Mean Spirit

by Phil Rickman

  ‘Oh, really? A little limited, my knowledge of these things. Nuts and bolts rationalist, me, I’m afraid. Where we going then, Bobby? I don’t think I feel like a drink, and I’m sure our famous friend here doesn’t want to be seen in a pub with a battered old bugger like me. Can we just drive around? Cotswolds by night?’

  Maiden had almost forgotten what a tricky bastard Ron could be. He started frisking for holes the story he and Seffi Callard had concocted in the harsh light of the discovery of a second body, with a hacked face and few doubts this time about the origin of the wounds.

  ‘So you and Miss Callard, Bobby …’

  ‘Friends,’ Maiden said.

  ‘Quite close friends.’ Seffi pulled out of the layby.

  ‘I see. Well …’

  ‘We met when Bobby was gathering background information in connection with the Green Man murders. I was able to explain a little about the psychology of people who believe they’re being influenced by elemental forces. Working together on something essentially frightening can be curiously … intimate, as I’m sure …’

  Seffi let the sentence hang. Maiden sensed her smile.

  How fluently she lies.

  ‘So when I was feeling rather threatened recently, I asked Bobby for advice.’

  Telling Ron how, in this line of work, one received endless crank mail. Mostly from fundamentalist Christians warning that the fires of hell were already being stoked in readiness for one’s arrival. A very few implied that physical retribution might be exacted on the earthly plane.

  Seffi sounding loony enough for Ron to take it all less than seriously, but looking alluring enough for him to see why Maiden had stuck around.

  Below them, the lights of Stroud formed a glowing bowl.

  She told the story of the party, but only as far as the Kieran Hole incident. When they were into the countryside again, Ron said, ‘Yeah, I can see how that would offend Les Hole. This was a message you had … on the, er …?’

  ‘A spirit message.’

  ‘Ri-ight.’ Ron nodding sceptically. ‘From the boy, Kieran, you say?’

  ‘He did hang himself, then,’ Maiden said.

  ‘Oh indeed, Bobby. No note, no clothes on. We had it down as a wanking job.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Seffi said.

  ‘Sexual hanging. Auto-erotic strangulation. “Come Dancing” on the end of a rope. Commonplace enough, but occasionally a bit difficult to prove medically, so coroners often tend to be merciful and put it down as suicide. It affected Coral very deeply, as you obviously realize. And Les, of course. So you’re saying Les blamed the, er, messenger.’

  ‘There was a letter’, Maiden said, ‘from the wife. Trying to set up another meeting with Seffi. But it was the phone calls …’ Lying now. ‘Late at night, nobody there. And this sense of being …’

  ‘Stalked,’ Seffi said. ‘Although I never got a good look at him.’

  Ron leaned back against the side-window, getting a good look at her. ‘So all these stories about you packing it in …?’

  ‘This was just a part of it. I’ve been feeling generally vulnerable. No-one likes to be on the receiving end of scorn and hostility.’

  ‘It seemed to me we ought to go and see Mrs Hole,’ Maiden said. ‘She wasn’t there, but he was. He didn’t know I was a copper. He was aggressive. He seemed to think someone might have set him up and he wasn’t looking at Barber. He mentioned the name Gary.’

  ‘Oh, did he?’ Ron’s voice thickening with satisfaction.

  ‘That means something to you, Ron?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘Should I? I got the feeling he was a little scared of Gary.’

  ‘Well, of course he is, Bobby, of course he is. Everybody’s a little bit scared of Gary.’

  ‘I feel I should know who we’re talking about here, but I don’t.’

  ‘Bloody right you should,’ Ron said. ‘Oh, yes.’

  Cindy pulled into the Severn Bridge services and went in for a coffee. Sat in the restaurant, unrecognized in his blazer and slacks, gazing across the dark water to the Welsh side. His mobile phone, switched off, felt like a housebrick in the inside pocket of his blazer. So many people attempting to contact him in the past hour; he could always feel the weight of them.

  Back at the car, he sighed and switched on the phone, sat back, closed his eyes and waited.

  The first call came through within four minutes.

  ‘Oh, Cindy, hi, this is Simon Tremain at BBC Radio News in London. Really sorry to bother you at this hour, but I was told you always drove through the night after the show. I hope that’s right, and I haven’t disturbed you during—’

  ‘No problem, Simon, bach.’

  ‘Great. Well, look, it’s about this poor guy, Colin Seymour, who crashed his plane tonight. Obviously, we’ll be running clips from the Lottery Show on all the morning bulletins, and I’m putting a package together for “Five Live”.’

  ‘What is it you want then, lovely?’

  ‘Well, I was asked to see if you could go into our Haverfordwest unattended studio, but obviously you’re going to be a bit knackered, so maybe we could record a short interview on the phone?’

  ‘Fire away, boy.’

  ‘Right … can you hold, or should I get plugged in and whatnot and give you a call in a couple of minutes?’

  ‘I’ll hold.’ Knowing that if he cut the line there would be another call.

  Presently, Simon Tremain said, ‘OK, I’m rolling. Cindy, if we can start with the obvious … this must have been a shock.’

  ‘A terrible, terrible shock. I was driving home when I heard the news, and I had to stop. You know, when you’re doing the show you feel you come to know the winners personally … and, though I never met Colin, it was clear that this was a man who would put his good fortune to good use. He wasn’t going to retire to the south of France, he wanted to continue working with these children and use the money to bring some excitement into their lives. An utter tragedy, it is.’

  ‘And I suppose the bitter irony of it is that when Colin and his young friend said they were going to “fly like a kite” you commented that if they did that they’d never find the runway. Which, unfortunately, seems to be roughly what happened.’

  ‘Ah. Yes.’ This is the bit they’ll use. ‘Well, you know, you make these flip comments without a thought for the brutal hand of fate, and when something like this happens your own words go echoing in your ears and you’d do anything, you would, to take them back. But I suppose if I really could rewind time, what I’d do would be to have Colin Seymour put off his flight until the next day.’

  Afterwards, Simon said, ‘Sorry, I had to ask you that, but I suppose I won’t be the last. I mean, with that guy who had the heart attack and everything … bad week for Lottery winners.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Cindy said, resigned. He asked the reporter when exactly the accident had occurred and learned that it was actually before the Lottery Show. Less than an hour before.

  Perhaps poor Colin had been in a hurry to catch himself on television.

  * * *

  The proximity of retirement could take them different ways. Some coppers nibbled away the final year as if they’d already been put out to grass, the crime reports on the desk separated by estate-agent particulars of cottages in Cornwall.

  Others were really driven that last year … racing against the calendar, determined that a certain piece of business was not going to be unfinished business when they collected the Teasmaid with the built-in radio. Driven by the sour certainty that if they didn’t finish it nobody ever would.

  This, it emerged, was Ron Foxworth. The business in question: Gary Seward.

  Ron’s obsession. So little time left. Ron abandoning discretion as they cruised through the Cotswold night.

  It was a generation thing. He and Gary were about the same age. When Gary was gone, the youngsters wouldn’t give a shit. To young coppers, old villains were teddy bears. It was like Reggie Kray and Fra
nkie Fraser – regarded with amusement, even affection if you were too young to have mopped up after them.

  ‘He laughs, you see,’ Ron said. ‘Laughs all the time. Laughing Gary. Whenever you see him on some bloody chat show, he’s laughing his balls off.’

  Ron Foxworth, white-haired and big-bellied, did the laugh, slow and measured, like a nasal duck.

  ‘And whenever I hear that laugh, Bobby, it’s personal. He’s laughing at me.’

  Ron and Gary. Coincidence upon coincidence, from the start. Ron was still a probationer in south London when he walked in on Seward doing an off-licence at knife-point. Ron nearly losing an eye.

  ‘In it for the excitement,’ Ron said. ‘I knew that from the first. This is a villain does it for the buzz. The money’s always been secondary. And that’s why I think he can’t stop. Where’s the excitement in addressing Rotary Club lunches?’

  Protection and muscle, these had been Gary’s business. Usually hands on, Ron said. Gary was never going to be the chairman of the board, delegating, sub-contracting. Except, of course, to long-time close associates.

  ‘Sometimes there’d be some poor sod cut to ribbons or bits shot off him. Minimum life-threatening injury, maximum pain. And some big dummy’d go down for it. But you knew, you just did, that Gary’d done this one himself. Stubbed out his slim panatella, climbed into his Daimler, drove well within the speed limit, parked outside some mean little terraced house, gone coolly in and done it. For the buzz.’

  Seffi Callard said, ‘It always amazes me how people can go on getting away with this kind of thing for years and years, never getting caught – when you quite obviously know who they are and what they’re doing.’

  ‘What they’ve done,’ Ron said. ‘Past tense. There’s a big difference. Now if only we were clairvoyants like you—’

  ‘I’m not a clairvoyant.’

  ‘Yes, it’s odd,’ Maiden said hurriedly. ‘The thing is, sometimes they’re tolerated by certain officers. For a number of reasons.’

  Ron grinned. ‘What’s Martin Riggs doing now, Bobby? Still with Forcefield?’

  ‘Far as I know.’

  ‘Makes you think,’ Ron said. ‘Riggs would’ve been at the Met in Gary’s day, wouldn’t he? But then we all thought Riggs was straight as they come, back then. You didn’t, Bobby, but you were just a boy, no clout. Me, I was ready to nick Seward twice and both times the rug was pulled. Makes you think.’

  Seffi said, ‘But Seward was eventually arrested, wasn’t he? If it’s the one I’m thinking of.’

  ‘Gary Seward did seven years for extortion, my dear, compared with the three life sentences he’d’ve had if it was me who’d pulled him. But it wasn’t me, and when he comes out he gets together with a Sunday newspaper journalist and writes his memoirs, name-dropping every famous villain since Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘Oh yes. It was called …’

  ‘Bang to Wrongs. Serialized in the News of the World, sold quite well, but not well enough to furnish him with his current lifestyle. Even allowing for all the chat shows. No. The boy’s still at it.’

  ‘Up here?’ Maiden said.

  ‘It’s where you come when you’ve made it. It’s Beverly bloody Hills UK. When I left the Met – in something like disgust, I might say – to take command of Gloucester CID, who should I find in his gracious Cotswold retreat…?’

  ‘Must be irksome, Ron.’

  ‘And he’s at it, Bobby. The bastard is at it. All right, he’s got laundered money in a bunch of business ventures, but where’s the excitement in that?’

  Seffi pulled off the road into one of those hilltop viewpoint parking areas. All you could see now was a vast scattering of lights over four counties. She stopped the Jeep and switched off.

  ‘So who exactly is Mr Hole?’ Maiden asked.

  ‘Les Hole. Import and export. Mainly import.’

  ‘Porn?’

  ‘Not now. Least, nothing severe. No kids, no snuff. A bad boy in his youth, mind, but that was a long time ago. Long enough that two years ago he qualified for a conditional discharge from Gloucester mags on a few dozen Italian videos. Course, Les’s mistake was to do it again too soon. With me watching closely by now. Because of Seward.’

  ‘Associates?’

  ‘Shared investments – legit – and crossover social lives. So, with the conditional hanging over him, he was more than amenable. You know?’

  ‘Amenable?’

  ‘You know.’

  And Maiden did. Knew why the mention of Mr Hole over the phone had turned everything around, Ron making sure the two of them met up that very night.

  ‘You’re saying Les Hole’s your informant?’

  Ron looked at Seffi. Who expelled a short breath of irritation. ‘I’m hardly going to tell anyone am I?’

  ‘All right.’ Ron leaned right back against the door so he could see them both, if only in shadow. ‘Seward-watcher, I’d call it. He tells me what the boy’s up to, the stuff he’s party to, and I store it up. Waiting for the moment. I don’t want Seward on chickenshit, I want … Anyway, the longer it goes on, naturally, the more paranoid Les is that Gary’s on to him. Every little remark makes him tremble, every little practical joke. Next thing it might be the exploding petrol tank – he said that to me once.’

  Maiden said, ‘The odd practical joke? Like setting up a medium to deliver a devastating, humiliating message from the dead son?’

  It was dizzying looking down at four counties of lights. Like being on a cliff edge.

  ‘Hang on, let me get this right,’ Ron said. ‘Les Hole’s wondering if Gary bunged Miss Callard serious money in order to make it clear to Les, in public, that he’d better watch his step. On account of somebody knows all his little secrets and won’t hesitate to use them. Right? I think this poses an obvious question, Miss Callard.’

  ‘Well, of course I didn’t take any money from Seward. I don’t know Seward.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No, I bloody don’t. Nor have I read his stupid book.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry,’ Ron said. ‘Just seems odd to me that he hasn’t sought you out, that’s all. You being in the same part of the world. And interests in common.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ Maiden said. ‘What interests in common?’

  ‘You don’t know? It’s in his book.’

  ‘I haven’t read his book either. I know he likes to collect celebrities. Actors, sports personalities …’

  ‘And not all of them still alive, Bobby.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘I’m telling you. He visits bloody … he consults spiritualists.’

  There was a silence. Maiden watched the lights of a silent airplane over the horizon.

  ‘Why?’ Seffi said.

  ‘Started when his mum got run over by a drunk. Took it very personally. Nobody takes something away from Gary. You don’t take. Not even if you’re God. I believe it was an auntie or somebody who got him to see a medium, try and calm him down. Seems to have had the opposite effect. Seen various mediums all his life since. Claims it was what got him through his stretch: daily workouts in the gym and regular spiritual counselling. Prison visits from some old lady passing on messages from his old mum, all that kind of cr—’ Ron coughed. ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Which old lady?’ Seffi said sharply.

  ‘I can’t remember her name, you’ll have to get the book. See, it comes down to this: Gary’s got this enormous appetite for life and the only thing really frightens him is the thought of losing it. Gary Seward vanishing into nothingness, the finely tuned body rotting in the grave. Nothing left but a Cheshire cat grin on some old photos.’

  ‘Midlife crisis?’ Maiden said.

  ‘And some. Gary needs to believe Gary’s going on.’

  There was a period of silence.

  Then Ron said, ‘So if it wasn’t Gary … who did tell you about the boy?’

  Maiden saw Seffi slowly shaking her head, felt the steam rising. He said hurriedly,
‘For what it’s worth, Ron, I believe her. I believe she does this … thing.’

  He could just about make out Ron’s faithless smile.

  ‘Forgive me, Bobby, but, from what I’ve been hearing, that’s what you would say. These days.’

  Maiden made an effort to disregard it, concentrating on what he needed to know. ‘Sir Richard Barber. Where’s he come into this?’

  ‘No idea, mate. Never had cause to look into him. But I will now. This has been interesting. A bit weird, if you don’t mind me saying, but it’s given me a few things to think about.’

  ‘How gratifying,’ Seffi said bleakly.

  XXVI

  DURING THE TEN OR SO MINUTES IT TOOK TO DRIVE RON FOXWORTH back to his car, Maiden quizzed him politely about the murder inquiry at Stroud. Making conversation, talking shop.

  Learning that the dead man had been found by a farmer, near the village of Bisley. The body was tumbled into a ditch with about six inches of water in the bottom so that, at first, the farmer thought this was some drunk who’d drowned. Until he turned the bloke over and was sick.

  ‘So … confirmation,’ Seffi said when Ron was gone and they were sitting in the Jeep, in the layby above Stroud, with the engine running.

  ‘How far would that be from your place?’

  ‘Bisley? Three, four miles, I suppose.’

  ‘So how did he get there?’ Maiden demanded. ‘And what happened to his mate? There’s something missing. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It’s going to make some awful sense to Grayle,’ Seffi said. ‘Just when she thought she was in the clear. I’d almost be inclined not even to tell her.’

  ‘What, so she can read about it in the papers?’

  At eight-thirty tomorrow they’d be out there in force, Ron had said. A roughly regimented march through the fields in search of a weapon.

  ‘Could be about six years, however, before they get around to putting divers into the Wye at Ross,’ Maiden said morosely.

  He saw that Seffi was bent over the steering wheel, her shoulders heaving. He thought she was sobbing then realized it was wild, unhealthy laughter.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ She raised herself up. ‘Bobby, there’s a gap on the wall.’