Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (34 page)

'Leave
it out. I'm not in the mood.'

'Which
is precisely what his girlfriend told him when he got home.'

'Shut
up.'

'Sorry,'
Kev shrugged, 'I was only trying to cheer you up. Tell you what, I'll give you
a lift home. I wouldn't worry about Hobbes, he can handle himself, which is,
incidentally, what Pete had to do. Sorry. No, I bet he's back home right now.
Jump on.'

Dropping
me outside the front door of Blackdog Street, he drove away with a cheery wave.
I went inside, to be greeted by Dregs as a long-lost friend. A glance at Mrs
Goodfellow's face sufficed to tell me Hobbes hadn't returned. Sitting together
on the sofa, we talked occasionally, flicking between television channels,
starting at every sound from outside. Despite my afternoon nap, I was still
whacked and went up to bed before midnight. She said she'd wait up a little
longer.

As
I lay in bed, dozing, I couldn't stop myself listening for the front door
opening. Sleep kept its distance, my mind ticking over, trying to make sense of
everything and I was still awake when the church clock struck one and the old
girl came upstairs. I awoke with daylight filtering into the room through
inadequately closed curtains. Swirling inside my head were dream images as
substantial as mist and, like early morning mist, they soon evaporated, leaving
only a residue of unease.

The
clock said it was nine-thirty. I got up, opening the curtains, sitting back on
the bed, yawning and stretching. Hearing movement from Hobbes's room, I leaped
back to my feet, with a punch of the air and a suppressed cheer. It would have
been far too embarrassing to let him know I'd been worried, so I pulled myself
together and strolled out, as if on my way to the bathroom, intending to look
in and say Good Morning, before finding out where he'd been and what he'd been
doing.

His
door, standing ajar, I poked my head inside. Hobbes wasn't there but Dregs was,
walking round and round, sniffing and whimpering like a lost puppy. He was
delighted to see me and even more delighted to smell me. Secretly gratified, I
tried to push the beast down and keep his cold nose from my groin. I succeeded,
though his long wet tongue curled across my face in a sneak attack.

'Get
down,' I said and he sat, looking up as if expecting me to do something. I
wasn't used to dogs and my first experiences with him had been unpleasant, yet,
now I felt safe, there was something reassuring about his presence. 'So Hobbes
isn't back?'

Dregs's
ears perked up and he began sniffing round the room again.

'He
must be somewhere,' I said. 'A bloke like him can't just vanish.' The dog
tilted his head to one side as I explained. 'He's too big to hide, though I
still don't know how to find him.'

Dregs
wagged his tail, sniffing the carpet and giving me an idea. Dogs, I knew, could
follow trails, so maybe Dregs could find Hobbes. But first I needed breakfast.

When
washed and dressed I went downstairs. Mrs Goodfellow being out, I was forced to
make my own tea and toast, managing the feat without any involuntary arson, eating
and drinking in silence, vaguely aware of Dregs padding about above. My mind
was apparently in neutral, yet something must have been going on behind the
scenes because, to my surprise, I experienced a moment of inspiration. It felt
almost as if someone had flicked a switch in my brain, turning on a floodlight,
letting me realise what a spluttering, smoky, little candle normally
illuminated my thoughts. Hurrying to the sitting room, I searched for
Sorenchester
Life
, needing to see the photo of the Editorsaurus and wife. The magazine
had gone; Mrs Goodfellow must have thrown it away.

A
minute or two later, and to my surprise, I was running down Blackdog Street heading
for the police station, barely noticing the icy air whipping my face, the
slippery pavements still white with frost and the grey, frigid sky. I was
gasping and sweaty when I arrived but I'd run all the way and felt mightily
impressed with myself.

'Has
Hobbes been in?'

The
desk sergeant shook his head. 'Not yet. Can I help you, sir?'

'No,
not really. I need something from his office.'

'Sorry,
sir, I can't allow you in, if you're not with the Inspector. I'm afraid it's no
entry.'

'It's
important.' I raised my voice. 'Very important.'

'Sorry,
sir, and I'd be obliged if you'd stop shouting and go about your business.'

'But
it is my business! He's gone missing and there's something in his office I
think might be a clue.'

'The
Inspector can look after himself. He probably has good reasons for being absent
and if he really has gone missing then it's police business.'

Though
I argued, the sergeant was immovable. 'It's only a magazine I want.' When I
tried to push past, he moved surprisingly quickly, holding me in an arm lock.

'Please
leave, sir,' he said, still polite, though the pressure on my arm hinted it
could become extremely painful.

Leaving,
muttering furiously, yet afraid of getting myself banged up in a cell, I
stamped up and down outside, fuming and fretting, unsure what to do next.
Someone walked out and stood in my way.

A
soft Irish accent addressed me. 'Are you alright, there?'

I
stopped and Pete Moss, clown, entertainer and smuggler grinned at me.

'Yes,'
I said. 'Or rather, no… umm … maybe.'

'It's
best to cover all your options,' said Pete with a nod. 'Don't I know you? Yeah,
weren't you with Hobbes the other day? You're not a copper, right?'

'That's
right. I'm Andy.'

Reaching
for my hand, shaking it, he said, 'Hobbes is a decent fellow, for a copper.
He's pretty straight, even if he always makes me feel like a naughty schoolboy
before the headmaster, though I've never seen a headmaster as ugly as he is.
Jaysus! He gave me a turn the night I was discovered at the theatre.'

'Were
you auditioning?'

'Not
exactly. He discovered me backstage when I was … acquiring some bits for my
act. I thought I was for the high jump and ran for it, fancying myself as an
athlete in those days. Once, I even entered the London marathon.'

I
was impressed. 'How did you do?'

'I
walked it.'

'You
won?'

He
laughed. 'No. I really did walk most of it.'

'Is
that a joke?'

'Actually,
no.' He shrugged. 'I did try, only I hadn't run in my shoes enough and got
blisters, hence, my abysmal performance. Even so, I was well fit when Hobbes
came after me and, seeing the size of him, I reckoned I'd get away easily but –
Jaysus! – he's bloody fast, like an avalanche.'

'What
happened?' I was fascinated despite the urgency and the frost nipping my ears.

'He
collared me pretty damn quick and I thought he'd run me in but he didn't. He
made me put all the stuff back, gave me a good talking to and then, I don't
know why, he took me shopping and paid for the stuff I needed from his own
wallet.'

'Amazing,'
I said because there were no words to do justice to my thoughts.

'I
reckoned I was for it again when he pulled me over the other week,' said Pete,
'yet he got me to the gig on time. Sadly, I reckon I'm really in trouble after
this latest incident. They caught me red-handed with contraband cigarettes and
bloody awful beer.'

'Carpati
cigarettes and Dracula's Bite beer?'

He
nodded. 'Correct. The fags aren't so bad if you like that sort of thing but the
beer is …' He tailed off. 'Well, let's just say it's not Guinness.'

'So
I've heard, from someone who got drunk on it.'

He
looked shocked. 'Someone got drunk on it? Jaysus! Is he alright? He must be
made of sterner stuff than me. I can only manage to force down a few sips, to
impress customers with its hoppy, fruity characteristics.'

'Billy
said it tasted of oven cleaner.'

'He's
the little fellow at the Feathers?'

I
nodded.

Pete
shrugged. 'I've heard tell he'll drink anything. I wouldn't put it past him to
have tried oven cleaner.' He grimaced. 'How is Hobbes?'

'He's
gone missing. I'm worried.'

'Don't
be, he can look after himself if anyone can.'

I
shook my head and told of my concerns. I probably said more than I should have,
though I had the feeling I could trust Pete.

His
blue eyes looked grave. 'I wish I could help but I've got to make a few
arrangements before my case comes up. Look, I don't know if it's of any use,
I've only sold a few of those Carpati cigarettes round here recently. Most were
to Featherlight or to a lady who was arranging a party. She was a skinny old
biddy. I can't remember her name, though she drives a black Volvo. I only met her
because she was with a ratty-looking fellow I'd bumped into at the Feathers. He
told her my fags were OK and she bought a load of boxes. It was a nice profit
and all tax-free, so I wasn't going to complain.'

Pete,
I decided, though a nice enough guy for a criminal, didn't half go on when I
wanted to hurry. Besides, I was getting cold. 'Sorry,' I said, 'I've got to go.
Thanks for your information.' I didn't think it would be much use.

I
hurried to a newsagent on the lower part of The Shambles, spending a
frustrating ten minutes looking through the magazine racks for
Sorenchester
Life
.

The
girl manicuring her nails behind the till acknowledged my existence when I'd
got to the muttering stage. 'Can I help you?'

'I'm
looking for
Sorenchester Life
.'

'Is
there life in Sorenchester?' She smirked.

'I
mean the magazine
Sorenchester Life
.' I almost growled. Hobbes was
definitely catching.

'You're
standing right in front of it. On the third shelf.'

I'd
been looking straight at it, only not at the issue I wanted. 'I was looking for
last month's. Have you got it?'

'We
did have. Last month.'

'Do
you know where I could get it?'

'Haven't
a clue.'

'Thanks,
you've been a great help.'

I
stomped out the shop as the girl went back to her nails. For want of anything
better to do, feeling helpless, I started walking back towards Blackdog Street,
looking around, hoping to spot Hobbes. I was out of luck. However, I did spot a
plaque for a dental surgery and, on impulse, stepped inside. The waiting room
was nearly full. Although it smelled of fear and sounded of drills, I ignored
everything, except for the table upon which teetered a tower of dog-eared
magazines. I found the right issue of
Sorenchester Life
near the top,
flicking through until I came to the picture of the Editorsaurus and Narcisa.

As
I stared at the caption,
Mr Rex Witcherley and wife, Narcisa, enjoy a joke,
I tried to remember which letters Hobbes had underlined, with an idea that
something was starting to make sense at last. I thought back to Hobbes
highlighting the faint impressions on the scrap of paper he'd found at Mr Roman's,
the few letters standing out forming the enigmatic message,
EX WITCH IS A
JOY OK
and read the caption again to make sure.
Mr R
ex
Witch
erley
and wife, Narc
isa
, en
joy
a j
ok
e
.

An
ashen-faced man spoke to the pretty young receptionist. 'I've got to make an
appointment for root canal surgery.'

'Brilliant!
That's fantastic!' I cried.

Shocked
faces stared at me.

'Sorry.'
Replacing the magazine, I hurried away, glad to escape; dentists reminded me of
my father and made me edgy. Nonetheless, I was almost dancing on reaching the
street, where a few dusty snowflakes were swirling. I had solved a clue and the
fact that Hobbes had done it first hardly detracted from the satisfaction.

I
could have cheered until I realised I still didn't understand anything. All I
knew was that someone had written out the caption from the magazine, leaving an
impression on the paper, which had then been used for writing down the
combination of Mr Roman's safe. So what?

My
sense of satisfaction having died by the time I reached the church, I sneaked
inside, hoping for divine inspiration. I really wanted to be up and searching
for Hobbes but I'd got nothing to go on except for the one clue, assuming it
was a clue, and my hare-brained notion of Dregs as a tracker-dog.

The
blue-haired lady at the book counter was belittling a confused Japanese couple,
and didn't notice me creep into a pew where I sat, head bowed. Somehow, it felt
even colder in the church than outside and I wished I'd taken the time to put
on my overcoat.

All
I had to work on was my clue and Hobbes's sudden obsession with Narcisa. It was
time for deep thinking. So, someone had written the caption on the note pad and
someone with different handwriting had scrawled the combination for the safe on
the sheet below. But why would anyone copy such a caption? It wasn't
interesting, just a few bland words in a dull magazine. I couldn't imagine
anyone doing it.