Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (36 page)

'Dregs!'
I yelled and no dog appeared. 'Where are you?'

The
net curtains of number 2 opened and a tubby grey-haired woman stared out. I
could feel her suspicion burning into me.

'Here
boy!' I held up the lead, making a pantomime of searching before turning
towards her with a smile and a shrug. Though the curtains closed, I could feel
eyes watching as I walked away.

I'd
been impressed by Roman's house, yet it was rather small compared to one or two
of the others. Most were set well back from the road as if they had something
to hide and I caught myself staring at one that lurked behind a high yew hedge.
With its Cotswold stone walls and chimneys like turrets, it might have passed
as a small castle. Its front lawn, as smooth and neat as a bowling green, was
edged with exotic shrubs and naked flowerbeds. A brushed gravel drive led
towards a double garage, outside of which stood a Volvo, as glossy and black as
a raven.

Carrying
on up the road, I called again for the dog, as memory dropped a reminder into
my consciousness; a black Volvo – I couldn't help thinking it ought to ring a
bell.

Bong!
Pete Moss had said the thin woman who'd bought his cigarettes drove a black
Volvo. Coincidence? Maybe.

Bong!
A second bell rang. A black Volvo had passed us yesterday, a thin woman with
eyes like death staring out at me. An image formed in my mind, slowly twisting
into shape. It could easily have been Narcisa, camouflaged by lack of makeup. I
was almost sure.

Which
meant she hadn't been in Romania then and, perhaps, still wasn't. To my
surprise, I had a hunch. Perhaps, I'd just seen the same car and therefore,
perhaps, it was parked on the Witcherleys' drive.

Needing
to know, I turned back. A quick ring on the doorbell would show whether my
guess was correct and, if not, which seemed more likely, I could use my lost
dog as an excuse for disturbing the occupants. Scrunching though the deep
gravel, I reached the polished oak and gleaming brass front door. Behind it was
a porch roughly the same size as the lounge in my poor old flat. I caught a
faint tang of metal polish as I reached out to press the glinting doorbell.

I
waited. And waited, wondering if it had worked. Pressing again, I was on the
point of giving up when Editorsaurus Rex appeared, dressed in jeans and a faded
red sweatshirt. I'd never seen him casual before and the sight made me even
more nervous than usual. A faint frown crossed his jowly face as, shuffling
across the porch, he opened the front door. He was wearing fluffy white socks
and sported a lurid mark on his neck, like a love-bite. I gulped, astonished my
guesswork had paid off.

'Capstan?'
his voice boomed. 'What the devil do you want? Have you been fighting? You're
not getting your job back if that's what you think.'

It
didn't seem worthwhile correcting him. 'Good Afternoon,' I said. 'I was … umm …
wondering if you'd seen Inspector Hobbes today?'

Rex
shook his head. 'Hobbes? I haven't seen him since you brought him along to my
office. Damn it, Capstan, you should have learned to fight your own battles at
your age. How old are you? Twenty-nine? Thirty?'

'Thirty-seven.'

He
shook his head again. 'Is that it, then? And, please tell me, why you've got a
dog chain in your hand?'

'I've
lost a dog.'

'As
well as Hobbes? It smacks of gross carelessness. Well, I'm sure when you find
Hobbes he'll find your dog for you. Good Afternoon.' He closed the door in my
face.

My
mouth opened and closed, my hands fluttering stupidly. There'd been so much I'd
wanted to ask, yet, as usual, he'd steamrollered me. Frustrated and angry, I
started back down the drive, pausing by the garage, its doors gleaming with
brass fittings set in varnished, panelled wood, below a row of glinting
windows. Curiosity prompted a peek inside. To the left was a large silver car,
a Daimler I think. Far more interesting to me was Hobbes's small car on the
right.

I
tried the garage doors. They were locked. I dithered, trying to think. Rex, it
seemed, had lied and, unless he'd stolen the car, Hobbes must have been there,
and, perhaps, still was. Maybe I'd been correct to think Rex was up to no good.
My best course of action, I came to the conclusion, was to call the police and
get professional help.

Jogging
back along the drive, heading down the road to number 2, I presumed, in the
circumstances, she'd allow me to use her phone. The net curtains moved as I
trotted down the garden path by the side of a lawn, heavily decorated with
gnomes. Though I rang the bell and waited, the door didn't open. Stepping back,
I unleashed my most ingratiating smile on the window. The net curtains twitched
again.

'Good
afternoon. I wonder if I might … umm … use your phone? It's a sort of an
emergency.'

Nothing
happened. I rang the bell again and waited. A car, speeding up the road,
stopped. A door slammed.

'Please
can I come in? It's rather import … oof!'

A
heavy hand, seizing my shoulder, turned me round. It belonged to a large,
hard-faced, young policeman, though not one I recognised. For no reason, I felt
guilty.

'Now,
what d'you think you're up to, sir?' he said, politely enough but without
removing his hand.

'I
wanted to use the telephone.'

'There's
a public call box opposite the village shop. Why don't you use that?'

'Because
it's an emergency and I haven't got any money.'

'So
you thought you'd get some here, did you?'

I
was confident I could explain myself. 'No, I just wanted to use the phone. You
see …'

The
front door opening, the fat woman stood before me, red-faced, quivering with
rage. 'Well done, officer,' she said. 'I've been watching him. He's been up and
down the road, casing the joints. I'll bet he was the one who broke into poor
Mr Roman's.'

'Look
…'

'You
can tell at a glance he's up to no good. What a scruffy, dirty, ugly, little
man! He's obviously had a go at someone and been given a taste of his own medicine.
What a brute! It wouldn't surprise me to learn he's a murderer, too. It's a
good job I spotted him in time.'

'But
…'

'And
he's armed, just look at that vicious chain.'

'It's
for …'

'Thank
you, Madam.' The policeman, raising his hand to dam the torrent, looked me
straight in the eye and smiled. 'Now, what have you got to say for yourself,
sir?'

'I'm
not a burglar. The chain's for my dog.'

'Oh
really?' he said. 'I see no dog. Would you mind if I take a look in your bag,
sir?'

I'd
almost forgotten about it. 'It's not important,' I said.

'I'll
be the judge of that, sir.' Taking it from me, he tipped it out.

A
bundle wrapped in a blood-stained tea towel rolled down the path.

'Murder!'
screamed the fat woman.

The
policeman stepped back, a look of shock on his face. He poked the bundle with
his foot and the meat jutted out.

'What
is that?'

'It's
a leg of lamb.'

'Why?'

'To
feed a police inspector,' I said. I might have phrased it better.

'What?'

'It's
for Inspector Hobbes, I'm looking for him.'

'Hobbes?
Are you sure he's not looking for you, sir? In connection with the break-in
down the road on the afternoon of the second of this month?'

'No,
he's disappeared and I'm trying to find him.'

'I've
heard no reports of the Inspector disappearing. He's not the sort.'

'This
blackguard has probably murdered him,' said the woman, 'so he can escape
justice. I bet he's the one who burgled Mr Roman's.'

'Have
you been in Mr Roman's house, sir?'

'No,
well … umm … yes. I was with Hobbes at the time. It was after the break-in; it
was part of his investigation.'

'I
was there when the Inspector investigated and don't recall seeing you. You
admit you were inside?' The policeman's expression turned as hard as his grip
on my shoulder. 'I think, perhaps, you'd better come along to the station and
answer a few questions.'

'No,
I was there when he went back for another look. I need to find him, he may be
in trouble.'

I
know Inspector Hobbes. He can look after himself, if anyone can. I'm afraid
you're the one in trouble.' The policeman reached for his handcuffs.

In
fact, the young policeman was the one in trouble, for at that moment the
cavalry arrived. Or rather, Dregs did. Loping down the garden path with a deep
woof, obviously believing I was in danger, he launched himself like a hairy
black missile. The policeman, turning too late, Dregs thumped into his midriff
with the pace and power of a punch. The poor man, doubling up, grunted, falling
backwards into the house, banging his head on an occasional table as he rolled
inside. The table collapsed under the impact and became a pile of occasional
firewood. The woman screamed again – she was having a most exhilarating
afternoon – and slammed the door.

Dregs
bounced round me, butting and licking, as if he'd done something clever. I
calculated that, though he had stopped me being arrested, he'd probably not
improved my situation and I wasn't sure I'd now be able to convince the police
to help me. In fact, the way things were going, I felt it more likely they'd
arrest me for assaulting a policeman with an offensive weapon, namely a large,
hairy dog and, if they banged me up in the cells, I'd have no chance of helping
Hobbes. It appeared I was on my own, apart from Dregs, which was a dubious
advantage.

I
was about to flee the scene, when I remembered the leg of lamb. As I bent to
pick it up, Dregs sniffed it and kicked soil over it in apparent disdain. Maybe
he thought it would smell better after being buried for a few days. Still, he
let me bag it and I scarpered, while he sat down, staring at the door, with his
head on one side as if listening. I left him to it. He'd be able to find me if
he wanted and I'd be better off without him.

I
had to find out what was happening, though I had little idea how to go about
it. Reason suggested that, if I sneaked into the Witcherleys' garden and kept
out of sight, I'd at least have time to think. I darted up the road, taking
some comfort no one else was about, concealing myself between the hedge and a
bush. I seemed to be putting myself into, at best, an embarrassing situation
and the pressure of thinking I ought to do something was crushing. My face grew
hot and my stomach quivered at the thought of what would happen if I'd misread
the situation. Yet, the longer I dithered the more I'd get the wind up. I had
to be positive.

All
the running and stress had left my mouth as dry as chalk, yet slaking my thirst
was not my priority. Firstly, I had to relieve my bladder, a regular
consequence of meeting Rex. Taking a quiet leak in the hedge, I began
operations, deciding, as a start, to scout the garden, to get the lie of the
land. Basing my movements on what I'd seen Red Indians do in old westerns,
though I doubted they'd ever made so much noise, I stumbled, pushed and crawled
through the undergrowth. In such situations, buckskins have distinct advantages
over long overcoats. I kept kneeling on its edge or snagging it on branches and
thorns, dampness spreading from the tweed knees of my trousers. When a trunk of
a huge evergreen tree concealed me, I stood up, wiping the cobwebs from my face,
a putrid stench making me retch. My hands were plastered in slimy, disgusting,
sticky, brown gloop. I'd got it all over me, the pigeons flapping overhead
suggesting the source. I wiped my hands down my trousers, which were already
beyond hope, trying not to throw up. There was a downside to being a detective,
yet I was not deterred.

I
began my reconnaissance with a closer look at the house. The lowering sun,
glinting off an array of windows on a single-storey modern extension,
connecting the old part of the house to the garage, meant I was too dazzled to
see much and my teeth chattered as, scurrying across the lawn, I pressed myself
against the wall. Gulping like a goldfish, I peeped into the extension. It was
the kitchen, though it looked more like a glossy advert, with lustrous blacks
contrasting with creamy whites and the glitter of stainless steel. Although it
looked impressive, almost like a work of art, I'd have taken Hobbes's homely
kitchen any day, especially with Mrs Goodfellow's cooking.

My
anger flared. How dare Rex pay me such a meagre wage when he could afford all
this? The kitchen alone must have cost many times my annual salary and then
they'd got the house and the cars and the holiday home and everything. It
wasn't fair. Yet it was nothing compared to my rage at Rex's lie. How dare he
lie to me? How dare he put me through all the crawling round in pigeon shit?
How dare he put Mrs Goodfellow through all the worry? And how dare he do
anything to Hobbes?

I
stopped myself. He obviously dared a lot but what might he have done to Hobbes?
How, in fact, could he have done anything? Even though the Editorsaurus was a
big bloke, even heavier than Hobbes I guessed, he was fat and lumbering,
whereas Hobbes was …Hobbes.