Read Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) for Free Online Page A

applying,
to other road users. It was the same with one-way signs and he regarded red
lights as optional. As we hurtled past the speed camera on Fenderton Road, he
waved his warrant card in the instant it flashed. Gripping my seat, wide-eyed, speechless,
I sat, anticipating a violent end at any second. As we passed the cemetery, I
tried to take my mind off the fear by imagining which plot I'd fill, assuming
they didn't cremate me. Would, in fact, enough of me survive the inevitable
smash to make a funeral worthwhile? My strategy was not working so well as I'd
hoped and, once again, I was considering flinging myself into the road when
Hobbes, with a crazed chuckle, spun the wheel to the right.
    'This
is it,' I said to myself, shutting my eyes as we turned in front of a council
lorry, 'I'm going to die.'
    I
didn't and, when I looked again we'd made it into Alexander Court, a quiet side
road lined with tall trees, behind which stood a scattering of large, old
houses. Hobbes braked as we approached the end of the road, gravel crunched,
and he skidded to a halt on the drive of a house, impressive, even by comparison
to the others.
    He
smiled as we got out. 'Roman's empire. Nice isn't it?'
    'Not
bad,' I said.
    From
its high gables, its banks of chimneys, rising like towers, its neat rows of
glittering, leaded windows, looking out over formal gardens, seemingly large
enough to form a small farm, I guessed it dated from Victorian times.
     'He
was well off, then?'
    'Rolling
in it,' said Hobbes. 'At least by normal standards. He admitted, if that's the
right word, that he was a wealthy man, though I gather times had been harder in
the recent past. He wasn't forthcoming on the source of his wealth, though I
suspect his parents left him plenty. They certainly bought this place just
after the last war and he inherited it. Mr Roman lived quietly and rather well
and, for the most part, without the necessity of having to work for a living.
He enjoyed foreign holidays, good restaurants, Saville Row suits and those sorts
of things and, until fairly recently, kept a cook, a maid and a gardener. It
seems he spent his time playing the fiddle and painting.'
    'A
gentleman of leisure? Lucky bastard.' I grinned. 'I've always wanted to be like
that.'
    'May
I remind you the lucky bastard hanged himself?' Hobbes's stare nearly knocked
me backwards.
    'Sorry,'
I mumbled, 'was he … umm … a good painter?'
    He
shrugged. 'From what I've seen, he was a decent draughtsman with a real eye for
colour, though with something of a magpie style. One work would be reminiscent
of Cézanne, the next Rousseau or maybe Matisse. He even appears to have gone
through a Daliesque phase. In my estimation, his paintings look good but reveal
little of the artist, except to suggest he was intimately acquainted with the
works of the masters. His work is more pastiche than original, if you follow
me.'
    Though
my knowledge of art is poor, in truth almost non-existent, I nodded as Hobbes
stood before me, his voice soft, his demeanour thoughtful. It was hard to
believe he was the same man who'd just threatened my life with his lunatic
driving.
    'Come
on,' he said, approaching the front door. 'Let's take a look inside. Stay
behind me and don't touch anything. Right?'
    I
stood back, expecting him to have a key. Instead, he thumped the door once with
both fists and, as it swung open with a tortured creak, I followed him inside.
    Mr
Roman obviously hadn't tidied up after the burglary. The finely patterned
carpet, though well worn, was deep and soft, sprinkled with shards of broken china.
Hobbes strode into what he called the drawing room, where the French window had
been boarded up and slivers of glass glittered on the floor. Dropping to his
hands and knees, he crawled about, apparently oblivious to the risk of cuts. He
searched thoroughly, occasionally grunting, once or twice sounding as if he was
sniffing, while picking up a number of wedge-shaped slivers of dried mud from
the