by Jeff Noon
Here the woman waited.
Hobbes watched her through the glass.
Early thirties, wild blonde hair with red streaks, the whole thing barely tamed with some kind of shiny gel. Her clothes were a mismatch of colours and textures: scarlet, gold, black, a polka-dot collar seen above a striped waistcoat. Her face held a numbed expression.
Hobbes glanced through the pages of the woman’s statement for a second time, noting a few items of interest.
He turned to DC Fairfax, who was standing nearby.
‘There’s not much here.’
‘No, well. She’s a bit stuck-up.’
Hobbes gave him a glance, nothing more. ‘The woman’s in shock.’
‘Sure, I guess—’
‘Bloody hell. Find me an office to work in. It’s like a KGB cell in there.’
‘We’re a bit overrun. Actually. Sir.’
Now Hobbes gave him the full stare. Detective Fairfax kept up his surly grin for a moment more and then shook his head in displeasure, and left the room.
Hobbes entered the interview room. He nodded at the female officer and then said to the woman at the table, ‘I’m sorry about the wait.’
She turned her face away.
Hobbes sat down and introduced himself. ‘I’d take you to my office, but … well, I haven’t got one. Not yet. I’ve only been here a short while.’ He coughed. ‘So then, let’s get ourselves sorted out, room-wise. Then we’ll talk.’
The woman sat in silence. She looked down at her fingertips, which were still grey from the print powder. Hobbes fished a packet of Embassy Red from his pocket. ‘Will you join me?’ She shook her head. But then reached for her own packet of Consulate on the table. He lit her cigarette with his lighter. Her hand was shaking. He looked at the ashtray: each stub had been marked by her lipstick.
‘You smoke mentholated?’
A slight nod in answer.
‘I’m trying to cut down, myself,’ he said. ‘But you know how it is.’
‘Simone Paige. That’s my name.’
Now her eyes were locked on his.
Hobbes drew deep on his cigarette. ‘Have you thrown up yet? No. You should try. It helps.’ He grimaced. ‘I can remember my first ever sighting, plain as day.’ He paused and then added, ‘I was seventeen.’
Her eyes blinked. ‘I don’t intend to …’
‘To what?’
‘To see another dead body. Not for a long while.’
‘Of course not.’
Hobbes scanned the woman’s face, taking in all that he could. She was entirely at home with her age, her features showing their very first lines, the cheekbones sinking in rather than puffing out. The remains of the day’s make-up was still evident. Her eyes were set wide apart on her face, the ends elongated and sharpened. There was a fierce element of control both in her manners and her appearance – a tough nut to crack, Hobbes thought.
And then he was aware, intensely aware, of her gaze on his own face.
They were both examining each other.
Hobbes wasn’t used to this, yet he didn’t turn away.
Eye to eye, neither giving in. Until at last Fairfax returned. Hobbes stubbed out his cigarette and led Simone out into the corridor. Along the way he said to her, ‘You’re a writer? Is that correct?’
‘A journalist. A music critic.’
He remembered the vinyl record with its repeated message.
They entered a much smaller room, an office. It was occupied by a police constable who was studying a large paperback book.
‘Out of here.’
The fresh-faced PC tried to explain. ‘Sir, I was looking something up in the police manual.’
Hobbes snorted. ‘That thing? Nothing in there will help you when the fists start flying. Go on, give us some room.’
The uniformed officer left them. Hobbes sat down and gestured for Simone to do the same. ‘This will do us.’ He placed a cassette recorder on the desk. ‘You must’ve done a fair few interviews yourself, I imagine, in your job?’
‘Hundreds,’ the woman said. ‘Too many.’
Hobbes blew on the microphone. ‘Please state your name one more time, for the sake of the tape.’
‘Simone Paige.’
A smile came to Hobbes’s face, nothing more than a slight crinkle of the mouth. Then he stood up. ‘Excuse me for one moment.’ And without explanation he left the room and closed the door behind him.
‘Finished already, sir?’
It was the young constable who’d been using the office for study. He was standing in the corridor, clutching the volume of Blackstone’s Police Manual in his hand.
‘Not yet.’
The officer couldn’t quite meet Hobbes’s stare. He’d probably heard the rumours from the older guys.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Police Constable Barlow, sir.’
He was in his early twenties, tall and stick thin, with extraordinarily neat hair. His skin looked like a razor would simply glide off it.
‘Right, Barlow. Here’s tonight’s lesson, a little trick of mine …’ He nodded towards the office door. ‘I’ve left Miss Paige in there on her own.’
‘The person who found the body tonight?’ The young man looked overly excited at the news. ‘Do you suspect her?’
Hobbes sighed. ‘I don’t know yet, but something’s going on beyond the norm, that’s for sure.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘She smoked a cigarette, in the bedroom.’
‘Did she?’
‘Next to the phone.’
‘And that means …’
‘Think about it, Barlow. Come on, come on!’
‘I am. I’m thinking, sir.’ Barlow took out a notepad and pen and jotted something in it. He had to juggle with the police manual as he was doing so; it looked awkward.
‘Anyway, so what I’ve done – and keep this quiet, won’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Barlow was whispering.
‘I’ve left the tape recorder running. In there.’ Hobbes nodded towards the office door.
‘She doesn’t know?’
‘She might realize, eventually.’
The young man held a breath. ‘I’m not sure. Is that legal, sir?’
‘A simple mistake on my part.’
‘So you think she might say something? She might talk to herself?’
‘I hope so.’
‘What if she turns the machine off?’
‘Guilty. One hundred per cent.’
Barlow frowned. ‘I don’t think—’
‘Lesson number two. Don’t believe all the bullshit you hear from your superiors.’
The younger man searched for something to say in reply. His mouth opened and closed. Hobbes smiled to put him out of his misery.
‘How are you on rock music?’
‘Not bad, sir.’
‘Good, good. Find out everything you can about a singer called Lucas Bell, big in the early seventies.’
‘I know his records. Some of them—’
‘By tomorrow.’
‘Will do, sir. Any particular reason why?’
‘I’m curious.’
Barlow’s head lolled to one side as he looked at his notebook. Hobbes could practically see his brain thinking. Then the young man’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, right …’ He pointed to the door. ‘You think she rang 999 from the bedroom?’
‘I do. And then she lit a cigarette.’
‘That is a bit strange, I guess.’
Hobbes rubbed a finger and thumb against his forehead. He mumbled to himself: ‘And something else … the phone wasn’t next to the bed. It was across the room.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, I’m just thinking aloud, Constable. Trying to work things out.’
Barlow put his notebook away. ‘There’s one thing I don’t like, sir.’
‘What’s that?’
‘There being no sign of a struggle. That’s right, is
n’t it?’
‘It is.’
Barlow shook his head. ‘Now you see, I would struggle. If someone was coming for me with a knife, sir, I would struggle like all hell.’
‘You would indeed.’
Hobbes walked back into the room. Simone Paige had lit another cigarette. She was staring at a wall calendar issued by the town council advertising the glories of Richmond upon Thames. The image for August 1981 showed Hampton Court Maze photographed from above. Hobbes sat down and checked to see if the cassette tape was still spinning in the machine. It was.
‘I know you’ve given us a statement already, Miss Paige.’ Hobbes browsed the file and recited in a dull tone: ‘Arrived at the premises at such and such a time, went upstairs, found the deceased, Brendan Clarke, lying on the bed, called the police, and so on.’ His own rather gruff voice returned. ‘Yes. All very useful. But what I’d like you to do is to answer some questions of my own. Do you mind?’
Simone shook her head.
‘Tell me about your relationship with the deceased.’
‘My relationship?’
‘Yes. Did you know him well?’
‘We were …’
‘Yes?’
‘Friends.’
Hobbes’s expression was quite cold by now. ‘So, this is a man that you first met last night, I think that’s correct?’
Simone nodded.
‘And yet, as you say, already you’re friends with him?’
She answered simply, ‘That’s how it is.’
Hobbes referred to the file. ‘It says here that you met Mr Clarke at a concert. So let me see. You arrive at his house a day later, and you walk in without a door key, or anyone opening the door for you, and you walk upstairs and you go into the bedroom, and …’
Simone was silent. Hobbes leaned forward in his chair.
‘I need you to concentrate, Miss Paige. This is very important. A man has been killed. Murdered in his own bed. You were the first person at the scene.’
She stubbed her cigarette out in a metal wastepaper basket. Her voice was steady. ‘The door was already open.’
‘Yes?’
‘The back door of the house, it was open already.’
‘Fully open?’
‘No. Just a little way. That’s why I went inside. I thought that Brendan must be in.’
‘So you walked round to the back of the house, a house you’d never visited before, in the hope of what?’
‘I thought … I thought that maybe he was in the back garden, or that he hadn’t heard me ringing the bell.’
‘I see.’
Hobbes’s tone rattled her, he could sense that, but she kept her control well. ‘I had an appointment at Brendan’s house, at eight o’clock. The meeting was important to him. So, when he didn’t answer the door, I was puzzled. It felt wrong.’
‘And you investigated?’
‘Well …’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, it’s a good job I did.’
Their eyes locked.
Hobbes smiled, he spoke calmly. ‘What was it that made you think Mr Clarke might be in trouble?’
‘The television was on. I saw it through the front window.’
‘But still, that’s hardly a danger sign.’
She looked at him. ‘It was enough.’
Hobbes nodded. He said, ‘But I don’t think the television was switched on, not when the police first arrived.’
‘No. I turned it off.’
‘Now why would you do that?’
‘The set was boiling hot. It must’ve been on for ages.’
Hobbes rubbed at his eyes. This woman had disturbed his crime scene. He hated that. Why the hell can’t people leave things alone?
Simone continued, ‘And then, when I’d turned it off, that’s when I heard the voice.’
‘The voice?’
‘Yes, from upstairs.’
‘You mean the song? From the record player in the bedroom?’
‘Yes. It was too loud.’
‘It was? It didn’t seem that loud to me.’
‘I turned the volume down, after I found the body.’
‘Why?’
‘It was too loud,’ she said again. ‘It was disturbing me. And …’
‘Yes?’
‘It was disturbing Brendan.’
Hobbes looked at her. Those eyes, her whole attitude. Which planet had she beamed in from? ‘And what about the song being played?’ he asked.
‘What about it?’
‘Does it mean anything to you?’
‘No. Nothing. It’s just a song.’
Again, that cold tone. But Hobbes knew she was lying. ‘I think it means something,’ he said.
Still she wouldn’t be drawn. Silence.
He leaned back in his seat. ‘Tell me the story, please. From the beginning.’
‘There is no story. I met Brendan at the Pleasure Palace. Boy meets Girl. Boy chats up Girl. Girl goes round to see him the next day. Boy dead. What else is there?’
‘That’s where the concert took place? The Pleasure Palace. I don’t know it, I’m afraid.’ He could see her surrender, if only a little. ‘You must be tired, Simone.’
Her head twitched in response. She edged for the cigarette packet. Stopped herself. Her fingers drummed on the metal leg of the chair.
‘Tell me about the gig.’
She forced herself to speak. ‘The Pleasure Palace is a venue in Covent Garden. Brendan was the vocalist of the headliners who were playing last night. Monsoon Monsoon.’
‘Monsoon?’
‘Monsoon Monsoon. That’s what they call themselves. After the gig, Brendan and I got talking. We went to the dressing room.’
‘And what happened there?’
‘We talked. Like I said.’
‘About?’
‘Music. The gig. Other things. The usual things. He gave me his telephone number, and told me to give him a ring when I got a chance. That we could maybe meet up. But instead of all that rigmarole, I just made a date for eight o’clock tonight. And that’s it.’
‘So you were attracted to each other?’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure. My feelings were confused. But …’
‘Yes?’
‘We shared a common interest.’
‘Which was?’
‘Lucas Bell.’
Inspector Hobbes looked at her without speaking.
‘You’ve heard of him?’ she asked.
‘A little. Tell me more.’
‘He’s a rock singer. Well, he was. He’s dead now. But he had number one singles, a couple of them. And a number one album, all around the world.’
‘And it was Lucas Bell’s music that was playing in the victim’s room?’
Simone was staring at him, nodding, and he realized that she was as curious about this matter as he was. He asked, ‘What did you think when you heard the music playing?’
‘I had other things on my mind.’
‘And now? Having had time to think?’
‘I haven’t had time to think. Not about that. Not for one second.’
Hobbes coughed. ‘And so the two of you, Brendan Clarke and yourself, you both, what, shared an interest in this singer?’
‘A passion. We shared a passion. We both loved Lucas Bell intensely. His work, his life. What he stood for. His music, and his commitment. That’s why we were all there.’
‘At the club?’
She nodded. ‘It was a tribute gig. Brendan and his band played a lot of Lucas Bell’s old songs. Cover versions, you know? And the place was absolutely packed. Because, well, lots of people feel the same way. They all love Lucas. In fact, now more than ever. It’s crazy.’
‘You’re referring to fans? Admirers?’
Her face darkened. ‘Lucas killed himself for the sake of rock and roll. He was a martyr. That’s why people love him so much.’
Hobbes felt vague memories stirring, of the story in the papers, and on the nine o’clock news.
Suicide. Some years ago, the mid seventies.
‘Simone?’
She looked at him. He could see that her eyes were glistening.
‘Do you have any idea who might have killed Brendan Clarke? Any theories at all?’
She thought for a moment and then said, ‘He wanted to show me something. At the house. A piece of memorabilia.’
‘To do with Lucas Bell?’
She nodded. Breathed out, relaxed slightly. ‘Some of the Lucas Bell fans … well, some of them go beyond normal adoration.’
‘You’re saying they’re dangerous?’
‘Yes. A few of them. Very much so. Vindictive. Cruel.’
Hobbes pursed his lips. The feelings came from deep within her, that was obvious. She’d been hurt in some way. But what was she telling him, really?
‘What was this piece of memorabilia, as you call it?’
Simone could not look him in the eye as she answered. ‘I don’t know. I wish I knew.’
He glanced at the file and changed tack.
‘Tell me. What state was Brendan Clarke in, when you found him?’
‘What state? I’m sorry, I don’t—’
‘Well, you’ve already turned the TV off, and lowered the volume on the record player, so I’m wondering … Did you disturb the body in any way?’
‘I tried to save him—’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I thought he might be alive. I thought I saw him move. I lifted the sheet away from his face. But … but no. He was dead.’
Hobbes was suddenly very alert, jolted by electricity. ‘You lifted the sheet away from the victim’s face?’
‘That’s right—’
‘The face was covered?’
‘Yes. With the bed sheet.’
‘You never mentioned this in your statement.’
‘Well, I’d forgotten. I didn’t think it was important.’
‘Oh, it’s very important. Very much so.’
‘Why?’
Hobbes waved the question aside. ‘What did you make of the card in the victim’s shirt pocket?’
‘I didn’t see a card.’
He pulled an evidence bag from the case file and dropped it on the table. The strange playing card was nestled inside, plainly seen through the clear plastic. Simone looked at it for a moment, before saying, ‘It’s the Fool’s card from the tarot.’
‘Enlighten me.’
She studied him. ‘Most people think the tarot pack is used to tell fortunes, but actually it’s a medieval system of knowledge.’
