3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (7 page)

‘But at least two others are still free,’ said Hobbes, ‘and one of them is the brains and he might be planning something else.’

‘Possibly, old boy, but he’s more likely to be in hiding, afraid he’s going to be arrested. Your police colleagues should be able to find him.’

‘I don’t like to leave a job half done.’

‘Surely you don’t want to take all the glory?’ said Sid. ‘Give someone else a chance. It was only an attempted robbery after all.’

Hobbes stared deep into his brandy as I gulped down my Brain Haemorrhage. They were moreish, so I didn’t object when Sid fixed me another.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Hobbes, after a long pause.

‘I’m sure I am,’ said Sid. ‘Take a few days leave. I’ll bet you’ve got a few accrued.’

Hobbes grinned. ‘Superintendent Cooper reckoned I’d built up over four years and that was ages ago, so I dare say there’s a few more now.’

‘When did you last take a holiday?’

‘Last week.’

‘For how long?’

‘All of Sunday morning.’

‘What about a proper holiday?’

‘I took a few days off last year, soon after I met Andy.’

Admittedly, my head was stupid with drink, but I couldn’t think what he meant. ‘The only time I remember you not going into work was after you got shot.’

‘That’s when I was thinking of,’ said Hobbes. ‘I spent a couple of days in bed.’

‘That doesn’t count as holiday,’ I said. ‘You’re supposed to enjoy them.’

‘He’s right, old boy. You deserve a break.’

‘But,’ said Hobbes, a little peevishly, ‘policing is so much fun. Why would I want a break?’

‘It won’t be so much fun with those vultures outside your door,’ said Sid. ‘You’ll get a lot of attention. Remember back in ’53 when they ran the story of you breaking the four-minute mile? They were after you for days, and it would probably have been much worse had it not been for the coronation.’

‘I thought,’ I said, ‘the four-minute mile was broken in 1954.’

‘Officially,’ said Sid, ‘but Wilber got there first.’

‘I wasn’t first,’ said Hobbes, ‘and it wasn’t in a race and, I’m glad to say, never made the record books.’

‘What happened?’

‘I was in pursuit of a suspect,’ said Hobbes.

‘Who was on horseback,’ said Sid. ‘It was at Hedbury Races and Wilber was timed between mileposts before he made the arrest. According to the course clock, he’d covered the distance in well under four minutes ’

‘It wasn’t a very good clock,’ said Hobbes.

‘But,’ said Sid, ‘the point is, it caught the press’s attention and they swarmed around you like mosquitos, until the events in London distracted them.’

‘True,’ said Hobbes. ‘It made my job a little difficult.’

‘It’ll be worse now. There are more of them, they’ve got telephoto lenses, they’ll buy stories off people, and they’ll use all sorts of unscrupulous methods.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Hobbes, nodding. ‘I suppose a few days off wouldn’t hurt.’

‘Quite right,’ said Sid. ‘You’ll need to do something about the lass and Andy, or they’ll be subjected to unwelcome scrutiny. More drinks?’

When they arrived, Hobbes was looking thoughtful and, maybe, a little wistful.

‘Thanks,’ he said, accepting another large brandy. ‘I’ve decided to head up to Straddlingate. I don’t know why, because I haven’t been there for years, but it just popped into my head. I’ll let the lass know what’s happening and I’ll mention it to the superintendent as well.’

‘Good idea,’ said Sid. ‘Now that’s settled, did you hear about Daft Abel?’

‘Abel Clutterbuck? Not since he saw the headline in the
Bugle
saying man wanted for burglary and he went in and applied for the job,’ said Hobbes.

‘Well,’ said Sid, ‘Tom Pollack told me he’d had a postcard from him. He was on Easter Island and it seems there was this shark …’

And I think that must have been when the final drink hit me.

5

I awoke, sorely afflicted by a raging thirst, a thumping headache and a bursting bladder, the latter of which was demanding urgent attention, despite my trying to wish it away and fall back into sleep. From the scent of apples and the absence of the underlying taint of Hobbes or Dregs, I knew I wasn’t in my own bed and, since I was comfortable, with soft blankets pulled up to my chin, I wasn’t at my parents’. Even after I’d prised open bleary eyes, I was still confused and lost, as the cold, grey light of early morning showed I was in a strange room, albeit one I felt I should recognise. I was lying on a chesterfield sofa. I sat up and realised I was still dressed, except for my jacket, bowtie and shoes. My head throbbed as I forced myself to stand, and I was panicking because I had no idea where the bathroom was and my need to reach it was rapidly approaching critical. As I staggered to the door, weak and shaky, my head was spinning and I came close to being sick.

I went into a gloomy hallway, where the scent of stale borscht made me understand that I was still at Sid’s. The house was as quiet as the grave and, unable to see any stairs, my panic grew. A pair of large, matching china vases stood by the front door and I was seriously contemplating using one of them as an emergency pisspot, when I spotted a gap in the dark wooden panelling in front of me. Closer examination revealed a sliding door and, behind it, the stairs.

I would have run up them, had I dared. Instead I climbed steadily, concentrating on bladder control. At the top, faced with five closed doors, I came close to disaster, until my eyes adjusted to the gloom and I noticed the small china plaques on each door. Starting on the left, I read them: Bram’s Room, Stephanie’s Room, Sid’s Room, Airing Cupboard, and finally, Batroom.

I opened the door and, seeing it was, indeed a bathroom, rushed inside, burst forth and stayed there for some time until the relief of Andy had reached its natural conclusion. As I tottered out, my headache more massive, my nausea barely under control, and my body shivering and weak, a small, ball-of-fluff cat hissed at me, put its ears back and fled downstairs. Taken aback, I stumbled, putting out a hand against a door to steady myself. The door flew open and I lurched inside.

Sid was staring at me, but he wasn’t in bed. He was hanging by his ankles from a steel frame beside the wardrobe.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, regaining my balance, ‘the cat got in my way’.

‘That’s quite alright, young fellow. She’s often in my way, too. My word, you do look rough, though it’s hard to tell from this angle. Excuse me one moment.’

Grasping the side of the frame, he pulled himself upright, released his feet, stepped out of the contraption and slicked back his hair. For a moment, I almost forgot my hangover, paralysed by ancient preconceptions of vampires.

‘Did I scare you?’ he asked.

‘Umm … no … yes.’

‘I suppose you think I always sleep upside down, like a bat?’

‘Don’t you?’ I asked unhappily.

‘No,’ he said, ‘but, a few minutes inversion therapy does wonders for my stiff old back.’

‘When my old editor had a bad back,’ I said, grasping for normality, ‘he swore by acupuncture. You could try it.’

‘It’s a little too close to being staked for my liking.’

‘I see,’ I said, and nodded, causing another wave of headache to break inside my skull.

‘Hangover?’

I nodded again: a bad mistake.

‘I’ll fix you something that should help.’

‘I don’t want to be any bother.’ I was desperate to lie down, to cover up, and to not move for hours.

‘It’ll be no bother.’

‘What are you going to fix me?’

‘A Bloody Mary.’

I might have guessed.

‘It’s my own recipe. It’ll do you good, and I think you’ll like it.’

Leading me back to the lounge, he propped me up on the sofa with cushions and headed for the drinks cabinet. With a laugh, like a mad scientist creating a monster, he selected a number of bottles and prepared his concoction.

‘Get this down you,’ he said, handing me a glass, ‘and you’ll soon be feeling more chipper.’

Grunting my thanks, I took it, mesmerised by the red, frothing contents and trying to think nice thoughts. Bracing myself, I took a sip. It was spicy and peppery and salty and thick. I wasn’t sure I liked it but, before I’d come to a final conclusion, I’d finished it. Though I thought I felt a little better, less likely to throw up, my head was spinning again. Pulling the blankets to my chin, turning onto my side, I slept.

It must have been a couple of hours later, when I awoke again to full daylight, this time feeling like I might live, with the scent of roasting coffee making me want to. As I sat up, the door opened, the small, ball-of-fluff cat swaggered in, hissed, and scarpered, and then Sid was there with a steaming mug of coffee.

‘Drink this,’ he said, ‘and your cure should be nearly complete.’

‘Thank you.’ I said. ‘Is Hobbes here?’

‘No, he’s arranging a few days’ leave.’

‘That’s probably a good idea. Did he stay last night?’

‘No, he went home. He had some things to pick up and a dog to walk.’

‘Why didn’t he take me?’

‘You were dead to the world, young fellow,’ said Sid with a toothy smile, ‘and it would have been cruel to wake you. Wilber was all for it, but I convinced him you needed plenty of beauty sleep. Drink your coffee. Then, take a shower if you wish; I’ve laid out towels and stuff in the batroom. When you’re ready, come through to the kitchen and I’ll fix you some breakfast.’

‘That’s very kind.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Sid with a pleasant smile that made me decide I liked the old vampire. I was rather pleased with how cosmopolitan my outlook had become.

He left me to my drink. When it started to hit my stomach, and was infusing my body with a rosy glow of well-being, I was able to get up and look around the room and to examine the contents of Sid’s enormous bookcase. Mostly it was filled with handsome, leather-bound volumes with titles, so far as I could make out, in Latin. The exception was the middle shelf, full of lurid paperback detective novels. They were so tightly packed I didn’t dare remove any, fearing I’d never be able to get them back.

Then, heading upstairs, I enjoyed a long, hot shower, a rare luxury, as the one at Hobbes’s, which he’d installed for himself, put lesser users in mortal peril. The last time I’d used it, I might have drowned had Mrs Goodfellow not come to my rescue.

Glowing and clean, I dressed and headed for the kitchen, where Sid prepared a full English breakfast for me to devour. That, washed down with more coffee, left me buoyant and ready to face anything. I’d just finished when the doorbell rang and he went to answer.

A moment later he walked in with Hobbes, who was sporting a bushy beard, a matching moustache and sunglasses.

‘Good morning, how are you?’ said Hobbes.

‘Quite well. Sid’s been looking after me.’

‘Good,’ said Hobbes. ‘Do you fancy going camping?’

‘I don’t know. When?’

‘Now.’

‘Umm … where to?’

‘Straddlingate.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘It’s in the Blacker Mountains,’ said Hobbes. ‘I haven’t been back there for ages and it should be splendid this time of year.’

I could think of no reason why I shouldn’t go. Perhaps I should have tried harder. ‘OK then,’ I said.

‘Excellent,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’ve packed a tent and rations and clothes for both of us.’

‘Umm … how do we get there? You broke the car.’

‘Billy’s agreed to take us until the road runs out. After that, we’re on our own.’

‘Alright.’

‘I’ve brought you some fresh clothes,’ said Hobbes, handing me a small bag.

I took it, hurried upstairs and got changed. A tweed suit was not quite what I’d envisaged, but it was, at least, an improvement on evening wear. I went back down.

‘Let’s go,’ said Hobbes, turning to shake Sid’s hand. ‘Thank you for supper last night, and for looking after Andy and for your advice’

‘Always a pleasure,’ said Sid. ‘Take care.’

‘Goodbye. I’ll be in touch soon,’ said Hobbes, bundling me from the house into the street.

Billy Shawcroft was leaning against his old hearse, which was glinting in the sunlight.

‘Wotcha,’ he said, looking up.

‘Hi,’ I said and was knocked onto my back.

Dregs, who’d been preparing for the journey against a lamppost, had leapt at me, greeting my return to his world as if I’d been away for a month. As his great, pink tongue snaked towards my face, I rolled to the side and pushed him off, alarmed by the white flecks around his jaws.

‘Stop messing about,’ said Hobbes, ‘and let’s get away before any reporters show up.’

Although there was plenty of room in the front of the hearse, I had to go in the back because Dregs insisted on riding there in case he wanted to stick his big, black head out the window. I wasn’t much bothered for, despite having to share my space with a bagged tent and two bulging rucksacks, I could stretch out and relax. Billy, having strapped the wooden blocks to his feet that allowed him to reach the pedals, adjusted a pile of cushions and, when able to see over the steering wheel, drove away.