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

Author:Martin, Wilkie [Martin, Wilkie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: The Witcherley Book Company
Published: 2013-07-22T00:00:00+00:00

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We made a brief stop at the police station and, since he said he'd only be a short while, I decided to wait in the car. After a couple of minutes, PC Wilkes walked past, grinning and waving, while I pretended to be engrossed in a map book.

A few moments later, Hobbes returned. 'We might as well leave the car here. There's plenty of time for a brisk walk home before supper and I haven't had my exercise today. Come along, and quickly.'

Understanding how a fat, lazy cat must feel when plucked from its cosy doze by the fire and turfed out into the night, I got out with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, which wasn't much, although the relief of not having to endure his driving again was some comfort.

'PC Poll's much better,' said Hobbes as we set off for Blackdog Street. 'He suffered a very minor concussion and is resting at home now.'

Though I'm sure he wasn't trying, his stride was just long enough to compel me to scurry in an undignified fashion to keep up. 'Good,' I said, two steps behind.

'Actually, they're all out of hospital and there's a nice little article about the riot in the Bugle – George Wilkes showed me – and there's a fine photograph of you. Here, take a look.' Rummaging in his coat pocket, pulling out the evening paper, he handed it to me.

A fine photograph? I could see why Wilkes had grinned. Cringing, open-mouthed, handcuffed, gormless, I dominated the front page, Constable Poll's long arm feeling my collar, an angry woman waving a bony finger under my nose. My expression was similar to the one I'd displayed when the bloodthirsty hamster had savaged my ear. I gritted my teeth, thinking what a proud man my father would be if he ever saw it. Still, I didn't look as agonised as Dreg's former master, who was brandishing a bit of fence while the dog ripped his trouser leg.

A teenaged-boy, all zits, lank hair and dandruff, glanced at me in passing. He nudged his mate and his mate nudged another mate who was holding the Bugle. They all sniggered.

'There's still no sign of Mr Waring, or of Mr Biggs from the museum,' said Hobbes, seemingly oblivious to my embarrassment.

'Oh, isn't there?' Trying to play it cool, I caught my foot on a cracked paving slab and stumbled. As the sniggers ripened into jeers and laughter, I was glad I was making someone happy. Actually, I wasn't. I'd have much preferred to make them very miserable with my boot. However, I kept running after Hobbes, trying to pretend I never noticed lower forms of life. 'Dignity is the ticket to success,' my father used to say, though I never believed there was much dignity poking around in people's mouths.

'The forensic lads got back about the body,' Hobbes continued, 'and made a positive DNA match with Jimmy Pinker, so there's no doubt he was the victim. He'd been killed by a single thrust of an extremely sharp blade into his heart.

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