Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (30 page)

As
the old man shuffled off to the kitchen, I wondered how long he'd take, realising
how parched I'd become. I'd hardly drunk anything at the station; my concoction
had been too disgusting and I'd been too enthralled and terrified by Hobbes's
friendly little chat to take more than a sip of PC Wilkes's version.

In
the meantime, I relaxed, enjoying the fire and glancing round the little room.
It held three armchairs, a battered old dining table with matching chairs and a
small bureau covered in loose papers. To the right of the fireplace, a bookcase
sagged beneath yellowing old books that I suspected were the source of the
mustiness. On a shelf to the left stood a small television set that looked
prehistoric and which was so encrusted in dust I doubted it would show a
picture should it ever be turned on. Further to the left, a window looked out
over a tiny lawn, glowing green as northern seas in the sun, which was just
peeking out from beneath blanket cloud. There was a clattering from the
kitchen, followed by the cheery whistle of a boiling kettle and the budgie's
impression of it.

'Should
I go and help?' I asked Hobbes, who was sitting with eyes closed, and breathing
as deeply as if he'd fallen sleep.

'Eh?
What? Oh no. He likes to look after himself. He'll be alright. You'll have to
be patient. He doesn't need any help, providing he's allowed to go at his own
pace.'

'He
looks as old as Methuselah,' I whispered.

'He's
not even close. He won't be a hundred until next August.'

'Have
you known him long?'

'Since
boyhood.'

The
kitchen door opening, Augustus shuffled in, shaking a tray piled with tea
things, plates and a heap of biscuits. When I made a move to offer assistance,
Hobbes raised a finger and an eyebrow and I sat back, twitching and fretting,
desperate to hurry him up. Still, it was worth the wait for the tea tasted
nearly as delicious and fragrant as Mrs Goodfellow's and there were heaps of
biscuits to dunk and suck.

The
old man, sat next to Hobbes, and they chatted briefly about the weather and
aubergines. Then he fixed Hobbes with a steady gaze. 'Now,' he said, 'you
always come here for a reason. What do you want to know?'

'Could
you tell us about the Roman Cup at the church?'

Augustus
frowned. 'The Roman Cup? Ah yes, I remember, I hear it has been stolen. Such a
pity. It was a fine bit of work.'

'Do
you know anything about it?' Hobbes took a sip of tea.

'Not
much, I'm afraid,' said Augustus, stroking his whiskers between thumb and
forefinger of his knobbly hand. 'It is, of course, not a Roman relic.'

Hobbes
glanced at me.

'It's
only been in the church for a few years. It was a gift in, let me think, 1953,
I believe.'

'A
gift to the church?' Hobbes raised his eyebrows.

'Yes,
yes. It was the year the young queen got crowned. That's why I got that.' He
pointed a bulbous finger at the television. 'There hasn't been much worth
watching since. Now then, if I remember right, and I usually do, the cup was
given by a young couple. Foreigners they were, but very pleasant and most
respectable. They wanted to make a gesture of thanks to the good folk of
Sorenchester who'd looked after them when they first arrived here. Just after
the war, it would have been.'

Hobbes
took out his notebook. 'Would you remember the name of the couple?'

'Of
course I would. I may be old but I'm not yet in my dotage, I'll have you know.'

'Sorry.
What was their name?'

Augustus
chuckled. 'Do you really mean to say you don't know? I thought you were trying
to trick me and you call yourself a detective? Dear oh dear. Mr and Mrs Roman
donated it, so we called it the 'Roman Cup'. I'd have thought that might have
been a clue.'

'It
might have been,' said Hobbes, looking comically crestfallen, 'if we'd known it
wasn't a cup made by the Romans.'

'Well,
you know now,' said Augustus laughing into his tea. 'Just wait till I tell the
boys about this.'

'Do
you know where the Romans came from? The couple I mean not the empire builders,'
asked Hobbes, not appearing at all put out by his mistake.

'They
were from Romania.'

I
gasped. 'Romania.'

'The
boy can speak then?' Augustus smiled. 'Yes, they were Romanians, on the run
first from the Nazis and then from the Communists. I used to see them at the
church for many years. They had a young lad, too. I wonder what happened to
them?'

'They've
all passed away,' said Hobbes.

'I'm
not surprised,' said Augustus, nodding. 'Some reckoned it was a communion chalice
that had once belonged to a king and there was some doubt as to whether the
Romans really owned it, yet, since no one else claimed it and they weren't
trying to profit from it, the church accepted it in the spirit in which it was
offered. It became quite an attraction, you know. However, I'm afraid that is
really as much as I know about the cup, except that they'd brought it with them
and it was very old.'

'Well
thank you,' said Hobbes. 'That was most illuminating.'

'Would
you like more tea?'

'No,
thank you, I'm afraid there's important work to be done and we'd better be
going.'

'So
soon?' asked Augustus. 'Ah well, I was only going to ask how your painting was
getting on. Do you still do it?'

To
my surprise, Hobbes blushed. 'No, well, not often anyway.'

'A
pity. You were showing promise. Still, maybe you can take it up again when you
retire.'

'Maybe.
We really must go.'

We
said our goodbyes and left.

'What
the hell's going on?' I asked as we stepped into Moorend Road.

'I
don't know yet, though I've got a hunch it's something rather unusual. I was
slow not picking up the link between Mr Roman and the cup but I still can't
work out what it means. With luck we'll get more information from Tony. He's
hard work, though. It's just a good job he's such a bad liar. A little more
pressure might squeeze something useful from him.'

'So,
what about Phil?' We crossed back into Vermin Street towards the shops and the
police station.

Hobbes
was walking at my pace, hunched up as though under a heavy load. I had never
seen him look so worried before. 'Mr Waring?' he said, 'I'm beginning to fear
the worst.'

'Do
you think he's dead then?' An icy coldness seemed to have invaded my blood.

'I
said, I feared the worst. You've seen enough to know death is not the worst
that can happen.'

My
blood would have run cold if it hadn't already been frozen. I was frightened
for Phil, thoroughly ashamed of my silly, spiteful trick, wishing I could have
taken the card back. If I'd had the courage, I would have told Hobbes.

A
woman's voice called, 'Andy! Mr Hobbes!'

Ingrid
had just stepped out of Boots. She wore a long, dark coat and a beige woolly
hat that emphasised her pallor. She looked tired.

'Hello,'
I said, trying to sound cheerful.

Hobbes
stopped, saluting as she approached. 'Good day, Miss Jones.'

'Have
you discovered anything about Phil?' she asked. 'I'm dreadfully worried.'

'We've
found his car,' said Hobbes, 'and the person who took it will be answering a
few questions shortly. I'm afraid I have no other news, although there is some
evidence to link Mr Waring to a serious criminal offence yesterday.'

'Phil?'
Frowning, she shook her head. 'There's no way he'd be involved in crime. He's
not the sort. Maybe he was on a story?'

Hobbes
nodded. 'That is likely, though we found an item of his at the crime scene.'

'I
don't believe it.'

'I'm
not sure I do either, miss. I smell a rat!'

A
woman screamed; another joined her. Hobbes was right, a rat the size of a
terrier was sauntering down the middle of the road, as if it owned the county.
Certainly, no one seemed willing to block its path or to offer any sort of
challenge.

Not
until there was an explosive woof and a flurry of head shaking that ended with
Dregs strolling towards us, tail wagging ecstatically, rat dangling limply. I
don't know how he'd got out but he was evidently trying to ingratiate himself
now I had the power of Mrs Goodfellow's tincture, and dropped the corpse onto
my foot.

Hobbes
chuckled. 'Sorry, Miss, I'd better be getting back to the station and look
after the dog. He shouldn't be out on his own. Clear it up, Andy.' He pointed
to the rat, turning away, continuing with his hunched walk. Dregs, to my
relief, followed him.

I
was left with Ingrid and a dead rat. Somehow, she never saw me at my best. I
shrugged, smiling, trying to make light of the situation. 'I seem to have got
ratted. I'd better get rid of it.' Fortunately, the large bin standing down the
alley next to Boots looked suitable for a last resting-place. Bending,
shuddering, I picked the rat up by the tip of its tail, praying it was really
dead. I'd had enough pain from a hamster a tenth its size to feel completely at
ease, though Dregs had broken its neck for sure. I held it at arm's length with
an attempt at nonchalance.

'You
horrible man,' said a woman, driving her words home with solid whacks from her
rolled umbrella, 'murdering God's creatures without a second thought.'

I
turned towards her.

It
was the blue-rinsed woman from the church. 'You again,' she said, 'I might have
known.'

With
solid blows raining down on my head and shoulders, I raised my arm to protect
myself. The rat's tail slipping through my fingers, it flew through the air,
striking the woman full in the face. Screaming, she backed off. People had
stopped in the street to watch the fun, yet now, somehow, their amusement
evaporating, they saw me as the aggressor. Fingers pointed, hard words were
flung as, forgetting Ingrid, I fled
.

Cries
of 'police', 'stop that man', 'knock him down', and 'three for a pound',
pursued me as I plunged into the alley. I'd only gone a couple of steps before
I was in an arm-lock, my face pressed against the wall. The mossy brickwork was
damp against my cheek, while its odour, a medley of stale urine, vomit and
chips, made me feel ill.

'Well
done, constable,' said a pompous male voice. 'I witnessed the incident. He
assaulted the lady with a dead rat. She was forced to beat him off with her
umbrella.'

'No,'
said a shrill female voice, 'I saw it all. He was torturing a poor dumb animal
and, when the lady tried to stop him, he threw it in her face.'

'That's
not what happened at all,' said Ingrid. 'A dog killed the rat and Andy was
trying to dispose of the body when the woman attacked him, without provocation.
He was only trying to protect himself.'

I
nodded. Good old Ingrid, she'd get me out of the mess.

'Be
quiet.' The police officer bellowed. It was Wilkes. It had to be Wilkes.

The
crowd around the alley's entrance shut up.

Wilkes,
turning me round to face him, winked and murmured, 'Nice to see you again. What
is it with you and rodents?' He glanced at the crowd, raising his voice.
'There's nothing to see here. If anyone has anything to say, follow me to the
station and say it.'

Placing
a heavy hand on my shoulder, he frogmarched me to the station, only a couple of
minutes away. I only managed one glance back as he thrust me through the
station doorway, relieved that only Ingrid had followed. I hoped it was a sign
that I was starting to make progress with her, though my thoughts were mostly
concentrated on what Wilkes would do. I needn't have worried. Releasing me, he
smiled and patted my back as we moved inside.

'Sorry
about that, mate. I saw it all, so don't worry. The show of authority was to
appease the mob – it usually works better than reasoning. Now, mind how you
go.' He stepped back into the street.

I
smiled at Ingrid, embarrassed as usual. 'I'm glad that's over.'

She
seemed genuinely concerned. 'Are you alright? It was lucky the policeman saw
what happened.'

'I'm
fine and George Wilkes,' I said, nonchalantly, 'is a good man.' Maybe, I
thought, he wasn't so bad.

Ingrid
smiled. 'Great … but I was going to ask you to let me know when you find
anything out about Phil.'

Though
I heard what she said, a thought gripped me. Perhaps Wilkes had only laughed at
me when we first met because I was so funny. For the first time, I managed to
see the hamster incident from another's viewpoint, seeing that it had been
amusing, or would have been if it had happened to someone else. And the riot
I'd accidentally sparked, maybe that had a funny side, too. Recalling the
pained expression on my face in the newspaper, a snigger sneaked out and then
laughter engulfed me.

Ingrid's
pretty face contorted in outrage and, for some stupid reason, that boosted the
hilarity. Leaning on the counter, I tried to stop myself collapsing into a
giggling heap. I was a joke and life was a joke and she couldn't see it.