3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (37 page)

‘They must have been very useful,’ I said.

‘I suppose they were, but people were suspicious of them. They used to camp under Blacker Knob, which had an evil reputation.’

‘People are often suspicious of anything different.’ I said. ‘I was suspicious of Hobbes once and, even now I’d call him a friend, he can sometimes terrify me, although he’s got me out of sticky situations so many times.’

Pinky nodded, a lock of blonde hair falling over her eye. Brushing it aside, she fixed her gaze on a livid pink pixie hat. ‘People began to say that they stole things, that they spoiled food, soured milk and swapped their offspring for human babies. What was more, they never attended church and it was rumoured that they were fiends, in league with the Devil. That’s why some called them the Evil Ones.’

‘Hobbes sometimes goes to church,’ I said, feeling weirdly that I should be protecting him and his kind. ‘He always goes on Remembrance Sunday. He was in the Great War and won a Victoria Cross.’

I feared I’d said too much, but she didn’t appear surprised.

‘That just convinces me he’s one of them, because Granddad said they lived much longer than other men. When he was young, he sometimes used to work with Denny Barker and he reckoned Denny was the last of them.’

‘What happened to the others?’

She shook her head. ‘I really don’t know. Granddad would always change the subject when I asked. All he’d say was that they’d gone away. It was my impression that something bad had happened and I tried to get some answers from the other old boys. They would never say much, but one suggested I might find something in the Parish records.’

‘Did you?’

‘I tried, but it turned out that they’d been burned when the old town hall caught fire.’

‘When was that?’

‘During the Second World War.’

‘Was it bombed?’

She laughed. ‘No, I don’t think Blackcastle was ever of any strategic importance … or of any sort of importance at all. According to the
Blacker Times
archive from 1941, the cause of the fire was a mystery. It was put down to faulty wiring, though there was some suspicion of arson. That’s really all I know about the Mountain Folk. It’s not much.’

‘Maybe not, but it’s interesting. I’ve often tried to work out what Hobbes is exactly. I can’t tell you how much of a shock it was when I first realised he wasn’t strictly human. I wonder if he knows anything about them?’

‘Ask him.’

‘That wouldn’t work,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘He doesn’t normally like to talk about the past … his past anyway … and I wouldn’t even have found out that he’d won the Victoria Cross if I hadn’t been a bit nosy. On the other hand, Mrs Goodfellow likes to talk about him. He adopted her you know?’

Pinky turned from the window to face me. ‘Although that seems so wrong, because she looks so much older than him, I can believe it.

‘Do you think he’s finished his bone yet?’

A glance up Vermin Street to the church clock tower showed the time was approaching midday. ‘Probably. Let’s go.’

When we got back, Mrs Goodfellow was tidying up the newspapers while Hobbes was upstairs, roaring and singing in the shower. Dregs was barking in the back garden.

‘Hello, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow as we walked in. ‘Would your friend like to stay for dinner?’

‘Umm … I don’t know. I hadn’t thought. Umm …Would you?’

‘Thank you,’ said Pinky, ‘but I can’t. I have an appointment with my bank at one.’

‘Isn’t that a bit inconvenient?’ I said. ‘Why here?’

‘I’m thinking of moving here and opening a new café. The thing is, there’s not much trade in Blackcastle and Gerry has put the rent up again. I have no intention of filling that bastard’s coffers any more.’

‘But why here?’

‘Because I have a friend here.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d best be on my way. I’m not quite sure where to go.’

‘Which bank?’

‘Grossman’s. I figured that, since they’d had two robberies, they’d probably tightened up security.’

‘We passed it earlier. It’s halfway down The Shambles, not far from the hat shop.’

‘Thank you,’ she said and took her leave.

A few minutes later Hobbes reappeared, looking clean, relatively civilized, and tidy. He was chuckling and grinning.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘I have my car back. It was abandoned on Green Way.’

‘Good. What are you going to do about Kathy? Shouldn’t you be doing something now?’

‘All in good time. Firstly though, I’m going to do the crossword and the Sudoku and then it’ll be lunchtime. The Butcher of Barnley delivered some of his best pork and leek sausages last night and the lass is making toad in the hole.’

‘Last night? Doesn’t he always deliver punctually in the afternoons?’

‘Normally, but he was delayed.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘He slipped and sat on the mincer. It meant he got a little behind in his sausage making.’

‘Sounds painful.’

‘Probably.’ He chuckled again.

‘Are you joking?’

He winked. ‘The point is, I like a good toad in the hole, his sausages are excellent and the lass makes a great batter.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I’ll need a good dinner to set me up for this afternoon.’

‘You’ve still got room after that bone?’

‘Of course. Picking a bone just piques my appetite. I’m surprised more people don’t try it.’

I couldn’t stop myself shuddering, being a little squeamish when it came to raw meat. This, I suspected, dated back to the time when I was a small boy, and Mother had attempted to quick roast a joint of beef she’d only just removed from the freezer. The result had been a crumbling outer layer of charcoal, with cold, bloody meat inside and a core that was still solid. It hadn’t stopped her serving it and the sight of bright red mashed potato and the taste of iced blood had made me vomit on the table. I reassured myself, because, with Mrs Goodfellow in charge, there would be no similar problems. My only slight worry was that Hobbes, in his weirdly euphoric mood, might slip a real toad onto my plate.

Sitting down on the sofa, he reached for the
Bugle
and a pen and started scratching at the crossword. I couldn’t believe how relaxed he was. My nerves were jangling and I just wanted to rush out and rescue Kathy, though I didn’t understand how Sir Gerald had got his hands on her.

‘What are you going to do?’ I asked, sitting down beside him. ‘And can I help?’

‘I intend,’ he said, ‘to visit the Squire’s Arms at the appropriate time and pick her up. I don’t want you there, because Sir Gerald requested me to go alone. Hmm … it’s tricky.’

‘It could be a trap.’

‘I think it’s probably apatosaurus.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Five across: a large plant-eating dinosaur of the Jurassic period … apatosaurus.’ He filled in the squares and frowned.

‘Oh, I see. But you ought to take precautions this afternoon.’

He glanced up. ‘Ought I? Why?’

‘Well, it might be dangerous.’

‘I do hope so. Stilton. So, that means two down must be titular.’

Getting up, I left him to his puzzle and paced about the house until Mrs Goodfellow called us through. The toad in the hole was so magnificent, the batter so light and fluffy, the sausages so robust and satisfying, the gravy so aromatic and delicious that it took my mind off poor Kathy and what Sir Gerald and Denny might have in store for Hobbes. But afterwards, a mug of tea in my hand, my nerves returned, for it was my opinion that he was being far too complacent. I decided that, whatever he thought, I would be close at hand. My idea was to stow away in the car boot.

When he went upstairs to put on his boots, I took my opportunity. I rummaged in his coat pocket for the keys, sneaked outside, opened the car boot, rushed back inside and returned the keys.

‘I’m just going out for a walk,’ I said casually, as he came downstairs. ‘I hope Kathy’s alright.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Hurrying into the street, I climbed into the boot and pulled down the lid, making sure it didn’t quite click. It was smelly in there, as if the previous owner had used it for transporting manure and, as it was also uncomfortably cramped, it didn’t take much time before I felt I’d already been there too long. I was just beginning to wonder whether I was making a huge mistake when I heard a car pull up nearby.

‘Wotcha,’ said Billy.

‘Afternoon,’ said Hobbes. ‘Thanks for coming.’

Dregs was sniffing and scrabbling at the boot. It suddenly clicked shut.

‘Let’s go,’ said Hobbes, his voice muffled. ‘And quickly.’

Billy’s car drove away down Blackdog Street, leaving me a prisoner.

22

Although I’d have been the first to admit to having made some rotten plans in my time, this one was turning out to be a real stinker. Hobbes was gone and I feared he was walking blindly into a trap, and I was going to be as helpful to him as whatever it was that was sticking into my back. There was some comfort in knowing that Billy was taking him and that Dregs would also be there, although, after what he’d done to Denny, his presence might only make matters worse. I hoped Billy would keep out the way. He was far too small to be of any use.

Unable to see anything, other than a fringe of faint light around the top of the boot, I groped around as much as I could, which wasn’t much, since I was pinned down. Even so, my hands explored wherever they could reach, hoping to chance on some sort of release mechanism and, despite starting with hope, I was soon entering the realms of despair, especially when my shoulders began to cramp.

Forcing myself to relax, taking long, deep breaths, I tried to think. My first thought was that I was well stuck. The second was that I was stuck in an embarrassing situation. The third was that this was not the time to think useless thoughts. Somehow, I had to find a way to get out and, furthermore, I had to do this sooner rather than later, for it was already getting stuffy in there and I was starting to worry about how well sealed it was and how much oxygen might be left. I tried to imagine what Hobbes would do and came to the simple conclusion that he would not have put himself into such a stupid situation in the first place.

Although everything, other than my own breathing, was muffled, I could still make out sounds from the street, which I assumed meant that passers-by would hear me, should I make sufficient noise. Even so, I had to overcome the massive embarrassment of having to beg for help and of having to explain how I’d got there and I couldn’t bring myself to do it for several minutes. Besides, I was in something of a quandary, for screaming would use up my oxygen faster, whereas keeping quiet might just mean I’d die more slowly. In the end I realised I had no choice. I lay as still as a corpse, trying not to breathe more than necessary, until I heard footsteps approaching.

‘Help,’ I bellowed, banging on the boot lid, ‘I’m stuck!’

The only response was heartless laughter and a most unfeeling remark. As the footsteps receded, I ground my teeth and tried to relax.

More footsteps approached and this time, my pleas received no response whatsoever. More footsteps: again nothing. As panic closed in, throwing caution to the winds, I yelled and banged, sweated and gasped.

A crunch and screeching of tortured metal hurt my ears. Then I was blinking in bright sunlight with something dark looming overhead. A vision in pink came into view as my eyes adjusted. Pinky was staring down, looking puzzled.

‘What on earth are you doing in there?’ she asked.

‘Good question,’ said a familiar voice.

‘Sid?’

‘At your service,’ said the old vampire who, dressed in a long black cloak and a Homburg hat, was twiddling a crowbar in his fingers.

‘Would you mind helping me out? My legs won’t move.’

Passing his crowbar to Pinky, he reached in, his surprisingly strong hands grabbed me around the waist, lifted me and sat me on the steps.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I was stuck.’

‘Obviously,’ said Pinky, ‘but why?’

‘I was trying to help Hobbes.’

‘In a car boot?’ Her tone suggested she considered me beyond all hope.

As the feeling returned to my legs as pain, I groaned and stretched. ‘I didn’t mean to get locked in. He was going alone and I thought he might need some help. I tried to hide in there, but the lid closed and, then he went off in Billy’s car.’

‘Billy Shawcroft?’ asked Sid.

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘Everyone knows Billy. He’s a good man in a crisis.’

‘But what can he do? He’s so small.’

‘There’s more to him than you’d think,’ said Sid. ‘He’s a man of no small talent and ability.’

‘I suppose he is. Umm … I thought your sort didn’t go out in daylight.’

‘Bankers don’t normally,’ said Sid, ‘because they’re at work.’

‘Oh. I thought you couldn’t stand sunlight?’

‘It’s alright. Too much gives me wrinkles.’

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Pinky, again looking puzzled. ‘You’re talking as if Mr Sharples were a vampire.’