Mean Spirit (47 page)

‘There isn’t a picture of Clarence Judge with that scar.’

‘Just because there isn’t one in the book doesn’t mean there
isn’t
one. So he shows her a picture – or whatever – and he’s like, You will see this face every time …
Jesus …
every time you say the words, “The lines are open.”’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘It’s her line, Bobby! Hers and only hers. It’s widely known. You go through Marcus’s files, you’ll see that damn line used as a headline on at least two profiles of Callard.’

‘You’re saying there’s no ghost. No Clarence outside of Seffi’s mind?’

‘I think that’s what I’m saying.’

‘So what about the other stuff. The smell? You even said you smelled it, at—’

‘Yeah, yeah, the bad dick smell. Well, she’s a powerful psychic. She can blow out windows, she can fake Chaucer. To me, that’s all entirely rational, and to a lot of scientists also. And, by the same
rules, the smell’s coming out of her. She’s got this obnoxious Clarence so deep in her subconscious she’s producing an associated stink. Maybe Clarence never smelled like that in his life, maybe he washed his dick scrupulously every night, I wouldn’t know about that and neither would Callard. You have to excuse me here, Bobby. I’m thinking this out as I go along.’

‘So this “lines are open” post-hypnotic suggestion thing is angled on the seance which Kurt set up for Seward in Cheltenham, right? You think Kurt was there all the time?’

‘Probably in the back room, out of sight. Callard mustn’t know it’s him … what’s
that
gonna do to their blossoming relationship? Yeah, the seance … it goes better than he could have hoped … bad-dick smell, drop in temperature, exploding vase … and Callard runs out, leaving Seward knocked out and lusting for more and thinking how right he was to invest in Kurt Campbell.’

‘And maybe,’ Bobby said, ‘under normal circumstances, Kurt would have erased the instruction from Seffi’s mind. But it messed her up so much and she ran so hard …’

‘Whatever, he didn’t get to erase it, did he? So whenever she comes out with the trademark phrase, there’s old Clarence, in all his filthy glory. No wonder she went half-crazy. Hypnosis gone wrong can screw up ordinary people, hypnosis of a sensitive with psycho-kinetic abilities … that’s potentially devastating.
Actually
devastating. I wonder if he told her. I wonder if he told her on the phone … told her some of it … and that’s why she’s here.’

‘Because he’s promised to get rid of it.’

‘In return for one special appearance, to put a cool spin on a mock-Victorian seance? Does that sound enough to you, Bobby? Does that sound worth all this …
Bobby …
’ Grayle sat up. ‘You moaned. You’re hurt. Jesus, honey, they hurt you. You can’t get up, can you? That’s why—’

‘They just kicked me around a bit. I thought they’d stabbed me at first, but they just knew where to kick. Me dad wouldn’t even have felt it.’

‘You’re lying. You can’t get up …’

Dear God, for a few minutes it had felt real good, putting it all together, talking it all out. You could forget … She moved a hand lightly over Bobby’s face, feeling the bumps of dried blood.

‘Those bastards,’ she sobbed. ‘They’re like some private secret police force.’

‘That’s what they are,’ he said. ‘They are a private police force run by an ex-senior policeman who knows exactly how far he can go.’

‘This is Britain!’

She felt him smile.

‘Doesn’t even have to be very secret any more. Several security companies are operating close to the edge. Riggs is quite bitter. He liked being a policeman.’

‘He hires out a Forcefield team to Seward?’

‘No, to Campbell. It’s probably a hand-picked unit consisting of those particular employees he knows are open to a sub-contract, under the table –
that’s
from Seward. Riggs also gets a rake-off. Or favours in kind, I don’t know.’

‘So, like the Forcefield guy Seward brought over to Mysleton …’

‘Seward
?’

‘It was Seward with the dead guy. He came himself, didn’t I say? I forgot what I told you and what I told Cindy. Bobby, why would he do that? Why would he come himself, with all that money?’

‘Because he loves it,’ Bobby said. ‘He needs that old thrill.’

‘Jesus. What an unbelievable monster.’

‘Or maybe just a sad old bugger,’ Bobby said wearily. ‘On reflection, though, I do think you carved up the wrong man.’

‘Did you see him? Did you see Seward?’

‘No. They just kicked me about a bit, tossed me in the back of a van, bag over the head, like you. I’d guess this came from Riggs, rather than Seward. He saw me … or somebody else saw me. Some of them will be disenchanted ex-coppers.’

‘Bobby, do you wanna try and stand up?’

‘I think I’ll just lie here for a while,’ Bobby said. ‘If that’s OK.’

Incredibly, Grayle slept.

Incredibly, she had a warm, fuzzy dream in which they were at home in the cottage in St Mary’s, with a big log fire, the flames reflected by the crystals and the paste gems in the poodle collar around the neck of Anubis, the tame Egyptian god of the dead.

And this metamorphosed into a lucid kind of dream – a dream of what she knew was a near-death experience. Not the awful kind
which Bobby had, but the traditional light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel kind. The one where you didn’t want to go back.

It was wonderful, and when she awoke she awoke into light.

‘Both of you,’ the Forcefield voice said. ‘Get away from each other. Stand up.’

L

THE RENOVATION OF OVERCROSS CASTLE WAS LIKE A HALF-FINISHED
portrait, Cindy thought, the central features blocked in and coloured, the rest little more than a scribble. On the first-floor landing, the paint faded off with the lighting, into greyness, shadows and dust-cloth ghosts.

Vera indicated to Cindy the alcove concealing Room Three, then pointed up at her stiff Victorian waitress’s cap and down towards the kitchens to signify she would be needed soon to serve dinner to the visiting nobs. From below, Cindy could hear the sounds of polite laughter, clinking glasses.

When Vera was gone, he moved quietly into the alcove – quietly because the door was ajar and there were voices from within.

A problem. He needed to see Persephone Callard alone.

But, in the end, he didn’t.

Standing in the shadow of the alcove, becoming still as a monolith, his breathing as light as a bird’s, he heard,

‘… even have to stay the night. I’ll have a car waiting. We’ll get you out of here before midnight, I swear.’

Kurt Campbell. In a state.

‘… can’t believe it,’ Miss Callard saying. ‘Can’t believe you or anybody could be so utterly, insanely …’

‘Look … yes … all right … call me naï—’

‘
Naïve?
It’s not the word, is it, Kurt?’

‘Greedy. Power-hungry. Hey, call me what you fucking like, I’m at
the stage I don’t really care. All I’m saying … if you finish this you’ll never hear from me again, you’ll never hear from Seward and you’ll never … be troubled by …’

‘Him?’

‘You can unload it. Now you know what it’s about, you can unload it just like …’

‘Oh, it’s so easy, Kurt, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll help you.’

‘Think I’ve rather had enough of your help. I just … the utter fucking
duplicity
…’

Kurt collecting himself into his voice, the mesmerist’s velvet purr.

‘Seffi, you can’t possibly imagine how quickly this happens. You meet on live, late-night telly, you’re both high on it, he says why don’t we go on to a club … and then another club and you’re with all these cool, dangerous people, and you’re pissed and you’re telling him your life story and your ambitions, and you think …’

‘What a great guy. Yah, I’ve been there, Kurt. I was there when I was seventeen.’

‘Yeah, well, when
I
was seventeen I was a sad kid at tech college doing a correspondence course on hypnotism at night and working bloody hard at it, so call it delayed adolescence, but … he was just taking me over!’

‘You’re a bloody hypnotist and he’s taking
you
over?’

‘Things just happening, Seffi, like by magic. Obstacles getting moved, difficult people no longer difficult. Contracts, money, meetings, parties – and that’s how you get drawn in, it’s like drugs. And then one day you realize some of the things he’s been doing for you are monumentally illegal – people getting bought, threatened, beaten up and …’

‘And what?’

‘And worse.’

An indrawing of breath by Miss Callard.

‘And it’s when you realize innocent people are getting … damaged to boost your career and get you into his pocket or to satisfy his warped sense of natural justice. Look, there’s a story in his book – he’s been very clever, he’s changed the names and the circumstances so it can’t be traced back, but it’s essentially true – and it’s
about a man he’s called Billy Spindler, a grass, who they fitted up for rape by actually
having a woman raped.
By Clarence Judge himself, I suspect. And he’s done worse than that. People … OK, people’ve died, innocent people, but that’s never how he sees it. If somebody gets hurt they usually deserve it because they’re not as innocent as they look, or they’re stupid … or they’re just there to serve a higher purpose, which is
Gary’s
purpose. He’s a psychopath, Seffi, remorse is an abstract concept to Gary. You’ve just got to help get him off my back before another innocent …’

Cindy thought,
Billy Spindler?
The name was set in ice, what it represented.

‘Kurt, if we do it, as planned, in a large public room, in front of the Mayor of bloody Malvern and Lord Ledbury and whoever, I’ll go with that. Squalid, back-room stuff, you can forget.’

‘You don’t know this guy, Seffi.’

‘I know
you,
and I know you’re full of shit.’

Billy Spindler,
Cindy thought.
The expendability of innocent but stupid people.

‘He’s lost it. It’s gone well beyond obsession. We have all kinds of rules now, set up because of signs and omens. Like it has to be tonight because this is the day when Crole and Abblow did what they did. And it has to be in exactly the same place. And there have to be the right number of people and there has to be …
please,
Seffi. You have to trust me.’

Behind Cindy there was a sudden fusilade of clipped, impatient footsteps. He took a breath, prepared to escape into the spectral netherland of dust sheets and abandoned paint cans.

Too late. He emerged from the alcove facing the woman identified to him as Francine Burnell-Brown, Kurt Campbell’s PA and graceful toehold in society. Looking furious; she’d been left on her own to entertain minor aristocracy, tedious dignitaries and the local press, while the famous Kurt bargained and wheedled and lied through his white, white smile.

‘Who the hell …?’

‘Sssh.’ Cindy brought a finger to his lips, assumed Imelda’s tone. ‘It’s a delicate moment. Give them a few minutes.’

‘What’s going
on
?’

‘Two minutes, my dear.’ Cindy took Francine by the shoulders
and pushed her firmly into the passage and then walked calmly down the stairs, through the entrance hall and out into the night.

What Maiden obviously hadn’t shared with Grayle was the implication of the Forcefield men operating quite openly, their faces now on show under the old fluorescent strip light in the passageway.

This
was the death sentence.

His stomach hurt when he walked. Also when he breathed. He saw the concern in Grayle’s eyes and was moved almost to tears. He’d discovered that he cried easily since his death. Not very policemanlike. Would disgust Norman Plod.

They stopped outside a fat oak door. ‘Hands, please,’ the Forcefield man smiled thinly, ‘boss.’

‘Oh, bugger.’ Maiden recognized slim, narrow-eyed, felt-pen moustached DC Ballantyne, stationed briefly at Elham about four years ago. Ballantyne handcuffed him, hands behind. They weren’t police issue cuffs, more like sex shop, but they worked.

‘It’s Matthew, isn’t it?’ Maiden said.

‘It’s sir to you, you fucker,’ said Ballantyne.

‘What’s the pay like,’ Maiden said, ‘sir?’

Ballantyne looked into his eyes. ‘Ever had your legs kicked from under you when you’re cuffed? Scary.’

Grayle was watching, concern for Maiden giving way to blank fear for them both, as she was cuffed, too. By the bearded guy who’d worked Maiden over behind the Portaloos. The cuffs looked like medieval manacles above Grayle’s small hands.

‘Actually, this particular assignment’, Ballantyne lowered his voice, ‘is a farce. But the money …’ he winked ‘… the money’s great.’

The oak door opened and a man slipped out, closing it behind him. He wore an evening suit: white jacket, with one of those Sixties-style bow ties that fitted under the collar making an inverted V. It was almost an anticlimax to discover who he was.

Older than the pictures; they always were. More wizened, corruption lodged in every line that the camera lenses had blurred. Bags under the eyes, but the eyes were shrewd and bright and merry and cold as a mortuary.

‘Bobby Maiden!’ Both hands gripping Maiden’s shoulders. ‘Heard a lot about you, cock.’

‘From my old boss, that would be?’

‘You signed out a short while back, yeah? How long was it? Three minutes?’

‘Four.’

‘Fucking amazing.’ The eyes never blinked. ‘Where you get to, Bobby?’

‘Wherever it was, Gary, I was glad to get back.’

‘You must be an immature soul, my son. But no matter … you was there … you was over the fence. It’s the experience what counts, know wha’ mean?’ He turned away from Maiden. ‘And Grayle … Underwood.’

‘Hill,’ Grayle said. ‘Under
hill.
I believe we, uh … met.’

‘Nice of you to remember the occasion, Grayle. You also remember what I said to you that night?’

‘I guess.’

‘Don’t guess, darlin’,’ he said breezily. ‘Tell me.’

‘You are dead,’ Grayle said tonelessly.

‘Good girl.’ Gary Seward put out a hand, held Grayle’s chin gently between thumb and forefinger. She didn’t move her head, but Maiden saw her swallow. ‘Heat of the moment, sweetheart.’ Seward let go of Grayle’s chin. ‘Heat of the moment.’