Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) by Wilkie Martin Read Free Book Online

his pocket, he led me to a small study, a
smart, cosy, little retreat with a green leather chair on casters behind a
leather-topped desk, with a laptop computer and a modern telephone. Rows of books
lined the walls, obscuring polished oak panelling. A fax-machine rested on a
small table in a corner by the desk, beside a brim-full shredder; a filing
cabinet locked by a steel bar occupied another corner. The carpets, as rich and
luxurious as in the rest of the house, gave the impression of comfortable,
modern wealth. There was no sign of the burglary.
    Hobbes,
muttering about not having the key, wrenched the locking bar from the filing
cabinet, propping it against the wall, rummaging through the folders inside.
    Taking
a seat, I stared out into the back gardens, imagining them in the springtime, an
explosion of colour and life, wondering what fate held for them. Few houses
possessed such a space and I suspected it might all be sold off for development,
which I thought a shame. Hobbes, switching on the laptop, began tapping at the
keys.
    'Well,
well,' he said after a few minutes.
    'What
have you found?'
    'Nothing
of interest, which may be significant.'
    I
shrugged. Finding nothing didn't sound very significant to me. It more or less
summed up my journalistic career. The Bugle had only ever printed my
stuff when desperate for fillers, or one time, after the office party, when
everyone was a little drunk, and my article sneaked in. At least my piece on
the history of smoking had prompted more letters to the editor than he'd ever
received before. I blamed bloody Phil, who, swaying under the influence of
several crème de menthes, had told me tobacco came from potatoes and was
introduced into the country by Mr Chips, who'd also invented the Raleigh
bicycle. I should never have trusted the git, even though he claimed he'd been
joking.
    'By
the way,' said Hobbes, 'when you were staring out the window, did you notice
how soggy the patch of lawn by the French doors looked?'
    I
shook my head. 'Is that significant?'
    'Probably
not. Right, let's get out of here.'
    We
got out. The last thing he did was to pull the front door back into place, wedging
it shut with a piece of wood he broke from a small occasional table.
    'Fake
Chippendale,' he grinned. 'It's worthless. Especially now.'
     
3
    As we
got back into the car and he started the engine, the butterflies in my stomach
began fluttering. The feeling was getting too familiar.
    'Where
to?' I asked, expecting to be heading back into town, probably to the police
station.
    'To
the cinema in Pigton.' He glanced at his watch. 'We'll be just in time for the
late afternoon show.'
    'Are
you off duty?' I asked, hacked off that, if so, he was taking my presence for
granted – not that I had anything planned.
    'I'm
never really off duty, but I find films relax the mind and allow me to think. By
the way, I'm on the graveyard shift later and you're welcome to come along.
I've had a tip off and it might be fun.'
    The
journey to Pigton proceeded without incident until, as we were hurtling down
the dual carriageway, a white Mercedes van had the temerity to pass us.
    'Did
you see that clown speeding?' asked Hobbes, crushing the poor accelerator under
his foot.
    'No.'
I stared ahead, helpless.
    Despite
the engine squealing like a soul in torment, we would never have caught up had
there not been a steady line of lorries in the inside lane and had not a yellow
Citroen in the outside slowed down, signalling to turn right, blocking the van's
progress.
    Hobbes
shook his head. 'Now what's he doing?'
    The
van driver made an attempt to squeeze into an inadequate gap in the inside lane,
'undertaking' the Citroen. He failed and red brake lights stabbed through the
gloom.
    Hobbes
chuckled. 'Now I've got him.'
    I
didn't mean to, but I whimpered as he squeezed us between two lorries, filling
a gap barely big enough for a skateboard. The driver behind hooted and I turned
to see him gesticulating and swearing. Hobbes