3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers Read Online Free PDF

intend to give them any more.’
    ‘What if they make up something bad? And there’s another thing to be considered: if they can’t get to you, they’ll try pumping anyone who might know you.’
    Hobbes shook his head. ‘I’ve got nothing to say. I was just doing my job.’
    ‘They’ll hang around and hassle people, at least until the next big story pops up. Think what it’ll be like for Mrs Goodfellow when she goes shopping. By the way, where is she?’
    ‘She’s gone to Skegness for a long weekend.’
    ‘She didn’t say anything to me.’
    ‘Because you weren’t here. The lass thought she’d take the opportunity to visit her cousin Ethel, who runs a guesthouse. They normally only see each other once a year.’
    ‘Oh no!’ I said, stricken with a horrible realisation. ‘What are we going to do for supper?’
    ‘We’ll manage.’
    I groaned, remembering past culinary disasters when the old girl had been away, most of which had been my fault, or to be more truthful, all of which had been my fault.
    ‘Tonight, for instance,’ said Hobbes, ‘I have been invited to dine by my friend Sid. Have you met him? Sid Sharples? He came to see me after I’d been shot the last time.’
    ‘Umm … I might have done … I think. Well, I guess you’ll be alright, but … umm …what about me?’
    ‘That will not be a problem. Sid won’t mind an extra body at the table and he’s always glad of new blood in his circle. However, he’s an old-fashioned sort of gentleman and likes his guests dressed for dinner.’
    ‘If you’re sure he won’t mind, that’ll be great. I think there’s a dinner jacket and bow tie at the back of my wardrobe.’
    One of the advantages of living at Hobbes’s was that I’d acquired a whole new wardrobe and, more to the point, the clothes to fill it. They had once belonged to Mrs Goodfellow’s husband, Robin, who, so far as anyone knew, was in Tahiti, attempting to found a naturist colony. Although most of his stuff might have been considered a trifle old-fashioned, I liked to believe it was classic tailoring, and was sure it gave me an air of distinction. I hoped so, anyway. Nonetheless, I still found it spooky that everything fitted as if made to measure.
    ‘Excellent,’ said Hobbes. ‘He expects us at eight.’
    ‘Does he?’
    He nodded and poured himself more tea. ‘There is,’ he said casually – a little too casually – ‘something I ought to tell you about him.’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘Sid is a vampire.’
    ‘Oh, is that all?’ I said, trying not to look like a victim, my muscles turning to mush.
    ‘But, don’t worry, he won’t hurt you, or harm you in any way, and he’s a good cook and a generous host.’
    Despite my best efforts, and Hobbes’s reassurance, my hands shook. I was going to dinner with a real vampire; it had been bad enough meeting a wannabe vampire, in the form of my former editor’s deranged wife, who had bitten me, leaving her false teeth sticking in my neck. If I looked under bright lights, I fancied I could still make out the scar.
    When I felt able, I got up, walked calmly to the sink, picked up a cloth, returned to the table and wiped up the pool of tea I’d spilt when he told me. He watched, smiling wickedly, as I rinsed out the cloth, hung it over a tap, and returned to my seat.
    ‘Sid,’ he said, ‘is quite harmless.’
    ‘So, he won’t want to drink my blood?’
    ‘No. As is well documented, vampires only drink the blood of virgins.’
    ‘That’s alright then.’ I forced a smile as if reassured.
    Hobbes laughed. ‘You have a very expressive face. I should tease you more often.’
    ‘Is he really a vampire?’ I asked, recalling numerous occasions when he’d made me fall for tall stories, although in fairness, some of the tallest had turned out to be true.
    ‘He really is, though there’s nothing to worry about, because although of the vampire race, he can’t stomach the taste of blood.’
    ‘So, what does he eat?’
    ‘He