House with No Doors
Jeff Noon
HOUSE WITH NO DOORS
Contents
About the Author
Jeff Noon trained in the visual arts and drama, and was active on the post-punk music scene before becoming a playwright, and then a novelist. His first crime novel featuring Detective Hobbes was Slow Motion Ghosts. His other novels include Vurt, Pollen, Automated Alice, Nymphomation, Needle in the Groove, Falling Out of Cars, Channel SK1N, Mappalujo (with Steve Beard), A Man of Shadows, The Body Library and Creeping Jenny. He has also published two collections of short fiction, Pixel Juice and Cobralingus. He lives in Brighton.
Also by Jeff Noon
Novels
Slow Motion Ghosts
Vurt
Pollen
Automated Alice
Nymphomation
Needle in the Groove
Falling Out of Cars
Channel SK1N
Mappalujo (with Steve Beard)
A Man of Shadows
The Body Library
Creeping Jenny
Collections of short fiction
Pixel Juice
Cobralingus
For Michelle
1962
A shroud had fallen over London, a thick layer of all-encompassing smog that covered both the suburbs and the central regions. This was the third day of its reign. The pitch-black fog reached into every street and alleyway, crawling through open windows and under doors, seeping into public houses and living rooms, causing people to cough and choke, even those who wore thick scarves or homemade masks of cotton gauze. The screens in the picture houses could barely be seen. Already a good number of people had died, ninety or so by the last count. More would follow.
The city was blinded. Visibility zero.
In the district of Soho people groped along with their arms outstretched in front of them, to keep from bumping into other pedestrians. Police officers shouted warnings, and car horns sounded continuously. A double-decker bus loomed out of the fog, then stopped with a squeal of brakes. Headlamps flared and died after a few feet. It was hopeless: there was no way forward. Two vehicles had collided. One of the drivers was trapped behind the steering wheel, and another man was trying to free him. The klaxon of an unseen ambulance made a harsh cry, but any kind of rescue seemed many miles away.
One young woman stood beneath a silver-blue neon sign, its diffuse glow lending her face the haze of a ghost. She could not move. Her eyes were wide in shock and she looked around in fear, as though expecting to be attacked at any moment. But she was alone. Alone within the crowd, as so many were on that day, in that great, overpopulated city. The smog held all in its grasp.
The woman murmured to herself. Her hands were cold and trembling.
The blood ran down her fingers.
Part One
1981
Blue with Yellow Flowers
Somebody slammed a drawer shut and let out a curse. Bollocks! One of the older guys was coughing his guts up. The Monday-morning blues. Cigarette smoke and cold coffee, and the blasted light that never stopped flickering over by the window. Hobbes was troubled. The phone call wouldn’t go away: why had Glenda rung him at such an hour, still dark outside? What did she want? They hadn’t spoken in so long. Maybe she— No, he cut off the thought. Once upon a time he’d known his wife’s moods to a tee, but now she was a stranger to him. Yet it hadn’t been that long since they’d split up. Half a year, that was all.
Damn it. Another mistake. He looked in despair at the letter – it was already marred with red crosses. He pulled it from the typewriter, rolled in a fresh sheet of paper and started again, hoping to concentrate this time. He’d written up enough reports and filled in enough arrest sheets over the years, but this was different: a friend was in need and he didn’t have a clue what to say. He didn’t even know how to address the recipient: first name, full name, or rank?
The telephone on his desk rang. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Latimer.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Something you should see.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s a weird one.’
‘Tell me.’
‘You need to see it for yourself.’
That was enough to get him away from the desk. He drove over to the address DS Latimer had given him. It was a quiet day in Richmond upon Thames, the sky grey, almost sunless. A woman pushing a pram along the pavement. A street cleaner at his work. The last of summer. The rain had stopped, though. That was good. The trees of the parkland were lit with sparkles of water as he turned on to Palliser Road. Large houses set apart from one another, each with its own individual design. This was a well-off part of London. Old money. He parked behind Latimer’s Viva outside number 17, where a curved path led up to an imposing structure, three storeys high and on top of that a dormer window in the attic. The house name, Bridlemere, was proudly displayed in iron scrollwork. A sprawling Edwardian family would have lived here in the good old days. The current residents seemed down on their luck, especially when you compared the house to the well-maintained ones occupying the rest of the street. Here, the brickwork was crumbling and the window frames were rotten in places, in need of a good lick of paint. One of the downstairs panes was broken, and patched up with a square of cardboard on the inside.
Latimer was waiting for him at the front door.
‘I hope this is good, Meg.’
She nodded, invited him inside without a word and led him down a corridor that ran alongside a staircase. The banisters were peppered with woodworm holes, and the struts were scuffed and dusty, two of them cracked. They passed one room after another, all with their doors open, through which Hobbes saw a mixture of antique and 1950s furniture, all placed next to each other with no thought of matching styles. But there was nothing of the present day, as far as he could see. The people in this household had stopped buying things a few years back. His mind was already at work, even though he had no idea of what he was going to see. It was a rambling house, with lots of nooks and crannies, oil and watercolour paintings on every available wall space, along with framed black-and-white photographs from a former age, probably the first quarter of the century. Also on view were old-fashioned theatrical playbills, and a good number of Catholic icons: crucifixes and statues of the Virgin Mary. Only a grandfather clock in the long central hallway made any sound.
Latimer entered the large kitchen at the rear of the house. Hobbes followed her and was immediately struck by the stench of vomit. In this room one final battle had taken place, life against death. The usual winner.
The old man was slumped at the table, the side of his head resting on a linen napkin as though placed there in position. A pair of spectacles lay a few inches away, carefully folded. But his body had reacted badly to its final throes: a teacup had landed on the floor, smashed to pieces, and plates and cutlery on the tabletop were scattered about, probably pushed away by one of the man’s arms as it spasmed outwards, seeking one last hold on the material world.
Jesus. What could you do?
Hobbes moved closer and leaned over. A fly was walking across the man’s right hand. The detective shooed it away. He looked closely at his subject. The face was well creased, almost cadaverous, determination still etched into the features. He had the wiry, gnarled look of an ageing greyhound. His hair was pure white and sparse on top, the remaining strands overly long and untidy. It had been many weeks since he’d had a haircut. And yet he’d dressed himself in a blue blazer and matching necktie for this occasion: Hobbes had seen such behaviour before, people getting dolled up for their leave-taking. A military man, perhaps. At the very least a person keen to leave a good corpse. A stream of vomit had gathered and dried in the deep cleft of his chin, and on the table around his mouth, which was still open, caught in a snarl. Brown teeth, one visibly rotten, and a couple of gaps. A liver spot high on the brow.
A bottle of vodka had remained standing on the table, along with a glass tumbler. A number of white tablets had spilled from a small container.
‘Sleeping pills?’
Latimer nodded.
For a moment Hobbes said nothing, but simply stared ahead at the kitchen wall. No, he never quite got used to it.
Latimer told him, ‘His name’s Leonard Graves. I’m guessing mid-eighties.’
‘A good enough age to go.’
‘I’d be happy with that. He lived alone. The lady next door found him earlier today. She’s a bit of a saint, apparently. Comes in once a week to do a spot of cleaning, bring him food and make sure he’s all right. She has a key.’
Hobbes nodded to himself. ‘The poor sod. Probably thought he’d just fall asleep.’
‘A common mistake. And the doctor agrees. Self-administered.’
‘Time of death?’
‘About two hours ago.’
‘Yes, yes …’
Something on the table had caught the inspector’s attention.
Latimer continued: ‘According to Mrs Travis – that’s the neighbour – he’d been poorly for a while, but always refused offers of medical help.’
Hobbes picked up the object. It was a lady’s handkerchief, a lacy affair. White, with a monogram in lilac: M.E. It looked out of place next to an ashtray filled to the brim with Park Drive butts. But the cloth gave off an aroma – sweet, cloying, deeply engrained. His eyes scanned the table. Yes, there it was, near the milk jug, a dark-blue bottle labelled Midnight in Paris. He pictured the old man making this movement: his finger holding the spray button down to saturate a handkerchief with scent. And then perhaps the handkerchief raised to his face …
‘I think his wife must’ve died,’ Latimer explained. She seemed to be reading Hobbes’s thoughts, something he’d noticed her doing more and more in the few months they’d worked together.
‘So then, Meg. Why am I here?’
‘First of all, this.’ She turned the man’s left arm from the tabletop and pulled back his blazer and shirt sleeves, revealing a collection of scars on his forearm and wrist, each scabbed over or faded to a line of pale flesh. A large sticking plaster had been half peeled back, revealing a newer incision: a couple of inches long, it looked to be quite deep. Blood had recently dried around the cut.
‘You seen anything like this before?’ Latimer asked. ‘Because I haven’t.’
Hobbes considered. ‘What do you think? A failed attempt at suicide? Or a few failed attempts over time, from the look of things. And then the pills.’
She let the plaster fall back over the wound. ‘Well, that’s not the right place to kill yourself.’
‘No.’
‘But here’s the thing: he needed the blood. He squeezed it out.’
Hobbes frowned. ‘Come on, Meg. What the hell’s going on?’
‘Follow me.’
They went back into the hallway and took a door on the right, which led into a spacious living room: one wall was lined with books, another with more of the old photographs, all of them framed, protected behind dusty glass. An upright piano in the corner, and a television that looked like it had been purchased in 1966 or thereabouts. A small chandelier hung down from the centre of the ceiling, the smell of years and years of cigarette smoke in the air, the once white walls now stained with a yellow tinge.
Latimer was standing to one side of the marbled fireplace. Hobbes followed her gaze down to the hearth rug. A woman’s dress was laid out on it. It looked to be 1950s style, a blue background with a pattern of yellow flowers. Stretched out at the dress’s hem was a pair of beige nylon stockings, with a pair of low-heeled blue shoes below them. A yellow scarf covered the neck of the dress. It was, to all intents, the figure of a woman modelled by her clothes. A vanished woman. Hobbes bent down and examined the most interesting part of the display: the right midriff area of the dress was torn and smeared with red. He touched the edge of the discoloured patch gently: it was slightly sticky.
‘This is the old man’s blood?’
‘Looks that way. I can have it tested.’
‘It’s, what, a few hours old?’
‘Probably.’
Hobbes nodded. He noticed a Gillette razor blade lying on the rug near the shoes. This, too, was stained with blood. ‘Christ. So he cut himself?’
‘That’s all I can think. And then he took a plaster …’ she pointed at the box that also lay on the floor ‘… and covered the cut.’
Hobbes stood upright. ‘What was his name again?’
‘Graves. Leonard Graves.’
‘Let’s see. Mr Graves collects together a woman’s outfit, lays it out on the floor. Rips the dress.’
‘It’s cut. I’m guessing with the razor blade.’
‘OK. And then he slices into his forearm, and lets the blood fall on the dress.’
‘Drop by drop.’
‘Some time later he takes an overdose of sleeping pills, smokes a cigarette, and drinks a glass or two of vodka. Kills himself.’
Latimer nodded. ‘That’s the picture.’
For a moment they both stood in silence, staring down at the set of clothes arranged so precisely and artfully on the floor of the living room. The scene lent itself to melancholic thoughts: the out-of-date furniture, the lonely-old-man smell in the place, the way the late-afternoon light shone through the half-open curtains. That damn fool piece of cardboard in the broken window frame: it wouldn’t last out the autumn months. It was enough to make anyone succumb to despair.
Hobbes breathed out evenly. ‘Well … this is strange.’
‘It is. But there are some other things you need to see. Upstairs.’
‘Lead the way.’
They climbed up to the first floor, and into the main bedroom at the front of the house. This showed evidence of a woman’s touch, in the floral curtains, the matching bedspread and pillow cases, the doilies on the dressing-table. Hobbes stopped where he was, a few steps into the room. Another dress was laid out on the bed, again with a pair of nylon stockings and a pair of shoes at the foot, a scarf at the neckline.
‘The scarf and shoes are different from downstairs,’ Latimer said. ‘But the dress …’
‘It’s the same?’
‘The exact same design and size.’
‘Hmm.’ He stepped closer to the bed to inspect the torn area on the dress’s right-hand side, and the blood around the tear. No, it wasn’t blood.
‘It looks like red paint?’
‘This time, yeah.’
The paint was dry to the touch.
‘What do you think?’
Hobbes couldn’t answer. ‘It’s a mystery.’
‘Maybe …’
‘Meg, you have a theory?’
She pursed her lips. ‘His wife died. And this is his way of commemorating her. Hence the old perfume bottle in the kitchen, and the dresses.’
‘We definitely know that his wife died, do we? Or is that an assumption?’
‘The latter. But have a look in the next room.’
They walked along the landing into a smaller bedroom, this one entirely bare of any personal effects, no curtains at the windows, no carpet or rugs on the floor. No photographs or paintings. A single bed, a chest of drawers. That was it.
This time the dress was hanging on a wire coat-hanger from the picture rail, again accompanied by a pair of shoes, resting on the floor beneath. No stockings this time, but with a white silk scarf draped over the shoulders. The tear in the cloth was in the same place as it was in the other two dresses, and also surrounded by a dry smear of rust across a yellow flower.
‘That looks like blood to me.’ Latimer stood at the inspector’s side. ‘But I’m guessing a good few years old.’