Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (32 page)

Hobbes
turned away, Dregs walking to heel like the hero of an obedience school, as the
sergeant locked the door.

'See he gets some grub,' said Hobbes and
turned to me. 'We'll leave him to stew and get our dinners.'

The
thin November sun radiated genuine warmth, though a chill wind dominated the
shadows as we proceeded along The Shambles towards the church, the clock striking
one as we waited to cross the road into Blackdog Street. I was far away,
thinking of chicken soup, when a woman in a black Volvo drove past, her dull
eyes staring at me from a dead head. I shivered, yet, it must have been some
sort of illusion, for the driver turned her head and drove away.

'Did
you see that?' I asked, as the traffic lights changed and allowed us to cross.

'What?'

'I
don't really know.'

'Then,
nor do I,' said Hobbes with a frown.

I
shrugged, yet something still troubled me, as if she ought to have been
familiar.

Lunch
was nearly ready when we got in. Hobbes messed about in the back garden with
Dregs, while I flopped down on the sofa, flicking through
Sorenchester Life
,
stopping when I reached the photo of Editorsaurus Rex. 'Mr Rex Witcherley and
wife, Narcisa, enjoy a joke,' I read and slapped the open magazine down on the
table, afraid I'd been the joke. Everyone else apparently found me a source of
amusement, yet, I had to admit, in my heart of hearts, that I doubted Rex would
ever have given me so much thought. I'd just been an employee, a useless oaf
he'd finally got rid of. Perhaps I was laughable as a journalist, a complete
fool. Still, at least now I'd confessed my appalling trick, I could be an
honest fool and, maybe, I could even help to put things right.

I
tried to think deeply about the cases and see what I could make of them. The
only connection seemed to be something to do with Romania – and Phil didn't
fit, unless he was Romanian and I had no reason to suspect so.

'It's
on the table!' A shrill voice rang in my ear.

I
gasped, collapsing into the sofa. I had not yet developed immunity to Mrs
Goodfellow's sudden appearances.

'Thank
you,' I said, rising on shaking legs, sure that one day I'd suffer heart
failure. At least, it would stop people laughing at me.

As
I joined Hobbes in the kitchen, it occurred to me that, if I expired, I
wouldn't be able to enjoy Mrs Goodfellow's cooking any more. Her chicken soup
was to die for, or, more rationally, a great reason to live. As usual, she
disappeared when we were eating. Unusually, I could hear her rummaging round in
the cellar.

'She's
searching for her roots,' said Hobbes, dunking a chunk of crusty bread into his
soup and slurping with massive enjoyment.

I
nodded, trying to make sense of his enigmatic statement, speculating whether it
might have something to do with whatever lay behind the mysterious door.
However, when she emerged after a few minutes with a basket of turnips and parsnips,
I understood. Yet, the door still irked me. What did it conceal and would I
ever get the chance to find out? Should I even try when it might be dangerous?
Whatever the answers, there were other more important puzzles to solve first,
not to mention concentrating on maximising my enjoyment of the soup.

We'd
finished and were sitting on the sofa drinking tea, when a yawn erupted from
deep within. A disturbed night, an exciting morning and a belly tight with
chicken soup combined to induce an overwhelming fatigue and that first yawn was
like the pattering of small pebbles that presage a landslide. Within moments I
was engulfed and yawning uncontrollably.

'Ooh.'
Mrs Goodfellow's voice seemed to reach me from a distance. 'Hasn't he got
lovely teeth? And so many of 'em.'

I
made a feeble attempt to clamp my mouth shut and vaguely noticed Hobbes
carrying me upstairs over his shoulder. That was all until I woke up, the gloom
and stillness suggesting dusk. I lay in bed in my pyjamas with no memory of
changing; I'd bet Mrs Goodfellow had looked after me.

I
shrugged; she'd seen more of me than any woman since I was eight. Still half
asleep, I winced as an old memory forced itself to the forefront of my
thoughts. Though Father didn't believe in wasting good money on holidays, the
doctor had insisted that Mother needed a break, because of what had happened to
my sister. So, Mother, Father and I went to Tenby. We were sitting on the beach
in late September and I decided I wanted a swim, though the sea was foaming as
a teasing wind goaded it to a fury. While changing, goose pimples modestly
concealed behind the soft folds of a towel, having just reached the awkward
point, having stepped out of my pants, I was bending to pick up my new, stripy
swimming trunks when a vindictive gust tore along the beach, whipping up the
sand into a stinging cloud. Turning my face away, seeing my trunks taxiing for
take-off, I tried to pin them down with my foot, but only stepped on the edge
of the towel, tugging it from my hand. My despairing lunge for the trunks failing,
they accelerated, skimming the sand and flying. A moment later, my towel, too,
took flight like a fluffy seagull, its edge slapping my cheek in farewell. I
stood, exposed and humiliated, convinced the eyes of the entire world were
pointed at me. All my clothes were blowing away as well.

'Don't
just stand there, boy,' said Father, 'go and fetch them.'

Though
I tried to argue, he wouldn't listen. He sent me running along the beach,
trying to retrieve my clothes, my towel and my dignity, while the bullying wind
kept tossing everything just out of my reach and the tourists pointed and
laughed. It had been so long ago and yet it still made me cringe.

Still,
it was all in the past, irrelevant to my current life and, cramming the
thoughts back into a dark recess, I indulged my body with a long stretch. Clean
sheets were still a novelty and the faint fragrance of lavender was relaxing. I
thought I should get up. I'd obviously missed the afternoon and wondered what
we might be getting for supper.

Apart
from a faint murmur of traffic rising from the street outside, the house lay in
silence. Barefoot, I padded across to the window, poking my head between the
curtains, looking out on the twilit town where the streetlights had just flickered
into life, a handful of huddled people hurrying beneath their glow. A glimmer
off the window of a parked car suggested there might already be a hint of
frost. A movement from the roof opposite made me jump and my thoughts flew
towards Hobbes, though it was only a ragged flock of starlings practising touch
and go before roosting.

Somehow,
Hobbes had tracked down Tony Derrick; somehow his bizarre crawling around on
rooftops had contributed. I supposed he might have spotted Tony during his
nocturnal excursion and followed him, or possibly he'd picked up his scent – I
could hardly fail to have noticed that he appeared to use his nose rather like
a dog – and, perhaps, an unhuman possessed other senses, ones I couldn't even
imagine. Yet I knew speculation would not get me anywhere.

I
guessed he'd been interviewing Tony Derrick as I slept, which was good, for the
atmosphere in the interview room had grown too heavy for comfort. It was also a
disappointment, since I'd have liked to see how he prised further information
from the human rat. I hoped he'd found Phil, alive and well, even if it meant
I'd lose any chance of hitting it off with Ingrid. Sighing, I drew the curtains
and dressed, not bothering to turn on the light. Muzzy-headed and heavy after
my nap, I thought a cup of tea might perk me up. There were no lights on and no
sound of movement as I picked my way downstairs, though something delicious was
cooking in the kitchen.

I
put the kettle on, trying to avoid looking at the cellar door, for one day, I
feared curiosity would drive me down there. A click suggested the front door
had opened, the kitchen door, pushed to, flew open and I was engulfed in dog.
Though Dregs had apparently decided I was one of the pack, a friend, and showed
delight at seeing me, his enthusiasm seemed almost as bad as his earlier
aggression. He was exuding tail-wagging bonhomie and an overpowering doggy
odour as he alternately thrust his head into my groin or leaped at my face to
favour me with a good licking. Behind the disgust, I almost felt pleased.

'Get
down, you daft brute,' I said, patting his head, making an effort to keep it
where it could do least harm.

'Hello,
dear.' Mrs Goodfellow materialised at my side.

As
I flinched, the dog took the opportunity for one last lick.

She
smiled. 'Did you sleep well? You've got to be careful not to overdo things.
There's not many can keep up with the old fellow.'

'Yes,
I think I needed it. Now I need a cup of tea.'

'I'll
make it,' she said. 'I don't want you setting fire to anything.'

Afterwards,
filled with tea, I felt better until she sidled up.

'Would
you give me a hand, dear?'

'No.'
I recoiled. 'You've got enough. You can have my teeth when I've finished with
them but not my hands.'

She
hooted with laughter, her gummy mouth beaming hilarity. 'No, dear. Could you
give me a hand to wash Dregs? He stinks and I don't want a dirty dog in my
nice, clean house.'

'Oh.
I see what you mean … umm … do you think it's wise? He's a big dog.'

'That's
why I need help. I'll hold him down and you can wash him. I've got some special
dog shampoo.'

I
didn't really have a choice. 'OK.'

'Right,
let's get him up to the bathroom. I'll carry him and you can open the doors.
Alright?'

Dregs
was sniffing the flip-top bin in the corner when she bent and took him by
surprise. He yelped and kicked as her scrawny arms seized him, sweeping him off
his feet. Big, frightened eyes looked to me for sympathy, as I led the way
upstairs.

I
shrugged. 'Sorry mate, but she's right, you do stink.'

Part
of me thought I ought to be carrying him, yet the old girl was already jogging
upstairs as fast as I could go. At the top, I flung open the bathroom door and,
as I shut it behind us, the prisoner, recognising his cruel fate, howled.

After
I'd filled the bath with lukewarm water, Mrs Goodfellow dunked him like a
biscuit, amid a frenzy of splashing and kicking until the futility of
resistance struck him, making him stand stock still, a picture of abject
misery. Lathering his rough coat with dog shampoo, I rubbed it in. Now and
again, his memory failing, he restarted the struggle, yet he stood no chance
and, in a strange way, it made me feel better that I'd been knocked out by her;
I, too, had stood no chance.

Eventually,
as she lifted the defeated creature from the water, I helped towel him down. When
freed from her iron grip, he still retained sufficient sogginess to drench us as
he shook his coat, shedding all gloom and resentment in that glorious act of
sweet revenge, scampering round the bathroom, rubbing himself on every surface,
playful as a puppy, until Mrs Goodfellow, opening the door, released him into
the community. He threw himself downstairs while we did our best to dry
ourselves and clean up.

'The
old fellow will be back for his supper soon,' she said, scrubbing away a muddy
patch.

'Good,'
I said, 'what is it?'

She
smiled. 'I like to see a young man with a healthy appetite. It's steak and
kidney pudding, one of his favourites. I hope you like it?'

'I
don't know. I've had steak and kidney pie and that was alright.'

'The
old fellow likes the pudding best – it was his first decent meal after getting
out of hospital in the war.'

'Was
he wounded?'

'He
was shot as full of holes as a colander.'

'Where
was he shot?'

'In
the Arras area. They thought he'd die until one of his mates patched him up and
held him together.'

I
was shocked, finding it difficult to imagine him ever being hurt, for he exuded
such an air of invulnerability that it didn't seem right that he could bleed
like anyone else. Yet, I'd recognised the sensitivity in his paintings and seen
occasional compassion in his actions. Perhaps, he wasn't so very different.

Arras?
I groped in the haze of memory; surely it had been a battle in the First World
War? Hobbes was amazing.

'I'm
glad he pulled through,' I said.

Mrs
Goodfellow beamed. 'So am I dear, otherwise neither of us would be here.'

I
couldn't disagree. He'd saved my skin three times already. 'Has he ever rescued
you?' I asked.

She
nodded, giving the bath a final wipe and standing up. 'It was during the Blitz.
Our house got bombed and my family was killed. All I remember is a horrible
noise and the ceiling falling down. I was buried and it felt like I lay in the
dark forever. Then everything lifted and the big policeman was kind. That was
the old fellow.'

It
was another shock, for, although I'd worked out that Hobbes was ridiculously
old, I'd assumed she was as well, because she looked ancient. The idea of her
being so much younger flabbergasted me.