Mean Spirit

by Phil Rickman

  ‘On this sofa? No way. Keys, Marcus?’

  ‘Underhill—’

  She peered hard at him. ‘Why don’t you want to be alone with her?’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’ Marcus’s use of the word displayed his lack of conviction. If he’d meant it, he’d have said balls or bullshit.

  ‘Maybe she isn’t quite the person you remember?’

  ‘People change. Obviously. She was a child.’

  ‘Naw,’ Grayle said. ‘She’s spooky in ways you didn’t expect.’

  Silence. The study was lined by about four thousand books on aspects of the paranormal. The unexplained: always safer sandwiched between hard covers.

  Marcus looked old and stressed.

  ‘What does she want, Underhill? You haven’t even mentioned that. What does she think I can do for her? What did she tell you?’

  Nothing, she told him. Nothing that accounts for anything.

  She stayed. The police never came. The day grew gloomy, the fire in the stove grew brighter. The two of them had a small lunch – can of soup.

  Marcus kept glancing up at the door, blinking and blowing his nose, maybe wondering if Callard had been some fever dream, the screwed-up schoolgirl metamorphosed into this strange, austere, beautiful woman.

  ‘You want me to go knock on the dairy door, Marcus? See she’s OK?’

  ‘No. Don’t … don’t disturb her.’

  Like he was scared that if Grayle knocked on the door the windows would blow out. He grunted, pulled off his glasses and began to wipe the lenses. Stared into the fire, which must, without his glasses, look like some misty sunset. Persephone Callard had been his inspiration. His first signpost to the Black Mountains and Castle Farm, The Phenomenologist and the miracle healing of Mrs Willis. Callard was the shining saucer in the sunset sky. The Holy Mother on the bleak mountain.

  Grayle recalled Marcus’s story of Callard and Chaucer and Sir Topaz. She sniffed.

  ‘Callard told me last night she had Einstein through one time and it turned out to be total horseshit.’

  Marcus hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Look. Whether it comes from the Undersigned or not is essentially a side issue. The fact is, it was coming from somewhere … some exterior source. Just because the – for want of a less contentious term – spirits may not invariably be who they say they are doesn’t necessarily reduce her status as a medium.’

  ‘So she stops herself being a patsy for poltergeists, having windows explode on her, all this, by letting the … entities communicate with her. By acting as a mouthpiece for the dead. And, incidentally, making a lot of money out of it.’

  ‘You make it sound sordid,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Well, some people would say that. Like, how long has she known that half the stuff she’s passing on to the bereaved might be horseshit? From the picture you’re giving me of her, I think she has a lot of explaining to do, Marcus.’

  And then they both saw the shadow in the study doorway.

  ‘Whenever you want,’ Persephone Callard said.

  XII

  VIC CLUTTON WANTED TO MEET IN THE CROWN BECAUSE IT WAS HIS local now, how about that? The most expensive hotel in Elham. No villains, right?

  Or none that Vic knew. Diving into the genial after-work crowd in the mellow oak bar, Bobby Maiden spotted an iffy estate agent drinking with a solicitor named in four too many wills and a county councillor believed to have imported kiddie porn and plastic sex aids from Amsterdam.

  But, OK, not Vic Clutton’s kind of villain. This man was Old Crime, and Maiden was almost sentimental about him. He bought a large malt whisky for Vic and a Malvern water for himself.

  ‘How long you been back, Victor?’

  ‘Never been away, Mr Maiden.’

  Victor/Mr Maiden: quaint Old Crime courtesy.

  ‘Just hanging out below eye-level, sorter thing,’ Vic said. ‘Wallpapering. Carpet-fitting. Old girlfriend of mine, her bloke died, left her a house. Danks Street, just round the corner almost. Nice area. Upmarket.’

  Maiden nodded. ‘You’re looking well on it, anyway.’

  ‘Feeling better, Mr Maiden.’ Vic looked plumper and untypically ungrizzled. New suit, light blue. ‘Feeling very much better, thank you.’

  Couple of years now since Vic’s son, Dean, the lowest kind of freelance doorway dealer, was grassed up by Tony Parker’s establishment and formally nicked by Riggs’s man, Beattie. Occupational hazard. But while on remand – here was the catch – Dean hanged himself in his cell.

  At least, the coroner saw no reason to doubt that Dean had done it himself. But Maiden knew an example had been made of Dean to underline the downside of freelancing on Parker’s ground. A slice of bitter irony for Vic, who, as Parker’s man, had in fact planted the smack on his son – for his own long-term good, Vic had thought, the boy being a user, too.

  Very bitter irony, and for a while Maiden had thought there was a real chance of Vic giving evidence that would send Riggs down.

  ‘I’d’ve done it, Mr Maiden,’ he said now, apologetic. ‘I would have, you know that. But where was the point, with Parker dead, Riggs gone? Where was the point in me getting meself a reputation?’

  Maiden nodded. Understandable. And after all, if it hadn’t been for Vic on the night he nearly lost his eye, it could have been significantly worse. Like death, for the second time.

  Equally, if it hadn’t been for Vic – in a way – there wouldn’t have been a first time. Still …

  ‘Reason I called you, Mr Maiden.’ Vic sipped delicately at his whisky. ‘The word is, your personal premises was penetrated last night, yeah?’

  Maiden drank some Malvern, said nothing.

  ‘I hope this isn’t a nasty surprise. I mean, I presume you’ve been back there since last night. Knowing how wedded to the job you lads is.’

  ‘Can’t have been obvious,’ Maiden said. ‘Or I’d have reported it to the police.’

  ‘That is true,’ Vic said. ‘Oh well. Perhaps it didn’t happen after all.’

  ‘Who told you it did?’

  ‘Possibly the lad who didn’t do it,’ Vic said.

  Maiden leaned back in his chintzy chair, had to smile.

  Vic looked pained. ‘Mr Maiden, I’m trying to help you here.’

  ‘All right,’ Maiden said. ‘Say it happened. In fact, to go further, say your friend was indirectly commissioned by one of my fun-loving workmates.’

  ‘Yes.’ Vic nodded sagely. ‘I would say you’re on target there, Mr Maiden. Making it difficult to be too hard on the boy, as I see it.’

  Maiden flipped over a diffident palm. ‘Almost impossible.’

  ‘Good enough. All right, say this lad was a mate of Dean’s and therefore sees me as an uncle, sorter thing. Confides. Not happy at all about the associations he’s been forced to make, when all he was trying to do was pay his way through college. Art student, yeah?’

  ‘Art critic, too,’ Maiden said.

  ‘Well, he probably found the work in question a bit … what’s the word?’

  ‘Passé?’

  ‘You know what these youngsters are like, Mr Maiden. If you can tell what it is, it’s not art. Getting to the point, though, what happened, there was a raid on this flat. Up the Hillholm? A student party?’

  ‘Right.’ About three weeks ago. Tip-off. Beattie had gone in with DC Darren Guttridge. Very disappointing, Beattie said next morning.

  Vic Clutton smiled. ‘That’s what they said, is it? Likely what happened, there may have been a preliminary visit. Substances removed to a place of safety, sorter thing, while new friendships is forged.’

  So an art student found in possession of serious substances had been spared prosecution in return for carrying out minor favours for Beattie and Guttridge. Maiden shook his head sadly.

  No wonder the lettering was neat.

  Maiden wondered if his impending promotion was general knowledge, but Vic didn’t appear to know about it.

  ‘Congratulations. That would make you th
e governor, sorter thing. Be in a position to change things, put certain careers on hold? Like you make recommendations to on high, and they’d have to listen to you, am I right?’

  ‘Mmm … to a point.’

  ‘Be your responsibility to clean out your own kitchen is what I’m saying.’

  ‘That is the point.’

  Vic nibbled his glass. ‘All right. Listen. This is no more than hearsay, so don’t go taking it down on no tablets of stone, yeah?’

  Maiden spread his hands. No notebook, no wires.

  Vic Clutton brought his head and his voice right down.

  ‘Who’s your favourite ex-policeman?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Word is he’s never got over it,’ Vic said, addressing the table. ‘You probably understand the psychology of this better than me, being filth, but first and foremost he saw hisself as a copper. Officer of the law, sorter thing. No matter he made the odd half million greasing Parker’s wheels, it was all in a good cause. Keep the streets clean and tidy for the ladies of decent Rotarians and such.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Law and order, Mr Maiden. Mr Riggs still believes he was the best thing ever happened for law and order in this town.’

  Maiden bent to try and catch Vic’s expression. Vic still didn’t look at him, talking to his drinks mat.

  ‘All right, you’ll say, but he’s down in Birmingham or somewhere now and in the private sector, probably making so much straight money he has no need to grease anybody’s wheels no more.’

  ‘Well, not the same wheels.’

  ‘But the point is, Mr Maiden, he’s still smarting. If he hadn’t gone – and he’s said this … very, very bitterly, I’m told – if he’d been still around, he was in direct line, within eighteen months at the most, for the great and exalted post of Assistant Chief Constable of West Mercia. A position very much suited to his lifestyle and social skills, Mr Maiden.’

  ‘I’m sure he looks really smooth at the Private Security Companies’ Ball.’

  Vic said, ‘There could be a danger, Mr Maiden, in taking this too lightly, sorter thing.’

  ‘You’re saying he’s still got an interest up here?’

  ‘Got a very deep personal interest in you,’ Vic said. ‘Almost obsessional is what I hear.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘Drink up, Mr Maiden,’ Vic said. ‘My lady’ll have my dinner on the table.’

  These days Elham got unplugged at five-thirty. Now, close to seven, it was dark and damp and already empty. In the hotel car park, the symbols of small-town wealth were awaiting removal to the outlying villages: a Series Seven BMW, a Mercedes next to a Lexus next to the space where Maiden had parked. Now a space again.

  It was close to the road, not far from a streetlamp.

  ‘Bugger,’ Maiden said. ‘This hasn’t happened to me in quite a while.’

  ‘It don’t take them five minutes these days, Mr Maiden. Even the kids. You have an alarm? Mind you, nobody takes any notice of an alarm these days. Specially if it only lasts a few seconds, which is all they need.’ Vic glanced around. ‘Sod’s Law. All these Mercs and Jags and they go for your … what was it?’

  ‘Golf. Four years old.’

  ‘Not your week, Mr Maiden. Sorry I can’t give you a lift, but I’m on foot. Being a local now.’

  Maiden said it was OK. Not that far for him to walk either. He might call in at the station and report it. If he could face the humour.

  ‘Car thieves. Joy riders. I despise those bleeders.’ Under the sterile sodium streetlight, Vic frowned briefly. ‘You take care, Mr Maiden. If you’re walking, stick to the main roads, sorter thing.’

  No stars in the sky, only a chemical haze. Elham by night: like being inside a giant warehouse storing nothing much at all.

  Maiden walked past the shut-down Carlton cinema. Past the bus station, where late buses and a tea-bar were social history. Past the late Tony Parker’s Biarritz Club in its cage of scaffolding – about to become possibly the only building that ever went upmarket by being turned into a McDonald’s.

  He didn’t call in at the police station. He would phone.

  He’d changed the lock on the flat himself. Not a brilliant job, but it would hold. If they really wanted to get in, they’d get in.

  They. Someone working for someone working for someone working for Martin Riggs. He saw Riggs’s face – the broad forehead, the long, narrow chin, the almost translucent skin. Head like a light-bulb. Was it really possible that Riggs was still, in some undetectable way, employing Beattie, maybe a couple more policemen … and monitoring Maiden’s movements?

  And wanting Maiden to know?

  He changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, called the station and reported the theft – WPC Lisa Starling tutting sympathetically. ‘The Crown, eh? They’ve been advised to install CCTV that many times!’

  Maiden was aware of his hand shaking when he put down the phone, aware of how hard and fast he was breathing.

  Riggs would have been gratified to see this.

  OK. Lose it. He made himself a cup of tea then went into the bedroom, closed the door and sat on the side of his bed. Put on the blue-shaded table lamp. Quiet light.

  He sat for several minutes, at first conjuring the image of Riggs in the air three feet from his head. Holding it there, summoning all his negative emotions about Riggs. And then letting go of them. Watching the lightbulb head go dimmer, fade, disappear.

  And then straightened his back, systematically relaxing his body, starting with the toes, working upwards, tightening muscles and then letting them go. Finally, inhaling slowly, aware of the air entering his nose and throat and expanding his lungs. Fixing his attention on a point in his throat, he held the breath for ten heartbeats, then exhaled through his nose.

  The throat being the first chakra.

  He let his attention shift to the second, which was in the middle of the chest: the emotional centre. Inhaled again. Ten heartbeats. On about the seventh, he became aware of a gentle warmth in his chest but didn’t allow himself to dwell on it.

  Next chakra: the solar plexus. Maiden inhaled again as, on the bedside table, the phone rang.

  ‘Bobby.’

  He rolled off the bed. ‘Andy?’

  ‘You all right, son? You sound a wee bit strange.’

  Maiden wanted to tell her about the books he’d been reading on spiritual development but felt embarrassed.

  ‘I fell asleep,’ he said.

  ‘Well, have a biscuit and a glass of water, then get yourself over here.’

  He ran all the way. By the time he reached the General Hospital, his body felt half-numbed down the left side, lingering side-effect of the brain-stem injury. He was sweating in the cold and the damp. Just outside, under the Accident and Emergency sign, stood plump, trilby-wearing George Barrett, the Division’s longest-serving Detective Constable, lighting one of his small cigars.

  ‘Thought you was on leave, boss.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Another day, boss. Another day.’

  ‘Who’s in there with him, George?’

  George fitted a rough grin around his cigar. ‘DS Beattie. And one of the traffics.’

  ‘Here quickly, was he? Beattie?’

  ‘Probably here before it fucking happened.’ George blew out a contemptuous ball of smoke. He had less than a year to serve, didn’t give a shit any more.

  ‘What do we know?’

  ‘No eye-witnesses. Bloke out dog-walking reckons he saw a car coming out of Danks Street with a bit of tyre-squealing. Didn’t get the number. Poor bugger. You always knew where you were with Vic.’

  Maiden’s head was spinning. It was unreal.

  He went into Casualty, wondering how he was going to manage to look into Beattie’s face without smashing it with whatever piece of heavy resuscitatory equipment was closest to hand.

  XIII

  GRAYLE SAT AT THE END OF THE SOFA, OUTSIDE OF THE LAMPLIGHT, watching Marcus Bacton doing this court
ly minuet stuff around Persephone Callard. So annoyed at the way he was behaving – this complete reversal of the one-time teacher-pupil relationship, so that now Callard was the big guru and Marcus the humble acolyte.

  Which was just so much bullshit because she was merely someone that weird things happened to. Not a spiritual person, not an exalted human being, not even an authority. Whereas Marcus’s knowledge of the unexplained, in all its aspects, was possibly unrivalled anywhere.

  But maybe this was it: Marcus knew everything about paranormal phenomena except how to make them happen. He was perhaps convinced that, between them, he and this haughty broad could evolve some of the answers he’d spent most of his life groping towards. Answers he was perhaps half afraid of.

  And if Grayle was less convinced, was she not just envious of Callard’s beauty and her fame and her power over the legendary curmudgeon?

  Marcus was saying, ‘Persephone, you had scientists studying you at one point, didn’t you?’

  He hadn’t blown his nose or wiped his eyes in a full half-hour. He was hunched at the edge of his chair, from which stuffing was leaking like the so-called ectoplasm in those phoney Victorian spiritualist photos.

  ‘Oh Lord.’ Callard relaxed into the full Prince Charles drawl. ‘That was frightfully tedious. They’d have one sitting in some little glass room concentrating on an object in a sealed, transparent container and trying to move it with one’s mind. Or there’d be someone in the next room concentrating on a particular image and you’d have to draw it. I mean, what’s the point? What is the point? If you succeed, someone’s always going to say it was a fix.’

  ‘And did you succeed?’

  ‘Sometimes. Sometimes I was told what the object was. And sometimes I was lied to.’

  ‘By the spirits?’

  Callard shrugged. ‘I submitted to this nonsense for about four months, in New York and Boston, throwing various professors into paroxysms of joy and then troughs of despair.’

  She was leaning against the desk, long legs stretched out in front of her, half out of a long, split skirt, bare feet in scuffed sandals. She’d changed into the skirt and a white silk blouse, for dinner – more soup and tuna sandwiches and a dusty bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon Grayle found behind the fridge.