Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  ‘How did she get inside the house, this young woman? Any ideas?’

  ‘I reckon the victim let Miss X in,’ said Fairfax.

  Latimer guffawed.

  Hobbes studied the board for a moment and then said, ‘Actually, I might agree with Fairfax on this.’ He looked at each officer in turn. ‘I do think the victim let the killer into the house, quite willingly. Brendan Clarke knew the killer. Or he was expecting the visit.’

  He took a breath and pictured the scenario in his mind.

  ‘It starts in the living room. The two of them are drinking tea. One of them is showing the other something. The lyric sheets. If it’s a woman, maybe things get heated. Maybe they … maybe they kiss.’

  Fairfax grunted, but then thought better of it.

  Hobbes carried on. ‘For now, let’s say Brendan Clarke invites our Miss X upstairs. She gives her assent. She takes out the knife, or whatever it might be, from her bag or her coat.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Now she follows him upstairs. Brendan is lying on the bed, waiting for her …’

  Hobbes was there himself, in the room, in the night. The victim lay before him.

  ‘What happens next?’ he asked.

  ‘She joins him on the bed,’ Fairfax offered.

  Hobbes murmured. His hand had formed around an imaginary knife handle. ‘Yes. Clarke’s completely subdued by now. He doesn’t see it coming.’ Hobbes made a movement without realizing it, pushing the blade slowly into the side of the imagined victim’s neck, copying the murderer. ‘And then … and then she makes her strike. She kills him.’

  He was whispering. Silence fell over the room.

  ‘You see, there was no struggle.’

  Moments passed. Hobbes seemed to come out of a trance. He broke the mood by calling out to the back of the room. ‘Right, Barlow?’

  ‘Correct, sir. No struggle.’

  ‘This wasn’t a fight. It was a seduction.’

  Latimer shook her head in disbelief. ‘So you really think our killer’s a woman?’

  ‘It’s one possible scenario. But Clarke seems to have just given in.’

  Latimer sighed. ‘Sure, sure …’

  Hobbes turned to her. ‘Something on your mind, Meg?’

  ‘I’m thinking about the early morning visitor,’ she replied. ‘Let’s say that Miss X isn’t the killer at all. She breaks in later on, in the morning. Maybe she’s just a burglar, or even a fan of his band, what are they called?’

  ‘Monsoon Monsoon.’

  ‘Right. And she finds the dead body of Brendan Clarke. Gets scared, as you would, and scarpers through the back door. Leaving it open. At which point, the neighbour, Mrs Newley, sees her leave.’

  ‘But there’s no sign of a break-in,’ Fairfax offered.

  ‘I don’t know. She picked the lock? A window was left open, maybe.’ Her voice trailed off as the ideas petered out.

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Either way, it still leaves us knowing very little about our killer. The person, male or female, who murdered Brendan Clarke around midnight. So then, we need to find this Miss X. She might have seen something we’ve missed, or moved something, or even taken something away.’ He thought for a moment of the clean circle on top of the dusty cupboard in the bedroom. ‘And if Meg’s theory is correct, then we have two sets of traces in the house: the murderer’s and the burglar’s.’ He frowned. ‘It’s getting messy in there.’

  Everyone fell quiet.

  ‘There’s another thing.’ Hobbes hesitated. He didn’t know how to say this properly, the idea was too strange. ‘The victim seems to be completely under the killer’s control.’

  He let the idea sink in. All three of them were waiting for him to carry on. And as he looked at them, one by one, he felt a glimmer of the old power, the surge of adrenaline.

  ‘This is a very different kind of seduction. This isn’t sexual, at least I don’t think so.’ He took a breath. ‘First of all, the lump of blue putty on the vinyl record.’

  ‘It’s called Blu-Tac,’ Latimer told him.

  ‘Yes. Thank you. There’s a fingerprint in it, a very clear one. And we now know that it belongs to the victim.’

  Fairfax sat forward. ‘So that means, what, he set the record player up himself?’

  ‘It looks that way. He either chose the track, the exact portion of music, himself, or the murderer made him do it.’

  Latimer was puzzled. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that the killer seems to be directing the victim. Clarke puts the record on, he sets up the Blu-Tac. This is the victim himself, preparing his own murder scene. And then … and then he moved the bed.’

  Again, there was silence. They all stared at him.

  Fairfax was the first to speak. ‘He what?’

  ‘The victim shoved the bed across the floor from its usual place, up against the opposite wall. Over to where we found it.’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’

  ‘I thought it was strange, because where the bed currently is, it’s bang in the path of the street lamp from the window. I went back, in the night, and I pulled the curtains across the window. Even with them closed, the light falls right across the pillow. I can’t imagine anybody choosing such a position to sleep in. Can you?’

  Nobody dared to answer.

  ‘Also, the telephone wasn’t next to the bed, which is where most people would place it, I’m sure, in a bedroom. So I looked at the bed frame. There are finger and palm prints visible. The powder found them. Here, and here …’ He placed his hands in the air in front of him, and pretended to push the bed across the floor. ‘Also, there are four indentations in the carpet where the bed used to sit, obviously for years. And there are tracks still visible in the carpet pile, showing where the bed was pushed. It happened very recently, I’m guessing right before the murder.’

  He paused for a moment.

  ‘Now, maybe the prints on the frame belong to the perpetrator, I don’t yet know. But I believe the killer made Brendan Clarke do this himself. The bed had to be moved. It was all part of the night’s seduction, the ritual.’

  Fairfax groaned. ‘But why? For what purpose?’

  ‘I can think of two reasons. Anybody?’

  There was no reply, so Hobbes took up the slack. ‘One. To replicate some other scene, a bedroom from the past, for instance – from childhood, or from a former relationship – a scene that holds some kind of psychological importance.’

  ‘Too bloody Freudian for me,’ said Latimer.

  ‘Or two, and this is more likely, I think: to show off the handiwork. The murderer wanted to present the face in a specific way, the cut face; they wanted to present it in the light.’

  ‘Like a stage set.’

  This came from Barlow. Hobbes had forgotten he was there. ‘Exactly. Like a stage set. This is theatre. But then … and this is where it gets weird. The victim’s face was covered, with the bed sheet.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Latimer.

  ‘No. Simone Paige admitted to me that she’d folded the sheet down, away from the face, when she’d first discovered the body.’

  Latimer groaned. ‘Fairfax, this wasn’t in the statement that I read.’

  ‘No …’ The detective constable was looking mightily pissed off. ‘Paige never mentioned it.’

  ‘Bloody hell. You could put some effort in.’

  Fairfax stood up and faced Latimer, his face creased in anger. ‘Leave it out, will you, Meg! I did my job.’

  ‘Half-heartedly, as always.’

  He moved across the room towards her, his fists bunched.

  ‘All right, all right!’ Hobbes stepped between them. ‘We’re not here to fight. Fairfax, sit down.’

  The DC was still fuming, but he went back to his desk and sat on the edge of it.

  Hobbes let the mood settle before continuing.

  ‘So you can see the problem. Why go to all that trouble with the bed, and then with the cutting of the face … and cover the work up? Do
es that make sense to anybody?’

  Nobody spoke.

  Fairfax shook his head in despair. ‘It’s a mess. We’re getting nowhere.’

  ‘No, no. Keep thinking! What about the face itself?’ Hobbes asked. ‘Why those specific wounds? They have to mean something. Come on.’

  Barlow spoke up from the back of the room. ‘I think I know, sir.’

  Everyone turned to look at him.

  ‘Let’s hear it then, Constable.’

  Barlow came forward. He spoke quickly before his nerves took over. ‘I think the killer created a portrait.’

  The team watched as the constable walked to the front of the room, his tatty shopping bag in hand. Latimer did her best to suppress a smile, while Fairfax laughed quietly. But Barlow seemed not to notice. He stood to attention and started to speak.

  ‘The record playing in the room was by the pop star Lucas Bell.’

  ‘Didn’t he top himself?’ Fairfax asked.

  Barlow nodded. ‘He did. In 1974. In fact, exactly seven years ago tomorrow. He put a gun to his head and shot himself.’

  There was quiet in the room now.

  ‘It was shocking at the time,’ Latimer said. ‘I was strictly a soul girl back then, but even so, I still remember it.’

  Barlow continued, ‘Over the years since, the singer’s popularity has grown, especially among today’s teenagers. They see him as some kind of hero figure.’

  Hobbes added, ‘On the night he was killed, Brendan Clarke’s own band played a gig in honour of Bell.’

  Fairfax lit a cigarette. ‘I’m not getting this at all. I mean, do we seriously think this dead pop star is important to the case?’

  ‘Well, the person who did the murder,’ Hobbes explained, ‘definitely had some need for that record to be playing. Lucas Bell meant something to them.’

  ‘What, like a fan?’

  ‘Yes, a fan. Maybe.’

  ‘You’re saying a fan of this old glam rock singer killed Brendan Clarke?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a start.’ And even as he said the words, Hobbes felt the idea flutter away, almost lost.

  Fairfax went on, ‘It could so easily have been somebody else, an acquaintance, a relative, a lover, or someone from Brendan’s own band, even.’

  ‘And all of those possibilities will be looked at, believe me.’

  ‘Oh, I believe you, because it’s me and Meg here who’ll be doing all the legwork on it, while you and Mr Plod – begging your pardon and all – will be listening to bloody records, and generally pissing about. Sir.’

  Hobbes closed his eyes. His hands gripped the edge of the desk he was leaning against.

  Whatever expression there was on his face was enough to silence them all.

  But still he waited. His grip tightened until his fingers were hurting, the only way he knew of staying in control. Without opening his eyes, he found himself speaking. Coldly, calmly. He ignored Fairfax.

  ‘Constable Barlow.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘To the point, please. About the victim’s face.’

  There was a slight pause before Barlow started again on his story. Hobbes opened his eyes, taking in the scene. Latimer was concentrating fully, whilst Fairfax was staring directly at Hobbes, his facial expression set firmly in neutral. And beneath that, hatred, resentment. Hobbes could feel it from the young detective: he seemed to blame him personally for what had happened to DI Jenkes.

  Would it never end?

  PC Barlow reached into his plastic bag and pulled out a record album. He held this up for all the team to see its front cover, which featured a purple background with the title KING LOST printed in yellow across the top, and the name of the singer in smaller lettering across the bottom.

  ‘This is Lucas Bell’s third and final album, King Lost. As you can see, the front cover is plain.’ He fumbled with the record sleeve. ‘But on the inner sleeve, the singer has changed his appearance. He’s wearing a mask.’ Barlow opened the sleeve, displaying the full gatefold. Hobbes moved round to join Fairfax and Latimer, in order to view the image revealed.

  The purple of the front cover was continued within, shown now to be a vibrant night sky. The moon was visible. A neon sign, matching the lettering of the front sleeve in colour, dominated the upper left-hand side of the sleeve. It was the name of a fish and chip restaurant, Duffy’s. Below this was the torso of Lucas Bell, photographed against the restaurant’s brightly lit window. The young man’s chest and shoulders were bare, and his face was hidden behind a painted-on mask: the skin powdered all over white, the mouth smeared red with lipstick and extended at each side into a cruel clown-like grin. A large black teardrop was etched below the left eye, and the singer’s forehead was decorated with a letter X in blue. It was a startling image, and it took Hobbes only a few seconds to realize what he was looking at: with the knife cuts on Brendan Clarke’s face, the murderer had copied each element of the famous rock star’s mask. It was, as the young constable had said, a portrait. A portrait in blood.

  But then Barlow pointed out another feature of the image: one of the singer’s hands was visible, holding a small rectangular object against his bare chest.

  It was a tarot card. The Fool’s card.

  Dolls and Curses

  Fairfax left the room first. Hobbes made an effort to follow him down the corridor, but then thought, Why, why should I? Bloody jumped-up little shit.

  DS Latimer came up to him. ‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’ she asked.

  He shook his head in dismay.

  ‘Fairfax will come round.’

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘It’s up to you, guv. But Tommy’s a good policeman, I swear. He’s young, headstrong. Give him a chance.’

  ‘He blames me, Meg. I know what’s going on.’

  Latimer inclined her head. She was a couple of years younger than Hobbes, a striking dark-haired woman, a divorcee. He’d overheard stories in the locker room about her social life, but frankly he didn’t believe it. Or he didn’t want to. He looked at her now. Her eyes were quick and sharp, and her mind was always working overtime.

  ‘Even over here, we knew about Charlie Jenkes,’ she said. ‘He was a legend in the Met.’

  Hobbes had to admit it. ‘He was.’

  ‘And you know Fairfax and him are connected? Fairfax’s dad grew up on the same estate as Jenkes.’

  This unsettled Hobbes. ‘I didn’t know that, no.’

  ‘This is why he’s been so bloody obnoxious, of late. Charlie was a family friend. Bounced young Tommy on his knee, apparently.’

  Hobbes reached for the cigarette that she offered. ‘I really don’t care. Fairfax has to pull along.’

  ‘Actually, guv, I think you’re best to let him run where he likes. He might well surprise you.’

  ‘He pisses me off.’

  ‘Well, sir … you piss us off. So that’s fair.’

  He stared at her. Her voice had taken on a slight edge.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Latimer learned in close. ‘Don’t think for one minute that I sympathize with what you’re going through.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Because I don’t. I think what you did to DI Jenkes was wrong. Very wrong.’

  Hobbes couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he let her carry on.

  ‘None of us wanted you here, but you know that already. You were foisted on us.’

  ‘You think I actually want to be here?’

  Latimer kept her face straight. ‘I’ll do whatever you ask of me, sir, because that’s the kind of copper I am, but honestly …’ She smiled. ‘I don’t give a monkey’s arsehole.’

  This last sentence was aimed right at his heart, and it cut through.

  He gave his best hard stare, held it on her.

  ‘Are you done, Detective Latimer?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘That will be the last time you’ll talk to me like that, I swear.’

  She gave a brief nod in reply, nothing more.

&
nbsp; ‘Now, I’d like you to help me interviewing the parents.’

  ‘The woman’s touch?’

  ‘Call it what you like.’

  ‘Sure.’ She gave her assent. ‘I’ll meet you outside.’

  DS Latimer was already walking away.

  The situation was worse than he’d thought, Hobbes realized. Working alone had always been a part of his nature, ever since he’d made inspector, but this was different. His wife and son wouldn’t speak to him, he had very few friends left. Christ, he still didn’t have an office. Only this morning, arriving early, the station’s caretaker had looked at him like he was a pariah.

  He went out to his car, not bothering to wait for Latimer. He was about to set off when PC Barlow knocked on his window. Hobbes wound down the glass.

  ‘Yes? What?’

  He could see the young man flinch at his words.

  ‘I was just … I was wondering if you wanted me for anything else, sir?’

  ‘No.’

  He drove off, glancing at Barlow in the rear-view mirror as he reached the gate. Hobbes immediately felt guilty and even considered turning back for a second or two. But the feeling passed.

  The Carlton Hotel was in the town centre. He found a parking space and made to leave the vehicle but stopped with his fingers on the door handle.

  He couldn’t move.

  His body was shaking. He couldn’t stop it from happening.

  A panic attack. He cursed aloud at his colleagues, at the police force in general, his family, the times he was living in. England. Thatcher. The world. Himself. The whole fucking game. The murderer. The missing elements barely glimpsed, just out of reach.

  And once more he was back in the cellar at Soho, on that night that ruined him. The man’s blood splattering on the wall …

  Hobbes banged his hands against the steering wheel as hard as he could bear. A dose of pain to shift his focus, to free his body from its spell.

  Keep moving, keep looking. Remember the pledge that you made.

  Brendan Clarke.

  I will hunt your killer down and bring him to justice.

  This I promise.

  But right now it sounded like a hollow prayer.