Slow Motion Ghosts

by Jeff Noon

  And then the bell on the wall rang. Lear tapped the ashes from his pipe and stood up.

  ‘The voice from on high is calling.’

  Hobbes had an idea. He said, ‘I want to ask Gavin if he knows the woman, would that be all right?’

  ‘Sure. Why not.’

  They walked up the stairs together and entered the Edenville room. Gavin Roberts sat at its centre as always, working away, gluing pieces of cardboard together to make a model building. Hobbes stepped forward and offered him the photograph.

  ‘Gavin, do you recognize this woman?’

  The reaction was instantaneous, and violent.

  He cried out in pain and started to shake.

  Lear came forward to try and calm him. But Gavin scrambled away from the work desk and cowered against the wall. He was muttering to himself, over and over.

  Hobbes moved closer, the better to hear him.

  Gavin Roberts spoke quietly, one word only, a repeated name.

  ‘Caliban. Caliban. Caliban.’

  Hobbes was insistent, almost threatening: ‘What do you mean by that? What’s her real name?’

  But there was no more. Gavin refused to speak, or was incapable of speech.

  At first Hobbes thought the old Edenville pledge of secrecy had taken over, but then he saw from the man’s expression that his reaction was far more elemental, far more human.

  Gavin Roberts was scared out of his mind.

  A Meeting by the River

  Hobbes drove back to Richmond police station, where he brought Latimer up to date. Hearing the new information, she moved to the incident board and tapped her knuckles on the Edenville list.

  ‘So Miss Caliban is our number one suspect?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s looking that way.’

  ‘We need to find out about the young man who invented King Lost, all those years ago. We need to find out how and why he died.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘And to do that, I need to go back to Hastings.’

  ‘Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready.’

  ‘Meg—’

  ‘I’ll clock you one, if you don’t shut up!’ She paused, and added, ‘Sir.’

  ‘OK.’ Hobbes held his hands up in surrender. ‘We’ll set off at two, no later.’

  He sat on the edge of a desk and looked again at the photograph of the King Lost cover shoot. It was too old, that was the trouble, people changed too much. If only he had a more recent image …

  And that single thought caused a light to flash in his head.

  A memory. Recognition.

  Of course, that’s where he’d seen her! It wasn’t the photograph at all.

  He made a quick call to DC Palmer in Hastings, asking her to pull together everything she had on local teenagers who had died in the sixties.

  ‘I’ll be paying you a visit later today, Jan.’

  ‘Righty-oh.’

  ‘And I want you to find someone for me.’

  After he’d told Palmer what he needed, Hobbes made a second call, this time out of Latimer’s hearing.

  It was a surprisingly easy meeting to arrange, even though he kept the subject matter to a simple: ‘It’s about Charlie Jenkes. Some information has come to light.’

  A pause down the line. Then: ‘What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘I can walk into Charing Cross nick and have it out with you there, if you like.’

  ‘No. No, I’ll meet you.’

  Hobbes drove north towards Hammersmith, his stomach churning with nerves the closer he got to his destination. They’d agreed to meet halfway, at a pub on the embankment. He got there first. The bar was teeming with dinnertime drinkers, too crowded to even get close to the bar, so he went back outside and enjoyed a cigarette as he watched the Thames flow by. It was a fine day, the water dappled with sunlight.

  Five minutes later, Detective Sergeant Mawley made his way down the path and joined Hobbes at the rail. The two men stood in silence as a party of office workers walked past. Mawley had the sort of face that belonged in a badly lit drinkers’ den, or a smoke-filled incident room; in the full light of day he looked like a dead fish, his flesh mottled and flabby around the neck and cheeks.

  Hobbes threw his cigarette into the river. ‘Len.’

  Mawley was looking angry. ‘We’ve already had one of your lot around the station this morning, stirring up trouble.

  This worried Hobbes. ‘You don’t mean DC Fairfax?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the guy. What’s all this about?’

  Hobbes didn’t waste time. He reached into his pocket and drew out a photograph. He showed it to his former colleague, saying, ‘I found this in Jenkes’s garage, well hidden. There’s a whole roll of them.’

  Mawley stared at the image. After a moment he said, ‘I’m a married man.’

  ‘Is that an alibi? Or an excuse?’

  ‘I’ve got two kids, for crying out loud!’

  Hobbes pushed the photograph closer. ‘Take a good look.’

  The other detective did so. ‘It’s a bit fuzzy. It could be anyone.’

  ‘The thing is, Len, I also know who the young man is.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I met him a few days ago. He’s called Matthew. Matthew Tate.’

  Mawley wiped down his face with a hand. He came to a decision. ‘It was a few years back. I only knew him by a nickname.’

  ‘Sputnik?’

  ‘Aye, that will be it.’

  ‘He’s a good kid,’ Hobbes said. ‘He’s come through the fire. But he told me he’d got into some bad things when he was younger. Now I know what he meant.’

  Mawley looked out over the water. ‘It was only a one-off. And he wasn’t underage, don’t start thinking that.’

  ‘I can ask the lad himself—’

  ‘Now look!’ He spun round to face Hobbes. ‘This is my private business. It’s got nothing to do with you, or anyone.’

  ‘It goes further, and you know it.’

  Mawley’s mouth was stretched tight. ‘It’s a good job we’re in a crowded place.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘You’d be swallowing teeth by now.’

  Hobbes tried his best not to blink. ‘Tell me, Len, how did you meet him?’

  Mawley cursed to himself. ‘There’s a club, in Soho.’

  ‘Let me guess. The Blue Moon? Off Berwick Street. Charlie was seen there as well.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’ Mawley hesitated. ‘He introduced me to the place. Told me they cater for all tastes.’

  ‘Is that where he got the photos of you? He set you up?’

  ‘I guess so. I don’t know. Truth is, I’ve got enemies all over.’ He glared at Hobbes and spoke with a rasp in his voice. ‘Christ, but you like digging in the shit, don’t you?’

  ‘Granted. But I haven’t killed anyone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jenkes. He was killed.’

  ‘No, I don’t believe that. I refuse to. Charlie killed himself. He strung himself up, everybody knows that. It all got too much for him and he took the easy way out.’

  ‘The easy way?’ Hobbes shook his head. ‘I imagine it was quite a struggle, actually, when you wrapped that washing line around his neck and hauled him up.’

  Mawley’s mouth was open in protest, or shock, but only a single gasp escaped his lips.

  Hobbes carried on. ‘He was blackmailing you.’

  ‘Yeah, but not for cash. Just for favours. Jobs done, here and there. Dirty work.’

  ‘Like helping to beat up his wife’s lover?’

  Mawley tried to dismiss the accusation, but couldn’t. ‘Yeah, things like that.’

  ‘And then what? One favour too many? And so you followed him to the garage, and—’

  ‘No! No, no.’ His voice was raised now, and some of the pub’s customers were looking over. ‘Look, Hobbes, can we move away a bit. Give me that, at least.’

  ‘We’re fine here.’

  Mawley controlled his tone, as best he could. �
��I didn’t kill Charlie.’

  The two men stared at each other, neither willing to give ground.

  Finally, Hobbes said, ‘The more I’ve looked into this, the more amazed I am at how easily Jenkes led me on over the years, how easily I fell for his “band of brothers” thing. Even in that cellar, I still sort of believed in him, for some stupid fucked-up reason. Like the whole thing was some kind of mistake, or a dream.’

  He watched a bird skimming low over the water, searching for food.

  ‘But now I think the man was rotten, through and through.’

  ‘He wasn’t always like that, Hobbes, and you bloody well know it. Only in the last year or so. He was having problems at home. He was in debt.’

  ‘So that lets him off the hook?’

  Mawley’s head dropped. He was muttering to himself. ‘Twenty-nine years.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I was only a nipper when I joined up. That’s twenty-nine goddamn years on the force. I can retire next year, full pension. And now this. Christ.’

  A gang of lads left the pub and swaggered off down the riverside pathway, full of life, the brazen hope of youth. And here was this long-term enforcer of the law teetering on the edge of losing everything.

  Hobbes said to him, ‘I remember in the Silhouette, how Jenkes ordered you to join in. And then later on, at the inquiry, you put yourself forward to take the blame. What was that, another favour?’

  Mawley nodded. ‘I was hoping that would end it for good. Wipe the slate clean. But even after Charlie was dismissed, he still came after me.’ He fumbled to light a cigarette, failed miserably, and then added in a pain-racked voice, ‘My wife’s kicked me out, did you know that?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  Hobbes felt a sudden compassion. He tried to imagine how it must be, to have to hide such feelings away. He thought about Neville Briggs and Tobias Lear, how they had a much more open life, in the world of rock and roll. But Mawley was a cop. His fellow officers, his so-called friends, they would have made his life a misery. God knows what they would’ve done.

  Hobbes said in a quiet voice, ‘Len, tell me what happened.’

  Some of Mawley’s old bravado came back. ‘Nothing happened. Nothing at all. I’m not a murderer.’

  ‘I’m coming after you, no matter what you say.’

  ‘Do what the hell you like.’ Mawley thrust his face close. ‘Charlie took his own life. And he did that because you grassed on him. That’s it. End of story.’

  He turned to walk away, but Hobbes grabbed his jacket sleeve.

  ‘Get the fuck off me!’

  ‘You won’t get away with this, believe me.’

  Mawley grinned. ‘You’re not going to find one speck of physical evidence, Hobbes. Not a fucking speck! So you can take those poxy fucking snapshots and shove ’em up your arse.’

  And with that he pulled away and walked off down the pathway, elbowing his way through a knot of drinkers. One of the young men in the group fancied himself, making a remark of some kind. He’d picked the wrong victim at the wrong time. Hobbes watched as Mawley mashed the guy’s lapels together in a fist. Face up close, spittle-spraying aggression: his trademark move. And then the brutal push away, shoving the young man against a table. A glass smashed on the pavement.

  A second later, Mawley was lost in the riverside crowds.

  Possible Kings

  DC Palmer greeted Hobbes and Latimer at Hastings police station, and brought them up to speed on the Simone Paige case. The murderer had been stealing into the attic of Fair Harbour for a couple of years at least, from the physical evidence left behind: clothes, tins of food, and reading matter.

  ‘I’d like to see that,’ Hobbes said. ‘What was it, newspapers, magazines?’

  ‘A stack of them, yes. Which gave us some dates. And quite a few books. Novels, mainly.’

  ‘What about the photographer I asked you to find?’

  ‘He’s called Jack Lyndhurst. Worked on the local rag for years. He’s left the shots you asked for.’

  Palmer went off and Hobbes and Latimer settled down in a side office with cups of tea and canteen sandwiches. The reading matter found in the attic was brought for them, and they tried to build up a picture of the murderer from the various titles. The newspapers and magazines dated back to 1979.

  ‘I wonder why she never took them away, whenever she left?’ Hobbes asked, as he leafed through a copy of Amateur Photography.

  ‘Building a nest,’ Latimer answered. ‘A home from home.’

  The magazines covered a range of subjects: household styling, high fashion, theatre, cinema, psychic phenomena.

  Latimer said, ‘Our Miss Caliban’s a woman of varied tastes.’

  Hobbes went through the paperback novels. Romances, crime fiction, and, standing out from the rest, a well-thumbed copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses. He turned to the title page and read the inscription: With all my dearest love to Lucas. I hope it inspires you to great heights. It was signed Eve X. Not Miss Dylan, not Minerva or Lady Minerva. He showed this to Latimer for her opinion and she said, ‘Perhaps she really was in love with him.’ Hobbes flicked through the pages; many lines were underscored in pencil, some with comments in the margins. He recognized Lucas Bell’s handwriting from the lyric sheets; the vocalist had obviously made good use of the book over the years.

  Latimer asked, ‘Isn’t the main character in Ulysses called Bloom?’

  ‘Yes. Leopold Bloom.’

  ‘Which ties in with Lucas Bell’s Edenville name, Luna Bloom.’ She picked up another magazine. ‘So do you reckon Bell stored this in the attic, and Miss Caliban found it here?’

  ‘Perhaps. Or she stole it from Bell’s hideaway, after she’d killed him. Along with Bell’s key ring, which included the old keys to Fair Harbour.’

  DC Palmer entered the room and placed a sheaf of black-and-white prints on the desk. Hobbes went through them one by one. They showed the scene outside Duffy’s fish and chip restaurant three night ago, when Hobbes had watched the fans copying the cover shot of the King Lost album. The photographer he’d talked to, Jack Lyndhurst, had really caught the atmosphere, love mingling with desperation.

  Hobbes’s breath caught in his throat. He tapped at one of the shots. ‘I knew I’d seen her somewhere before,’ he said. ‘She’s the one.’ It was the older female fan who’d stood behind the younger ones, goading them on to attack Simone Paige. ‘She’s our killer. I’m sure of it.’ Latimer and Palmer leaned in. The image of the woman’s face was blurry, because she never really put herself forward; she was always standing at the back of the crowd, watching. ‘This woman,’ Hobbes went on to explain, ‘painted the original mask on Lucas Bell’s face, at the photo shoot for the album cover, back in 1973 or whenever it was.’

  Latimer gazed at the face. ‘So she’s come back to the scene?’

  ‘Yes. I imagine she comes back every year. She’s proud of her achievement. It’s her moment of glory.’ Hobbes turned to Palmer. ‘Can you get this copied and distributed to all officers?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Ask them if they know her – her name, address, anything at all.’

  Hobbes and Latimer looked at each other.

  ‘We’re closing in,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I can feel it.’

  They left the station and walked down to the Brassey Institute where they started work on the microfiches together. Jan Palmer had given them a list of the young people or teenagers of Hastings who had died accidentally or in unexplained circumstances between 1963, when Edenville was founded, and 1966, the last year mentioned in the box of files left in the attic. Soon they had narrowed it down to thirteen possibilities, eight males and five females.

  ‘They have enough drownings down here,’ Latimer noted.

  Other deaths included two car accidents, a fall from a cliff, a house fire, a stabbing in a park, a choking, and one poor boy who had locked himself in a cupboard and suffocated. With Doreen the librarian’
s help they found local addresses for the families. A few of them had moved away, but most were still living in the area.

  ‘People tend to stay here all their lives,’ Doreen explained. ‘It’s that kind of town.’

  Latimer checked the list a second time. ‘Are we safe in assuming that King Lost is a boy? Because this Edenville crowd seem to play about with their identities a lot.’

  Hobbes agreed. ‘Fair point. And I’d like to check every single one of these.’

  ‘That is going to take some time.’

  ‘We’ll do as many as we can tonight.’ He checked his wristwatch. ‘Most people will be home from work by now.’

  ‘Let’s split it,’ Latimer said. ‘I’ll take the car to visit the ones who live away from the centre.’

  ‘And I’ll do all the walking?’

  ‘You need the exercise, guv.’ She scanned the list of names. ‘What about Stephen Castle? He sounds a likely candidate, given the Minerva group’s love of code names.’

  ‘Because that’s where kings live?’

  ‘Exactly.’ She gave a brief smile. ‘But even if we find out who King Lost was, there’s still Miss Caliban to identify.’

  ‘One step at a time.’

  ‘And Mood Indigo?’

  Hobbes grimaced. ‘I’ll fill in every name on that list, I swear, every single one.’

  They left the library and went their separate ways. The skies were beginning to darken as Hobbes made his first visit, to the household of Robert and Helena Castle, following Latimer’s hunch. It was an awkward, emotionally distraught conversation.

  ‘Your son died when he was thirteen.’

  Mr Castle spoke in a monotone. ‘He fell off the pier.’

  ‘Was he alone at the time?’

  ‘No, he had a friend with him.’ Helena said. ‘We think so, anyway.’ She looked to her husband for support. ‘It was at night, we know that.’

  ‘I see. So he was out late?’

  ‘He crept out. We didn’t even know he’d left the house.’

  Mrs Castle’s face seemed to collapse inwards as she said this. Hobbes could see the blame taking over; perhaps she’d hidden it away for years.

  ‘We can’t tell you anything more,’ her husband said. ‘I wish we could. But we just can’t.’