by Jeff Noon
‘Look at that,’ he said to Barlow as they passed one group. ‘The bloody idiots are having a go at young black men.’
‘Aren’t they the main culprits? For crime, I mean.’
‘Christ. Have you been talking to Fairfax and the others? No, they are not the main culprits.’
‘But we’re catching them at it. Otherwise, how come so many of them are in prison?’
‘Because we keep bloody well going after them. That’s the problem, see? People resent it.’ Hobbes clenched his teeth. ‘And we never bloody learn. Four months ago, Brixton was in flames, the people rioting.’ He fell quiet for a moment as he remembered the events of that terrible night, and his own involvement in them. ‘And since then we’ve had riots in Handsworth, Chapeltown, Toxteth.’
‘And coppers injured in every one.’
‘Welcome to the frontline, PC Barlow.’
‘It’s not what I expected, sir, when I took on the job.’
‘No. No. Of course not.’
Hobbes gave it a moment’s thought, then added, ‘It’s going to happen again, believe me.’ Barlow started to answer him, but Hobbes was on a roll. ‘Meanwhile, our boys are lining up to protect the National Front on their marches. The bloody NF! I mean, can that be right?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘What about freedom of speech?’
‘You mean the freedom to hate?’
Barlow didn’t reply. Well, Hobbes knew it was best to keep your mouth shut these days, in the force; bow your head and say ‘Yes, sir, straight away, sir’, and get on with the task in hand. The police were under siege, that was the mentality. Hobbes hated it. But he also hated the idea the public carried around, of all coppers being thugs and racists. The Tory Party in uniform, that was the latest nickname. Maggie’s Army.
‘Bloody Thatcher,’ he murmured.
He could hear Barlow hold back a gasp.
‘What’s wrong? Have I shocked you now?’
There was a slight pause before the constable spoke up. ‘So you’re really anti-Maggie? I never believed it.’
‘It’s the talk of the locker room, is it?’
Barlow’s renewed silence was enough for him to know the truth.
‘Well then?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s what they’re saying.’
They had by now driven over Camden Lock, heading for a quieter part of the town. Barlow was fidgeting, his hands opening and closing on the steering wheel.
‘Steady on. Let’s not have a crash.’
‘It’s just that, well, Maggie gave us that big pay rise, didn’t she?’
‘She did. And God bless her for it.’
‘So then?’
‘So that doesn’t mean that we’re in her debt, and that we’re supposed to do every last thing she bids. And does she have to use such a ruddy great hammer, knocking the people into shape?’
Barlow shook his head. ‘I didn’t have you down as a socialist, sir.’
Hobbes felt his blood boil. ‘I’m not a bloody socialist!’
‘But Fairfax called you a …’ The constable hesitated.
‘Yes?’
‘A red, sir. A commie.’ Barlow was suddenly nervous. ‘Don’t tell him I said any of this, will you?’
‘Don’t worry. I know I’m not liked.’
They drove on in silence for a while. They were nearly there.
Hobbes knew that Barlow had a good heart, he could sense that. But if Fairfax and his chums got their claws into him, he could see the constable going the way of so many others: the backroom deals, a nod and a wink, a blind eye being turned. It went on. Christ, he’d even given into temptation himself, once or twice, when he was younger. But what could you do? How could you fight it?
‘Barlow?’
‘Sir?’
He was going to explain everything to the young officer. His side of the Soho story, what had really happened down in the cellar of the drinking club. Get it out in the open. But his courage failed him. Or rather, the absurdity of the situation got to him. It was all so bloody desperate.
That stupid fucker, Charlie Jenkes, hanging from a beam in his garage.
And they were blaming Hobbes for all of it.
‘You wanted to speak, sir?’
‘What? Oh, no, never mind. It’s nothing.’
‘This is her road. What number is it?’
‘Thirty-one.’
The car slowed as they searched for the house along the crescent-shaped avenue.
‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get on with DC Fairfax, though,’ Barlow admitted. ‘All those jokes, and that. And the way he talks to DS Latimer.’
Hobbes grinned. ‘Actually, I think he’s got other things on his mind, these days.’ And then he asked, ‘Are you on duty tomorrow?’
‘It’s my day off.’
‘Good. How do you fancy spending it at the seaside?’
Barlow looked confused. ‘Oh right, you mean Hastings? The Lucas Bell anniversary?’
‘Exactly. I have it on good authority that one of our chief suspects will be there. Nikki Hauser. Along with a host of other crazy fans. Because I know Brendan Clarke’s murder is all tied up with Lucas Bell in some way. And I need to be at the heart of it all. I need to get a feel for things.’ He paused. ‘What do you say? A day out, fish and chip supper on me. And meanwhile, you’ll be doing some proper detective work. Digging deep.’
‘Out of uniform?’
‘Obviously. You’ll stick out like a sore bloody thumb otherwise.’
Barlow answered immediately. ‘Yes, sir. I can do that.’
‘Excellent.’ The car pulled to a halt. ‘Now let’s see what Simone Paige has to say for herself.’
They got out of the vehicle and walked towards the house. It was a ground-floor flat in a large and very smart Edwardian building. Hobbes rang the bell and they only had to wait a moment before the door opened. And there she was, dressed pretty much as she had been the night before, but grubbier, and more dishevelled. Her hair was mussed up even more than he remembered it.
‘Oh fuck. You again.’
‘A couple of questions, Miss Paige. That’s all.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘I’m afraid so. If you don’t mind.’
Finally, she invited them in and showed them into the living room. It was spacious, tidy, sweet-smelling. The walls were covered in framed posters, each one advertising a band or a famous concert, most of them dating from the sixties or early seventies – the Grateful Dead, Led Zeppelin, The Who.
‘Sit down then, if you must.’
Hobbes remained on his feet. He could tell that Simone had been drinking: her face had taken on a reddish glow. He was about to start his questions when a man came in carrying a freshly opened bottle of wine. His face was finely boned, handsome, his body lean and fit for his age. And from nowhere at all Hobbes felt the bitter tang of jealousy.
‘Everything all right, Simone?’
‘Yes. It’s the police.’
‘I guessed that.’
Hobbes held back a retort. He immediately read the situation: the look in the man’s eyes, his nervousness, his frustration. He’d come round in protective mode, the shoulder to cry on, the calming embrace. That old ploy.
‘What do they want?’
‘I don’t know,’ Simone answered. ‘I really don’t.’ Her voice was edged with sadness, and something more: anger, steadily growing.
‘Did you invite them?’
She shook her head in reply. The man drew himself to his full height: Hobbes had a couple of inches on him, but the other man didn’t let this overwhelm him. ‘I don’t think this is very polite, officer.’
‘This is a murder case.’
‘What’s that got to do with Simone?’
‘I’m trying to find that out.’
‘She’s already talked to you.’
Hobbes kept his voice steady. ‘Not adequately.’
Sile
nce. The man glared at Hobbes and was about to say something he would almost certainly regret, but then Simone said, ‘Leave it, Nev. Just bloody leave it.’ And the moment passed. The man moved back a little, enough to allow Hobbes to breathe again.
Nev? He made a connection with the name given to him by the manager of the Pleasure Palace.
‘Neville Briggs? You’re a photographer, is that correct?’
There was no answer. Simone said, ‘He is. Why?’
‘I need to see some of your photographs, from the Monsoon Monsoon gig. Would that be possible?’
Again, Briggs didn’t answer. Simone sighed. ‘Of course it’s all right. Do as they say, Neville.’
‘I’m especially interested in any shots of the crowd, faces, people, that kind of thing.’
‘I want this over with,’ Simone added. ‘Whatever it takes.’
Briggs nodded. He picked up on her mood. ‘Sure. I can do that.’
‘I think it’s time for you to go,’ she said.
He bit at his lip. ‘Righty-oh. I’ll see you around then.’
‘Just bloody go, please. Christ.’
He picked up his jacket from the back of a chair. Hobbes said, ‘We’ll be coming round tomorrow morning, early on. Can you have things ready by then?’
‘Yes. Sure. If it’s necessary.’
Briggs left the room. Hobbes waited until he heard the front door close, and then he sat down on the settee.
‘So. Miss Paige.’
‘Yes?’ She poured herself a glass of red wine.
‘Will you be going to Hastings tomorrow?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘There’s some kind of ritual down there, I believe? To mark the death of Lucas Bell.’
She shrugged. ‘They’ll only attack me.’
Hobbes coughed. ‘By the way, I’m working on your theory.’
‘Which theory?’
‘The idea of a crazed fan.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t think Brendan or his band had that many fans.’
‘No, but Lucas Bell did. And that’s why I’m here.’ He leaned forward. ‘First of all, I hear that you witnessed an altercation on the night of the gig.’
‘Did I? Between …?’
‘Between Brendan and a young woman, a teenager?’
‘Oh, right. Yes.’
‘This young fan wasn’t keen on Brendan wearing the King Lost mask.’
‘No, she wasn’t. She was going crazy, shouting at Brendan.’
‘Do you know her name?’
‘She’s called Morgan, and she’s very active on the Lucas Bell scene. Morgan Yorke. A bit nuts. But she’s just about the only one who bothers to see my side of the story.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘She came up to me after the gig. Outside, this was. She offered her support.’
‘For what?’
‘I’d received some nasty comments from people in the crowd.’
‘Why do they hate you?’
‘Because …’
‘There must be a reason.’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Because of your relationship with Lucas?’
She stared at him. Her eyes, those startling alien-type eyes, were filled with hatred. Hatred, aimed at him. It was unsettling.
‘Oh, so you know everything, do you? About my private life?’
‘No. Not yet.’
He let the statement hang in the air for a moment. Then he asked, ‘So what happened after the gig?’
‘Morgan and I were outside, chatting. And then Brendan Clarke came up, introduced himself, and said that he’d like to talk to me. And that’s when Morgan got angry and started shouting.’
‘Can you remember anything specific that she was saying?’
‘She said that only Lucas had the right to wear the mask of King Lost. That’s all I can remember, but she was horrible about it.’
‘Did she threaten Brendan in any way?’
Simone thought for a moment. ‘Well, she hit him. Does that count?’
‘That’s more than a threat.’
‘It was only a slap.’
‘Only?’
‘Why are you asking this? You’re not saying that Morgan Yorke killed him, are you?’
Hobbes smiled in answer. ‘Can you tell us where she lives?’
She nodded. ‘In Hastings. I don’t know where, exactly.’
‘That’s good enough. We’ll find out.’
Hobbes thought: another reason for the trip down to the south coast. He said, ‘Actually, Simone, I’d like to talk about Lucas Bell, about your relationship with him.’
She made the barest gesture of compliance.
‘You were going out with him in 1974. When he killed himself?’
‘We’d split up before that. Two months before.’
‘But still, you were close, by all accounts. Very close.’
Simone looked at the floor, muttering to herself.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you …’
‘Yes, we were close.’ She looked at him. ‘Intimate – as they call it in the press.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, increasingly, I believe that Brendan Clarke’s death is tied in with Lucas Bell’s life in some way. All I need to do is work out the connection.’
‘And you think I can help?’
‘I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you knew them both …’ He paused. ‘Intimately.’
‘I wasn’t intimate with Brendan! What is this?’
‘But you kissed him.’
Her expression passed into surprise. She shook her head.
‘We have a witness,’ Hobbes said. ‘In the dressing room. You were kissing.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘It wasn’t a kiss?’
‘We nearly did. That’s all. Almost. Our lips …’
He waited.
‘Our lips brushed. That’s all.’
He kept looking at her. ‘Did that upset you? That nothing further happened?’
‘The moment passed.’ A quiet regret entered her voice. ‘As so often.’
He nodded for her to carry on, encouraging.
‘That was all. I was drawn to him.’
‘Because?’
‘He looked like Lucas.’
‘On the stage, you mean? With the King Lost mask?’
‘No, in real life. There was a resemblance between them. Brendan told me that when he was younger, his friends kept telling him that he resembled Lucas Bell. And he played on it over the years. He identified with Lucas because of this, he followed his career, copied him. The same clothes, hairstyle, and so on. It made him special, it made him stand out. Anyway, that’s what he told me.’
Hobbes processed this.
‘So your attraction was based on mimicry?’
Now she looked angry. ‘I miss Lucas. I really do.’ She finished her glass of wine in one last gulp, poured herself another straight away. ‘And yes, that stupid fucking Brendan Clarke reminded me of those times, the good times. The golden years. Is that a crime?’
‘What was stupid about him?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You described Brendan as being stupid.’
‘Well, he was. A total idiot. You can’t go round pretending to be someone else. You just can’t. And now look … look what’s happened to him. It’s too fucking sad to even talk about.’
Hobbes nodded. He gave Simone a moment to calm down while he looked around the room. His eyes settled on something, an object on a shelf. He stood up, saying, ‘Do you mind if I look at your books?’ He walked over to the bookshelf, letting his fingers trace over a number of rock star biographies written by Paige herself.
‘I’d appreciate it,’ he said, ‘if you didn’t mention anything about Brendan’s injuries in the press.’
‘No problem. Oh, but I’ve already told Neville. Is that wrong?’
&nbs
p; Hobbes smiled. ‘I’ll have a word with him tomorrow.’ His hand stopped at the object he had noticed before. ‘Is this yours?’
Simone nodded.
He picked up the figurine standing on the shelf. It was a plastic model of Lucas Bell, about ten inches tall. He was singing into a microphone, his body arched back in a rock star’s characteristic pose. The face was painted in the full King Lost colours. Every detail was perfectly rendered: the stark white face with its blue cross and grinning lips. Even the tiny painted teardrop was visible. The figure was standing on a portion of stage floor, and the singer’s name was written on the base, next to a serial number: 7/20. A very limited edition.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘From Morgan. She gave it to me as a present, a few months back.’
‘The young woman who shouted at Brendan?’
‘Yes. She makes them herself. Sells them mail-order.’
‘I see.’ Hobbes turned to her. ‘Does Morgan wear a teardrop, here …’ He touched at the skin below his left eye. ‘Painted on?’
‘Sure, on special occasions. But lots of the fans do. It’s a mark of respect, of identity.’
Hobbes needed more. ‘You didn’t take this doll from Brendan’s house, did you, from his bedroom?’
‘No. Of course not.’
‘Because a similar figure was taken. We know that now.’
Simone answered in a burst of irritation: ‘Why are you here, why are you bothering me? I’ve said what I have to say.’
He looked at her. ‘May I use your cassette player?’
She sighed. ‘Over there, the music centre.’
‘Thank you.’
He pulled a cassette tape from his pocket. He slotted this into the machine and pressed the play button. There was a quiet continuous hissing sound as the tape’s wheels began to spin.
‘What are you playing?’ Simone asked. She stood up.
‘It’s the recording of our interview, last night. At the police station. I’d like your opinion on something you said. Is that all right?’
Simone nodded. She couldn’t imagine what she was going to hear. But the tape rolled on in silence.
‘I left it on by mistake,’ Hobbes explained, ‘when I left the room. It’ll start soon.’
Simone moved closer to one of the loudspeakers, listening.