by Jeff Noon
‘A place?’
‘Lucas would sometimes talk about his childhood, when his guard was down. Once he told me about a field in the hills outside the town that he and his friends used to go to in the summer holidays. He called it Witch Haven. It was a magical zone.’ Briggs looked up at the inspector. ‘A place he’d go to, for escape. To escape his troubles. And so, I put two and two together.’
Hobbes waited a moment for further information. When none came, he asked, ‘So you had a feeling he might’ve gone there? Is that it?’
‘I got up very early the next morning, ready to drive back to London for a fashion shoot. And I thought, well it’s on the way, maybe it’s worth a chance. So I drove there, I drove out to the field.’
Hobbes made a guess. ‘Were you the one who discovered the body? Mr Briggs?’
The photographer nodded, quickly, fiercely. ‘I found … I found his car. You couldn’t mistake it. It was a Ford Capri and he’d had the bodywork painted in a special shade of eggshell blue. Lucas always kept it shiny and polished.’ He smiled briefly at the memory. But then his mood darkened once more. ‘It was parked in the middle of the field. Everything was still, and so quiet. I remember it all, quite clearly. I was the only person visible for miles around. There was a crow resting on a fence pole, a few sheep. That’s all. And the car just resting there, stark blue set against the grass and the hills and sky, the distant sea.’ His hands were clenched together on his lap. ‘The driver’s door was open.’
His voice broke and he paused.
Hobbes let him have a moment of quiet, before asking, ‘What did you see? What did you see inside the car?’
Briggs didn’t respond, at least not verbally. Instead, his whole body tightened up within itself. His eyes screwed shut, his arms folded themselves around his chest. He rocked back and forth, back and forth, and his head slowly tilted forward, hiding his face from view.
Hobbes and Barlow waited. They looked at each other. PC Barlow had the look of a man severely out of his depth. He opened his mouth to speak, but then decided against it.
‘Mr Briggs?’
There was no response to Hobbes’s voice. None, except a low moan that escaped the huddled mass.
Hobbes stood up. He gestured to Barlow that they should make their exit.
‘Sir, we can’t leave him like this.’
‘There’s not much we can do here, not now.’
He thanked the photographer again for his help, again receiving no reply. They made their way outside and walked to the car. But Hobbes stopped as Barlow made to get in. ‘Hang on. I don’t think Briggs has finished with us quite yet.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Hobbes smiled. ‘What’s your real name, Constable?’
‘My what?’
‘What does your mother call you?’
‘James. Well, Jimmy, actually.’
‘Well then, Jimmy, our Mr Briggs has got more to say, I’m sure of it. He just needs a moment alone.’
Barlow looked confused. ‘Is this … is this lesson number three, sir?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Lesson number three?’
‘Aye, if you like. Sometimes it’s best to move away. Give them room.’
A minute passed. Barlow looked up and down the narrow mews. He coughed politely, and stamped his feet on the cobbled pavement. Another thirty seconds went by. Still, Hobbes waited. And then, as if on cue, the front door of the house opened and Briggs came out. He was holding a large white envelope in his hand.
‘I haven’t shown these to anyone, not in all the years since.’
‘What are they?’
‘Just … just take them off me, will you. They’re eating up my soul. God help me!’
He hurried back to his house.
Hobbes opened the envelope. Inside was a series of photographs. He flicked through the first few, a couple more, and even before he’d reached the last one in the batch, a thought struck him like a flash of lightning.
He was looking at a murder scene.
The Gallery
They came off the ring road and hit the A21, which would take them down to the south coast. PC Barlow turned on the radio. Pop music, aimless chatter, squeaky jingles. ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Briggs told us that Lucas Bell said “the dark was closing in”. But I can’t equate that with the letter he sent to Simone Paige on the day he died. There, he seemed hopeful.’
Hobbes agreed. ‘He did. I think the young man was torn, in two minds, so to speak. He was scared of something, something bad. Either in his mind, or in the world. Maybe he was reaching out to Simone, as that final day dawned.’
‘But it went wrong?’
‘By his own hand, or another’s – it all went wrong.’
They drove on and Barlow told him what little he knew about Monsoon Monsoon’s career. ‘They never caught on, sir. Two albums out, both sold next to nothing. Dropped by the label.’
‘So adopting the Lucas Bell myth gave them a boost?’
‘It did. It’s funny, but their final gig was the biggest of their career.’
They stopped for petrol and refreshments at a service station. Barlow bit into his ham and pickle sandwich and asked, ‘So what are we looking for, sir, when we get there?’
‘Number one job is to find Nikki Hauser. She’s mixed up in this, I’m sure, and I’m hoping she’ll be in Hastings. And then there’s the young woman who threatened Lucas Bell after the gig. You found her name and address?’
‘Yes, sir. Morgan Yorke.’
‘That’s the one.’ Hobbes added another sugar to his tea. ‘I’ve already chatted to the Hastings police, and they’ll have a small force at Witch Haven field, just to keep the peace. Our liaison there is …’ He found a scrap of paper in his pocket. ‘… DC Jan Palmer.’
Barlow grinned. ‘And what about Simone Paige?’
‘What about her?’
‘Do you think she’ll be there? You’ve got your eye on her, I reckon.’
‘She’s a suspect. Everybody is.’
‘Really?’
‘Every single person, no matter how slight the association. You must always doubt. Doubt everything, do you hear me? And everyone. Even the innocent.’
Barlow frowned. ‘Don’t you trust anybody?’
Hobbes fell quiet.
‘Sorry, sir. I’ve overstepped the mark.’
‘Never mind. I know how I appear.’
Barlow looked embarrassed. Hobbes finished his tea in one gulp. ‘But what the hell, here I am. Still standing.’
The constable didn’t respond, not at first. He brushed crumbs off his Harrington jacket and looked around the cafeteria. It was past midday, and the place was filling up with travellers. Music played over the sound system.
‘What happened, sir?’
Hobbes looked up, straight into the younger man’s eyes. He knew what was coming.
‘What really happened in Soho? There are so many rumours flying around, it’s difficult to know what to think. Did they really beat up that black guy?’
‘They did. Viciously, too.’ Hobbes reeled off the names: ‘Detective sergeants Len Mawley and Patrick Boyle. And Detective Inspector Charles Jenkes.’
‘You saw it happen?’
‘That I did. As close as you are to me now.’
Barlow gave a low whistle. ‘Bloody hell.’ It was the first time Hobbes had heard him swear. ‘That’s terrible, if it’s true.’
‘Oh, it’s true.’
‘I hate it. I hate the fact that policemen have to act like this.’
‘You think they have to?’
‘Circumstances—’
‘No!’ Hobbes said. ‘Fuck the circumstances.’
‘But, sir—’
‘There is no excuse. No matter the provocation.’
Barlow started to speak. And then bit his tongue. Hobbes lit a cigarette and drew on it deep for comfort. For some reason he was able to lower his guard slightly in the constable’s
presence; he was reminded of the conversations he used to have with DI Collingworth on stake-outs, sharing knowledge and jokes, in lieu of secrets. The old way, the old codes. Body armour. And every now and then a glimmer of light, a single word. The hint of a painful truth. And then silence.
Hobbes took another drag. He said, ‘The worst thing is, I should’ve got in there, pulled them off. But I was scared. I was shaking, I couldn’t move. Until that is, I turned and ran.’ His hands lost their tremble. ‘I ran. And that’s it.’
Barlow sat there opposite him, saying nothing.
Hobbes shook his head, ‘Oh, I don’t expect you to understand. How can you? You’re too young, too green. This job …’
‘What of it?’
Hobbes thought carefully before continuing. ‘Policing changes you. And mostly for the worse. But all that matters in the end is that the small part, the tiniest part that’s changed for the good, that’s the part you let grow.’ Barlow nodded at this. ‘Will you do that? Will you promise me you’ll try your very best to do that?’
The constable spoke quietly, but firmly. ‘I will. I’ll try.’
Hobbes was glad to hear this. It was a start. But the conversation had set his mind on the troubles he now faced with his family. His son had left home. He was only seventeen, for Christ’s sake. A runaway. That was the outcome of all this.
When he first got married and Glenda fell pregnant, he’d promised himself that he would be a good father, different than his own; that he would be there for his child, no matter what. But the job had taken over, the extreme nature of it, the constant battle against the dark. It was a kind of sickness. And without Hobbes realizing, the balance had shifted. And then one afternoon, when the press had gathered outside his house, and the photographers closed in, his son, Martin, had slipped away, climbing the locked gate of the back garden. Hobbes had been at work at the time, and it was only later that night that the teenager’s absence became a concern. The boy had not been seen since. An absurd notion came to Hobbes: I have to prove myself. I have to! For Martin’s sake. Only by doing this, could he tempt his son back home.
The meal done and cleared away by a waitress, the inspector took out the envelope given him by Neville Briggs. There were a dozen photographs inside, as well as a strip of negatives. ‘So this is Witch Haven field,’ Hobbes said as he looked at the first image. ‘The place where Lucas Bell killed himself. Or was murdered, depending on which story you believe.’
Hobbes went through the photographs, uncovering each one in turn.
Early morning. The light grey-cast, slanted, a thin mist still hanging around in patches.
A dirt roadway, a portion of a stone wall, and a gate.
Witch Haven field beyond, with a lone blue car parked in the middle, where the gentle roll of the hill sloped away. The vastness of the sky arching over, the sea barely visible in the distance, between two hills.
Each shot took them closer to the vehicle.
In one or two photographs, the image was blurred. The photographer’s hands shaking, perhaps?
‘I don’t get it, sir,’ Barlow said. ‘Why would Briggs take photos as he’s approaching the vehicle? Is he expecting the worst? And wants to record it as it happens?’
‘Maybe. You’ve seen how pent-up he is. A crazy artistic type.’
They moved on to the next image, which showed the Ford Capri in close-up. One of the doors hung open.
‘But there’s another explanation. Briggs has already seen what’s inside, and has gone back to record the car from different places, different angles. He’s making a project of it.’
‘That’s a bit cold-hearted, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Very much so.’
‘Christ!’
Hobbes had already glimpsed the offending photograph when Briggs had handed them to him.
‘Calm yourself. You’ll have to get used to it one day.’
Barlow was looking a bit pale around the cheeks. But now he reached over and picked up the final photograph in the sequence. He stared at it, his eyes unblinking.
Hobbes watched him.
The young man drew in a breath. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to look this bad.’
‘No. No, it’s a hell of a way to go. A messy end.’
Hobbes looked at the photograph himself, searching for clues. It was taken through the open front passenger door of the car. It showed a clear view of the victim’s face. It wasn’t the worst bullet-to-the-head job Hobbes had ever seen. The weapon must’ve been small, a pistol, low calibre. Still, most of the right-hand side of the temple had gone, obliterated in a mire of blood and bone.
Barlow said, ‘I don’t understand why he’s sitting in the passenger seat.’
‘This was mentioned in an interview I read yesterday, by a witness who claimed he saw Bell on the night of his death, being driven up to Witch Haven by a woman.’
‘And we don’t know who this woman is?’
‘We don’t. Or even if the story is true.’
Hobbes shook his head. ‘You know, Barlow, when I first took these out of the envelope and flicked through them, the first thing I thought was: murder scene.’ He let the idea simmer. ‘Not suicide. Murder.’
‘What made you think that, sir?’
‘I don’t rightly know. It just came to me, unbidden.’
Barlow looked worried. ‘I don’t know, sir.’ He pointed to the final image. ‘Maybe this is Lucas Bell killing off King Lost, for real.’
‘So you still think it’s self-inflicted?’
‘Yes. Or no. It’s murder. In the sense that he’s killing King Lost.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m only speculating.’
‘Good, keep going.’
Barlow smiled. ‘OK. Maybe the last performance on stage was just the rehearsal for this, a final and much more personal act.’
‘And what about the murder of Brendan Clarke?’
‘A crazed fan doing exactly what Lucas did? Killing off King Lost a second time. I mean, what greater homage could a fan offer?’
Hobbes thought about it. It sounded extreme, but he’d learned enough over the years to know that the human heart had no restrictions.
‘Maybe. Yes, maybe.’
But something still puzzled him. He went back through the photos, studying the first couple as they came up. The feeling of viewing a murder scene had arisen before he’d reached the bloodied face. What had he seen? He turned his attention to the third photograph, the fourth. It suddenly struck him that the images he was looking at had been taken exactly seven years ago, to the very day. He searched on. The next picture showed the vehicle from the front, head on, the windscreen too dark to show the horror that lay behind it, the car’s long bonnet.
A tingle ran along the detective’s neck. ‘Do you see that, Jimmy?’
Barlow scanned the image and then nodded.
A card was lodged on top of the dashboard, pressed up against the inside of the window like a talisman. Its colours and imagery were easily recognizable to Hobbes by now: the young man walking, the little dog, the chasm beckoning.
The Fool’s card.
The very same tarot card that had been left on Brendan Clarke’s body.
A Field in England
In the end they didn’t need the map that Hobbes had bought at the service station; they didn’t even need to follow any road signs.
It was Barlow who first spotted them. ‘Look, sir.’
Hobbes looked through the windscreen. Five or six people were walking along the road ahead, all of them dressed in black from head to foot. They stood out like a murder of crows against the green fields all around.
Barlow steered the car to follow the fans on to a wide dirt roadway that wound upwards between two ragged stone walls. Other people could be seen, dressed either in black, or in fancy, colourful clothing. A few cars, bicycles and motorbikes joined them on the trek, all taking the gentle rise towards the peak of a hill. The higher they climbed, the more crowded the road became. Now the car had to nudge it
s way through a throng of gatherers spreading out across the pathway. The road narrowed. Finally they pulled into a designated parking field that was already crowded with vehicles. A young woman asked them to pay for the privilege of leaving their car there.
They walked on. ‘Let’s keep it close, Barlow, shall we? We’re fellow worshippers, nothing more.’
They filed up to where an older man, a farmer, was standing by a closed gate. The fans congregated here as they paid their entrance fee. Hobbes and Barlow joined them.
‘This your first time?’ the farmer asked.
Hobbes nodded. He handed over two one-pound notes, one for himself, one for Barlow. ‘What’s the drill?’
‘No littering, no drink or drugs, no riotous behaviour. And most importantly of all, no scaring the livestock. On you go.’
They moved through the gate and started to descend the slope of the hill, following the other fans into Witch Haven field. Hobbes did a quick reckoning. There were about five hundred people in the field, all told, with more arriving all the time. The vast majority were young. Some preferred the more Gothic all-black look, while others mixed the older glam rock style with the current romantic look to create their own hybrid. Men looked like women, and women looked like men, and many of the revellers seemed to enjoy life in a hinterland between the genders. Hobbes couldn’t help feeling conspicious, in shirtsleeves and an old pair of ill-fitting jeans.
They passed a hotdog wagon and an ice-cream van, both doing a roaring trade. A flock of sheep nibbled at the grass nearby, unperturbed by the human presence. A number of police constables were standing here and there in pairs, keeping their distance from the revellers, or mourners, whichever they were. But everything looked peaceful enough; there seemed no threat of violence. The sea was visible in the distance and the afternoon sun was edging its way homeward through a blue sky tinged with a ruffle of purple over the water. Possible rain. Hobbes had heard it on the weather forecast driving down. But the day was still warm. A small television crew followed some of the fans, the reporter engaging them in conversation.
Hobbes frowned. ‘Brendan Clarke’s murderer is here. I know it.’
‘You think so?’
