3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers Read Free

hour with nothing passing in either direction, and home felt a weary distance away, when, at last, I heard a car’s engine. A muddy green Land Rover drove towards me along a rutted side road. Hoping it was heading for Sorenchester, I stopped, waggling my hitcher’s thumb and trying to look like a perfect passenger. To my delight, the Land Rover slowed down and stopped.
    The driver’s window opened and I stepped forward, leaning in, seeing my benefactor, a young man in a checked shirt, corduroy trousers and a baseball cap, was looking at me expectantly.
    ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.
    ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘Home.’ He pointed along the road to Sorenchester.
    ‘Me too,’ I said, nodding. ‘Can I have a lift?’
    ‘Yes, but, I’m going home …’
    ‘That’s fine. Just take me as far as you’re going.’
    ‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. Hop in.’
    I hopped, shut the door and belted myself in. ‘Thank you. It’s very kind of you.’
    ‘It’s nothing.’
    He was right. Setting off towards Sorenchester, he turned almost immediately into a dusty lane and came to a stop by the side of an old red-brick farm house.
    ‘Home,’ he said, grinning. ‘I tried to tell you.’
    ‘Thanks very much,’ I said, gritting my teeth, getting out and trudging back the way we’d just come. At least it was downhill.
    That was the only vehicle I laid eyes on, apart from a distant glimpse of a tractor in a field. The cylinder of hay it was carrying reminded me of a giant Swiss roll, an unfortunate analogy, as I was already starting to feel ravenous and guessed it was lunchtime. No doubt that was why the farmer had been heading home. The sun was at its zenith, sweat was sticking my shirt to my back and I had to keep moving my bag from shoulder to shoulder, aware they were starting to chafe, and, as if to distract me from that particular woe, a blister was coming up on my heel. Licking dry lips with a dry tongue, I wished I’d had the foresight to bring a drink and my thirst wasn’t helped by seeing a sign to the Red Dragon Inn. I wondered how much ice-cold lager they’d let me have for eight pence. None whatsoever, I suspected. I trudged on.
    The road really was remarkably empty. Nothing, besides the occasional bird, was moving, and I could almost believe I was the only human left in the world. I guessed there’d been a major accident or something that had meant the road was closed, and it now seemed a very long road, a very hot road, and one that was increasingly hard on my feet. Eventually, a most welcome downhill section took me to the tiny village of Northsorn, about half way to Sorenchester, where I beheld the Squire’s Arms, a fine, old-fashioned, thatch-roofed pub, just off the road.
    On reaching it, I loitered near the front door, which was wedged open, and stared longingly at the rows of beer pumps, considering my chances of begging for a drink. Unfortunately, there was a huge, shaven-headed, scowling man behind the bar. He reminded me, with his dim-witted, ugly, malevolent face, massive, thick arms and general look of belligerence, of ‘Featherlight’ Binks, the landlord of the Feathers in Sorenchester. He did not look the sympathetic type. Giving up on beer, I considered getting a drink from the tap in the gents’ toilet but, since it was on the far side of the bar room and I’d have to walk there under the scrutiny of that scowl, I hesitated. When he glared at me, flexing his biceps, displaying an impressive red rose tattoo and giving an impression of great strength, I gave up. I’d just have to keep walking.
    However, my situation wasn’t quite as bad as it seemed, for the River Soren appeared out of the fields next to the Squires Arms and ran beside the road for a short distance. Coming across a flat, grassy spot beneath the shade of a fine old cedar tree, I laid down my bag, removed my shoes and socks, rolled up my chinos to my knees and plunged my feet into the stream. Although the initial