3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers by Wilkie Martin Read Free Book Online Page B

up the courage to ask how old he was, I had ascertained that, despite appearances, he was old enough to have been a policeman for some years before joining up as a soldier in the Great War. Mrs Goodfellow, ‘the lass’ as Hobbes called her, had been orphaned during the Blitz in the next war, and yet still ran Kung Fu classes in the church hall. It was no great step to accept Sid as older, far older, than his smooth, plump skin suggested.
    When we’d finished the borscht, Sid gathered up our bowls, stacked them in the dishwasher and returned to the table with three sundae dishes filled with another dark red, frothy substance. ‘Raspberry mousse,’ he said, before I could embarrass myself. ‘I hope you like it.’
    It was sweet and tart and fruity and smooth and utterly delicious. Hobbes didn’t say another word until he’d scraped the dish clean. Then he said four words: ‘Is there any more?’
    Sid, looking well pleased, fetched him another dish, which went the same way. Although I would have loved to indulge my taste buds, I couldn’t, for my belly was so tight I didn’t dare and it was all I could do to find room for my wine.
    Afterwards, Sid took us through to the lounge, painted a cosy, bright orange, dominated by an enormous book case, and containing a pair of magnificent green leather chesterfield sofas. A capacious armchair was positioned where its occupant might watch the vast television on the wall in total comfort, while benefiting from the fire that was dispelling any hint of autumnal chill and imbuing the air with the soft, soothing scent of warm, ripe apples. Hobbes and I, sprawling, replete, took a sofa each, while our host, having returned to the kitchen, brought in a steaming jug, whence arose the wonderful aroma of fresh coffee, adding to my feeling of comfort and ease. Having filled three translucent white porcelain cups and passed them to us, Sid approached a large, beautifully polished drinks cabinet.
    ‘Could I interest either of you in a snifter of brandy?’ he asked. ‘I fancy one myself.’
    Hobbes nodded.
    ‘I’ll stick to coffee,’ I said. ‘Brandy is a bit strong for me these days.’
    ‘No problem,’ said Sid, pulling out a pair of brandy glasses, filling them and handing one to Hobbes. ‘Perhaps you’d like something else?’
    ‘Umm … I don’t know … I …’
    ‘How about a cocktail? I suggest one the youngsters used to drink in the Old Country.’
    ‘Maybe. Which old country? You don’t really come from Transylvania, do you?’
    He laughed. ‘No, I come from a small village in Norfolk. The Old Country was a wine bar I used to own.’
    ‘You wouldn’t know it,’ said Hobbes. ‘It was way before your time. After he sold it, it became the Black Dog Café.’
    ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Sid, ‘I’ll make you one and see if you like it.’
    With a sinister chuckle, he set to work with three bottles and a crystal glass.
    ‘This,’ he said, handing me the results of his alchemy, ‘is a Brain Haemorrhage.’
    It was an apt name. Floating in a colourless fluid was what appeared to be a small clump of brain with great bloody streaks running through.
    Although I tried to act cool, I failed to suppress a shudder and a grimace. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Two parts peach schnapps, topped with a measure of Irish cream and drizzled with grenadine. It’s normally drunk in a single quaff. I’m sure you’ll like it. Enjoy.’
    Though my brain said ‘no’ and my stomach said ‘no room’, I felt, for the sake of my honour, that I should give it a try. Taking a deep breath, I gulped it down, finding it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. In fact, it was rather pleasant, with a sweet, fruity taste. Overcome with a sudden fatigue, I slumped in the chesterfield, resting my eyes, while Hobbes and Sid enjoyed a heated discussion on the subject of sticklebacks.
    Having exhausted the topic, Sid asked about the investigation.
    ‘It’s too early to tell yet,’ said Hobbes,