Part Three

1981

A View of Dreamland

Arlington House rose above the town, like a concrete sentinel, its sides undulating in and out, copying the shape of the waves that splashed on to the nearby beach. The high-rise was a loyal protector of the seaside resort, yet it must have inspired hatred over the years, for its beauty was well hidden behind its brutalist façade. There had been a shopping centre at its base, back in the sixties, and its remains were still there with most of the shops boarded up and covered with graffiti. A ladies’ hairdresser and an off-licence were the only ones still operating as businesses.

Eighteen floors. One hundred and forty-two flats. There was a concierge’s desk, but no concierge. Hobbes pressed on the intercom panel for flat 15B and waited. He pressed again, and this time a woman’s voice responded.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s Henry Hobbes. I’m here to—’

‘Oh, you’re early!’

The door popped open. He walked into the lobby and waited for a lift to arrive. The tiled floors stretched away in a strict geometric pattern. As the lift ascended he reflected on the last time he had seen his former boss: the man who had more or less single-handedly taught him how to be a copper, a real copper. Hobbes was nervous suddenly. He wiped his brow and adjusted his tie. Ridiculous. The man must be sixty or thereabouts by now. Surely the old ferocity had diminished.

Would they even like each other any more?

After all, they hadn’t exactly parted on the best terms.

The lift door opened. The fifteenth floor.

His feet echoed on the tiles.

A woman was waiting for him outside flat 15B. She was dressed in pink from head to foot and her hair was the colour of freshly made Bird’s custard. A large misshapen pendant hung at her neck; it looked like a magic amulet.

‘Henry! It’s so good to see you. Please come inside.’

Hobbes had never seen her before in his life, but already he was being treated as an old friend.

‘Could you take your shoes off? Would you mind, my dear?’

‘No, of course not. Erm …’

‘Jack hates the floor to get scuffed.’

She pointed to a stand near the door and Hobbes placed his brown brogues on it.

‘I’m Rita. I’m sure Jack mentioned me?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Rita.’

They shook hands a little awkwardly and then she came in for a hug. He caught a waft of perfume, a mixture of lemon blossoms and bubble gum. Her hair frizzed with a static charge. Hobbes liked her immediately. She gave him a big smile and looked him up and down. Her eyes lingered for a second on the scar on his face, but she moved on quickly. ‘Yes, you’ll do!’ She led the way into the living room.

Jack Collingworth was sitting in a swivel armchair, his body perfectly still, his arms and legs arranged in straight lines. He looked to be immobile, but at the sight of the visitor he jumped up with as much energy as he could muster and grabbed Hobbes’s hand in a tight, two-fisted grip. ‘My God, it is you! Henry bloody Hobbes. I never thought …’