by Jeff Noon
Hobbes thought aloud for a moment: ‘He was gathering evidence.’
‘For what?’
‘That Lucas Bell had been murdered.’
Webster’s eyes widened, hearing this. ‘You mean … Bloody hell, by the woman in the car? The woman I saw that night?’ The anger came back. ‘Oh fuck. Have I thrown this away? I mean, look at me. I’m the prime witness! This should be my pot of gold.’
‘Danny …’
‘Get off me!’ He stood up and pushed away from Hobbes.
‘Danny, sit down.’
‘I’ve been done over.’ Webster jerked about like a puppet. His empty glass fell to the carpet. ‘Oh shit. Oh fuck!’
Other people were looking round as Webster raised his voice. His two friends were looking concerned. One of them got to his feet. ‘Danny? You all right?’
‘Fuck off!’
‘Hey, I’m trying to help.’
But he didn’t want any help. The two men grappled; it was halfway between a fight and a hug. Hobbes’s chair scraped across the floor as he tried to get out of the way of the two heavy-set men. The table was pushed aside. A woman nearby cried out in alarm. Someone else shouted out, ‘Sit down, Danny! For fuck’s sake.’ Obviously, this was not an unusual occurrence. DC Palmer was on her feet, trying to separate the two men. But the fight ended as quickly as it had begun. Webster stood in the middle of the floor. The other drinkers were laughing at him by now. More disparaging remarks were made, none of which seemed to reach his ears. For one moment it looked as though he was going to bolt or rather stumble for the door. Instead he rallied and turned on Hobbes for one last time. He said to him, ‘There’s one thing I never told that stupid Brendan Clarke man. One thing!’
Hobbes kept his gaze steady. ‘What was it?’
Webster snarled. ‘He shagged her.’ For some reason, he was speaking to the entire pub now. ‘That’s right, your ever so precious Lucas Bell, he shagged the librarian. It was fuckin’ horrible, even thinking about it! She was so old. Horrible!’
This said, he collapsed back into his chair. His friend touched him on his shoulder and this time Webster let the hand remain there.
The interview over, Hobbes and Palmer made for the door. They walked back along the streets, towards the police station. Along the way, Palmer said, ‘Why did you ask Danny if the group had killed someone?’
Hobbes thought back to what Nikki Hauser had said to him in the car, how Lucas Bell had almost confessed to her. He said to Palmer, ‘A witness I was talking to at Witch Haven told me a story. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but there’s a possibility that the Edenville kids, whoever they were, might’ve been involved in a crime of some kind.’
‘Right. I’ll look into Bell’s schooldays, see what I can dig up.’
They moved on. It took them fifteen minutes to reach the police station on Bohemia Road, and as soon as they walked through the entrance, it was obvious something was wrong. Police officers were hurrying around, nervously chatting to each other. The desk sergeant was shouting into a telephone receiver: ‘I don’t care about that. I just need you to find DI Bailey for me. Now!’ He banged down the phone.
Palmer went over to him. ‘What’s happening, Fred?’
‘There’s been a killing. I’m trying to find—’
‘What?’
‘I’m trying to find Detective Bailey. Nobody seems to know where he is.’
‘Who’s died?’
He looked at her. ‘One of the Lucas Bell girls. One of the fans. That’s all I know.’
Hobbes heard this and immediately thought of Morgan Yorke, he wasn’t sure why. He stepped closer to the counter, saying, ‘Tell me where. I’ll take over.’
‘I’m not sure DI Bailey would like—’
The telephone rang, cutting off the desk sergeant’s protest. ‘Yes, yes … OK, yes, I see, right.’ He jotted something down on a notepad. ‘No, I’m still looking for him.’
‘What is it, Fred?’
The sergeant put the telephone handset down. ‘An ID on the victim.’ He squinted at the notepad. ‘Her name’s Paige.’
A fierce painful light blinked at the edge of Hobbes’s vision as the name was read out.
‘Simone Paige.’
Living in the Dark
Hobbes and Palmer walked up to the open front door of Fair Harbour. A constable moved aside to let them enter. In the crowded living room, Hobbes demanded, ‘Who’s in charge here?’ Several heads turned at his voice, but no one answered.
Palmer said, ‘I think we’re still waiting for DI Bailey.’
‘Has the doctor had his go?’
This time a plain-clothes officer spoke up. ‘Yes, sir. He’s been and gone.’
‘Good.’
He looked round. An older woman, sitting on the settee, made a whimpering sound. She was trembling badly and her head was lowered into her chest, hiding her face.
‘And this is?’
‘The owner of the house, sir.’
Hobbes scowled. ‘OK, everybody out. Now! Come on. Give me some room, for Christ’s sake.’ His command had sufficient intensity to force them all to move. ‘Palmer, could you clear the crime scene for me?’
‘Clear it?’
‘Everyone out of there. Everyone!’
She seemed confused, hesitating before making her way out of the room. Hobbes bent down to speak to the woman on the settee.
‘Can I have your name, please?’
She peered up at him. ‘Mrs Saunders. Or … Vera. Whichever you prefer.’
‘Vera. I’m Detective Inspector Hobbes.’
She nodded. Smiled briefly.
‘Now then …’
Hobbes took a step back. He was suddenly at a loss. On the way over here he’d tried to keep his head free of all emotions, to empty it completely, so that the details of what he saw – of the body and its situation – everything would be clean in his mind. No distractions, no personal feelings.
Keep the heart at bay, Henry. Think like a razor.
DI Collingworth again. Always that insistent voice in his head. But how could he use the razor this time? He’d messed up. He’d messed up and a woman had died, someone he knew was in danger.
Hobbes looked around, to gather himself. The room was a fairy grotto of pastel shades, with a lawn of cream-coloured shagpile carpet underfoot. He imagined Mrs Saunders vacuumed daily. And dusted each of the many ornaments and vases at least once a week. His own mother did the same.
DC Palmer came back into the room. ‘All sorted, sir.’
He nodded his thanks and turned back to the owner of the house.
‘Mrs Saunders, I know this is difficult for you, but could you tell me what happened this morning?’
‘Yes. I can try.’
‘I believe Simone Paige came to see you?’
‘Yes, it was around ten o’clock, after I’d finished putting the laundry on, when the doorbell rang. I get scared around this time of year, because of all the Lucas Bell admirers. Sometimes they pester me. But I peeked through the window and I saw that it was a woman – well, not a teenager, I mean. So I felt safe enough.’
‘Do you live alone?’
‘No. I have my husband, Trevor. But he’s out at the moment, playing golf.’ Her brows tightened.
Hobbes was drawn to a photograph lying on the coffee table, a snapshot of Simone Paige as a younger woman. What was it doing here?
‘So you answered the door?’
‘I did. And Miss Paige was standing there.’
‘Did you recognize her?’
‘Not at first, no. Not until she said her name, and then I had to check. So I came back inside, and found the photograph.’
Hobbes pointed to the photograph on the table. ‘This one?’
‘Yes. Lucas left that for me, you see.’
‘Lucas Bell?’
‘That’s right. He used to live in this house, in Fair Harbour, when he was young.’
Hobbes nodded. ‘And why did Lucas lea
ve the photograph for you?’
‘He said that I should never let anyone in the house, not any of the fans, I mean, unless it was Simone Paige. And he left this for me.’ She picked up the photograph and stared at it, her eyes watering. ‘He left me this so I would be able to recognize her.’
Hobbes thought about what he was hearing. ‘Can we go back a bit. When did Lucas Bell come to see you?’
‘Oh, he used to visit every now and then, you know? After he became famous. Yes, he paid me a handsome fee. Really, a silly amount of money, each and every time. How could I refuse?’
‘And what was this money for?’
‘Payment. To store his things here. In the attic.’
‘I see. And when was the last time you saw Mr Bell?’
Mrs Saunders hesitated. ‘A few days before … well, before he killed himself.’
Her hands were in the busy unnoticed process of crumpling the photograph.
‘And he left something in the attic, that time?’
‘Oh yes. Lucas would always bring something or other with him.’
‘Do you have any idea what it might’ve been?’
She shook her head. ‘That time, a cardboard box. I don’t know what was in it. I’ve never looked at any of his things. He would phone me up, come round, take something up into the attic. Stay there for a while, and then come back down again, empty-handed. That’s what happened every time.’
‘Did you speak to him on these occasions?’
‘Oh, well we chatted, of this and that. The weather, and so on. He was always very pleasant. Except …’
‘Yes?’
‘That very last time, I could see he was troubled by something. But I didn’t like to ask. That was the time he told me about Simone Paige, and when he gave me the photograph. He told me that she, and she alone, was allowed to see what was stored in the attic.’
Hobbes considered. It sounded like Bell knew he was going to kill himself, or be killed, and he’d left something behind, here in his childhood home, for Simone Paige to find.
‘And so, when Simone came to see you …’
‘I told her everything, of course. She was very surprised. And excited.’
‘Do you know why she visited you?’
‘She said that she’d like to chat, about Lucas, his family, the house, and so on. But when I told her about the attic, nothing else mattered to her. She only wanted to see whatever it might be up there.’
Hobbes leaned forward. ‘And then what happened?’
‘We went upstairs.’
‘Could you show me? Take me through the exact steps.’
Mrs Saunders hesitated, and then got to her feet and led the way out of the living room, into the hallway. A number of officers were waiting by the open front door, staring at this latest development. Hobbes ignored them; he followed DC Palmer and Mrs Saunders up the stairs to the landing. Everything was spotlessly clean, every surface, except for a red mark on the wall: a partial handprint in blood.
‘This is it.’ Mrs Saunders had stopped at the foot of a metal fold-out ladder which led up to an open attic door in the ceiling.
Hobbes nodded. ‘So you brought Simone here?’
‘That’s right. I pulled down the ladder, and she climbed up.’
‘Did you stay here?’
‘No, I went back to the living room.’
‘Could you hear anything?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Not at first. But then …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, Miss Paige was up there for a few minutes, and then I heard voices, loud voices, and a terrible scream. Something was knocked over, I think. It made a noise. So I called up the stairs, thinking she’d had an accident.’
‘Did she answer?’
‘No. But I could still hear sounds from up there, and then another scream, or rather, a cry. A cry of pain.’ Mrs Saunders pressed her hands to her chest. ‘Oh Lord, it frightened me.’
‘And then?’
She’d stopped speaking. Hobbes looked at her, waiting.
‘Mrs Saunders, what happened next?’
‘I climbed the stairs to the landing, right where we are now, and I listened. It was quiet. Not a sound.’ She took a deep breath. ‘After a moment I found the courage to climb up, into the attic. I put my head through the gap, and I saw … I saw Miss Paige, just lying there. I thought she must’ve had an accident. So I was about to climb up further, and that’s when I was attacked.’
‘You mean somebody hit you?’
She nodded, and touched at the back of her head.
‘Then what? You fell down the stairs, I imagine?’
‘Yes. I did. It wasn’t a particularly nasty blow, but it was enough to shock me, and I sort of fell or slid down the ladder to the floor, and I collapsed there. And that’s when the person, whoever it was, climbed down after me.’
‘You didn’t recognize the person?’
‘I hardly saw them. I was cowering, and covering my head with my hands.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘Oh, it wasn’t a man. At least, I don’t think it was.’
‘A woman?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘You think so?’
Hobbes could see he was scaring her. ‘Age? Appearance?’ he asked.
Mrs Saunders looked distraught. ‘Dressed in black, I know that. But really, she was just a blur. Maybe she wore a hat of some kind, or a balaclava.’
‘Yet you knew it was a woman?’
‘It felt like a woman. I mean … the sense of her, if you know what I mean?’
Hobbes prompted, ‘And what did she do?’
‘I thought she was going to attack me again, but no, she ran downstairs at full pelt, and out through the front door.’
‘That’s fine, that’s fine.’ Hobbes nodded to Mrs Saunders. ‘Thank you, please go back to the living room now.’
She followed his orders gratefully. Hobbes started to climb up towards the attic, but DC Palmer said to him, ‘Sir, you’ll need these.’ She handed him a pair of thin plastic gloves, which he pulled on to his fingers.
He said, ‘Follow me up, but just look inside, leave it all to me.’
Palmer gave her assent. Hobbes reached the attic doorway and poked his head through the gap. The light was on, a bare bulb hanging from a flex at the centre of the room. The glow reached only so far, the rest of the space was in shadow. The usual array of unwanted household items could be seen: a pair of dining chairs, tea chests, an ironing board, pots and pans, and so on. A metal hat stand had fallen over.
The body of Simone Paige was lying half in darkness and half in light.
The face was visible.
Her eyes were open, staring ahead.
One of her hands was outstretched, as though reaching out towards Hobbes.
Splashes of blood spotted the floorboards around her.
Hobbes climbed over the lip of the doorway to enter the attic. He had to stoop to clear the eaves. He edged across to the body, feeling sick inside and furious at himself. Observe. Observe. There was a rough bed in one corner, consisting of a blanket arranged on some cushions. Nearby was a cup, a tin plate, a torch, a few tins of corned beef and a bag of apples. Was it possible that someone actually lived up here, in the dark? Or more likely, did the woman only visit every so often, when she knew Mr and Mrs Saunders were out?
He looked down at Simone. There was a deep wound in her stomach, and many other shallower cuts on the chest area. It looked like a frenzied attack. Her arms and hands were covered in defensive cuts. He searched around the body and saw a steak knife lying on the floor nearby, the blade covered in blood. He could see that it had been taken from a hinged wooden box containing other items of cutlery. Simone must’ve realized that she wasn’t alone, that someone was up here with her. Hiding in the shadows, waiting, knife at the ready.
Panic. Fear. On both sides, probably.
Hobbes tried to imagine every emotion of victim and killer.
; This wasn’t in any way a planned attack, more a desperate act, driven by the urge to escape.
Perhaps driven by a fan’s hatred of Simone Paige?
He stood up straight and waited for a moment, his body held still.
Then he whispered, ‘Simone. Simone, I’m sorry. I will find out who did this to you. I will track them down, I will bring them to justice.’ The usual pledge caught in his throat. ‘This I promise.’
It was useless, useless. So many empty words.
‘Did you say something?’
It was Palmer’s voice. She was looking over the brim of the door.
‘No, no. Nothing.’
Anger burned inside him. He tried to think about the killer’s intentions. What the hell was so important up here? What was being protected? His eyes scanned the shadows. Beyond Simone’s body he could see a collection of large cardboard boxes, three of them: presumably Lucas Bell’s belongings. They were guarded by a tailor’s dummy dressed in one of Bell’s stage costumes, alongside a couple of guitars. A few other smaller items filled the spaces in between. Cobwebs, dust and mildew covered everything.
Hobbes stepped over the corpse as carefully as he could manage. He looked at the first of the boxes. It was marked in black felt-tip with the words EARLY SONGS. He pulled a few sheets of paper from inside, and recognized Lucas Bell’s scrawl from the other lyric sheets he’d seen at Brendan Clarke’s house. Presumably these were his teenage attempts at writing music. The second box was marked ARTWORKS. This too was packed tight with sheets of paper, but he left it for now and moved on to the third and last of the boxes, which was hidden behind the others. Unlike the first two, this last box was sealed with wrapping tape. At first he couldn’t see any markings on the box but when he shifted it around he saw a single word written on the side in black letters:
EDENVILLE.
Dust caught in his throat. He felt he was staring at a treasure chest. Lucas Bell had left this box here for Simone to find, he was sure of it. He remembered Bell’s words as she’d quoted them from her journals: One day, if the time is ever right, I’ll tell you the story of Edenville. Well, that day had finally arrived. Sadly, Simone would never get to see inside the box, never get to understand the secret.
Hobbes found an old fountain pen in a box of knick-knacks. He poked the nib through the wrapping tape and pulled it towards him. The box lid cracked open. He peered inside. It was stuffed front to back with paper: single sheets, exercise books, notebooks of various kinds. So many of them. He pulled out a few items at random. One sketchbook was titled ‘Maps of Edenville’. Another smaller book was called ‘Secret Passwords’. Another: ‘The Complete Index of Edenville Museum’. There was an overwhelming amount of material. He pushed the contents forward to reach for the very first item, a sheet of paper with a few lines of text on it. The top line read, ‘Edenville – Founding Members’. It was dated 12 September 1963. Below this it said, ‘Let it be known: the following are deemed the true and worthy first citizens of the parish of Edenville.’ A list of names followed. Not real names, but nicknames. Or rather, code names. Six of them. Four he didn’t recognize, two of them he did:
