Could he really trust what he was seeing?

The Middle Child

The next morning he overslept, something he hardly ever did these days, and he groaned as he sat up in bed. And then he remembered the cause: on top of the can of beer, he had taken a couple of shots of whisky late last night. Another unusual occurrence.

There was a single thought in his head: Martin. Find Martin.

And then the day crowded in: the light, the traffic, the hustle and bustle of the police station. The constant attention to work, as one human being after another fell into temptation.

Cleaning up the mess.

As Hobbes caught up on his paperwork, he decided to spend a day or two at the most on the Case of the Fifteen Dresses, as he was now calling it in his head. If nothing was found out by then, well, so be it: the old man would lie in peace. So he was glad when DS Latimer came in and greeted him with the news.

‘I’ve found a relative of Mr Graves, a son. Nicholas.’

‘Oh, good. I’ll go and see him. Address?’

‘Actually, he’s waiting to speak to you. Room Two.’

Hobbes smiled. ‘You want to join in?’

‘Too busy. And, anyway, this is your baby.’ She turned towards her desk, adding, ‘Just remember: the man’s father has died.’

The inspector nodded. Latimer was always telling him to be kinder to people. Or at least to be more aware of them. Not everyone’s a suspect. That was the phrase she liked to use. But Hobbes had his own rejoinder: ‘No, but everyone’s to blame for something.’ And she’d told him he was a hopeless, irredeemable cause.

He got a coffee from the canteen, added two and a bit sugars, then walked along the corridor to the smaller of the two interview rooms.

Nicholas Graves was around sixty years old, and right now he was showing every mark and worry of every single day of his time on the planet. Hobbes sat down opposite to him, introduced himself, then said, ‘I’m very sorry for the loss of your father.’ He could never get the voice just right, despite so many years’ experience.

Nicholas stared ahead. ‘He killed himself. Is that correct?’ Each word was slowly and clearly pronounced.

‘It is, yes.’

‘I don’t understand, I must say.’

‘He was very old.’

‘He wasn’t the kind to do such a thing.’

Hobbes said, ‘He had reached the end of his life.’ Blunt, but truthful.

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘A certain kind of person prefers it this way. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier, not for those left behind.’

Nicholas Graves stared at the detective for a good few moments. He started to breathe heavily; it sounded as though his entire body was starved of oxygen. He tried to speak, but then stopped. One hand was resting on the tabletop, the fingers clenched together, like an animal hiding in its shell.

Hobbes studied the other man under the bright light of the overhead tube.