3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers by Wilkie Martin

said a male voice.
    ‘That wanker put me off,’ said a deeper, angry male voice.
    I jerked backwards as the next dart flew past my face, wondering what sort of idiot would throw when someone was almost in the firing line, and what sort of idiot would position a dartboard between the door and the bar. It wasn’t exactly welcoming, but then, as I looked around, nor was the rest of the pub. Dingy was the first word that came to mind, followed by dirty, dismal, disgusting, and smelly. As the third dart hit the board, I took my chance and scuttled towards the bar and, I hoped, safety. I couldn’t see any policemen, just a bunch of drunken, scruffy men hunched on plastic covered stools, glasses in their hands, watching me. One man, flat on his back on the worn, sticky lino, began emitting blood-curdling snores.
    The barman, a tall, skinny old man, whose cardigan was so riddled with holes it might have made a passable fishing net, nodded. ‘You’re not from around here, are you? I know that ’cos we don’t get many strangers in here.’
    ‘I can’t understand why not,’ I said, smiling, trying to establish friendly relations.
    ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
    ‘No… umm … it’s quite quaint, really.’
    ‘It’s a total shit hole,’ said the man. ‘Are you blind?’
    ‘I nearly was,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it dangerous having the dartboard there?’
    The barman shrugged. ‘I didn’t put it there. What’s your poison?’
    Although I hadn’t intended buying a drink, I thought doing so might endear me. ‘A half of lager, please.’
    Someone sniggered.
    ‘We don’t serve poncey drinks in here, mate,’ said the barman. ‘We’ve got bitter or scrumpy.’
    ‘OK … umm … I’ll have a half of scrumpy.’
    ‘We don’t sell halves, except if it’s for a lady.’
    ‘I’ll have a pint then.’
    Turning, he sauntered towards a plastic barrel and poured my drink into a glass that was so chipped and greasy I feared it might be harbouring bubonic plague at the very least. He returned and placed it in front of me. I took a sip, surprised to find it wasn’t bad.
    ‘I went to the police station,’ I said, adopting my most ingratiating expression and leaning on the bar, ‘but it was closed. A lady said I might find a policeman in here.’
    ‘You might,’ said the barman, ‘but that’s none of my business.’
    ‘Isn’t it?’ For a moment, I was stumped. Then I had an idea and addressed the drinkers: ‘Is there a policeman in here?’
    There was silence, apart from a thud from the dartboard, a very rude word and the deeper, angry male voice complaining that I’d put him off again.
    ‘A policeman?’ said a youngish man with a thin moustache and a plastic cigarette balanced on his lip. ‘In that case, I reckon you’ll be wanting Sam,’
    ‘Who’s Sam?’
    ‘Sam,’ said the man, grinning, ‘is a police officer.’
    ‘I gathered that, but where is he.’
    ‘In here.’
    ‘I see … umm … are you Sam?’
    ‘No, but I, too, am a police officer.’
    ‘Well, perhaps you could help me?’
    ‘Perhaps I could, but you’ll be wanting Sam.’
    I addressed the pub again: ‘Which one of you is Sam?’
    Though there was no reply, everyone, except for the two playing darts, was watching me, as if I was a strange curio. Rare inspiration struck.
    ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ I said, pointing at the man lying on the floor, who had stopped snoring, but had started drooling.
    ‘Yep,’ said the other police officer and, as if suddenly realising what he was supposed to do, rose to his feet, a trifle unsteadily, holding out his hand. ‘I’m Constable Jones. Sergeant Beer is, regrettably, indisposed at the present time. How may I help?’
    I shook his hand. ‘My name is Andy Caplet and I have something to report.’
    ‘Go on, then.’
    ‘Umm … it might be better at the police station.’
    ‘He’s come to make a confession,’ said the barman with a grin that was as lacking in teeth as the bar was in