3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (38 page)

‘Only joking,’ I said, ‘but what brings you two here?’

‘Miss Pinkerton mentioned that Wilber’s daughter was in trouble, so I thought I’d offer my services. Alas, it would seem I am too late.’

‘I wish we could go after him,’ I said, ‘because I’m sure he’s walking into a trap. It’s all Kathy’s fault for getting herself kidnapped.’

‘Don’t blame her,’ said Sid. ‘She’s in danger and he’s going because he has no choice. He must help her. That’s what he does.’

‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t really meaning to blame her, but I’m worried. About both of them.’

‘Of course you are,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘Look, it’s still only quarter to three and we’ll probably just about get there in time if we use the Batmobile.’

‘The what?’ asked Pinky, looking thoroughly bewildered.

‘My car,’ said Sid. ‘That’s what Billy calls it on account of it being black and looking like it should have wings.’

‘Great!’ I said. ‘Umm … where is it?’

‘In the Batcave. Before you ask, that’s my garage. Follow me.’

He led us along Blackdog Street and into Pound Street at a steady jog. I wondered where we were heading, for there’d been no room for a garage near his house. The mystery was solved when, having crossed the road, he opened an iron gate in the old stone wall and led us into a courtyard surrounded by eleven garages, their doors painted in all colours. The one he approached was the black one, bafflingly numbered 39. He opened it, tugged at a tarpaulin and uncovered a huge, black, gleaming, very old-fashioned, very American car.

‘That’s lovely,’ gasped Pinky, applying a lace handkerchief to her face, which now matched her clothes. ‘What is it?’

‘That, young lady, is a 1958 Cadillac, Series 62, Extended Deck Sedan. A true classic.’

‘Is it? Good, but does it go?’

‘Does it go?’ asked Sid, chuckling and then looking worried. ‘I hope so. I haven’t actually used it for some time.’

He squeezed into the driver’s seat and a moment later the engine roared. He opened the window as he drove out: ‘That’s a 365 cubic inch V8 engine, packing 310 horsepower. A marvellous machine. Hop in, there’s plenty of room for all of us in the front.’

Exchanging amused, if slightly puzzled glances, Pinky and I got in, sliding along the bench type seat, with me in the middle. It soon became apparent that, despite its mighty-sounding engine, it was a sedate car, comfortable, but totally lacking in zip. It felt slow: frustratingly slow.

‘What time is it now?’ I asked as we reached the outskirts of Sorenchester.

‘Ten to three,’ said Pinky. Her watch, I wasn’t surprised to see, was pink. ‘How long will it take us to get there?’

‘About ten minutes,’ said Sid.

‘Can’t we go any faster?’

He shook his head. ‘She was designed for long, straight American highways, not these twisting Cotswold roads.’

Clutching my hands into fists, forcing myself to sit still, I fought against a repeated urge to ask whether we were nearly there yet, a question that had once so exasperated my father that he’d turned the car around and headed straight back home, instead of to the caravan in Wales he’d rented for a week. The disappointment of that day, of that lost week, still resonated, despite the fact that we had stayed there before. The caravan had been cramped, freezing at night, roasting during the day, mildewed and at the very bottom of a marshy field. It had no facilities, other than a tap at the farmhouse, a good ten-minute trudge away, and an old spade for digging holes when nature called, yet I’d loved it because of the mountains rising imperiously behind, the restless sea over the dunes, the little trout stream, and the space and the freedom. Thinking about it helped slacken off my taut nerves.

Even so, it seemed an age before, rounding a sharp bend, we came in sight of the Squire’s Arms and the River Soren. There was no sign of Billy’s hearse, or of any movement, except for the languid munching of a herd of black and white cows in a meadow on the other side of the road, below an ancient and ridiculously massive church. Sid, slowing to thirty in accordance with the speed signs, was immediately overtaken by a dark-blue van. Ignoring it, he signalled and turned right over the bridge into a lane leading towards Northsorn, with the Squire’s Arms on our right. Its car park was empty, and there was a large, handwritten sign saying: ‘Sorry, closed due to bereavement’. I presumed, and hoped, it was just to deter visitors.

‘Is it three o’clock yet?’ I asked.

‘Two minutes to,’ said Pinky.

‘I don’t like it.’ I said. ‘It’s too quiet.’

Sid parked by a hedge and we got out into a cool breeze, though the sun was bright.

‘Well,’ said Pinky, looking around, ‘what are we going to do now?’

‘Umm … I don’t really know.’

‘I think,’ said Sid, ‘we should stay out of sight.’

‘I agree,’ I said, ‘but then what?’

‘How about,’ said Pinky, ‘finding a place where we’re hidden, but from where we can see what’s going on? Then we might be able to do something, if there’s any trouble.’

Sid pointed downhill. ‘There’s a footpath running behind the pub. We’ll try that, but keep your voices down … and stay alert. This might be dangerous.’

Having no better suggestion, I went with them, feeling horribly conspicuous until, as we reached the path, there were hedges and bushes to hide behind. The path was sticky with mud, with a collage of human and canine footprints indicating what it was mostly used for. As we tiptoed past a hawthorn tree, glowing bright with red berries, we could see a gate leading towards the back of the Squire’s Arms, where the footprints suggested many dog walkers sneaked in for a crafty pint. From there, we could also see one side of the pub, part of the front and most of the car park. As we looked around, wondering if it was the best place, a sudden, stealthy movement ahead made us duck back under the hawthorn’s shade.

A diminutive figure in black from boots to hood, slipping through the gate into the pub’s backyard, concealed himself behind a stack of gleaming kegs, his arms outstretched.

‘That’s Billy,’ Sid whispered. ‘What’s he up to?’

‘Hiding,’ I murmured.

‘Shh!’ Pinky cautioned. ‘Someone’s coming.’

It was Hobbes, walking a little stiffly, I thought, through the front entrance of the car park, sporting a new gabardine raincoat and, unusually, with a trilby pulled low over his eyes. He approached the front of the Squire’s Arms, stopped, folded his arms across his chest, and said: ‘I am here.’

His voice was so hoarse and tense I wouldn’t have recognised it had he not been standing there.

‘Very punctual,’ said Sir Gerald, sauntering through the open doorway. ‘I knew you would be. Your kind has never exhibited any originality.’

‘Where’s Kathy?’ asked Hobbes, barely loud enough for us to hear.

‘She’s currently enjoying a glass of lager with my son. She apparently prefers it to English ale, which is her loss. Did you know this pub gets an honourable mention in the Good Beer Guide?’

‘I’d like to see her,’ said Hobbes.

‘Of course you would, but first I want Duckworth’s notes.’

‘How do I know she’s alright? I want to see her.’

‘This,’ said Sir Gerald, ‘is my game and we will play it by my rules. You’ll see her as soon as I have the notes.’

‘How do I know I can trust you?’

‘You have my word.’

‘That’s good enough for me,’ said Hobbes.

‘It will have to be,’ said Sir Gerald.

Reaching into his coat pocket, Hobbes brought out a notebook and held it up.

‘And the rest of them,’ said Sir Gerald.

He produced three more battered notebooks.

‘Good,’ said Sir Gerald. ‘You can’t imagine the trouble I’ve had getting hold of them.’

‘But why do you want them? They’re only books, full of scribbles. They looked worthless to me.’

‘Because you’re a fool! If any geologist saw them, my little game would be up for good.’

‘This is not a game,’ said Hobbes.

‘It’s the game of life. There are winners and losers. I am one of the winners. You and your kind are the losers.’

‘Games have rules.’

‘Oh, rules!’ said Sir Gerald with a sneer. ‘A man of vision knows when to use them and when to break them.’

‘I want to see Kathy.’

‘Give me the books.’

‘Not till I see her.’

‘Very well. If you swear there’ll be a fair handover, I’ll let you see her.’

‘I swear.’

‘Good. Put the notebooks down and step away from them.’

Hobbes did as he was told.

‘Very well,’ said Sir Gerald, looking over his shoulder. ‘Denzil, would you care to escort the young lady out here?’

Denny appeared, gripping Kathy by the shoulders. She tried to break away, but his hold was firm.

‘Get your paws off me,’ she said, squirming.

Suddenly, with a grimace and a cry of pain, she stopped struggling.

‘Calm down, please’ said Sir Gerald. ‘I’d appreciate your cooperation for just a little longer and then you can go home with your father and we’ll all be happy.’

Pinky couldn’t help snorting. Sid put a finger to her lips.

‘Do you expect to get away with this?’ asked Hobbes.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Sir Gerald, smiling.

‘Your scheme might have worked for your ancestors, but times have changed.’

‘No, they haven’t. Not really. You’ll still find that a little money, judiciously applied, will sway things the right way, especially when there’s a modicum of threat to back it up.

‘And now, Inspector, to prevent any unfortunate misunderstandings, I must ask you to move back and to lie face down on the ground with your arms stretched out in front where I can see them.’

Hobbes did as he was told.

‘Don’t move a muscle,’ said Sir Gerald. ‘I have you covered.’

As he swaggered towards the notebooks, which were fluttering on the tarmac like autumn leaves, Rupert stepped from behind a bush, aiming a double-barrelled shotgun at Hobbes, who appeared to be entirely unaware of the danger.

‘Look out!’ I yelled, ‘he’s got a gun!’

Ignoring Sid’s horrified expression, I ran towards the car park gate. I had no plan, just a desperate urge to do something.

Sir Gerald, glancing over his shoulder, saw me and turned back. ‘I said, “Come alone”. If you had, no one would have been hurt.’ He shook his head and glanced at Rupert and then at Denny. ‘Kill them!’

As Rupert stepped towards Hobbes, the shotgun aimed at his back, a powerful engine roared and a dark-blue van, the one that had overtaken us earlier, hurtled along the footpath directly at Sid and Pinky, giving them no chance of escape. I stood aghast, horrified by what I’d done, hearing her scream, seeing her flying backwards, her arms and legs flailing wildly. I stood there, helpless, appalled, paralysed and unable to flee as two burly men, armed with axes, leapt from the van. One of them charged towards me. Over by the pub, Kathy cried out.

Although my brain was frozen, some deep-seated survival instinct threw me to the ground, just avoiding an axe blow that would have split my skull. Kicking out wildly, I caught the man behind the knee, knocking him down, and jumped back to my feet.

Denny was holding Kathy above his head as if he meant to smash her into the ground. For a moment, he hesitated and frowned.

‘Do it,’ cried Sir Gerald. ‘Now!’

Denny nodded. Shifting his grip, he hurled her at the ground, but, as he did, a vast figure, appearing as if from nowhere, moving with feline grace at cheetah speed, dived full length and caught her.

The axeman came at me again and, as the gleaming blade scythed towards my side, I lurched forward, avoiding the sharp edge and receiving a mighty smack in the ribs from the shaft that knocked me headlong into a bush. I sprawled, winded, bruised and groaning, but, despite the pain, I was back on my feet before the axeman regained his balance.

A shot made us both jump and look towards the car park. Rupert had fired into the body of Hobbes, who was lying motionless on the tarmac. I was still frozen in horror when my assailant, with a cruel grin, raised his weapon and this time I seemed to have no chance of surviving, until a high-pitched howl rang out. It distracted him just long enough to allow me to duck out of harm’s way, but, tripping over my own feet, I fell and was utterly at his mercy, something I doubted he possessed in any quantity. As I cringed and expected pain, a small, solid, black figure leapt up with a fierce cry and nutted the axeman right between the eyes. He went over backwards like a felled tree and the small, solid, black figure pulled back his hood.

‘Wotcha, Andy,’ said Billy, rubbing a graze on his forehead and grimacing. ‘I reckon that got him a good one. I just wish he didn’t have such a thick skull.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, getting to my feet.

‘Are you alright?’

I nodded, though I wasn’t really, feeling bruised and shocked and appalled at what had happened to Hobbes, who was sprawled on the tarmac, with Rupert, white-faced, standing over him, staring at the shotgun. I ran towards the gate into the car park and stopped, open-mouthed, doubting my sanity. Another Hobbes, this one hatless, was in the process of kicking the legs from under Denny, who collapsed like a dynamited factory chimney. Kathy, sitting on a bench, was staring, her eyes as wide as my mouth.