Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (16 page)

Hobbes,
pushing open a door marked 'private', loped down a short corridor into a
storeroom, filled from floor to ceiling with loaded shelves and boxes, apart
from the space by the window, where a worried little man sat at a desk, leafing
through papers.

He
looked up, forcing a smile. 'Good afternoon, Inspector. Any developments?'

'Not
yet, sir.'

Hobbes
introduced me to the curator, Mr Biggs. An ironic name I thought, shaking his
podgy hand, for Mr Biggs was small. Everything about him was small, except for
spectacles that made his pale blue eyes goggle like a goldfish's. He must have
been getting on for two feet taller than Billy Shawcroft, yet Billy was larger
than life and seemed to occupy more than his own small volume. The curator, by
contrast, looked like he'd collapsed into himself and his thin, white hair was
dishevelled.

'A
terrible thing, Inspector,' he said. 'No one's ever broken into my museum
before. Dreadful times we live in.'

'Indeed,
sir.' Hobbes nodded. 'However, don't despair. We may be able to trace the thief
and recover the item.'

Mr
Biggs snorted, shaking his head.

'Now,'
said Hobbes, 'I need to look into the hole.'

He
walked along an aisle, lined on both sides with plain cardboard boxes that, no
doubt, concealed a host of wonders. A cold draught blew around my ankles, a
mess of rubble littered the beige carpet. There was, as he'd said, a hole in
the wall.

'Stand
back and don't touch anything,' he commanded.

I
nodded, already used to the routine. Squatting on his haunches, he began moving
slowly and deliberately forward over the rubble towards the wall, shifting his
feet so as to leave no marks. On reaching the wall, he crouched and poked his
head into the hole. He began humming his 'Ribena Wild' song again.

'I
went to an ale house I used to frequent,' he murmured, reaching out for
something. When he straightened up he held a sticky-looking, grey-brown tuft of
fibre between his nails. He sniffed it, his nose wrinkling.

'What
is it?'

'Fluff
from a carpet, a pub carpet and I'd stake my reputation it's from the
Feathers.'

'Do
you think Featherlight robbed the place?'

'I
doubt it,' said Hobbes, pointing at the hole, 'and there's no chance he could
squeeze through that.'

'Billy
could.'

He
shook his head. 'Billy has his faults but he's one hundred per cent honest,
except, possibly, when he plays cards. Not that I've ever caught him out.' He
paused, 'No, I suspect someone else who's been at the Feathers.'

'Tony
Derrick then?'

He
shrugged. 'Could be. He's skinny enough to squeeze through. Unfortunately,
uniform tramped around in here before I got a proper look. Those lads have big
feet, though they do their best.' He stopped and thought for a moment. 'The
only thing is, it doesn't feel right. Tony's a nasty little sneak thief, an
opportunist, and this took time, planning and knowledge. I can't see him doing
this. Unless …'

'Unless
what?'

'Unless,
he's working for someone again.' His forehead furrowed in thought and he
muttered something under his breath. I didn't catch it all and had to try
filling in the gaps. I think he said, though I couldn't swear to it, 'You'd
have thought he'd have had enough after the old witch.'

'Excuse
me?'

'Just
thinking out loud,' said Hobbes. 'No, I'm sure, if Tony Derrick was involved,
he didn't plan it. Someone else did.'

A
happy thought came into my mind. 'Phil?'

'Possibly.'
He grinned. 'Unfortunately, apart from being in a car with Tony, there's no
evidence against him. I will talk to him, though he's not high on my suspect
list. Just because you don't like him, Andy, it doesn't mean he's a criminal.'

'Oh,'
I said, surprised by his perspicacity, 'I suppose that might be true. He is a
git, though!'

'Mrs
Tomkins didn't think so and Ingrid likes him.'

I
glowered. 'Only because he's a smooth-talking, flash git.'

'And
you're jealous?' He raised his eyebrows.

'Of
course not.' Though part of me I tried to ignore agreed Hobbes had a point, I
wouldn't admit it. 'There's nothing to be jealous of.'

His
eyebrows twitched, making me think of a pair of bristly caterpillars wrestling.
'So you don't mind him going out with Ingrid?'

'No.
Well, yes, I do. Umm … it's up to her.'

He
walked back to the desk. 'From where was the bracelet taken, sir?'

'I'll
show you.' Mr Biggs stood up. With his fluffy white hair, it was like watching
a tuft of thistledown wafting in a breeze. He was obviously still in some
distress and drifted up and down the aisle until he found the right box. He
tapped it with a brittle finger. 'From here, Inspector.'

Hobbes
leaned forward, sniffing the outside of the box, a box identical to the
hundreds of others in the storeroom.

'Were
any of the others touched?' he asked.

Mr
Biggs shook his head. 'No. At least, it doesn't appear so.'

'So,
what drew your attention to this one?'

Mr
Biggs looked puzzled. 'What do you mean? The bracelet was missing that's all.'

Hobbes,
frowning, glanced along the rows of boxes. 'How did you know something was
taken from this particular one? Did you check all of them?'

It
sounded like a good point to me.

Mr
Biggs's face, which had been as pale and lumpy as uncooked pastry, reddened.
'What are you trying to say? Are you accusing me of something?'

'No,'
said Hobbes mildly. 'Is there something I should be accusing you of? I was
merely trying to establish a fact. How did you know something had been taken
from this particular box?'

'This
is outrageous.' Mr Biggs was getting himself into a strop. His little feet stamping
on the ground, he puffed out his chest like a robin. 'I shall have a strong word
with your superiors, Inspector. I don't expect to be treated like a criminal in
my own museum. Now get out!'

Hobbes
scowled, leaning ever so slightly towards him, looming like an elephant's foot
over an anthill. 'I am investigating a crime. Please answer my questions, sir.'

Mr
Biggs's bluster collapsed. 'Don't hurt me!'

'I
never intend to hurt anyone.' Hobbes's smile held all the friendliness of a
hyena.

Though
he hadn't done or said anything threatening, I felt the intimidation like an
approaching storm at sea. Mr Biggs's eyes goggled behind his spectacles, his
jaw moved up and down wordlessly and he staggered as if he'd been punched.

Hobbes
helped him to his chair. 'Now, sir,' he asked, his voice gentle, 'how did you
know something had been taken from this box?'

'I
didn't know.' Biggs's voice grew shrill. 'I just suspected something when I saw
the hole.' His breathing had become heavy and runnels of sweat streaked his
face.

'What
did you suspect?'

'That
the bracelet had gone. It's an unusual piece. I don't mean the workmanship or
the materials. They are not exceptional. It's the design.'

'Go
on,' said Hobbes.

'The
… er … Order of St George used the symbol of a dragon with the tail coiled
round its neck in the fifteenth century. It is rare to come across them
nowadays: unique, I believe, in Sorenchester. Though they have little intrinsic
value, they are worth a great deal to collectors interested in the Order.'

'What
is the Order of St George?' I asked, too intrigued to keep shtum.

'All
in good time, Andy,' said Hobbes, raising his hand. He turned to Mr Biggs, 'How
did you know it had gone missing, sir?'

'I
saw the hole and guessed it had been stolen.'

Hobbes
persisted. 'Why?'

'I
don't know. It was a guess.'

Hobbes
stared at Biggs who squirmed and twisted like a worm caught in the mid-day sun.
'What made you think the thief would bypass all the other boxes and go straight
for this one?'

It
was obvious even to me that Biggs was hiding something, yet the man looked so
deflated and shrivelled I couldn't help feeling sorry for him. He was gulping
like a fish, his face pale again, with an unhealthy sheen like on a lump of
putty and the thought occurred that he was going to pass out, just as he passed
out. His eyes rolling, his mouth dropping open, he clattered from his chair
with all the elegance of a sack of potatoes.

'Oops,'
said Hobbes. 'I didn't think I was pressing him too hard.' He knelt, loosening
the man's collar, checking his pulse. 'Still alive at any rate, though I'd
better phone for an ambulance.'

He
did so and prowled round the storeroom for a few minutes until the paramedics
turned up. They bustled in, performing some quick tests on the patient, and
wheeled him away. They obviously knew Hobbes of old and gave no indication of
surprise to see him beside an unconscious witness.

Hobbes
grinned. 'Well, that's mucked things up. Still, it wasn't my fault. I suppose
he just fainted. It's a shame, because he knows a lot more than he wants to
tell.'

I
nodded, shaken by the little man's collapse. I'd never seen anyone go down in
such a way before, yet Hobbes was right, he hadn't touched or threatened him.
Not exactly.

'Have
you ever heard of the Order of St George?' I asked, since it meant nothing to
me.

'No
more than Biggs told us.' He shrugged. 'Still, it might be worth finding out
whether anyone does collect that sort of stuff around here. I rather formed the
opinion that someone does.'

I
agreed. 'It was as if he expected someone to steal it.'

'Right,
and yet he didn't try to stop it, though I think he was upset it had gone.'

'He
looked frightened to me,' I said, 'even before you interrogated him.'

'It
was hardly an interrogation, but it's an interesting observation. Frightened,
you think? I wonder why? Anyway, we'd better go.'

We
left the storeroom, passing some of the museum staff who'd gathered to watch
their curator being removed. Some angry comments were directed at Hobbes but I
don't think he heard them. It was a relief to get outside into the fresh, cool
air. Still, the day was proving more exciting than the previous Sunday
afternoon, when I'd had my lunch in the Bellman's, drunk too much, returned to
my flat and fallen asleep on the carpet in front of my telly. My ex-telly, I
reminded myself, on my ex-carpet in my ex-flat.

Hobbes,
staring at the railings around the museum, began crawling slowly along the
pavement. I watched, fascinated, once again reminded of an enormous bloated
toad, though toads don't sniff.

'Aha.'
He stopped, squatting before a section of railings.

'What
is it?'

He
pointed. 'Look, the paint's chipped near the base and there's no sign of rust,
so it must be recent – and look up there. Can you see the smudges? That must be
where the thief climbed over to get access to the wall. Hallo, hallo, hallo,
what have we here then?' Reaching round the back of the railings, he held up a
pair of latex gloves between dagger-like fingernails. 'He was careful not to
leave any prints anyway. Still, though this isn't a busy road at night, there
would have been a risk of being seen, unless there was a lookout.' He sniffed
at the gloves and wrinkled his nose. 'Too much powder in these.'

'Phil
and Tony Derrick?' I said, more as an accusation than a suggestion.

'Perhaps,'
he said, 'but don't jump the gun. It may not have anything to do with either of
them. Coincidences can happen.'

'Now
what?' I asked. 'Do we go and find Phil?'

'Later.
First, I'd rather have another chat with Mr Biggs, when he's in a more
cooperative frame of mind.'

'You
mean a conscious one?'

He
grinned. 'That would, of course, be an advantage. Until then, there's one or
two things I must do back home and I ought to go and make some notes back at
the station. What do you want to do?'

'Actually,
I think I might go and have a look at my flat. What's left of it.'

'Fine,'
said Hobbes. 'I'll see you at suppertime. At six o'clock.'

We
parted and I walked through town to the remains of my former home. From a
distance – and from the right angle – the block looked the same as always. Then
the outside of my flat came into view, the walls stained with great, heavy
swathes of smoke, as if some careless painter had used a huge, broad brush to
streak black paint. Every window was shattered and the roof had partly
collapsed. The whole block had been boarded up and tape was stretched across
the front door, warning that the structure was unstable. I realised I had not
been the only victim: all the other flats had been evacuated, too. I had a
sickening suspicion that I'd started it, certain I'd left the electric fire on
when I'd crashed out, remembering being careless when discarding my clothes. As
I gazed up at the ruined first floor window, I realised just how lucky I'd been
that Hobbes was passing, because I doubted anyone else could have done what
he'd done. In fact, if he hadn't actually done it, I wouldn't have believed
anyone, least of all a big bloke like him, could have scaled the wall and
carried me down. There really was something strange about him.