Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) (34 page)

‘But
there’s got to be a first time for everything,’ I said, ‘and isn’t it most
likely that he did bash the poor guy and left him for dead in the alley? What
if somebody else found him first, a tramp maybe, robbed him and then called the
police because he had a bit of conscience.’

‘It’s
one of the scenarios the CID lads are considering. It probably wasn’t a tramp,
though, since the second call was also made from a mobile.’

‘You
know,’ I said, a thought occurring, ‘I wouldn’t be so sure that Featherlight
has never robbed anyone. I saw him once thump a bloke called Lofty Peeke and
take money from his pocket.’

‘Ah
yes,’ said Hobbes, ‘I remember the Lofty Peeke incident and, you’re right,
Featherlight did take money from him. In mitigation, he only took what he
believed he was owed after Lofty had complained about his meal and refused to
pay.’

‘That’s
not much of an excuse.’

‘No,’
said Hobbes. ‘But, there is another factor that must be taken into
consideration: Billy says the Feathers has had considerably more awkward
customers during the last month or so than is usual, all of them large, burly
men, all of them looking for trouble. He reckons someone’s trying to intimidate
Featherlight.’

‘I
can’t imagine him being intimidated by anyone – he’s not even frightened of
you.’

Hobbes
held me in a disconcerting frown for a few seconds before laughing. ‘You’re
right, he’s not even frightened of me and, evidently, he wasn’t intimidated by
the victim, who was a large, burly man. Featherlight claims he’d attempted to
be friendly, but that the man had, I quote, been a complete tosser.’

I
shrugged. ‘I can’t imagine him being friendly with anyone, unless his idea of
it is to knock someone’s teeth down his throat.’

‘True,’
said Hobbes. ‘He is not the most genial of hosts. By the way, I made a sketch
of what the dead man might have looked like without two black eyes, a broken
nose and a cracked skull.’ Digging into his trouser pocket, he pulled out a
crumpled sheet of paper.

Staggered,
as always, at the dexterity of his massive fingers, I saw the image of a
thickset young man with hard eyes and square jaw, an image that reminded me of
someone.

‘I
think I know him,’ I said.

‘Really?
Who is he?’

‘Umm
… I don’t know.’

‘So,
in what sense do you mean you know him?’

‘I’ve
seen him around. His name’s Mike.’

‘So
Featherlight said,’ said Hobbes.

‘Yes,
but the thing is I think I saw this guy on Friday evening. He looks like the driver
who picked up Felix after the picnic.’

‘Are
you sure?’

‘Yes,
if your drawing is accurate.’

‘It’s
only a quick sketch, but, I flatter myself, it’s a reasonable impression.’

I
nodded, hot with excitement. ‘What’s more, I’d seen him before; I’m nearly sure
he’s the guy Featherlight knocked out when they were playing tennis and, come
to think of it, his kit bag had a King Enterprises logo. It didn’t mean
anything at the time.’

Hobbes
sat up from his habitual slouch. ‘That’s very interesting. How sure are you
that it’s the same man?’

‘Quite
sure … umm … I think. I wouldn’t swear to it but I’d bet a tenner that it was,
if I was a betting man and had a tenner.’

‘That’s
good,’ he said, ‘though I’ll need positive identification. How would you like
to see the body?’

‘Not
at all,’ I said, shuddering at the horrible thought, as an even worse one came
to mind. ‘You’re not going to bring it back here are you?’

‘Of
course not. We’ll go and take a look tonight, after supper, and make sure no
one sees us.’

Something
aroused my suspicions. ‘We will go by way of the front door, won’t we? That is,
it will be an … umm … official visit, won’t it?’ Goosebumps were springing up
all over.

‘I
wasn’t thinking so much of going through official channels as going through the
tunnels.’

‘Why?
Wouldn’t it be best if I made an official ID?’ I asked, not fancying going back
underground, even with Hobbes.

‘All
in good time,’ he said. ‘For the moment, I think it would be better to keep
what you said between ourselves.’

‘But
why?’

‘Because,
I don’t want Felix King to know we’ve discovered the dead man’s identity. I’m
sorry he’s a friend of yours but I suspect him of … not being entirely straight
and don’t wish to get his guard up.’

‘He’s
not exactly a friend,’ I said, ‘not really. Not at all, in fact. He sort of …
umm … threatened me if I continued to see Violet.’

‘Go
on,’ he said, slouching back onto the cushions.

I
told him the entire story, including why I’d felt the need to ask about the
wine. When I’d finished, he patted me on the shoulder quite gently. In fact, he
barely left a mark.

‘Never
mind,’ he said. ‘I thought there might be a problem between you and that young
lady. I now understand why you haven’t seen her since the picnic.’

‘It’s
not because I’m scared of Felix,’ I said, ‘although I am a bit, it’s because I
didn’t get her telephone number or address. I can’t believe how stupid I was.’

Smiling,
he raised his eyebrows.

‘Anyway,
I got Felix’s number off the card he gave me and called to check how she was
getting on, but when his secretary realised who I was, she passed on his
message that … umm … steps would be taken if I kept on importuning Violet. She
did though, let on that Violet was alright but taking a few days off work.

‘I
wasn’t importuning her. At least I don’t think so; I’m not sure what it means.
I just hoped the two of us had got, I don’t know, something.’

‘I
would suggest,’ said Hobbes, ‘that you speak to her as soon as possible. I have
observed that time can drive a wedge between friends who stop talking.’

‘I’d
love to, but don’t know how to get hold of her. I was thinking of hanging
around her office to see if I can talk to her when she gets back.’

‘You
could do that, or I could find her address for you. Besides, I think I’d enjoy
a little chat with Mr King – concerning wine, you know? I might also try to
find out about his driver, Mike.’

‘When?’

‘Right
away. Would you like to come?’

‘Me?
Is that alright?’

‘Of
course, you can introduce us. Get dressed like a man of means, and quickly.’

Dashing
upstairs, I put on a light-grey suit, a white silk shirt and, a rarity in Mr G’s
collection, a sober tie. It was only when I was adjusting the tie that I
remembered Milord. He’d vanished, leaving behind a neat pile of perfectly
repaired clothes.

‘Very
respectable,’ said Hobbes, with an approving nod as I came downstairs, ‘though
I’m not quite sure about the slippers.’

Turning
back, I put on a pair of glossy black brogues.

He
was waiting by the door with two bottles of wine in his hand. ‘Let’s get going,’
he said.

‘Where
to?’

‘Mr
King’s offices, of course.’

‘Where
are they?’

‘Didn’t
you look at his card?’

‘Only
at the phone number.’

‘Go
and get it.’

I
ran upstairs, a bead of sweat trickling down my face. On reaching the top step,
I remembered leaving the card next to the phone and, turning too fast, slipping,
I bounced downwards with a series of undignified yelps.

‘No
need to rush, I’ve found it,’ said Hobbes, handing me the bottles. ‘Take these
and let’s go.’

Picking
myself up, I hobbled after him and, since Dregs was still sleeping like a dog,
I enjoyed the rare privilege of the front passenger seat and the feelings of
terror and despair that came with it. I tried not to panic as he hurtled down
The Shambles. The placard outside the
Bugle’s
offices read,
Murdered
Man Dies in Hospital. Police Suspect Homicide
.

‘Where
are we going?’ I asked.

‘Mr
King’s offices are in that new building off the Amor Lane Estate,’ he said
above the wailing of the brakes. ‘Why is that Muppet slowing down?’

‘Because
he’s approaching a busy roundabout,’ I explained.

‘Ah,
a responsible driver.’

As
we sped past the car, its driver, green-faced, goggle-eyed, stared, making me
wonder why he was dressed as Kermit the Frog. I didn’t wonder for long since
Hobbes, taking the short, anti-clockwise route around the roundabout, despite
the coach bearing down on us, drove everything else from my mind. Of course, we
made it unscathed, leaving no casualties.

Within
a few minutes, a sign for King Enterprises directed us towards a glistening,
new steel and glass edifice, in a row with four similar buildings, adrift in a
sea of car parks, grass and ornamental shrubs.

‘I
can’t see any free spaces,’ I said, looking around.

‘This
will do,’ he said, driving onto a patch of lawn and stopping, ‘but try not to
trample the daisies. Follow me.’

He
sprang from the car, slamming the door, marching towards the front of the
building. As I scrambled after him, I dropped one of the bottles. Fortunately,
my reactions were fast enough to catch it on my big toe. Picking up the bottle,
I limped after him.

The
door, one of those electronic ones that should open only after the correct code
has been entered, gave way after one tug from Hobbes. Holding it open, he
ushered me inside and up two flights of stairs; he didn’t approve of lifts and
I was just glad there were so few high-rise buildings in the area. At the top,
we found ourselves in a shiny reception, smelling of newness, with potted
plants, hard seats and a young woman with poodle hair and big glasses. She
looked up, huge-eyed.

‘Good
afternoon, miss,’ Hobbes boomed, ‘we’re here to see Mr King.’

‘How
did you get in?’ she asked, her voice high and squeaky.

It
wasn’t Carol; I hoped her little kindness to me had not cost her.

‘Through
the door and up the stairs,’ said Hobbes, advancing with what I assumed he
meant as a friendly smile.

‘Do
you have an appointment?’

He
waved his hand dismissively. ‘I never bother with nonsense like that. Could you
tell him Hobbes is here? It’s about the wine.’

I
held up the bottles.

‘I’ll
see if he’s available. Are you a wine merchant?’

‘Just
a friend,’ said Hobbes, with a chuckle that turned her face white, despite the
crust of make-up.

‘And
the other gentleman?’ she asked, sticking to her guns.

‘Is
another friend.’

‘Please,
take a seat,’ she said, leaving us at a brisk walk that became a rather
undignified scurry as she exited the room.

Ignoring
the seats, Hobbes followed her, so of course I followed him. The girl, hastening
down a corridor, noticing we were on her tail, squeaked like a frightened mouse
and plunged into a side room. When we got there, two burly security guards in
black trousers and short-sleeved white shirts were waiting at the door. The
girl was behind a table strewn with dirty mugs and even dirtier magazines.

‘Excuse
me, sir,’ said the first guard, a tall man with a shaven head and a deep scar
beneath one eye, ‘I don’t believe you have authorisation to be on these
premises.’ Stepping forward he placed his hand on Hobbes’s shoulder. ‘I’m going
to have to ask you to leave.’

The
other guard, shorter but broader, the possessor of an eternal stare, reached
for Hobbes’s other shoulder. I felt a weird mixture of relief that they weren’t
going to manhandle me, combined with indignation that they hadn’t even appeared
to notice my presence.

‘Ask
me then,’ said Hobbes, smiling.

‘Would
you mind leaving the premises, sir?’ asked the tall one, trying to push him
back.

‘Of
course I wouldn’t,’ said Hobbes, ‘after we’ve had our chat with Mr King.’

The
guards, exchanging glances, pushed in unison. They had as much chance of moving
him as the church tower. Adopting a different approach, they seized his arms,
trying to drag him out, finding an old tree could not have rooted more firmly
than he had.

‘Please,
leave the premises, sir,’ said the tall one, red in the face and puffing, ‘we
wouldn’t want to resort to force.’

‘I
wouldn’t want you to either,’ said Hobbes, pleasantly, ‘because it wouldn’t be
worth it. As I believe I mentioned, we’re not leaving until we’ve seen Mr King.’

In
response, the shorter guard punched him in the stomach before spinning away,
cradling his fist and groaning.

‘Can
we see him now?’ asked Hobbes.

The
taller one, adopting a karate stance, launched into a jumping kick, which might
have looked quite impressive had the strip light hanging from the ceiling only
been a couple of inches higher. As it wasn’t, his leap being cut short by his
forehead striking the fitting, his legs continuing forward with the momentum,
he pivoted in mid-air, plunging down amidst a kaleidoscopic shower of
splintered glass and would have landed flat on his back had Hobbes not caught
him. Brushing the glass from the table, Hobbes laid the man, who was swearing,
yet semi-conscious, on it.