Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (24 page)

'A
nice man … umm … chap, Rocky,' I said, as we narrowly avoided a wall.

'Indeed.
He's the white sheep of his family; some of the others aren't quite so
civilised but the Olde Troll's always been a good friend.'

Hobbes
swerved to avoid a tractor and began humming 'Dooby Dun' under his breath.
Though I thought I almost recognised the tune, I couldn't quite get it.

'What's
the song?'

'Dooby
Dun,' he replied, 'by Gill Butt and Sully Van.'

'Strange.
I thought I knew it. How's it go?'

'When
constabulary duties dooby dun, dooby dun,' he sang in a surprisingly mellow, if
noisy, baritone.

I
joined in. 'A policeman's lot is not an happy one.'

'All
wrong of course,' he said. 'It's fun being a policeman.'

Looking
at his manic grin as he hurtled past the red light at the end of the Green Way,
I could believe it.

We
made a brief stop at the police station and, since he said he'd only be a short
while, I decided to wait in the car. After a couple of minutes, PC Wilkes
walked past, grinning and waving, while I pretended to be engrossed in a map
book.

A
few moments later, Hobbes returned. 'We might as well leave the car here.
There's plenty of time for a brisk walk home before supper and I haven't had my
exercise today. Come along, and quickly.'

Understanding
how a fat, lazy cat must feel when plucked from its cosy doze by the fire and
turfed out into the night, I got out with as much enthusiasm as I could muster,
which wasn't much, although the relief of not having to endure his driving
again was some comfort.

'PC
Poll's much better,' said Hobbes as we set off for Blackdog Street. 'He
suffered a very minor concussion and is resting at home now.'

Though
I'm sure he wasn't trying, his stride was just long enough to compel me to
scurry in an undignified fashion to keep up. 'Good,' I said, two steps behind.

'Actually,
they're all out of hospital and there's a nice little article about the riot in
the
Bugle
– George Wilkes showed me – and there's a fine photograph of
you. Here, take a look.' Rummaging in his coat pocket, pulling out the evening
paper, he handed it to me.

A
fine photograph? I could see why Wilkes had grinned. Cringing, open-mouthed,
handcuffed, gormless, I dominated the front page, Constable Poll's long arm
feeling my collar, an angry woman waving a bony finger under my nose. My
expression was similar to the one I'd displayed when the bloodthirsty hamster
had savaged my ear. I gritted my teeth, thinking what a proud man my father
would be if he ever saw it. Still, I didn't look as agonised as Dreg's former
master, who was brandishing a bit of fence while the dog ripped his trouser
leg.

A
teenaged-boy, all zits, lank hair and dandruff, glanced at me in passing. He
nudged his mate and his mate nudged another mate who was holding the
Bugle
.
They all sniggered.

'There's
still no sign of Mr Waring, or of Mr Biggs from the museum,' said Hobbes,
seemingly oblivious to my embarrassment.

'Oh,
isn't there?' Trying to play it cool, I caught my foot on a cracked paving slab
and stumbled. As the sniggers ripened into jeers and laughter, I was glad I was
making someone happy. Actually, I wasn't. I'd have much preferred to make them
very miserable with my boot. However, I kept running after Hobbes, trying to
pretend I never noticed lower forms of life. 'Dignity is the ticket to
success,' my father used to say, though I never believed there was much dignity
poking around in people's mouths.

'The
forensic lads got back about the body,' Hobbes continued, 'and made a positive
DNA match with Jimmy Pinker, so there's no doubt he was the victim. He'd been
killed by a single thrust of an extremely sharp blade into his heart. There's
no sign of the weapon yet. What's more, whoever messed up his face did it with
a shovel after he was dead.

They
also tested the mud on his wellingtons; it was probably from Mr Roman's garden,
and the dried stuff I found in the house fits the tread, plus there were fibres
from the carpet, proving Jimmy was at Mr Roman's shortly before he was killed, so
it is likely he was the one that broke in. However, as he wasn't a smoker, the
cigarette butts in the bush suggest an accomplice, unless by coincidence
another individual hid there at roughly the same time.'

'Oh,
right.' I tried to throw my mind back to the body in the grave case. All the break-ins
and the attack on Mr Barrington-Oddy had almost driven it from my mind and I
was surprised Hobbes was still interested. 'Poor Anna,' I said, remembering her
big eyes and smile.

Hobbes
nodded. 'I'd already warned her to expect the worst. She took it as badly as
you might expect. She's a soft-hearted young lady and I've arranged for a
friend to stay with her; she'll need one. If there's one thing I don't like
about policing, it's telling bad news to people. Still, she deserves much
better than poor Jimmy and maybe she'll be luckier next time around.'

I
was touched by his thoughtfulness; sometimes he appeared almost human. With
that, a thought, germinating in a dark corner of my brain, sprouted making me
gasp and my head spin as I struggled to comprehend what it meant. PC Wilkes had
suggested Hobbes was unhuman. Hell's Bells! Though, almost from the start I'd
realised he was different, it had never crossed my mind that he might really
not be a human being. After all, being human was the least anyone might expect
from a policeman.

I
doubt the possibility would ever have crossed my mind had I not already met the
ghouls and Rocky, the Olde Troll, who looked like a man. Shaking my head, I
tried to dismiss the idea, yet, in a crazy way, it made sense. It was more than
possible Hobbes wasn't human. Yet, if not, what was he? And how would I be able
to find out? Suddenly, I was trembling: not with fear but with a strange
excitement.

Hobbes's
great hand patted me gently on the shoulder and I stumbled. 'Chin up, Andy.
It's difficult being around murder cases when you're not used to them – it's
bad enough when you are used to them. I'm sure Anna will come through this
ordeal and we will catch the culprit.'

I
nodded, my thought processes temporarily scrambled. 'Good,' I said, flattered
by the 'we', until I realised he meant 'we, the police'.

'Evening
all,' said a slurred voice from ankle level.

Billy
Shawcroft sprawled on his back in the doorway of the teashop, a blissful smile
splitting his face.

'Hello,
Billy. Are you drunk?' asked Hobbes.

'Yes,'
said Billy, 'and in the morning I shall be hung-over. Featherlight's got some
cheap new beer called 'Draclea's Bite'. It's strong shtuff, though it tashtes
of oven cleaner and nobody will buy it. He shays I can 'ave it.' He shivered.

'Very
good.' Hobbes, bending, lifted Billy to his feet. 'Now, mind how you go and be
careful where you go to sleep. It's cold at night.'

'Tha's
alright.' Billy smiled. 'I'm gonna work now. It's warm enough in the
Feathersh.' A frown congealed his face. 'I got shomething to tell you.' There
was a pause and an hiccup. 'Tony Derrick was in town today. Thish afternoon. He
was driving a big blue car along The Shambles. I thought I should tell you. '

'What
sort of car?' asked Hobbes.

'I
told you, a big blue one. I dunno the make. Bye Bye.'

He
began his journey to the Feathers, taking the long route, via both sides of the
road, once colliding with a lamppost, and apologising profusely for his 'clumsinesh.'

'He
likes a drink rather too much,' said Hobbes, unnecessarily. 'Still, he's a good
man. We now have further evidence of Tony Derrick's involvement in the attack
on Mr Barrington-Oddy. Now hurry up, or we'll be late and I'm getting hungry.'

As
he increased the length of his stride, I alternated between a jog and a scurry
to keep up. We passed the front of the church where Kev, leather clad and
helmeted was revving up an enormous motorbike. With a cheery thumbs up, he
roared off down the road.

Hobbes
chuckled. 'There goes our curate. He used to be known as Kev the rev in the old
days, when he was in a biker gang and a bit of a bad lad. It was just foolish
pranks for the most part and nothing malicious, though I had to have a stern
word with him in the end. Shortly afterwards, he found religion and now he's
Kev the reverend. He still likes his bike though.'

I
was panting by then. 'I met him this morning. He's the one who pointed me to
the pamphlets about the Roman Cup.'

Hobbes
turned to nod. 'Yes, he'd need to. He's only been back in town a few weeks and
is still learning. If you really want to learn about the church's history you
should have a word with Augustus Godley, his great grandfather. He was church
warden for many years and what he doesn't know about the old place isn't worth
knowing.'

We
turned into Blackdog Street as the rain, which had been threatening violence
for hours, began its attack. Apart from a glance at the frowning sky, Hobbes
didn't appear concerned but I scuttled for the front door of number 13, the key
already in my hand. Heavy drops were already spattering the pavement as, opening
the door, I dived for cover. There was a deep, booming woof, as if from an
aggressive tuba, a pair of big black paws thudded into my chest, knocking me
back through the door, down the steps, onto the pavement at Hobbes's feet.

He
laughed. 'Beware of the dog! He's a bundle of fun isn't he?'

Pinned
to the ground, on my back like a defeated wrestler, stunned and winded, I tried
to work out if Hobbes's last remark had been directed at me or the dog, who had
begun worrying my tie, though the tie wasn't half as worried as I was, even
though he didn't hurt me.

'Drop
him,' said Hobbes, 'and get inside out the rain.'

Dregs,
tail wagging like he'd just done something clever, bounded up the steps with
Hobbes, leaving me to stare into the night sky, rain water pooling in my eye
sockets.

A
middle-aged couple passed by on the other side, tutting in disapproval. The
woman had a penetrating whisper. 'That one's started early. Disgusting! Someone
really ought to do something about people like him.'

'I
haven't been drinking. I've been steamrollered by a huge, hairy, horrible
animal. I need help.' That's what I wanted to say but the only sound I could
force out was a piteous little whine.

'Are
you going to lie out there all night?' asked Hobbes, looking down from the
doorway. 'You'll get wet and miss your supper.'

Struggling
to my feet, I stumbled up the steps, the bloody dog cocking an evil eye at me
as I entered the sitting room. Hobbes patted its head and it followed him into
the kitchen, while I dripped upstairs to change my wet clothes, to wash away the
street. In my bedroom, I unwrapped the soiled bandage from my hand, pleased the
skin beneath was pink and shiny and, though it felt stiff, it appeared to be
healing well. I removed my jacket, all grimy and soggy, stinking of wet sheep
and, more worryingly, urine, and dropped my trousers. They were round my ankles,
I was bending to remove them, when the door opened, striking me firmly on the
backside.

Mrs
Goodfellow entered with the trousers I'd ruined in the morning hanging from her
skinny arm. 'They're all cleaned and repaired. Have you lost something?'

'Only
my dignity, though there wasn't much to worry about.' I tried to cover myself
and look cool. It wasn't easy.

She
smiled, not at all embarrassed. 'You'd better give me those dirty trousers,
dear.' Folding the clean ones, placing them neatly on the dressing table, she
picked up my muddied jacket. 'Cor, you are a mucky lad. It's a good job the old
fellow knows a good tailor and dry-cleaner.'

Resistance
was obviously useless, so, giving up, I handed over my trousers.

'Ooh,
you've got legs like pipe cleaners, dear. They're all thin and white and
fluffy.'

I
said nothing; nothing in life had prepared me for a comment like that. However,
my legs blushed. I'd never suspected they were so bashful.

'They've
gone all pink like Dregs's tongue.' She laughed. 'Now, get dressed, there's
chicken curry for supper.'

All
the meals she'd made so far had scaled previously unimaginable heights of
excellence, yet, as a long-time addict, I needed the occasional curry fix and
it might have become a serious matter of concern if she hadn't cooked one just
in time. I could have kissed her had my legs not objected, refusing to take a step
until she'd left the room. Then, dressing quickly, I bounded downstairs, only
just avoiding Dregs who'd fallen asleep halfway.

The
curry, after the inevitable delay for grace, was a truly sensational meld of
mysterious spices, flavours and piquancy that nearly made me cry in ecstasy. I
like to think she'd surpassed herself, though I thought the same at every meal.
Hobbes, too, seemed in dreamy mood as, finishing his last chapatti, he sat back
with a sigh. Someday, I thought, I would have to leave, find a place of my own,
eat normally. The thought was hard to bear and I felt tears starting in my
eyes.