Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  ‘Will do.’

  In return, she handed him a set of keys. ‘House keys, in Miss Paige’s possession.’

  He made a quick call to Richmond police station, to get an address he needed. They said their goodbyes to the Palmer family and made their way to Fairfax’s car. Hobbes placed the Edenville box in the boot. ‘I have to thank you,’ he said. ‘For coming all this way.’

  ‘Look, it’s the least I could do, after the way I’ve been treating you.’

  Hobbes couldn’t get the measure of the man.

  ‘Anyway, sir, maybe you’ll pay me back one day.’

  Fairfax pulled the car away from the kerb. ‘I was sorry to hear about Simone Paige. She was a hell of a woman. A real doll. Mind, a bit too serious for my liking.’

  Hobbes watched the brightly painted fronts of the houses pass by. He had the feeling he wasn’t yet finished with Hastings, and its inhabitants.

  ‘I’ll bet you’re missing the Smoke,’ Fairfax said. ‘The dust and the grime. The bright lights.’

  ‘I am, it’s true, but we’re not going back to London.’

  ‘No? Why’s that, then?’

  ‘A slight detour. I want you to take the A229.’

  ‘Where the hell does that lead us?’

  ‘Maidstone. Where the Clarke family live.’

  ‘I thought we’d dismissed them?’

  ‘Not quite yet.’

  They drove on, leaving the built-up area behind them. Soon enough they had green fields on both sides, and a line of cars on the opposite side of the road; commuters making their way back home from London. Hobbes brought his colleague up to date on the Clarke case. Fairfax was mesmerized when he heard about Edenville, and the complexity of the teenagers’ collective undertaking. He laughed and said, ‘Actually, when I was that age, I had a made-up persona.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, you need something, don’t you, something to hide behind? We all do.’

  ‘Funny, I’d pictured you as being the leader of the gang.’

  Fairfax grinned. ‘Me? Jesus, no. I was a runt. Youngest of five lads. Living off scraps and hand-me-downs on a Dagenham housing estate. By the time I was eleven, I was a mess. Spent most of my time in my room – which, by the way, I had to share with my brother, Melvin. Hell on earth.’

  ‘So, what, you made up a new image for yourself?’

  ‘Well, see, I loved American comics. Spiderman, Daredevil, Batman and Robin, the Human Torch. In my mind, I was Spiral Man.’

  ‘Spiral Man?’

  ‘I know, it sounds daft, but that was me. I was Spiral Man. My superpower was the ability to jump through time, as I pleased. I was always using it to jump back ten minutes, say, and then coming up with the perfect reply to an insult. Or this time, you know, I’d dodge the blow.’

  ‘Someone was hitting you?’

  ‘Brother Alan, usually. Like I said, I was the youngest. The punching bag.’

  Hobbes started to get a clearer idea of Fairfax’s character. He’d known enough tough guys and macho types to know that weakness or pain often lay at the heart of their constant struggle to assert themselves.

  Fairfax stopped at a roundabout, waiting for an opening in the flow of traffic. He put on a smile, held it in place. ‘Now don’t go telling any of this to Meg. She thinks I’m idiotic enough as it is.’

  Hobbes kept it light. ‘Your secret identity is safe with me.’

  A few miles outside Maidstone, the talk turned to Fairfax’s dad once again.

  ‘What was his job?’ Hobbes asked.

  ‘Steelworker. Then unemployed when the factory went bust. After that a layabout and drunkard. I swore to myself – eleven, twelve years old – that I would never get my hands dirty for some other bastard’s profit.’

  ‘A cop’s hands get dirty enough.’

  ‘That was Uncle Charlie’s doing. Me joining up, I mean.’

  ‘Charlie Jenkes?’

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘I think Meg mentioned that he was friends with your dad.’

  ‘Best friends. The very best. That’s why we all called him Uncle Charlie. They were like brothers, you know? Oh God, I loved him so much, as a kid. Whenever my brothers were having a go at me, I’d run off to Charlie’s house. That was my getaway.’ A sudden edge came into his voice. ‘I mean, that man was my hero.’

  There was an awkward silence. Hobbes spoke at last: ‘You have to believe me, Tommy, I’m as sad as you are about what happened to him.’

  ‘Sure. Sure you are.’

  The mood had changed in an instant. Hobbes could practically hear Fairfax’s teeth grinding together as he spoke. Perhaps he’d come down to Hastings for one purpose only: to confront him, out of sight of the other officers, away from prying eyes. The jokes and stories were a front, to get his superior’s guard down.

  The car started to slow down. Hobbes felt his heart tighten.

  ‘What are you doing, Fairfax?’

  There was no reply. He looked out of the window and saw a lay-by coming up. The car swung into it and came to an easy stop. Now everything was quiet. The sky had started to darken. An embankment on one side, the road on the other, a few cars passing by. Ahead, a wooden kiosk selling drinks and burgers to a trio of bikers.

  Hobbes could see no easy way out of this. If it came to a fight, the younger man would beat him easily; he was fitter, stronger, and driven by anger. Hobbes turned to face him. The detective constable was staring through the windscreen. One hand tapped impatiently at the steering wheel.

  Hobbes breathed in and out rapidly. ‘Now look, Fairfax, what’re you playing at? Is this some kind of game?’

  ‘No games. I promise you.’ He turned in the seat and stared directly at his superior. ‘This is about Charlie, and about why he had to die.’

  ‘It was fear. Don’t you see that? He’d made a mistake and now he was afraid for his job, his standing. His dignity. He’d lost everything. There was no other way out.’

  ‘Sure. He did a bad thing. According to you.’

  ‘Did you really worship him that much, that you can’t see the truth?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s worship. But he stood for everything that was good, everything I loved about being a copper.’

  ‘I agree, in the early days. But then he ruined it.’

  Fairfax looked at him without blinking. And Hobbes saw something different in his face, a kind of surrender. His mouth trembled as he spoke.

  ‘I hear that Charlie didn’t kill himself.’

  Hobbes started to reply, but then stopped himself. He hadn’t expected this, not at all.

  Fairfax was still staring at him. ‘There’s this story going round, see? That he was strung up.’ His hand came up to rub at his face. The young man was sweating. ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I think one of those black bastards did it.’

  ‘Fairfax—’

  ‘Revenge. What else could it be?’

  ‘Fairfax, where did you hear about this? Tell me!’

  ‘Unless … unless it was a cop.’ His hand bunched into a fist. ‘Jesus. I hope not. Christ, no.’ He was losing control. His face was bright red.

  ‘Let’s get some air. Come on.’

  Hobbes opened the door and stepped out, hoping that DC Fairfax would follow him. He did. They stood together near the embankment. A breeze ruffled the wildflowers that grew along the edge of the concrete. Music was coming from the kiosk, a rock and roll number. It sounded like Chuck Berry.

  Hobbes stood to attention. ‘If you’ve heard rumours, Tommy, you have to put them aside. Charlie Jenkes hanged himself, that’s all we know.’ He could sense Lockhart over his shoulder as he said this. The mission was meant to be secret, he’d sworn to keep it that way. And Fairfax was too volatile, easily riled.

  Still, he had to know something. ‘Tommy. Can you tell me who started this story?’

  Fairfax nodded. ‘I called in on Charlie’s wife last night.’<
br />
  ‘Lisa?’

  ‘She’s scared out of her wits. Chief Superintendent Lockhart paid her a visit, a couple of weeks back. He’s stirring up trouble.’

  ‘What did he want, did she say?’

  ‘He’s looking for reasons, motives. Personal stuff, you know.’ Fairfax blinked. ‘That whole family is going crazy, breaking apart. I wish I could do something to help them.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll talk to Lisa.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Tomorrow. I’ll sort this out, whatever the truth is.’

  Fairfax gave him a weak smile. He looked defenceless and ill at ease.

  ‘It’s true then?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The story. That Charlie was murdered.’

  ‘I’m not saying—’

  ‘And that Lockhart has asked you to look into it.’

  Hobbes felt sick. The smell of burning onions and fried meat wafted over from the kiosk. A car sped by, spewing out carbon monoxide.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  The younger detective looked him right in the eye, and said, ‘I want in.’

  ‘Fairfax—’

  ‘I need to be in on this. I need to find out what happened, for certain.’

  ‘And then what? Retribution?’

  Fairfax didn’t reply, but his eyes held a pure glint of madness. It scared Hobbes. He considered carefully before speaking. ‘It’s easier to be a bad cop than a good one. Which way do you want to go?’

  ‘Whichever’s necessary.’

  It was hopeless. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Fairfax’s mouth twisted in a crooked line.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get on our way.’ Hobbes led the younger man back to the car. They got in and set off, pulling out on to the main road.

  ‘Look, Tommy, keep all this to yourself, will you? About Charlie.’

  Fairfax drove on in silence.

  A Cabinet of Curiosities

  Mr and Mrs Clarke lived in a village called Holcombe St Mary some five miles outside Maidstone. A narrow winding road took them into open country. An enormous house stood alone at the edge of a field. Fairfax whistled his appreciation.

  ‘This is it.’

  The Clarke residence was a rambling three-storey property called Oulton Grange. The next house was some miles away across the flat landscape. Nearby was a smaller building, a barn or a stables of some kind. Hobbes and Fairfax walked through the extensive garden to the front door, which opened before they got there. Annabelle Clarke was waiting for them.

  ‘I’m glad you could see us, Mrs Clarke.’

  ‘Your detective Lattner rang, to arrange it. Is that her name?’

  ‘Latimer.’

  They moved along a central corridor. Hobbes heard murmured voices from a living room as they passed, and glimpsed a group of people through a doorway. Mr Clarke was among them, serving drinks.

  ‘We have a few friends and relatives over tonight. They’ve all been very supportive.’

  ‘Good. I believe your son’s body has now been released?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. We will bury him early next week.’

  She stopped at the foot of the stairs. Hobbes could see that she was struggling to hold her emotions at bay. She dabbed at her eyes with her fingers.

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘That’s all right. Whenever you’re ready.’

  She smiled. ‘One tries to be strong, of course, for the sake of the family.’ Her hand tightened on the banister. ‘Sometimes, I’m absolutely certain that I’ve screamed out loud, but then I look around and nobody’s paying any attention to me. Or hardly anybody. Just my husband. He’ll be gazing at me so intently, so kindly …’ Her thoughts drifted into silence.

  They followed her upstairs. On the landing she turned to them and said, ‘Dear Gerald threw all the money in the world at Brendan. Oh my, did he! You wouldn’t believe the things we’ve bought for him over the years.’

  Hobbes thanked her again. He felt at a loss.

  ‘Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?’ she asked.

  Carefully he said, ‘There might be something in Brendan’s collection that connects to his murder, but I won’t know it until I see it.’

  They entered a spacious bedroom at the back of the house, which was overly neat and very clean. It smelled of furniture polish. There were a good many cupboards and shelves, a writing desk, and a single bed with tightly tucked sheets. The walls were bare except for a few framed posters, one of them showing the Backstreet Harlequin album cover. Mrs Clarke lifted the lid of a large chest that stood on the floor beneath the window.

  ‘This is his collection of relics,’ she announced. ‘Oh God, that’s horrible isn’t it, using such a word? It’s just that Gerald and I always referred to it as that. The relics.’

  Hobbes bent down to look through the contents of the chest. It was filled to the brim with objects: demo cassettes; dozens of plectrums; candid photographs of the rock star and his entourage (Simone Paige was seen in quite a few of them); autographed beer mats; a snapped guitar string stored safely in a box; set lists in Lucas’s handwriting; a weird-looking pull-on King Lost mask made out of rubber; cigarette butts carefully sealed in plastic bags; even a handkerchief smudged with lipstick. Hobbes couldn’t help wondering if the scarlet impressions were the markings of Simone’s lips. It was astonishing.

  ‘I did warn you,’ Mrs Clarke said. ‘There are wonders here.’

  ‘How did he get hold of this stuff?’ Fairfax asked.

  ‘Brendan was voracious when it came to his passion. He would spend weeks or even months researching, making phone calls, going off to meet with strange people in strange places.’ She pointed to a shelf which contained a number of cardboard folders. ‘These, for instance, contain many of Lucas Bell’s original lyric sheets. A particular obsession.’

  Hobbes took one folder down and flicked through it. It made him think of the sheets of paper found in Brendan Clarke’s London house: they were photocopies, but these were the originals, page after page of them. So many treasured objects. He had to admit: there was evidence of madness in the room.

  As if in reply to his unspoken thoughts, Mrs Clarke said, ‘This is only a small selection of items, Inspector. We have more in storage.’

  Fairfax shook his head. ‘This is crazy. I’m sorry. But it is.’

  ‘I know. I do know. Dear Brendan had his problems.’

  Her breath quickened. She was getting upset again. Hobbes watched her as her gaze darted this way and that, reluctant to settle.

  Fairfax gestured for Hobbes to step outside, on to the landing.

  ‘Look, what the hell are we doing in this place?’ He spoke in a whisper, although it was doubtful that Mrs Clarke was paying them any heed.

  ‘I know, it’s tricky. I thought there might be something here, a clue of some kind.’

  He walked back into the room and was about to speak when Mrs Clarke held up a hand to quieten him. She was standing near the bed where her son used to sleep, whenever he came visiting. The sheets were freshly laundered from the looks of it. She ran a hand over the pillow, smoothing out a crease. Then she pointed to a small framed picture on the wall above the bed. ‘This, I’m afraid, was the last thing Brendan stared at, before going to sleep.’

  Hobbes moved closer.

  ‘It was his most treasured possession.’

  The inspector unhooked the frame from the wall. At its centre, sealed under glass, was a small piece of paper. He read the few words scrawled on it:

  I’ve loved just about all I can love,

  There’s nowhere else to go.

  Below this was Lucas Bell’s signature.

  ‘Do you know what it is?’ she asked.

  ‘I do. It’s a suicide note.’

  ‘I can assure you, it’s genuine.’ The very idea made her shudder. But then she turned to Hobbes and said, ‘I suppose you think my son was mad,
as your colleague does?’

  He didn’t answer. He couldn’t, not truthfully.

  ‘Inspector Hobbes?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might have killed Brendan?’

  ‘It’s only been a few days. We’re still—’

  ‘Do you? Or don’t you?’

  Hobbes looked to the doorway for support, but Fairfax had vanished. He decided to tell the grieving woman the truth, such as it was. ‘I believe that Brendan was murdered by somebody close to Lucas Bell, a friend from his youth. A woman.’

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘As I said, we’re still investigating. But this person has killed at least one other person, maybe two, and they may well do so again. Until I understand the killer’s obsession, the exact reasons for her actions, there’s very little I can be certain of.’

  Mrs Clarke frowned. ‘Will you do one last thing for me?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Tell me what Brendan looked like. When he was found, I mean. His face …’

  ‘I’m not sure that—’

  ‘I need to know.’ Her eyes locked on his. ‘I need to know. Everything, no matter how painful.’

  And so he found himself relating the story of how he first entered the bedroom at 47 Westbrook Avenue, to view the corpse on the bed. Every detail was given. Annabelle Clarke listened with intent, with unblinking eyes, her face seemingly devoid of emotion. Afterwards, when it was done, she stood in silence. Then she nodded her head in thanks and said, somewhat matter-of-factly, ‘That will help me.’ She turned to the door. ‘Now can we get out of here, please?’

  By sheer force of will, she brightened her mood.

  ‘There’s one more thing I wish to show you.’

  They walked downstairs, along the main corridor and past the room where friends and family were now talking. Gerald Clarke looked up but said nothing. They went out through the front door, into the garden. It was fully dark by now and the stars were clearly visible in the sky, so many of them. Hobbes looked to Fairfax’s car as he passed, and saw his colleague sitting inside, listening to the radio. They moved on along another pathway that led to the smaller building Hobbes had noticed earlier. It was an old stables. Mrs Clarke unlocked the door and gestured for him to enter. It was dark inside until a light was clicked on. And then he stood where he was, frozen, staring ahead without saying a word. At last he managed to take a step forward, towards the lone vehicle that was parked in the middle of the floor.