He spoke into the mouthpiece of the phone, giving instructions.

And all the time his eyes were staring at the screen.

Part Two

1981

Bedsitter Land

After the morning meeting, once he’d given out his orders for the first full day of the murder investigation, Hobbes set off alone for an address in New Cross. As he searched for the house number he realized he wasn’t that far away from DC Fairfax’s current abode, at his mother’s house. A pang of guilt: he had neglected to follow up on his last visit. If Tom Fairfax didn’t come back to work soon, they would have to seek a replacement. And so his mind was beset, as he walked from his car to the front door of the terraced house on Shipyard Lane. He took a set of keys from his pocket and tried each one until the door lock clicked open. The hallway was filled with piles of junk mail, empty beer bottles, pizza containers and other such debris. A rusty, chainless bicycle propped against the wall. The smell of damp. Peeling wallpaper. Hobbes took the stairs to the first landing and again searched for a key, this time to fit the lock on flat number three. He could hear music from the next flat along.

Down the way a door opened and a young man peeked out. ‘Can I help you?’

Hobbes stated the case: ‘Police.’

This brought worry to the man’s eyes. ‘Police? What … why?’

‘Detective Inspector Hobbes. I’m looking for Mr Graves. Do you know him?’

‘Mr Graves?’

All he could do was repeat Hobbes’s words without purpose.

‘You mean Nick?’

‘That’s right. Have you seen him recently?’

A game was being played, but maybe the young man didn’t know it yet. Somewhere between the known and the unknown was the truth. It was a question of teasing it out.

Hobbes had still not found the correct key. He gave up and approached the other man. The scent of marijuana wafted from the doorway.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Colin. Colin Beck.’

He was in the second half of his twenties, with badly cut hair and a creased shirt-front. His chin and cheeks were troubled by a combination of spots and stubble. Bloodshot eyes. His hand tightened on the door of his flat and he pulled it further to, possibly ashamed of what might be found within. Now his face was the only part of him visible.

‘I’m looking into a crime.’

‘Do you have … do you have identification?’

Hobbes showed him the warrant card. ‘That good enough for you?’

A nervous little nod.

‘Answer the question, please.’

‘The question …’

Hobbes was getting irritated. He hardened his voice. ‘When was the last time you saw the occupant of flat number three?’

‘Not for a week now. Something like that. He came round to pick up something. I could hear him through the walls. They’re paper-thin.’

Yes, Hobbes thought. Nicholas Graves was probably collecting the suitcase and a few belongings to take with him to Bridlemere.