Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (11 page)

'A
coffee please,' she said.

'A
pint of lager.' I reckoned I could do with a drink.

'And
I'll have a quart of bitter. No, better make it a lashing of ginger beer, I'll
be driving soon.' Hobbes nodded at the barman and placed his order.

'How
much?' he asked when the drinks were poured.

The
barman shook his head. 'On the house, Inspector.'

I
smiled at Mrs Tomkins who did not reciprocate; evidently she had not yet
forgiven me for my remark about Phil. Hobbes, escorting her to a round table,
pulling out a chair for her, sat down opposite.

After
a few pleasantries, he got down to business.

'How
long did you cook for Mr Roman?'

'Twelve
years. It was part-time; I didn't live in like in the old days. None of us
did.'

'And
why did you leave?'

'Because
we were no longer required. That was almost a year ago now, I suppose.'

Hobbes
nodded. 'So I'd heard. Do you know why?'

'No.'
She shook her head. 'At least, not for certain. I believe he might have had
some money troubles. He had to sell a painting, but not one he'd done, one of
the good, old ones he was fond of, one his parents had brought from wherever
they came from. Did you know they weren't British? To be honest, I was glad it had
gone: it gave me the creeps. It was a nasty, evil-looking king holding a dagger.
I suppose it must have been worth a bob or two.'

'Though,'
said Hobbes, 'not enough to enable him to keep his staff on.'

'Apparently
not,' said Mrs Tomkins.

He
continued. 'What did you feel about Mr Roman when he sacked you?'

Her
face flushed. 'I was pretty angry. We all were, especially Jimmy, the gardener.
It was all so sudden. One day we had jobs, next day he called us in and gave us
our marching orders and a cheque for a month's pay. Two thousand quid doesn't
go far and I had a lad at college to support. Still, it all worked out pretty
well in the end. I got a job here. It's close enough to walk to and the pay's
better. So's the company.'

I'd
been listening, nodding and sipping lager quite happily, until she mentioned
her pay. Two thousand pounds a month? For a cook? For a part-time cook! I'd
been getting a quarter of that at the
Bugle
. It wasn't fair. I muttered
under my breath, railing against Editorsaurus Rex and his antediluvian pay
scales, until Hobbes growled at me to shut up.

He
turned back to Mrs Tomkins. She'd not much liked Mr Roman, who'd been brusque,
though not actually rude, to her and to the other staff. She believed Anna
Nicholls, the maid, and Jimmy Pinker, the gardener, had also disliked him. She
had, however, loved the house and mentioned how conscientious Anna had been
with her dusting and vacuuming, moving the furniture nearly every day, despite
its bulk. Hobbes listened intently, occasionally scratching with a pencil in a
small leather-bound notebook he'd taken from his coat pocket. She could cast no
light on why Mr Roman had been burgled, or why he might have committed suicide.
Neither Anna nor Jimmy had kept in touch, though she'd heard they shared a flat
in Pigton. Eventually, Hobbes thanking her, drained his ginger beer, rose from
the chair and led me out.

Still
fuming about my wretched cheque, I came close to marching into the
Bugle's
offices to confront the Editorsaurus, but Hobbes was restless, itching to
interview Anna Nicholls and Jimmy Pinker. My resolve proved as firm as wet
tissue paper and I found myself walking beside him to his car.

I
cursed my weakness as we set off to Pigton. Very quickly though, I was cursing
his driving. What on Earth was wrong with me? I didn't need to be with him, I
could have been cadging a lager off someone, somewhere with a fire and a
jukebox, somewhere where I was not in constant fear.

I
gritted my teeth, clinging to the seat as we hurtled into Pigton, stopping
outside a damp-stained, concrete block of flats. Getting out, I followed him up
the steps to the door, which, though it had once been an electronic security
door, was hanging open from one twisted hinge, a stench of smoke and stale
urine emerging from inside. We entered, heading towards a concrete staircase,
where three boys, about fourteen years old, slouched on the tiled floor below,
smoking and giggling. Hobbes approached them.

'Hullo,
hullo, hullo,' he said, and I swear that's what he said, 'what's going on here
then?'

One
of the boys spoke from deep within a grey hood. 'We're just chilling, so don't
go giving us no hassle, man.' His two companions giggled again and I caught a
whiff of their smoke. It wasn't tobacco.

'It
doesn't surprise me you're chilly,' said Hobbes. 'It is draughty out here and a
seat on cold tiles could give you piles. Why don't you go to a nice warm café?'

'Ain't
got no money, 'ave we?' The biggest of the lads, sporting a stud through his
lip, his face erupting with pimples and pale whiskers, sneered.

'Tell
you what,' said Hobbes, squatting down to their level, 'I'll trade you.'

His
right hand flashed forward, ripping the spliffs from their mouths. He stubbed
them out on the palm of his left hand, the three lads staring open-mouthed and
wide eyed, and reached into his coat pocket for his horrid, hairy, little
wallet, removing a ten-pound note, handing it to the smallest youth. 'There you
go, boys. Remember, smoking can damage your health. And now you can have a nice
warm drink in the café. Can't you?'

There
was a moment's silence and all three stood up, obediently, looking completely
bemused, being quite polite. The one in the hood even said, 'Thanks,' as they
walked away.

'Just
chilling.' Hobbes snorted and chuckled. 'Where do they pick up these
expressions? In Pigton of all places?' Scrunching up the remains of the
cigarettes, he took them outside and let them blow away on the wind. When he
returned to the lobby, he bounded up the stairs onto the second floor. I puffed
after him.

He
knocked on a door. After a short pause it opened a little, restrained by a
chain. A scared young woman, with short dark hair and huge blue eyes,
tear-stained behind heavy glasses, peered through. On seeing Hobbes, she
gasped, recoiling, trying to slam the door. He used his fingers to keep it
open.

'Sorry
to bother you, Miss Nichols.' He showed her his ID with his free hand. 'I'm
Detective Inspector Hobbes from Sorenchester. I was wondering if I might have a
word with you?'

'Oh,
you're the police.' She smiled. 'Please come in.'

Unchaining
the door, she let us in. She was small, dark and neat, dressed in old jeans and
a faded T-shirt, her smile transforming her into something of beauty. 'I'm ever
so sorry about your fingers,' she said, 'but we've had some trouble with
burglars in the flats, I thought you might be them.'

'Fingers?'
Hobbes looked intrigued. 'What's wrong with my fingers?'

'I
trapped them in the door.'

'Think
no more of it. By the way, the young fellow lurking behind me is Andy, who's
assisting with my enquiries into a burglary at Mr Roman's house.'

'Mr
Roman's been burgled? How dreadful. How's he taking it? Please take a seat.'

Indicating
a saggy, threadbare old sofa, she seated herself in a corduroy beanbag.
Everything was clean and orderly, the scent of Flash and polish trying hard to
mask the stink of boiled cabbage from the tight, ugly kitchenette, yet it was a
poky little flat, with threadbare carpets, mouldy walls and sparse furniture. Piled
in the far corner, still in their boxes, were iPods, laptops, a plasma
television and various other items I couldn't make out.

'I'm
afraid to say,' said Hobbes, 'that Mr Roman took it rather badly and committed
suicide.'

'How
awful.' She wiped away tears. 'Poor man.'

'Hadn't
you seen anything about it in the news?' I asked.

'No,
I've been busy. I clean at the hospital and I'm doing all the overtime I can
get. Money's been so tight since we lost our jobs at Mr Roman's.'

She
noticed Hobbes's glance at the boxes.

'Jimmy
picked those up. He said he'd had a bit of luck on the horses.' She turned her
face away, wiping her eyes.

'Where
is Jimmy?' Hobbes's voice was gentle.

'I
don't know.' Her tears began to flow. 'He's gone. We'd argued about money and
things and he stormed out saying someone in Sorenchester owed him and it was
time he paid up. He never came back.'

'When
was that?'

'Last
week.' She sniffed. 'On Thursday. I don't know what to do.'

'Do
you have a photo I could take?' Hobbes looked troubled.

Nodding,
she pulled one from her handbag.

He
studied it and grimaced. 'Thank you. I'll look into it. In the meantime, do you
know any reason why Mr Roman might have been burgled or killed himself?'

'No.'
She shook her head. 'He wasn't the sort who'd make enemies, though I don't
think he had many friends either. Some of his stuff must have been worth a bit,
but I don't believe he had much spare money.'

'Were
you upset when you lost your job with him?'

She
nodded.

'And
Jimmy?'

She
closed her eyes a moment and spoke in a quiet, controlled voice. 'Jimmy was
furious and said some wild things, but he wouldn't do anything like burglary …
I don't think so … would he?' She hesitated and even I could see the appeal for
reassurance in her eyes. She must have had suspicions.

Hobbes
shrugged. 'People sometimes do desperate or silly things when they need money
badly.'

'You
think Jimmy did it?' Her face was a mask of misery.

'I
don't know,' said Hobbes. 'However, he seems to have gone missing the day
Roman's place was burgled. It may just be coincidence.'

He asked me to give her some privacy, so I
stood outside, while he spoke softly to her. I couldn't hear very much, yet her
tears had stopped by the time he left and she gave him a grateful smile. It
struck me as peculiar how she'd responded to him. Though her first reaction had
been terror, as soon as he'd shown his ID it was as if all she could see was
the reassuring bulk of a policeman.

It
was starting to get dark when we left the flats, and the pavements were awash
with people, many spilling over into the road. Most, those wearing dark blue,
looked morose, but small groups sporting red and white favours were smiling and
making all the noise.

Hobbes
sighed. 'The football's finished already. I'd hoped to get away before the
crowds. Oh, well, it can't be helped. Looks like Pigton lost again and to
Hedbury Rovers, too.'

To
my astonishment, he eased the car through the crowds with care and
consideration. I pointed this out.

'There
are far too many uncertainties to proceed any faster with safety,' he said, 'there's
too much I can't predict and too many variables to consider. A member of the
public might step into the road or stumble or get pushed and the public is
astonishingly prone to damage if hit by a car, even a small one such as this.'

I
would have liked to question him more about his philosophy on driving, because,
it seemed to me that he was normally close to the edge of disaster and, in my
opinion, the public, specifically myself, was astonishingly prone to damage if
smashed into a tree or a wall or an oncoming vehicle at the speeds he went.

I
was trying to phrase a question in such a way as not to offend him when the trouble
started.

A
bottle flew from the mass of Pigton supporters, glancing off the shoulder of
one of the red and white Hedbury fans, shattering the plate-glass window of a
shop, Sharif Electrical Supplies. The fan turned with an expression of anger
and pain, hesitated, shook his head and continued walking, rubbing his shoulder.
Someone in the crowd, leaning through the shattered window, grabbed a watch. Someone
went for an iPod and within a few seconds it had become a free-for-all. People
seized radios, food mixers, steam irons, anything. The shopkeeper, a plump,
bearded guy in a white robe, ran out, waving his arms, shouting, trying to save
his goods.

A
fist struck the side of his head. I felt a sick sensation of utter helplessness,
chilling like ice in my stomach as the shopkeeper fell, a pack forming around
him. When one beer-bellied, tattooed lout raised his booted foot to deliver a
kick, I couldn't watch and turned away. Though most of the onlookers looked as
horrified as I was, no one was going to the poor man's aid.

'Can't
you do anything?' I asked, but the car had already stopped, the door was open
and Hobbes was gone. It all went quiet.

Three
men were lying motionless on the pavement as he helped the shopkeeper to his
feet. A phalanx of about a dozen shaven-headed thugs, muscling through the
crowd, charged as Hobbes pushed the shopkeeper behind him. I'm not quite sure
what happened next, since those in the rear of the charge blocked my view. There
was a loud crack, as if heads had knocked together, and then most of those
who'd been following were sprawling over those who'd been in front. Hobbes was
standing exactly where he had been, his great teeth glinting red in a shaft of
light from the setting sun that had just peeped below the evening clouds.