3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers by Wilkie Martin Page A

comfort. ‘I reckon he’s run over a sheep.’
    ‘I haven’t run over a sheep. I don’t have a car.’
    ‘Has it been stolen?’ asked Constable Jones, pulling a notebook from the pocket of his trousers.
    ‘No, I’ve never had one.’
    ‘Then, how did you get here?’
    ‘I walked.’
    ‘I believe you, sir. What brings you to these parts?’
    ‘I’m on holiday.’
    This provoked a general guffaw from the onlookers. It seemed I was the best entertainment they’d had for weeks. With the exception of Sergeant Beer, I was the focus of everybody’s attention and even the darts had stopped flying.
    Constable Jones was shaking his head and grinning. ‘No, really, what are you doing here?’
    ‘I’m really on holiday.’
    ‘Escaped from some sort of institution, have you, sir? We don’t get tourists round these parts, and walkers don’t usually wear tweed.’
    ‘I haven’t escaped from anywhere, I am on holiday and what I choose to wear is my own business. I really have got something terribly important to report.’
    ‘Important, eh? Why didn’t you say so?’
    ‘I haven’t had the chance.’ I said, starting to get flustered. ‘I’ve found a skeleton. Well, my dog did.’
    The levels of public amusement increased.
    Constable Jones made a pantomime of looking about him. ‘Your dog, sir?’
    ‘He’s outside. He found a man’s skeleton on Blacker Knob. It’s been there for about three years.’
    That stopped the laughter and Constable Jones’s expression switched to serious. ‘You’d better come with me, sir.’
    Taking my arm, he led me outside, where Dregs introduced himself by thrusting his nose into the constable’s groin before jumping up and licking his face. Jones, pushing him down, led us to the police station and unlocked the door.
    ‘Come in, sir,’ he said, ‘and bring your dog. I’ll open Interview Room number one and then I’d be obliged if you’d tell me your story.’
    Blackcastle police station, its shoebox entrance hall painted a blotched khaki, the front desk chipped and covered in scrawls, wasn’t much to write home about. The place stank of damp and feet, with an underlying aroma of urine. Jones, unlocking a battered door to the side of the desk, ushered me through a grim, open plan office, with three empty desks, towards Interview Room number 1, which was, so far as I could see, the only interview room.
    ‘Take a seat, sir. Not the wooden one: that’s mine. Would you like a cup of tea? Or would you prefer to finish your scrumpy?’
    I sat down on the cheap, white, plastic chair, behind a manky, old wooden table and, realising I was still carrying my drink, gulped it down and asked for tea. Jones left us for a few minutes, giving me time to adjust. Besides the background stink, the room retained a residual pong of stale coffee and vomit. If I’d stretched out my arms, I could have touched two walls at the same time, had they not been blackened by mould. There was a tiny square of frayed, brown carpet beneath the table and Dregs, having sniffed it with evident interest, rubbed his bottom on it. I tried to ignore him.
    ‘Right sir,’ said Jones, returning with a chipped mug, containing industrial-strength tea, and setting it on the table in front of me, ‘I’ll need to take down a few details.’
    Sitting down, taking out a notebook and a pencil, he prepared himself. I gave my name and address and, despite my concern that he’d react at the mention of Sorenchester, he did not appear to recognise it. Then I explained why I was in the area, avoiding any mention of Hobbes, and how Dregs and I had come across the skeleton.
    ‘That, sir,’ said Jones, pleasantly, ‘is an interesting account, but I wonder if you could enlighten me on one point before we move on? When we were in the Badger’s, you said the skeleton had been there for about three years. What makes you think that?’
    ‘Umm … it was just a guess really. I’ve never seen a skeleton before, but there was