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

no flesh on him and his clothes, or what was left of them, looked modern.’
    ‘Him, sir? What leads you to suppose it was a male skeleton?’
    ‘Well, I don’t know really. It was quite big and the skull had brow ridges, but I’m just guessing.’
    ‘You had no idea there’d be a body there?’
    ‘None at all. I’d never been there before.’
    ‘Could you point out the location on your map?’
    ‘Umm … I’m not sure … I don’t have a map.’
    ‘I find it interesting that someone who has never been around here before manages to walk straight from Blacker Knob to Blackcastle without a map. How did you manage it?’
    ‘I reckoned that, if I headed … umm … east, I’d find the town. I left a trail so I can take you back.’
    ‘How did you know you were on Blacker Knob?’
    ‘I didn’t know,’ I said, surprised at the acuity of Jones’s questioning and getting agitated, ‘… I think someone must have told me.’
    ‘Who? When?’
    ‘I can’t remember.’ As I floundered, I wished I’d paid more attention to Hobbes when he was giving me a cover story.
    ‘I’m forming the opinion,’ said Jones, ‘that you are withholding information. I wouldn’t advise you to do that, sir.’
    A small flare of anger erupted. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘the important thing is that I’ve found a skeleton. The man may have been murdered and …’
    ‘Murdered, sir? That’s a new one. What makes you think he might have been murdered?’
    ‘I don’t know … it looked like he’d had a bump on the head.’
    ‘Did you bump him off, sir?’ Constable Jones’s gaze held me in a tight grasp.
    ‘No … no. It wasn’t me,’ I said, squirming, but unable to break his stare.
    An electric bell rang, making me jump.
    ‘Wait here,’ said Jones.
    When he left, I tried to reassure myself that I hadn’t done anything wrong and, consequently, had nothing to fear. Unfortunately, I was still worried about what was going to happen, even though I had, essentially, told the truth and had held nothing important back. All I had omitted was Hobbes; admittedly that was a rather large omission and I wished he’d turn up and explain. I finished my mug of tea, which wasn’t as bad as it looked, and burped as the scrumpy bubbled back, with a sharp overtone of onion, or was it garlic? Dregs seemed to be taking my discomfiture in his stride, or rather his sleep.
    Jones was talking. I assumed he was on the phone, until I heard a woman speaking. The voices faded and I sat in silence for a few minutes until Constable Jones returned, wearing hill walking gear.
    ‘Sorry about the wait, but I had to brief Mrs Duckworth about your information.’ He said the name as if he expected me to recognise it.
    ‘Who,’ I asked, ‘is Mrs Duckworth?’
    ‘Councillor Hugh Duckworth’s wife.’
    I shrugged and looked blank.
    ‘Councillor Duckworth,’ said Jones, ‘vanished in mysterious circumstances, just over three years ago.’
    ‘I see. Umm … do you think it’s him?’
    ‘Quite probably and so does Mrs Duckworth. She insists on accompanying us. It’s against regulations, but I have no intention of stopping her.’
    ‘But what about your sergeant? Shouldn’t he come too?’
    ‘He may not be capable.’
    ‘Of course I’m capable,’ said the booming voice of Sergeant Sam Beer. He walked in, tall, fat, red in the face, stinking of beer and sweat and wearing dirty khaki shorts, a faded Black Sabbath T-shirt and a pair of flip-flops. ‘Since it’s the first interesting thing to happen in this godforsaken town in the last three years, I’m not going to miss it. Let’s get a move on.’
    ‘Shouldn’t you change your clothes, sir?’ asked Constable Jones.
    ‘Nonsense. I’ll be fine.’
    The two police officers escorted me from the station and into the market square, where Sergeant Beer thrust his head under the drinking fountain for so long I feared he’d drown himself. Then, standing up, shaking himself like a dog, he smoothed