3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (26 page)

The implication took my breath away, as well as the strength from my legs and, had a bench not been within staggering range, I might have collapsed. As it was, I landed heavily and sat gasping and limp. An old lady with fluffy white hair and red glasses asked if I was alright and, although, I nodded, she brought me a glass of water anyway.

‘Honestly,’ I said, as she tried to make me drink, ‘I’m alright. I just need a few moments to recover. I’ve had a bit of a shock, that’s all.’

Huge eyed through thick lenses, she smiled. ‘You look awful, but you’ll feel better once you’ve had a sip of water.’ She forced the glass towards my lips.

As I opened my mouth to protest, she tilted the glass and cold water gushed in, making me choke and jerk and knock the glass from her hand. The shock of cold water pouring down my neck made me gasp and then choke even more. My eyes streamed and I gurgled, struggling to breathe as I got to my feet. Even in my death throes, the idea that I would go down in history as the man who drowned in Sorenchester Museum struck me as amusing: a silly end for a silly man.

A vivid memory of a long-forgotten incident resurfaced. My little paddleboat had capsized because of the reckless stupidity of older children and I felt the chill of the water, the panic, the fear, as I struggled upwards, only to find myself trapped in blackness beneath the upturned hull. Knowing I couldn’t hold my breath any longer, unable to escape, I was going to drown, until a hand grabbed me, dragging me from blackness, and back into the sunlight. I’d choked and spluttered, until my saviour, a large woman with a small, bedraggled dog, thumped my back and set me on the bank.

A thump on my back sent water gushing from my throat like a fountain and knocked me back into the present. I coughed and, as air wheezed into my lungs, I thought I might just live. Wiping my eyes, I turned to face my rescuer. It was Daphne.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked, her expression a confusion of concern and amusement.

I nodded, still unable to speak.

‘I knew a sip of water would make him feel better,’ said the old lady, smiling and walking towards the shop.

‘She nearly drowned me,’ I whispered.

When Daphne laughed, I couldn’t help but laugh as well.

‘It’s nice,’ she said, ‘to meet a man who lives for excitement. Seriously, though, are you OK, now?’

‘Yes … I think so,’ I said, pulling myself together.

‘You do look rather wet.’

Since my shirt and trousers were dripping, I took the comment at face value. ‘I am a bit,’ I admitted. ‘I’d better try and dry myself off.’

She smiled. ‘You do that. Then come and see me in my office. My door’s the one at the end of the corridor.’ She pointed past the Roman antiquities.

‘The one with “private” on it?’

‘That’s the one. Would you like a cup of tea … or are you a coffee man?’

‘Thank you … umm … I prefer tea.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Turning, she walked across the hall and down the corridor.

I watched her go, noticing her navy blue trouser suit was, perhaps, a little too large and didn’t really suit her as well as it should. Still, she looked pretty good to me and she’d smelled nice.

‘Cor, look at ’im,’ said a wizened old man walking past, looking like a goblin, speaking at a volume suggesting his antiquated wife was very deaf, or that he was just very rude and didn’t care who heard him, ‘’e’s gone and wet himself.’

I headed for the gents, where I discovered the hand dryer was so positioned that it was nearly, but not quite, impossible to use on trousers. After persevering, getting a contemptuous glance and a completely uncalled-for remark from a fat man who wished merely to dry his hands, I succeeded in making a difference. Looking reasonably presentable, I took a deep breath, made another attempt at controlling my hair and went in search of Daphne’s room.

It looked more like a store cupboard than an office, although it had a desk, two chairs, a telephone, a wastepaper bin, a computer and a filing cabinet squeezed into it. She was on the phone, but indicated that I should sit. The window behind her was open, allowing a cool breeze to ripple the papers on the desk.

At last, she put the phone down and smiled. ‘I hope you don’t mind the window being open, but it was rather stuffy.’

I shook my head.

‘How do you take your tea?’

‘White, no sugar, please.’

‘Me too.’ Lurking behind the filing cabinet was a tiny table, supporting a kettle. She filled a couple of mugs and handed one to me.

‘Thank you,’ I said, taking a sip. It wasn’t great, but it was hot and wet and I avoided choking on it. ‘Umm …’ I said, ‘are you the new curator?’

‘I’m afraid not. I’m only the new temporary deputy curator. Why do you ask?’

I told her about Mr Biggs, the previous curator, who, having got himself involved in various nefarious activities, culminating in Hobbes nearly losing his life, had fled to France.

‘I had no idea,’ she said, ‘that this town was such a hot bed of crime. Are the police here as bad as the gruesome twosome we were saddled with in Blackcastle?’

I shook my head. ‘No, they’re pretty good on the whole – especially Hobbes.’

‘Hobbes was the big, ugly copper on top of the getaway van, right?’ she said. ‘I saw the video.’

I nodded.

‘That was impressive, but I don’t think I’d like to meet him in a dark alley.’

‘You’d have nothing to fear,’ I said, ‘unless you were seriously up to no good. He’s one of the good guys at heart. Mind you, he can be utterly terrifying when it suits him.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘Very well,’ I said, surfing a swell of self-importance. ‘He’s my friend.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. He stopped me getting stabbed yesterday when I went after that mugger. Rupert had just pulled a knife when he scooped him up in a wheelie bin.’

‘Rupert? Are you on first name terms with all the local criminals?’

‘I only know his name because Hobbes decided to take him home and feed him instead of taking him down the police station.’

‘Why?’ she asked, looking at me with interest, which I hoped wasn’t all on account of my story.

‘I’m not sure. He’s like that sometimes. It’s maddening, but he usually has a reason, although I’m not always convinced he knows what it is. Still, it usually seems to work out, and it did help him learn that Rupert’s father is Sir Gerald Payne and—’

Daphne gasped, her face suddenly pale. ‘Sir Gerald? I’d hoped I’d got away from him. What’s he up to?’

I wondered if I’d said too much. Then again, maybe I hadn’t said enough. I didn’t want to alarm her, but perhaps she deserved to know what I knew and, I thought, I owed her some sort of explanation.

‘I don’t want to alarm you, but … umm … Rupert said he came looking for you.’

‘No! Is your friend, Hobbes, going to do something about it?’

‘I suppose he is, sort of, but, at the moment … umm … he appears to be giving him a hand.’

‘You mean he’s actually helping him?’

She looked scared and angry – and pretty.

‘I’m sure he has a good reason.’ I said, forcing a confident smile. ‘Probably, anyway.’

‘But,’ she said, ‘I came here to get away from the Paynes. They’ve made my life a misery, even before Hugh died.’

‘Hobbes won’t let Rupert harm you in any way,’ I said. ‘You’re one of the public and I’m sure he’ll want to protect you.’

‘I’m not worried about that young idiot, Rupert! He’d be harmless enough without his father. He’s the one who scares me, because he’s ruthless and vindictive and he’s not stupid. What’s more he has Denzil to do his dirty work.’ She shivered, seeming to shrink into herself.

‘Rupert mentioned someone called Denny. Is that him?’

‘Yes, Denny hurts people. He once smashed Hugh over the head with a trombone when Hugh remonstrated with him for attacking a brass band.’

‘Why didn’t the police do something?’

‘They tried. Sergeant Beer did, anyway, and Denny nearly killed him. He’s not been the same since and he’s terrified of Sir Gerald and Denny. Constable Jones is too inexperienced to make a difference.’

‘But,’ I said, ‘how do they get away with it? Can’t somebody do something?’

She shook her head and sighed. ‘It seems not. Most are too scared to press charges and Sir Gerald knows the ones who aren’t and … well, he has means to persuade them.’

‘That’s terrible,’ I said.

‘Yes.’ She paused to sip her tea. ‘I thought I was getting away from all of that. It seems not.’

‘But, why you? What has he got against you?’

She stared at me for a long moment, a frown creasing her forehead. I was struck, and deeply impressed, by how calm she’d become again.

‘Sorry, Andy,’ she said, eventually. ‘I can’t tell you. Not yet. Maybe later, when I know you better.’

‘If you don’t trust me, I understand. I can wait.’

‘It’s not that. Well, maybe it is that. I
don’t
know you yet and after what you said about Hobbes and Rupert, I’m not sure quite what to think.’

As I reached for my cup of tea, I came to a startlingly quick decision and acted on it. Leaping forward, ignoring her gasp and look of alarm, I seized her shoulders and dragged her to the floor. Something missed her by a hair’s breadth and hit me on the forehead. White lights and black spots boxed in front of my eyes until the blackness won a knockout.

A woman was speaking to me. I liked the lilt in her voice almost as much as the note of concern. I was on the carpet, lying on my side, my head sore. When I touched it, there was pain and a warm wetness. I groaned.

‘Andy?’

There was that woman again. There was something familiar …

‘Do I come here often?’ I asked.

‘Are you alright?’

‘What happened?’

‘A brick hit you,’ said Daphne. ‘Well, half a brick.’

I opened my eyes and pushed myself onto my knees.

‘Why?’ Everything was hazy and distant, apart from her face. It was pretty, but looked worried.

‘Someone chucked it at me, but you headed it into the waste paper bin. Thank you.’

Again I touched my head and glanced at my hand. Although there was some pain and wetness, there was no blood.

‘It’s tea,’ she said. ‘You knocked my mug.’

‘Ah … umm.’ Although things were starting to make sense, I wasn’t sure I was and, when I tried to stand, I needed guidance to reach my chair. ‘My head is a bit sore, but I think I’m alright.’

‘You were really lucky,’ she said as I sat down, ‘that it was only a glancing blow. It could have killed you.’

‘If I was really lucky, it wouldn’t have hit me at all.’

She laughed. ‘That’s true. Any idea who threw it?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘a big bloke … bald, with a rose tattoo on his arm. I think it was …’

‘Denny,’ said Daphne.

‘He might have hurt you. Should I call the police?’

She thought for a moment and shook her head. ‘No, but I suppose I’d better tell you what’s going on, now you’re involved. I’ll shut the window first.’

As she neared the window, she cried out as a huge, hairy hand, seizing her by the wrist, started to drag her forward, her feet scuffing the floor and kicking wildly. Leaping from my chair, overriding the pain in my head, I grabbed her around the waist, pulling back with all my strength, making her groan. Despite my efforts and her managing to get a grip on the window frame with her free hand, it was no good. A sudden jerk broke my hold and I nearly fell backwards. I dived forward, trying but failing to hold her ankles. She screamed as she was dragged outside and all that was left of her was her left shoe.

Although, following a number of unpleasant incidents, my normal maxim was to look before I leapt, my impulsive vault through the window worked in our favour. Time seemed to move into slow motion. I had a brief vision of Daphne, lying face down in a narrow alley, with a huge, shaven, tattooed man crouching over her. Then my feet, with all my weight behind them, crashed into the side of his head, knocking him down. I landed with a splat onto paving stones, winded and dazed. As I got back to my feet, my heart was pounding and my stomach churning with the thought of what he would do next, certain my intervention would not have improved his behaviour. He began to get up, but she bashed him on the head with the heel of her remaining shoe, leaving him flat on his face and groaning.

‘Come on!’ she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me after her.

We ran. Denny’s lunge barely missed as we hurdled him and, without breaking stride, fled down the alley along the side of the museum and out onto the pavement, where we paused, gasping.

‘What now?’ I asked.

‘Back into the museum.’

We ran inside.

Daphne shouted to the ticket lady: ‘Call the police!’

The lady stared, shocked. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve been attacked.’

Putting down her magazine, the lady pointed at me. ‘Was it him? I saw him lurking outside earlier and thought he looked like he was up to no good.’