by Jeff Noon
He walked the short distance to the hotel and showed his warrant card at the reception desk and then took the lift up to the third floor. The victim’s father opened the door to him and invited him into their room. His wife was sitting on the bed, wringing a handkerchief in her hands, tightening it into a long thin coil.
He introduced himself, and then said, ‘I’m truly sorry for the loss of your son.’
Mr Clarke had no time for such sentiments. ‘When can we have his body?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’
Mr Clarke walked to the window, where he stood in silence looking out. The sky was grey, flat, layered with haze.
Hobbes sensed that the victim’s mother would be the more revealing.
‘Mrs Clarke …’
She murmured something. He leaned in.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘My name is Annabelle. Have you any news for us?’
‘Nothing solid.’
‘We need to know who did this to our child.’
‘Yes. Yes, I understand. I just need to ask a few questions.’
Mr Clarke came forward, saying, ‘We’ll do all that we can to help, rest assured.’
‘Good. Thank you. First of all, who would want to hurt your son? Was he under threat in any way?’
Mr Clarke answered: ‘No. Absolutely not.’
Hobbes rubbed a finger along his lips. ‘Well, somebody hated him.’
Annabelle Clarke caught a breath. She made a high piercing cry.
The victim’s father stared at Hobbes, his eyes never leaving their target. His mouth opened to speak once more, but then closed again. Hobbes watched as the fury left him, to be replaced by a look of sheer hopelessness. The man’s body crumpled.
Hobbes said, ‘I have to ask every question that needs to be asked.’
Mr Clarke turned back to his wife, who looked up and said to him in a trembling voice, ‘Let’s help him, Gerald. It’s all we can do.’
Hobbes knew he had to take advantage of the moment. He sat in a chair and asked, ‘When was the last time you saw Brendan?’
Annabelle Clarke spoke. ‘It was last week. He would come home every few weeks or so. Usually once a month.’
‘So this would be, what day?’
She thought back. ‘Last Tuesday. Yes. He left on the Thursday morning.’
‘Heading back to London?’
‘I guess so.’
‘Did you know about the concert in London, with his band?’
‘No. He didn’t keep us up to date with such things. We … well, naturally we’ve always encouraged him …’
Her voice trailed off. Her husband stepped in. ‘We had different plans for Brendan. I wanted him to follow me into Law. I have my own partnership. He actually started to study, but then dropped out after six months. He’s always had an artistic side.’ He shook his head, as though art was the worst of all endeavours.
‘He was searching for his role in life,’ Mrs Clarke added. ‘He spent some time studying theatre.’
‘But that didn’t work out, either?’ Hobbes asked.
‘We offered him help at every turn,’ Mr Clarke insisted. ‘Money. Education. Support, in whatever hare-brained scheme he had. However …’
Both parents fell into silence. Gerald sat next to his wife on the bed.
Hobbes was starting to see another side to the Clarke family’s life.
‘Was Brendan troubled?’
Mrs Clarke looked down at her handkerchief. ‘Our son was a very passionate man,’ she said.
‘What do you mean by that, precisely?’
‘He loved music. He loved it very much. I will go so far as to say that he lived for it.’
Her cut-glass vowels kept breaking apart as she spoke, revealing her origins. Hobbes thought that she’d probably had elocution lessons.
Mr Clarke put a hand on his wife’s shoulder.
Hobbes saw something in the gesture; it wasn’t entirely natural. It was born of necessity, of the current moment. He couldn’t help wondering how much love there was between these two, and even between them and their son. And for a moment he allowed himself to think of Martin, out there in the world somewhere, unknown, lost …
‘Was Brendan obsessed, would you say?’
‘That’s one way of putting it, yes,’ Mrs Clarke said. ‘His collection is quite extensive.’
‘Collection?’
‘He was crazy about Lucas Bell. Do you know him? The pop singer?’
Hobbes nodded.
‘Brendan spent a lot of money on things belonging to Lucas, or associated with him. We even helped him purchase some of the more expensive ones.’
‘Where did he keep these?’
‘A few at his London place. But most of them at our house.’
Hobbes made a mental note.
‘And there was his little magazine,’ Mrs Clarke added.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It was a fanzine – well, that’s what he called it, anyway. All about Lucas Bell, and his songs, his life, and his death. He was always writing about it, talking about it, the suicide. It worried us, didn’t it, Gerald?’
Her husband nodded. He looked uncomfortable.
‘Did Brendan have any interest in tarot cards?’ Hobbes asked.
They both looked at him blankly, until Mrs Clarke said, ‘His interests changed all the time, I’m afraid. Only Lucas Bell was a constant.’
‘Brendan was your only child, is that correct?
Mr Clarke answered this one. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m required to ask … where were you both on the day that he was killed?’
Mrs Clarke’s hand wound and wound at the handkerchief. But her husband answered the question calmly enough: ‘We were at home, with friends.’
‘Could you write the name and telephone numbers of the friends down for me?’
Mr Clarke nodded. He stood up and walked over to the desk, where he started to write on a hotel notepad. Hobbes leaned forwards in his chair. He kept his voice low and soft, as best he could, as he spoke to the grieving mother.
‘Annabelle …’
She looked at him with expectant, hopeful eyes.
‘I need to learn everything I can about your son, about his life, his friends, his love life, any enemies or rivals he may have had.’
She glanced over to her husband. ‘Talk to Nikki.’ It was the barest whisper.
‘And who would that be?’
‘Nikki Hauser. She played keyboards in his band.’
‘Monsoon Monsoon?’
She nodded quickly. ‘Also, she was his fiancée. At least, she used to be.’
‘They split up?’
‘Yes.’
Her husband came back to the bed, handing a slip of paper to the inspector. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m telling him about Nikki.’
‘You think that could be important?’
‘It might be,’ Hobbes said. ‘At any rate, I will have to speak with her.’
‘Good,’ said Annabelle. Her voice rose in pitch. ‘Ask her why she hurt my son so much. And why she kept on hurting him, even after she’d slept with that other man.’
The outburst seemed to exhaust her, for as soon as she’d stopped speaking, her face dropped again, her eyes hidden.
‘Which other man?’
‘We don’t know his name, I’m afraid. But Brendan knew about him. He told me.’
‘I know it’s difficult …’
They both waited to hear what Hobbes had to say. But there was nothing good or useful he could add, not in this situation. He got to his feet.
Mrs Clarke stood up herself. ‘Whatever happened to Brendan,’ she said, ‘I’m sure that Nikki will have had something to do with it.’
Hobbes nodded. An idea came to him. ‘Would you mind looking round your son’s house with me?’
She stared at him, her mouth slightly open.
‘It would be useful,’ he added, ‘to know if anything’s gone missing.’
‘Still, if you could.’
‘Actually …’
Mr Clarke came to her side, saying, ‘Is this absolutely necessary, Inspector?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Actually,’ his wife continued, ‘I’d like to see the house.’
That settled it. Hobbes drove them in his car, the two of them in the back, not saying a word to each other or to him the whole journey.
It was past noon when they turned on to Westbrook Avenue. Normal suburban life had returned to the street: a man walking a dog, a young couple strolling along without a care in the world. As he parked the car, Hobbes mused to himself: after the Soho trouble, the police disciplinary panel had recommended that he be posted to a new borough. Which was fair enough – for a few weeks in London Central, as his colleagues had turned against him, he’d actually felt that his life was in danger. So he’d been posted to Richmond upon Thames to get him out of the way, thinking nothing much of interest could happen in these quiet leafy streets. Surely, not too much blood could be spent, not here?
He got out of the car. At first Mrs Clarke would not look at her son’s house; her eyes were downcast. Hobbes led the way to the front door. Once inside, he followed the parents from room to room. This was his third visit in the last twenty-four hours. Thankfully, the smell of death had dissipated. Mrs Clarke tutted and wrung her hands in shame as she saw the mess in the kitchen, the dirt on the carpet, the unwashed clothes dumped on the floor.
‘Brendan was a very clean boy, usually,’ she said. ‘It was only in the last year or so that he let things slip. Ever since his love affair with Nikki fell apart.’
They moved into the living room. Mrs Clarke picked up the framed photograph of herself, her husband, and Brendan. She didn’t move. Her eyes never left the image and she made a tiny murmuring sound.
‘Annabelle?’ Her husband put his hand on her arm. ‘Are you sure you’re up to this, dear?’
She pushed his hands away in irritation and set off once more, walking back into the hallway. She stared up towards the floor above, and then climbed the stairs. Hobbes and Mr Clarke followed after her, on to the landing. They paused at the music room.
‘We bought him a lot of those instruments,’ she said.
Hobbes followed her inside. ‘Have you noticed anything missing yet, or out of place? Anything at all?’
‘No. But like I said, we hardly came here. This is the fanzine I told you about.’ She pointed to several piles of magazines stacked high against the near wall.
‘Your son mentioned that he had an item here, something of great importance regarding Lucas Bell. Have you any idea what that might be?’
She thought for a moment. ‘He had so many precious things, so many treasures, but like I said, most of them are stored at home, not here.’
They moved along the corridor towards the front of the house.
‘I’d like to visit your home one day soon,’ Hobbes said. ‘To see Brendan’s collection.’
Annabelle Clarke had stopped at the open door of the front bedroom, and was staring inside. ‘Is this where …?’
Hobbes nodded.
She grimaced. ‘Is there any blood?’
‘No. Well, a little, perhaps.’
They walked into the room. Mrs Clarke’s eyes widened as she looked at the bed, the bare mattress. She gasped and held a hand to her throat. ‘The bed’s been moved,’ she muttered. Her eyes darted about the room, taking it all in. ‘And there is something missing.’ Hobbes felt his pulse race. She had wandered over to the cupboard and was looking at the clean circle in the dust that he had noticed yesterday. She wiped her finger in the dirt.
‘Mrs Clarke? What is it?’
‘A doll,’ she answered.
He was confused. ‘What do you mean?’
She turned to face him. ‘You know, a figurine. A model figure.’
‘Of what?’
‘The singer, Lucas Bell. The man he loved.’
Mr Clarke groaned. He was standing near the bed. His wife turned on him. ‘Is there something wrong?’
‘You know …’
‘What? Gerald? Do you have something to say?’
‘You shouldn’t use that word. It’s disgusting.’
‘But he did love him. Brendan loved Lucas Bell. He loved him!’
Hobbes and Mr Clarke watched her in silence.
Teardrop
They stood in silence on the pavement outside the house. Each person was entirely alone, or at least that’s how it felt to Hobbes, himself included. The minutes stretched by, until at last a squad car pulled up at the kerb. PC Barlow got out and immediately went up to Mrs Clarke and starting talking to her. He kept his voice low; Hobbes couldn’t hear what was being said, not properly, but he saw that the poor woman responded well to the constable’s words. Barlow led her to the squad car and guided her into the rear seat; her husband followed. They were both grateful to the young policeman.
Hobbes told him, ‘They need to go back to the Carlton Hotel.’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘Listen, Barlow, I do want you to keep working on this.’
Barlow smiled at the prospect.
‘When you get back to Kew Road, carry on with your research: Lucas Bell, his death, his girlfriends, colleagues, his songs. Anything at all that seems relevant. Oh, and look into Monsoon Monsoon. The victim’s band. See how they’re faring in the press, and sales, fans – anything like that.’
Barlow nodded and got into the car. Hobbes watched him drive away, then he went back inside the house and headed upstairs to the music room. He wanted to collect some of the fanzines. He took the top copy from the pile stacked against the wall. Brendan Clarke’s magazine was called 100 Splinters. The cover showed a black-and-white artist’s sketch of Lucas Bell, and below it the legend: Seven Years Since the Passing. Revelations, Memories, Interviews. A good number of earlier editions were also available, going back years. Hobbes selected a few different issues and took them with him when he went downstairs. He put the fanzines in his car and then walked up the path of the next house along, number 49, and rang the bell. It was a Monday afternoon, but he was hopeful the neighbours would be in. He’d read through Latimer’s interview report already, but over the years he’d come to realize that witnesses were often shocked, and would often hide things away for various personal reasons. Once again he heard the voice of DI Collingworth in his head.
Check. Check again. Check a third time.
And don’t think for a moment that three times is enough.
Collingworth had taken Hobbes under his wing when he first made detective. He was a tough, smart, chain-smoking, Old Spice-wearing copper who shouted at Hobbes more than he spoke to him. Do this, do that, never stop, never give up! Then he’d grimace and cough his guts out. But my God, Hobbes had learned the ropes quickly, brutally sometimes. He remembered one incident when he’d been locked in a room with a week-old corpse and told to find out what was wrong with the scene. The stench had been overpowering, and the state of the dead body made him sick. It was the height of summer. Flies buzzing. Dead flesh crawling with life. Hobbes was in there for ten minutes before he found it: a few curls of pencil shaving on the tabletop. But no sign of any pencils elsewhere, and the room clean and tidy otherwise. He sat at the table. Without further movement he was now facing where the corpse was posed, propped up in the armchair. It seemed ridiculous, such a tiny detail. It might mean nothing at all. Yet he imagined himself sharpening a pencil, ready for … could it be: ready to draw a likeness of the victim?
Check and check again, and again. Never stop checking.
The door of number 49 was opened by an elderly man. He was thin, not very tall, with a beaky face, and greying hair parted low down on one side. His eyes were slightly magnified by a pair of National Health spectacles.
Hobbes showed his warrant card to him. ‘Mr Newley?’
‘Yes?’ The man looked su
spicious.
‘Detective Inspector Hobbes. I’d like to speak with your wife.’
The man disappeared into the house and a minute later the witness herself came to the door. The same age as her husband, she was dressed in an emerald-green trouser suit, and her chestnut hair, vigorously dyed, was bound up in a matching green scarf. Once again, Hobbes introduced himself. She hesitated for a second and then said, ‘Please, come inside.’ He was led into the hallway and offered a cup of tea. Hobbes declined.
‘I’d like you to take me through the events of yesterday morning, as closely as you can.’
‘It’s a terrible thing,’ she said. ‘Brendan was such a fine young man, I always thought. Despite …’
Her husband finished the sentence. ‘Despite the noise, and all the filthy rock and rollers turning up there every week, playing that racket. And the state of the house. And all the girls, of course.’
‘Oh yes, he was very popular.’
Hobbes nodded at this. ‘Mr Clarke played a concert on Saturday night, in the centre of London. Did you see him coming home after that? It would have been quite late, I imagine.’
‘No, I’m afraid not. We were in bed by half past ten. That’s right, isn’t it, Robert?’
Her husband nodded. ‘Yes, we always are.’
Hobbes looked at them both in turn. ‘You didn’t hear anything in the night, any strange noises?’
‘How do you mean?’ Mrs Newley asked.
‘Any cries, or shouts? Arguments. Anything like that?’
They both shook their heads.
‘We’re detached,’ Mr Newley said. It took Hobbes a moment to work out what he meant.
‘That’s fine, don’t worry. Now, what happened in the morning?’
Mrs Newley told her story. ‘I got up at eight, as is usual for me. I went downstairs to the kitchen to start making breakfast, and that’s when I saw her through the window, the young woman.’
‘Show me, please.’
The three of them walked along the hallway into the kitchen at the back of the house.
‘I was standing here at the sink, filling the kettle,’ Mrs Newley said, ‘when I saw a movement in the garden next door. At first I thought it was Brendan, but he never ever gets up that early. And then I realized it was a woman. Also …’
