Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (4 page)

Finished
at last, I washed my hands, splashed cold water into my eyes, brushed my teeth
and gazed into the mirror. My face was pastry-white beneath ragged stubble, my eyeballs,
glistening like pink mushrooms, stared back. I groaned, finding it difficult to
believe I could feel even rougher than I looked. On bending to drink from the
tap, my brains felt like they would explode and I had to swallow hard so as not
to throw up. The water was cool and, gulping it down, I berated myself, hating that
I'd drunk so much again. Only then did I remember that I should have drafted
and delivered a succinct account of my meeting with Hobbes to the
Bugle
.
Cringing at what the Editorsaurus would say, I hoped to redeem myself with
something brilliant later.

'Hurry
up.' Hobbes's voice reverberated through my soul.

Opening
the bathroom door, I stepped out, attempting to smile through the nausea, intending
to explain that I needed a long, hot shower and a long, slow breakfast but,
before I could start, he seized my shoulder, hauling me from the flat, down the
stairs and into the street. The morning sun, reflecting off the damp pavement,
left me blinking and rubbing my eyes, nearly blind and helpless. As my vision
adjusted, I noticed he was dragging me towards a battered, rusty Ford Fiesta by
the kerb. Opening the passenger door, he pushed me into it.

'Make
yourself comfy and don't forget your seatbelt,' he said, getting in the other
side, grinning, his mouth a mass of yellow fangs.

Fighting
the impulse to protect my throat, I nodded, trying to project an image of
polite alertness and interest. The belt clicked around my belly and he started
the engine with a roar. Why he roared, I'll never know and I came within a
whisker of wetting myself. I felt how I imagined I'd feel if someone locked me
in a cage with a tiger, except tigers are beautiful. The car screeched away and,
before I could plead for release, we were speeding to work.

He
was really speeding, not simply exceeding the speed limit. Gripping my seat,
wrestling with the urge to bail out, I hoped that, with luck, I might end up in
hospital with nice nurses to look after me and no Hobbes to worry about. Yet,
as I stared at the road flying past, I knew I couldn't do it; even if I
survived the leap and the inevitable splat, I'd have trouble explaining my
actions. After all, he'd never done anything to threaten me and flinging
oneself from a moving vehicle because of a vague feeling of horror is a sure
way into the nuthouse. Instead, I shut my eyes, letting my crazy thoughts
divert me from his driving and, eventually, when it looked as if I might
survive, it occurred to me I had no idea where we were heading.

Opening
my eyes, peering around, I saw we were out of town, passing between avenues of
tall, bleak trees, somewhere, I guessed, on the Stillingham Road. 'Umm … where
are we going?'

Hobbes
turned to face me, the car swooping back and forth across the road like a
drunken swallow, causing a van coming the other way to flash its lights. 'To
where Mr Roman's body was found. It's not far. Hang on and relax.'

He
chuckled and, briefly, the idea of leaping from the car regained its appeal as
it crossed my mind that Duncan's so-called 'accident' might have been a cunning
ploy to get out of this assignment. Making an attempt at a smile, sitting back,
I closed my eyes and thought of Ingrid, who sometimes spoke to me. I couldn't
understand what she saw in that smarmy Phil.

Our
brakes screeched, jerking me from my reverie. We swerved, accompanied by the
long braying of the horn from a big, shiny, black car, and both vehicles, pulling
into a lay-by, stopped.

A
furious, red-faced, young man stepped out. He looked like trouble. So did the
other three, their appearances perfectly matching my definition of 'yobs',
especially the one twiddling a baseball bat. As they approached, Hobbes was fiddling
with a map, while I cringed into my seat, aiming for invisibility. The
red-faced one rapped on the door with heavy brass rings.

Hobbes
wound down the window. 'Can I help you, sir?'

'What
the hell d'you think you're playing at, arsehole? You forced us off the bloody
road. You need a lesson.'

'Mind
your language, please, sir,' Hobbes's voice rumbled. 'I wasn't playing. It
appeared to me that you weren't paying due attention to the road conditions. In
fact I considered you were driving to the imperilment of the public and so I
forced you here so I could tell you to drive more responsibly.'

'No
one tells me nothing.' The man cracked his knuckles.

'We'll
see,' said Hobbes, unbuckling his seat belt, opening the door.

I
slid further down, a cold, sick feeling entering my belly.

Taking
a step back, beckoning with both hands, the red-faced man laughed. 'C'mon then,
granddad, if you think you're hard enough. '

Hobbes,
squeezing from the car, straightened up. He was a bulky bloke, I knew, yet it was
surprising how big he'd become, though it was still four against one, and one
of the four was armed. Swallowing as Hobbes advanced, the red-faced man took
another step backwards, looking to his mates, who showed little inclination to
be heroes, except for the one with the baseball bat, who, lunging forward, yelling
fiercely, took a great swing at Hobbes's head. I turned my face away, hearing a
cry of pain; when I looked back, Hobbes was on his knees, the gang standing around
him. Fearing it wouldn't be long before they started on me, I made up my mind
to leg it. After all, what point would there be in me getting beaten up, too?

Leaping
from the car, glancing over my shoulder, I stopped, for, although Hobbes was
kneeling, his legs were straddling the man who'd swung the bat and who now
appeared to be unconscious. He was gently slapping the man's cheek. At least, I
supposed it was meant to be gently.

'Wakey,
wakey,' he said.

The
man groaned, and came to, the splintered stump of his baseball bat beside him.

'I'm
sorry,' said Hobbes, 'I broke your stick.'

Standing
up, he lifted the groggy man to his feet, holding him by the scruff of the neck,
and addressed the yobs. 'Your mate needs a bit of a lie down. Now, you will all
be certain to drive sensibly in future won't you?'

The
man with the red face had changed, his expression of fury replaced by one of
bewilderment, his complexion turned white, with a hint of muddy-green,
reminiscent of some toothpaste I'd once bought in a hippy shop. He nodded.

'Promise?'
said Hobbes.

'I
promise.'

'Okey-dokey.'
Hobbes smiling, swung the patient into the back of the big, black car. 'You may
go now.'

Meekly,
the men got in and drove away.

'That was fun,' said Hobbes, 'but I should
get to work. Come along.'

Where
we'd parked, the road cut through an expanse of desolate, grey, woodland.
Hobbes, sniffing the air, strode into it with me on his tail. The season's fallen
leaves were mouldering in deep drifts around our ankles, the closeness of the
trees making everything gloomy and oppressive, an odour of damp decay filling
my nostrils.

While
he moved swiftly, quiet as a wood mouse, I stumbled over roots, banging my head
on low branches. I was gasping for breath by the time the woods opened out into
a clearing, in which stood a single oak tree, encircled by police tape.

Hobbes
stepped over it. 'Stay where you are. This is where the body was found, hanged
by the neck until dead.'

Although
sweat was already trickling down my back, I shivered, as he squatted on all
fours like a monstrous toad, appearing to sniff the grass. After a few seconds,
he ducked back under the tape, loping into the woods, his knuckles brushing the
ground. I toiled after him as well as I could, for he was following an erratic
course at a deceptive pace, though, as far as I could tell, we were always
heading away from the hanging tree. I blundered along behind, sweating, cursing,
struggling to keep him in sight, already uncertain of finding my way back to
the clearing, never mind to the car, and fearing I'd be in real trouble if I
lost him. My rising fears kept me lumbering forward while too many lagers,
takeaways and days sat on my backside slowed me down. I puffed and gasped, the
blood throbbing in my aching head.

After
stumbling over a crumbling, mossy log, I leaned against a green-streaked tree
trunk, catching my breath, and, by the time I was able to stand upright again, he'd
gone. He'd abandoned me in the woods, in the wild, where anything might happen.
My legs giving way, I knelt in the sodden leaf mould, feeling the damp and cold
spreading through my jeans, longing for the familiarity of town, particularly
that bit where my bed offered warmth and security. I didn't even know why we'd
been running. I'd just been following because I couldn't help myself.

'Come
on, Andy, keep up, lad.' He was standing over me, not even breathing heavily.

Shocked
beyond speaking, filled with an adrenalin rush, I sprang back to my feet. Nodding,
he set off again in the same hunched run, if just a little slower and, somehow,
I did keep up for what I guessed was about twenty minutes. When he stopped and
straightened up, I ran into him.

Without
appearing to notice, he stepped away. Bending forward, resting my hands on my
knees, dripping with sweat, throwing up water, I gulped down air, waiting for my
pulse rate to drop to something feasible, and realising I wasn't as fit as I'd
thought, though I'd thought I was pretty unfit.

'Found
it,' said Hobbes.

Raising
my head, I let my gaze follow his pointing finger towards a silver Audi, parked
down a rutted track through the trees.

'That's
Mr Roman's car.' He shambled towards it, rubbing his huge, hairy hands together
in triumph. 'He must have parked here and wandered through the woods before
hanging himself. There are no signs anyone was with him, so the suicide theory
looks solid.'

He'd
impressed me. I'd seen no trace of any trail.

'Right,
I'll take a look.' He turned to me, efficient and commanding. 'You stay where
you are, and don't touch anything.'

'OK.'
Despite the nausea and headache, I was excited, seeing some real police work. Reaching
into my jeans pocket for my notebook, I remembered it was still in my cagoule,
still in the
Bugle's
office.

Hobbes,
taking a large, red handkerchief, or possibly a small, red tea towel, from his
coat, used it to open the car's door. Scanning the interior, he bent forward,
and the boot opened with a click. There lay a violin case. Opening it, Hobbes
revealed a violin.

'Interesting,'
he said. 'Someone broke into his house, ransacked it and he claimed the only
thing stolen was his violin, which was really in the boot of his car. Mr Roman was
fibbing.'

'But
why?' My teeth had started chattering as the heat of my exertions dissipated
and cold air penetrated my clammy sweatshirt.

He
shrugged. 'Who knows? Possibly he really did have something to hide.'

'It
must have been something serious if it made him kill himself.'

Hobbes
frowned. 'That seems likely. Maybe the burglar discovered a secret and tried to
blackmail him, or perhaps the burglar took something so important he couldn't
live without it.'

Pulling
a mobile phone from his bulging coat pocket, he pressed a few buttons using the
sharp, yellow nail on his little finger. I hadn't really noticed his
fingernails before, which puzzled me, as they seemed to protrude like claws but,
when he put the phone to his hairy ear, they appeared normal, if thick, horny
and yellow is normal.

Having
issued orders to someone, he thrust the phone back into his pocket. 'A couple
of the lads will be here soon,' he said. 'Stay put while I have a poke around.'

Getting
down on hands and knees, he crawled, sniffing and touching. Although
fascinated, I couldn't settle, for throwing up had made me feel better, despite
the chill, and my stomach, now empty, was demanding a fill.

The
lads, actually a gangly constable and a fierce-looking young woman, drove down the
track towards us about twenty minutes later. After briefing them, leaving them
in charge, taking a glance at the sky and a sniff of the air, Hobbes led me
straight back through the woods to the car.

As
he squeezed inside and let me in, my stomach rumbling, I realised just how
sharp hunger pangs could be, though I was glad the excitement and exertion had
overwhelmed my hangover. My head felt clear, my brain ticked over sweetly: all
the fresh air and exercise must have done me a deal of good. All the same, I
would have preferred a couple of aspirins, several mugs of strong coffee and a
relaxing morning in bed. I risked a question.

'Is
there any chance of getting a bit of breakfast? I'm starving and a cup of coffee
would be nice, too.'

He
looked astonished. 'Have you not had breakfast? I thought you must have done,
with those grease stains down your front.' He paused. 'I'll tell you what, we're
heading back to the station and the canteen hasn't killed anyone recently.
They'll do you some grub. I wouldn't touch the coffee but there's a kettle and
stuff in my office.'