’t half glad to see you coming. I thought you’d be hunting the bank robbers.’

‘All in good time,’ said Hobbes. ‘I had to take some rocks for analysis. By the way, where is Kathy?’

‘She’s just round the corner helping the poor lady that got mugged. Umm … what rocks?’

‘Now is not the time. We’d better check on the ladies. Shift yourself – and quickly.’

‘Yeah, but what about him?’ I pointed at the bin.

‘I’d better bring him along as evidence. Would you mind picking up the handbag? And the knife. It’s dangerous to leave them in car parks.’

Grabbing the bin in both arms, turning it over, he carried it towards Ride Lane, with the mugger’s legs kicking wildly out the top, the volume of his cursing increasing, and Dregs growling. We found Kathy with her arm around the victim, who, although crying, was unhurt. The lady cheered up immediately as I handed back the bag,

‘Thank you,’ she said, looking at Hobbes. ‘I thought I’d lost it and it would have been awful, because it’s got my keys and my credit card and all sorts of stuff.’

‘Just doing my job, Mrs Brown,’ said Hobbes.

Since I thought I’d done rather well in the circumstances, I was a little miffed to get no credit. Admittedly, I would have been in trouble had Hobbes not showed up in the nick of time, but I had found the mugger and stopped him getting away. Even so, I realised my heroics had been somewhat dimmed by what I’d done to Daphne’s car. I looked around to apologise again, but she’d gone. I sighed, though I’d probably not done my chances with her any harm at all. I must merely have hardened her dislike for me.

The lady, thanking Hobbes again, insisting she was fine, picked up her bags and left.

‘Good job, Daddy,’ said Kathy, smiling proudly. ‘Now what are you going to do with this hoodlum?’

‘I suppose,’ said Hobbes, ‘that I should get him cleaned up. It’s not very pleasant inside that bin, as his rather incontinent language would suggest.’ He glanced at the church clock. ‘We’d better get a move on. I wouldn’t want us to be late for tea.’

14

When we reached the steps outside the house, Hobbes upended the bin and the mugger, still swearing, slithered onto the pavement, along with a disgusting, putrid stench. Pushing back his hood, dislodging a selection of wriggling maggots and bits of rotten vegetables, he revealed himself as a slim young man with short, blond hair and a narrow face, bursting with acne. He cowered away from Dregs, who was still bristling and growling, before looking up and seeing Hobbes for the first time.

‘Please, don’t hurt me,’ he said, suddenly more like a frightened schoolboy than a hardened criminal: a very dirty, smelly schoolboy, to be sure.

‘I have no intention of hurting you,’ said Hobbes, ‘but accidents can happen. I try to avoid them.’

I was sure, at least I thought I was sure, that he meant it as a mere statement of fact, but I could understand how the mugger might take it the wrong way, especially with Dregs’s aggressive posture suggesting a likely cause of an accident.

‘Take the dog inside, please, Andy,’ said Hobbes.

Dragging him up to the front door, I fumbled for my key. I was still proud Hobbes had trusted me with it, for my parents had never done the same and, until I’d left to find my own way in the world, I’d had to be back home by ten-thirty, which was their bedtime. It had done little for my social life, or my reputation. Opening the door, I shoved Dregs inside, much to his annoyance.

When I turned round the mugger, back on his feet, had adopted a sort of fighting stance. Though Hobbes was smiling, he’d positioned himself where he could protect Kathy from any sudden lunge.

‘I warn you,’ said the mugger, ‘I’m a fifth Dan in Karate and my feet are lethal.’

‘Thank you for the warning,’ said Hobbes. ‘Have you tried washing them with soap and water and applying talc?’

‘Are you taking the piss? I don’t like it when people take the piss.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Hobbes, ‘and I ask you to mind your language when a lady is present. Now, stop fooling around, or you’ll hurt yourself.’

‘I’ll hurt you.’

‘That is not going to happen. Your stance is all wrong and you don’t know how to form a fist.’

‘I’ll show you,’ said the mugger, shuffling forward, throwing a few air punches.

‘No,’ said Hobbes, shaking his head, ‘you’re doing it all wrong. If you close your hand like this,’ he formed a fist that would have cowed a mad bull, ‘then you’re far less likely to injure yourself.’

The mugger charged in a blur of swinging arms and foul language.

‘Stop it,’ said Hobbes, ducking and swaying, avoiding or deflecting all the punches.

The mugger’s momentum carried him forward until, falling over Hobbes’s outstretched leg, he landed full on his face and lay groaning, bleeding from the mouth and the nose.

‘I told you to be careful,’ said Hobbes, ‘and now you really have gone and hurt yourself. That’s enough nonsense. I’m going to get you cleaned up and then we’re going to have a little chat.’

‘Ain’t you gonna cuff the creep, take him down the station and book him?’ asked Kathy, who’d been watching the encounter with shining eyes.

‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Hobbes. ‘He’s going to behave now. Aren’t you?’

The mugger grunted, and Hobbes, taking this as assent, hauled him back to his feet and handed him a handkerchief.

‘Hold this to your nose,’ he said and turned to me. ‘Would you mind taking the bin back? I borrowed it from the side of the Firefly.’

For a moment, I was inclined to sulk, thinking that he was exploiting my good nature on such a night. I then reflected that Kathy might consider I’d been exploiting his good nature ever since I’d taken up residence, and, since I was still determined to prove I was an asset, I agreed.

As I pushed the bin back towards the Firefly restaurant, I hoped Mr Yau, the owner, wouldn’t spot me. The trouble was that the old man, watching me using chopsticks for the first time, had started to laugh, becoming so helpless that he’d fallen from his stool. Even the pain of a broken wrist had not been sufficient to curb his amusement and, although the incident had occurred five years ago, the mere sight of me still reduced him to giggles; although the Firefly had a great reputation, I went out of my way to avoid it if I could. Just a glimpse of Mr Yau’s bald head and wispy beard would set me galloping to safety. I was mighty pleased to complete my mission without being spotted.

I hurried back towards Blackdog Street, my head awash with thoughts and, although Sunday tea drifted there, as did speculation about the mugger’s fate, the image of Daphne Duckworth floated highest. It had been a bizarre twist of fate to bring her to Sorenchester and to park just where I would throw a tin of beans through her back windscreen. I really had a way of impressing a woman and I’d sometimes wondered whether I’d been cursed always to be unlucky in love. Had I only been able to throw accurately, I might have been basking in her admiration. It was a fine line between being a hero and someone fit only to return a wheelie bin, and I was always on the wrong side.

When I got home, Kathy was on the sofa, sipping from a mug of steaming coffee. She nodded.

‘Where’s the mugger?’ I asked, hanging up my coat, pleased to see a pot of tea awaiting my pleasure.

‘In the bathroom.’

‘Fair enough. He needed a good wash.’ I poured myself a drink and sat on the hard chair.

‘Does Daddy often bring home freaks off the streets?’

‘No, not often.’

‘Is that where he found you?’

‘No, I came here to interview him when I was a reporter. Umm … do you think I’m a freak?’

‘I dunno. Maybe. He sure seems to attract them. There’s you and the old woman and that dratted dog.’

‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ I said, for although I had noticed how oddballs and weirdoes were drawn to Hobbes, I’d never considered myself as one of them. ‘Anyway, you’re here, too.’

She nodded and thought for a moment. ‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’

As she spoke she looked lost and vulnerable, almost like a little girl, despite her size, and I felt sorry for her; a lonely woman in a strange land, among strange people, trying to build a relationship with a father she’d never met, a father who was as strange as could be.

A shriek from upstairs nearly stopped my heart.

‘What was that?’ asked Kathy, leaping from the sofa with a grace and fluidity quite at odds with her figure.

‘A shriek.’

‘But whose? Why?’

Her coffee had spilled down her white blouse and she was pale and big-eyed with fear.

‘I’ll … umm … go and find out. By the way, where is Hobbes?’

‘He went out for some sodas.’

‘So, Mrs Goodfellow’s alone with that thug?’

‘Yes,’ said Kathy, clapping a hand to her mouth.

‘Oh, the poor guy,’ I said, running upstairs.

He was in the bath. Mrs Goodfellow, holding the scruff of his neck, was scrubbing vigorously with a sponge and, although he was trying to protect his dignity, it was hopeless. He cast a despairing look in my direction as the sponge went to work below the waterline. Although I shrugged and shook my head, grimacing, trying to show that I, too, had suffered, his humiliation was temporary and fully deserved, and cleanliness was better than stinking like the Firefly’s bin.

I returned to the sitting room to reassure Kathy. ‘It’s OK, he’s fine, but Mrs Goodfellow is sponging him down.’

‘Eeuw!’

A few minutes later, the front door swung open and Hobbes returned, a couple of giant plastic cola bottles in his left hand. He took them to the kitchen and returned with Dregs, who was looking a little nervous. Bath time, anybody’s bath time, always took him like that, for he was another of the old girl’s victims, and had soon learned that resistance was useless. I could understand his concerns, for big black dogs should not smell of lavender and rose water.

However, lavender and rose water was a definite improvement for the mugger, who lurched into the sitting room, wrapped in the flamboyant silk dressing gown that had once belonged to Mr Goodfellow.

‘This is Rupert,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, following him. ‘He would like to say something. Come on Rupert.’ Taking his arm, she pulled him into the centre of the room.

There was a stunned, lost expression in his eyes, as if he believed he’d fallen into a surreal nightmare from which he could not wake. He shuffled his feet and stared at the carpet. ‘I’m sorry I was bad,’ he said, his voice, low and hesitant, sounding well-educated.