Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (24 page)

I
shook my head, making sympathetic noises. Hobbes, I noticed, was driving with
care and consideration, though his teeth glinted in a broad grin.

‘How
are you coping, since he passed away?’ he asked.

‘I’m
coping just fine without the old devil,’ said Mrs Bishop, with a broad smile, ‘and
I’m glad he’s dead and burned. I hope he continues to burn! God knows he
deserves to.’

‘Will
you be alright … for money and stuff?’ asked Hobbes.

‘I’ll
be fine. I’ve got my little nest egg, something I’ve built up over the years
for when I left him. That should see me alright.’

‘And
you’ll inherit his assets, won’t you?’ I said.

She
shrugged. ‘I suppose so. I’m seeing the solicitor next week to sort things out,
though I doubt the old bugger made a will. He was too selfish to consider what
might happen to me if he died. Still, I will probably be alright. He can’t have
drunk it all away and he’s been getting paid pretty well, since he started
working for King Enterprises.’

‘King
Enterprises?’ I asked, anything to do with Violet interesting me.

‘That’s
right, lad.’

‘Do
you know Felix King, then?’

‘He’s
the boss right?’

I
nodded.

‘Of
course not. Henry wasn’t likely to be mixing in those circles. He worked for
one of King’s underlings, a rather unpleasant young man.’

‘What
did Henry do for them?’ asked Hobbes.

‘I’m
not entirely sure. I think he may have collected rents and debts. Whatever it
was, he seemed to enjoy it and got paid well enough – not that I ever saw a
penny of it. He reckoned he’d soon be getting very much richer and that we’d be
able to move into town.’

Hobbes,
having steered into Mrs Bishop’s yard, stopped the car and leapt out. He opened
the door and offered his hand to help her out.

‘You
are very kind, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It’s a fine day and it’s a wonderful
feeling to be coming home and know he won’t be around.’ She chuckled. ‘Still,
whatever you said to the old devil worked. He didn’t lay a finger on me, though
it didn’t stop his foul mouth. For that I’ve got to thank a panther,
apparently. Thank you for the lift.’

Hobbes
walked her to the front door. ‘Are you sure you’ll be alright, Mrs Bishop?’

‘I’ll
be better than alright. My sister’s coming round this afternoon. I haven’t
hardly seen her since Henry turned bad. Thank you once again. Goodbye.’

She
entered the house, smiling as she closed the door. Hobbes was right about her
becoming a merry widow, though the transformation seemed a little rushed to me,
possibly a little lacking in decorum. I couldn’t blame her.

‘Right,’
said Hobbes, ‘let’s get back for dinner. Hanging round crematoriums always gives
me an appetite.’

The
mere prospect of spending more time alone with Violet unbalanced my mind so
much that the next few hours were a little hazy; I couldn’t even remember what
the old girl prepared for lunch, though I’m sure I ate it alone, Hobbes having
taken Dregs with him to work. Unable to settle, I kept looking at the clock,
standing up, sitting down, walking round the house and garden, watching Mrs G
at work and, generally, fidgeting. In the end, having had enough, she bundled
me out the front door, saying she wouldn’t let me back in until half-past
three.

‘Umm
… but that’ll only give me half an hour to have a bath and get ready.’

‘That’s
more than enough,’ she said, shutting me out and, although I had my key in my
trouser pocket, I didn’t try going back inside. She’d looked as if she meant what
she said and it would have been quite wrong to try forcing my way back in;
besides, I wouldn’t have stood a chance.

Instead,
having wandered aimlessly around the middle of town in a myopic daze, I came to
rest on a bench in the shade of the church, surrounded by a coachload of
tourists listening to some history stuff. A problem with my bench was that,
even after the tourists moved inside the church, the parapet blocked my view of
the clock tower, meaning I had to keep getting up to cross the road, from where
I could see the clock’s hands’ lethargic progress. After repeating the
procedure several times, becoming convinced the clock had slowed down, I
hurried down The Shambles to a jeweller’s shop, where ranks of clocks and
watches in the window confirmed the church’s infallibility.

Seeing
all the shiny stuff laid out before me made me wish I could afford a new watch
to replace the one I’d blown up in a microwave accident, though I was usually quite
happy to be free of time’s tyranny.

So
much rushing around in the sun had got the sweat flowing, so, dabbing my face
with the orange silk handkerchief, I retreated to the bench and fidgeted for
several minutes, trying to keep cool. I was joined by the lanky figure of PC
Poll, who, having marched up The Shambles, sat down beside me. Making a
pretence that I hadn’t seen him, for, despite Hobbes’s influence, a uniformed
police officer, even one I knew quite well, still made me feel guilty, I sat
unusually still.

‘So
it was you, Mr Caplet,’ he said. ‘I might have known.’

‘Hi
… umm … Derek. What’s up?’ I said, turning to face him.

He
smiled. ‘You are. We had a report of a suspicious-looking character casing the
jewellers. What have you been doing?’

‘Nothing
… I only looked in to check the time.’

‘Wouldn’t
it have been easier to look up at the one on the church?’

‘Well
… umm … yes. Actually, I thought it might have stopped.’

‘But,’
said Poll, giving me a sceptical glance, ‘the proprietor reported that you’ve
been staring in his shop every couple of minutes, worrying his staff. He said
you looked nervous and shifty, and he’s correct. Are you sure everything’s
alright?’

‘There’s
a perfectly simple explanation,’ I said, feeling the blush coming.

‘Go
on.’

‘It’s
sort of because I’ve … umm … got a date. I’m meeting a lady at four o’clock but
Mrs Goodfellow won’t let me back in the house till half-past three and I can’t
risk being late.’

‘You’ve
got a date?’ said Poll.

Never
before had I heard such doubt in his voice and, having always regarded him as
far too nice and trusting to be a policeman, I wondered whether I should revise
my opinion.

‘Yes,’
I said.

‘Who’s
the unfortunate lady?’

There
was, I suspected, a hint of a smirk on his face and I didn’t like it. ‘That’s
none of your business. And she’s not unfortunate.’

‘Oh,
go on. I was only joking.’ He smiled.

‘Yeah,
sorry,’ I said, certain my cheeks must be glowing like a sunset. ‘She’s just
someone I bumped into at the Wildlife Park. Her name’s Violet and she’s very
nice.’

‘OK,
Andy,’ he said, standing up, ‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t. Please, just
calm down and don’t go frightening any more shopkeepers. See you.’

He
wandered off along Vermin Street, stopping to chat with half a dozen locals on
his way. Despite his long legs, he rarely got anywhere fast.

As
he left, I decided a brisk walk around town might work off some of my nervous
energy. It worked quite well and I was admiring the way some builders were
transforming a near-derelict house into smart flats, when their radio informed
me the three-thirty news was starting. I raced home, in a panic, sweating like
a racehorse by the time I got in. Opening the front door, charging in, I
galloped upstairs, threw off my damp clothes and oozed into the bathroom.

Though
not a fan of cold showers, a lack of time and my red-hot body tempted me to
make an exception. I hadn’t forgotten Hobbes’s plumbing but hoped, being
prepared, to stand up to it. It was a mistake. Standing beneath the plate-sized
rosette, I turned the tap on, producing a pathetic, tepid dribble. Turning it
full on, disappointingly, seemed to make little difference, so, deciding I’d
better make the most of it, I reached for the soap and lathered up.

The
shower burped and an icy torrent struck me in the back with the power of a
mountain waterfall, knocking me to my knees, then flattening me against the
bottom of the bath. I gasped and squealed, trying to escape, when it stopped as
suddenly as it had started. I raised my head, catching my breath and, with no
warning, it started again, pressing me against the hard, white enamel.
Helpless, I groped for the side, as the gentle trickle returned. I was already dazed,
battered and disoriented before the following deluge demolished me again,
staying full on this time, sometimes scalding hot, sometimes icy cold. In
trying to drag myself clear, I pulled down the shower curtain, the pole striking
my head a stunning blow, while the plastic sheet, clinging around me, turned my
struggles to futility. Like a drowning man going down for the third time, panic
set in, for I couldn’t help believing it was curtains for me. When I opened my
mouth to cry for help, nothing came out, because of the flood going in.

To
my amazement, the inundation ended, the battering ceased, and I was saved. Raising
myself on my arms, I rolled from the bath onto the lino, sucking dry air into
my lungs, choking a while.

‘Don’t
you go dripping all over the place,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, holding out a fluffy
white towel.

I
pulled myself to my feet, wrapping the towel around my waist, and hugged her, any
embarrassment having been swept away in a surge of relief and gratitude.

In
all honesty, I was sure her arrival had saved me from a terribly silly end, the
sort of bizarre death that makes newspaper readers snort with derisive
laughter. At least, that’s how they affected my father and one particular story
came to mind, one he’d read to us at breakfast. It was about a burglar, who,
having used a screwdriver to force open a skylight, had clamped the tool
between his teeth while trying to climb down into the shop. When he slipped, he’d
fallen on his face, forcing the screwdriver down his throat, choking him. I
remembered the incident well for, not only had it been one of the rare
occasions when my father had laughed out loud, but also because he’d
pebble-dashed me with the cornflakes he’d been masticating.

‘Are
you alright, dear?’ asked Mrs Goodfellow.

‘I
am now,’ I said, hugging her again, grabbing at the slipping towel.

‘Good,’
she said, as she turned to leave the bathroom. ‘I came to let you know it’s
ten-to-four, so you’d better get a move on. Your picnic’s all packed and waiting
by the door.’

I
did get a move on, drying myself, dressing and grooming in record time, the
shower having refreshed me no end, leaving me feeling tingling, alert and lucky
to be alive. Examining myself in the mirror, trying my straw boater at various rakish
angles, I indulged myself in a complacent smile. With the blue of my eyes matching
the stripes on the blazer, my brown, wispy hair looking neat, I didn’t think I
looked half bad. Confidence rising, I went downstairs.

‘Very
smart, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘What lady could resist?’

When
the doorbell rang, the lurch in my stomach came not from panic but from
exhilaration and anticipation and I nearly skipped to the front door. I opened
it. There stood Violet, smiling and divine.

‘Hi,’
she said and, just for an instant, her eyes widened, as if shocked at what she
could see. Her smile stayed in place, but that one look convinced me my Technicolor
blazer and straw hat were ridiculous. I wasn’t surprised, for, after all, I was
the same old, hopeless Andy, not the debonair gentleman I’d hoped to be.

‘Hello,’
I said.

Though
she was wearing a simple red t-shirt and a faded denim skirt that must have
seen a few years, even in such simple garments she retained, to my eyes, an air
of elegance and sophistication. Yet something about her was different. Her
expression showing a hint of stress, or possibly distress, I feared my
appearance lay at the root of it.

The
conversation exhausted, we looked at each other and squirmed. At least I
squirmed, trying to work out if I had time to change into something more
appropriate.

‘Hello,
dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow peering out at Violet from under my arm. ‘How are
you?’

‘Very
well, thanks.’

‘Good.
I’ve packed a picnic for you. Now, off you go and have a lovely time. Andy, why
don’t you pick up the hamper?’

‘Umm
… right.’ I squatted down to pick it up, alarmed, if not surprised, by its
weight, as the old girl nudged me outside.

‘Goodbye,’
she said, ‘have fun.’

I
nodded, my confidence already shattered, and followed Violet down the steps.

‘Where’s
your car?’ I asked, looking around, hoping I wouldn’t have to carry the hamper
too far.

‘It’s
just round the bend, behind that white van.’

Something
in her voice suggested a problem. Stopping abruptly, she turned to face me.

‘Look,’
she said, ‘there’s no easy way to say this but my brother wants to come along
and I hope it’s alright with you. You see, Felix has a terribly stressful job
and needs to unwind sometimes. He only said he wanted to come a few minutes ago
and I couldn’t really say no and there was no time to ask you. Anyway, it’ll be
a good chance for you to meet him. I hope you don’t mind?’