Mean Spirit

by Will Kingdom

  ‘That’s show business,’ Marcus said heartlessly. ‘All the same, one can’t help wondering who gave them the crucial background information. Obviously no use asking who particularly has it in for Lewis, when the entire entertainment industry’s riddled through with jealousy and back-stabbing. The answer is: every bastard who isn’t making as much money.’

  ‘Including you.’ Grayle dragged the phone over. ‘I’m gonna call the pub. Get him to come over here right now. Time like this, a guy needs friends. Even friends like you.’

  Marcus snorted.

  ‘’Sides, we need to talk about last night.’

  ‘Nothing to talk about. Lewis blew it. It was beyond him. He hadn’t the faintest idea what he was doing. And when Persephone realized it, she just got out. A little too late, unfortunately.’

  ‘Marcus, that is just so simplistic.’

  Marcus hit the table with the heel of his hand. ‘Well, I’m feeling fucking simplistic.’ He came to his feet, walked to the wall, began to pick at a piece of crumbling plaster near the door. ‘I just hope she’s all right.’

  ‘Jesus, Marcus …’ Grayle stood up, too. ‘What’s it gonna take? What is it gonna take to actually make you feel sore at Callard? The woman stays in your house, eats your food, borrows your friends, turns me into a murder suspect, then drives off without a damn word, leaving a pile of glass, and it’s still like poor Persephone. Jesus Chr—. Oh. Hi, Bobby.’

  He wasn’t wearing a bashful smile. Or any particular expression at all. He carried a paperback. He put it on the table. There was a vaguely familiar face on the front of the book, guy with a raffish smile but cold eyes. Not, Grayle was supremely glad to note, the guy in the drawing that the wind blew away.

  She glanced up at Bobby.

  ‘Page one hundred and ninety,’ he said.

  Grayle picked up the book. ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Flicked over the pages. Around the middle of the book was a stack of photo-pages all together. Pictures of newspaper headlines, reproductions of news pictures – guy in handcuffs being led to a police van, bunch of guys in bow ties getting showered with champagne around a dinner table.

  ‘Over the page,’ Bobby said.

  Grayle turned the page to find a police mugshot.

  Underneath, the caption said,

  Believe it or not, this is the only photo I could get of Clarence. He always hated having his picture taken.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Grayle said.

  XXXVII

  ‘WELL, WELL,’ MARCUS SAID SOURLY. ‘IF IT ISN’T THE ANGEL OF fucking Death.’

  And Cindy, while hurt, could understand the dismay. Marcus’s heart would have done a small leap when he saw a flash of blue skirt. She came back. Flinging wide the door to welcome back the prodigal daughter. Only to find, instead, his favourite deviant in twinset and pearls, hair fluffed out, with a fresh mauve rinse.

  Cindy and Marcus looked at one another for two silent seconds before Cindy smiled his gentle, ironic smile, an old clown painting out his sorrow.

  ‘If I am going to be hanged, it seemed beholden on me to present a more tasteful figure upon the scaffold.’

  Wearing men’s clothing last night had been a mistake. He had wanted to present to Miss Callard an image she could not deride, which would give her confidence. How foolish to allow his psychic responses to be inhibited by image and taste and diplomacy. The result was an overload of masculinity in the room, an imbalance. Cindy’s nose twitched in memory of the stench of the urinal sharpened with soiled lust, an unmistakable odour of male evil.

  But the clothing had been only one of his errors. All of them the result of giving into material neuroses, worldly apprehensions, fear of public hatred, fear of penury.

  Marcus, for once, was right to be suspicious. He scowled.

  ‘Suppose you’d better come in.’

  * * *

  At once he detected an electricity in the room. A dreadful excitement. At first falsely attributing it to the stack of morning papers on the table, the evidence for the prosecution.

  Little Grayle, at least, seemed glad he’d returned. She rose, hugged him.

  ‘Jesus, why are they doing this to you?’

  Cindy was stoical. ‘When things happen to us which we clearly cannot alter, little Grayle, we must ask ourselves what is to be learned from them. What they may be telling us abut ourselves that we were unwilling to recognize.’

  ‘Oh sure. Like you’ve been chosen as God’s tool to break the hold of the National Lottery on the public’s consciousness? Did the BBC respond yet?’

  ‘My career with the BBC is, you might say, in a state of cryogenic preservation. Someone may perhaps consider thawing me out in five years’ time.’

  ‘Cindy, can they just do this?’

  ‘I fear they have done it, lovely. Some years ago, the mandarins might have stood by me. Those days are gone.’

  Bobby Maiden looked up from the Mirror. ‘This didn’t just happen, did it?’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘Somebody had to start it, didn’t they?’

  ‘I also tend to be sceptical about spontaneous combustion, Bobby, but I rather suspect we have something more important to discuss than the descent of Kelvyn Kite.’

  He had seen the exchange of glances. Oh yes, something else had occurred in the aftermath of the explosive exit of Miss Persephone Callard.

  Grayle said, ‘You better tell him, Bobby.’

  This was the standard mugshot issued to the papers when Gary Seward’s long-time enforcer, Clarence Judge, escaped from police custody in 1976. Used many times since because Clarence always hated having his picture taken.

  ‘You could argue’, Maiden pointed out, ‘that I came across it browsing through Seward’s book, and it just stuck in my head. A famous picture of a minor gangland celebrity.’

  ‘Which was subconsciously stored’, Marcus said, ‘and surfaced in a moment of heightened consciousness during a meditative state induced by sitting around in the dark with a group of people who—’

  ‘Hey, whose side are you on?’ Grayle demanded.

  ‘Just giving the psychological explanation, Underhill.’

  Maiden smiled to see Grayle setting up in opposition to Marcus, the way she often did, without realizing this was what Marcus intended.

  Cindy examined the photo in Seward’s book. ‘It’s a face which seems to convey a brutal distrust of the entire human race.’

  ‘A criminal stereotype, in fact,’ said Marcus.

  ‘And another stereotype’, Grayle said, ‘is bad guys always having scars. I don’t see a scar in this photo. Otherwise, yeah, it’s very like the face you drew. Got the scar when he died, maybe?’

  ‘He was shot in the back of the head,’ Maiden said.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I believe he got the scar in prison.’

  ‘So he did have a scar.’

  ‘If not several. According to Seward, another inmate with a longstanding grudge surprised Clarence in the prison library. With a fish slice he’d nicked from the kitchens. And sharpened.’

  Grayle winced. She was probably thinking about hedging tools and a dead man in a ditch. Maiden hesitated.

  Grayle took a breath. ‘Just finish the story, Bobby.’

  ‘It’s really about what Clarence did next. He’s half-blinded by the blood, according to Seward, but still manages to push the guy’s head through the back of a free-standing bookshelf. OK? Leaving his face sticking out among the books, like in a pillory?’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Grayle said.

  ‘And he can’t get free, and he’s hanging there. And then Clarence goes around the other side and props up these leather-bound encyclopedias against the guy’s ears on either side for further support. And then he starts hitting him. For … well, for a long time. It was said the blood spread so far that the library had to throw away more than a hundred books.’

  ‘This was in the pen? Where were the … wardens … the guards?’

  ‘Oh, well they were
attending to a small disturbance elsewhere. It probably didn’t even involve a bribe – none of the screws would’ve lost sleep over something unpleasant happening to Clarence. They hate people prison life doesn’t seem to bother, and nothing ever got to Clarence. If you spat in his food, Seward says, he’d eat it all up in front of you and ask for seconds. And then he’d bide his time, but eventually he’d come and “visit” you, as he liked to put it.’

  ‘Jesus. And this is what… visits Callard? I take everything back. No wonder she’s so fucked up. Jeez, I only have to look at that drawing and I’m …’ Grayle shuddered.

  Marcus said, ‘You ever come across this man personally, Maiden?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know him at all. Clarence would’ve been doing his bird when I was at the Met. I’ve just been having a quick look at Seward’s book. Looked up Judge in the index. Lots of references. Clarence has rare qualities, Seward says. Possibly the only person he truly admires, apart from Lady Thatcher.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Grayle said. ‘Let’s get back to the scar. Were there no pictures of him with this scar from the fish-slice attack?’

  Maiden thought about it. ‘I don’t know. None that I’m aware of. With a scar like that you can understand him keeping a low profile.’

  ‘So you can categorically state that you never saw a picture of it?’

  ‘Not categorically. But I’m pretty sure. It could be artistic licence, though, couldn’t it? We’re never going to know for certain unless we dig him up and call in a facial reconstruction expert.’

  ‘So, Bobby – let’s just get this right – you only know what the scar looked like from Callard’s description, that it was like half of a pair of glasses. In fact it may not be quite like you’ve drawn it here, but we’ll never know. OK, let’s deal with the other rational explanation. What if Callard deliberately fed us this image of the face, with the glasses’ scar? Maybe planted the whole idea of this Clarence. And even Seward, with his peculiar laugh.’

  ‘Except that it was Les Hole who first mentioned Seward,’ Maiden said.

  Marcus looked pained. ‘Underhill, why would she anyway?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’m exhausting rational possibilities, is all. It still makes no sense to me why she suddenly skipped out last night, and it doesn’t to you, Marcus, if you’d only admit it.’

  Marcus was silent.

  ‘So let’s look at the crank stuff,’ Grayle said. ‘Spirit drawings. It’s a common enough thing for an artist to be present at a seance, right?’

  Cindy, who’d been absorbing all this stuff in silence, said, ‘And the artist does not necessarily have to be a medium. Sometimes he or she works the same way as I believe police artists do, creating the face according to the instructions of the medium. And on occasion,’ Cindy coughed lightly, ‘this is done without them even speaking.’

  ‘The image gets transferred mentally,’ Grayle said. ‘It sounds crazy, but I’ve seen this happen.’

  ‘Usually, I think,’ Cindy said softly, ‘when there is, er, a close personal link between the medium and the, er, artist.’

  Marcus stiffened, directed a hard look at Bobby. Grayle made no comment.

  Cindy said, ‘What were your feelings, Bobby, when you were doing this drawing? What sensations were you experiencing?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I can’t remember doing the drawing. All I have a clear memory of is Seffi saying, “He’s touching me”, and me diving at her. And then the window bursting.’

  Grayle wondered what might have happened at this point if the window hadn’t exploded. ‘This gets us nowhere,’ she said hastily. ‘What actually happened to Judge?’

  ‘From what I can remember,’ Bobby said, ‘his body was found in a rubbish skip somewhere. He’d been shot in the back of the head. It was assumed it was a gangland killing. Only one shot, close range. Looked professional. No-one was ever caught.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Over a year ago.’ He opened the paperback. ‘I assume this edition’s only just out. In the front here, Seward’s written a ridiculous kind of eulogy to the old thug, also offering a large reward for information leading to his killer. He says he’ll hand any new information over to the police immediately. I think that’s where we’re supposed to laugh.’

  ‘What exactly was Clarence to Seward?’

  ‘Minder, enforcer. Basically, what he did to that bloke in the prison for free was what he did professionally to people on the outside.’

  ‘Oh boy,’ Grayle said sombrely. ‘If we believe Callard, both of them were present at this Sir Barber’s party in Cheltenham. One of them alive, one—’

  ‘Quite.’ Marcus gave a short cough. ‘Er … no matter how bizarre it seems, we probably have to consider this is what we’re looking at. The planned reuniting of the ex-criminal, Seward, and this … this Clarence Judge … across the, ah … the, ah …’

  ‘I think the word you’re groping for, Marcus, is, uh, grave. Question: was this Seward intent on using Callard to reach his dead pal, Clarence? Was that what this whole Cheltenham charade was about?’

  ‘We know he is obsessed with spiritualism,’ Bobby said. ‘We know he has used mediums to try and contact his mother because it’s in the book. And we know he was shattered and angry – almost affronted – by Judge’s murder.’

  ‘And we know’, Grayle felt suddenly very excited, ‘that he was real determined to find out who the killer was, because he was offering … how much, Bobby?’

  ‘Up to twenty grand.’

  ‘Strange, huh? That’s close to what Callard was paid to put on a seance.’

  ‘Right,’ Bobby said, ‘we also have reason to think that it was Seward, not Barber, who was putting up the cash that night. That Barber was a front, presumably because Seward suspected Seffi would refuse to do it if she knew she was being employed by someone like him.’

  ‘Right! Hey, this is cool. Seward, who believes firmly in this stuff, is investing twenty grand in Callard being able to put him in contact with Clarence so that – this is it, guys – so he can find out from Clarence who it was shot him!’

  ‘Good God,’ Marcus said.

  ‘It adds up,’ Bobby admitted. ‘Seward’s making no secret of being determined to find out who killed his friend, but the underlying truth there might be that Judge and Seward have the same enemies, and Seward’s watching his own back. He’s thinking: they got Clarence, am I going to be next? Yeah. I can accept, given his beliefs, that he would set this up.’

  ‘I can see this whole thing,’ Grayle said. ‘Seward stays in the background until Callard says, “I’m getting a guy coming through with like weird eyes and a funny scar. He’s got a message for Gary. Do we have a Gary in the house?” And up steps Seward with some heavy questions. Who did it, Clarence? Who blew you away? Just gimme a name.’

  ‘However, the man presumably doesn’t realize’, Marcus said, ‘that the most useful piece of information ever gleaned from a denizen of the bastard spirit world is that the brown socks mislaid by Uncle Tom in 1946 may be found behind the fucking hot-water tank.’

  ‘Ah.’ Grayle lifted a finger. ‘I think he does know that. I think that’s why he wanted Persephone Callard.’

  ‘Only the best,’ Bobby said.

  ‘Plus … what about this? … all the people at that party, with the possible exception of Sir Barber, had one thing in common. They were all people who knew Clarence Judge! It was like Clarence’s party! How could he – Jesus, this is eerie – how could he not turn up for his own party?’

  ‘Underhill, I would hate to think you’re getting carried away …’

  ‘It’s a hypothesis, Marcus, but I think it’s a good one. Callard kept saying how like a fish out of water Barber seemed among these people. He didn’t know them, he was a little nervy in their company.’

  ‘I figured that too,’ Bobby said. ‘These were mostly, if not all of them, decidedly iffy people.’

  ‘It’s still a bloody gamble, Maiden.’

  �
�So? Seward’s a gambler. He loves risk. Also, he put himself very close to Seffi earlier on, when he posed as Barber’s chauffeur so he could pick her up at the hotel. So he could get close to her. Would he see that as establishing a link – with someone who wouldn’t normally handle pond life like Gary Seward?’

  Grayle stood up. ‘There’s clearly a whole lot we don’t know, but we have a working theory. So let’s follow it through. Callard gives out real indications that she’s in contact with Clarence. But then it all goes wrong because Callard’s this loose-cannon kind of medium. The breaking of the vase, all this chaos … and then she runs out on them.’

  ‘Taking Mr … Judge with her?’ Cindy said delicately.

  ‘Right! And then’, Grayle grabbed his hand with a jangling of bangles, ‘she goes off into the night … with this dead guy … attached to her. And she can’t get rid of it.’

  ‘Why, though?’ Marcus said. ‘Why can’t she get rid of it? She’s an extremely experienced medium, she’s done all this before.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I can’t explain that. Except maybe there’s something different here. Something she hasn’t done before. Or, of course … she may know more than she told us.’

  ‘The point about all this’, Bobby Maiden said, ‘is that most of it remains valid even if you don’t believe in ghosts. All you need to accept is that Seward himself is a complete believer. Also a gambler, chancer, ruthless bastard …’

  ‘Because of what comes next, right?’ Grayle said.

  XXXVIII

  WHAT CAME NEXT WAS THE MYSLETON LODGE INCIDENT.

  And the dead guy, Crewe. And Justin.

  Bobby hypothesized that Seward wasn’t about to give up on Callard, even though she’d put herself out of the picture.

  Grayle took up from here.

  ‘Seward’s getting real antsy. He’s thinking: Shit, does this woman now know what I oughta know? After all, he’s paid this broad twenty grand, he’s entitled to that information. What’s he do next, Bobby, how’s he go about this?’