Mean Spirit

XIX

A month short of the tourist season, only one of the three village shops seemed to be open: a newsagent’s and general self-service store. When an elderly man in a pale blue bobble hat came out, Bobby Maiden walked over the cobbled street to intercept him.

‘Garage? Lord, no.’ The old man gathered up his bicycle from the shop wall, stowed a box of eggs in its saddlebag. ‘You want a garage, Stroud’s about your nearest.’

‘Bloke called Justin runs this place.’

The old man laughed, began to push his bike up the street. ‘Sorry, I thought you said a garage.’

Maiden walked alongside, half-smiling.

Peaceful, golden village. Stone footbridge over the little rippling river. A platoon of ducks waddling up the bank. Maiden had come by taxi from Gloucester station. He felt the cool air all around him, a sense of detachment, a strange freedom. With a car, you were always somehow umbilically connected to the place where you’d parked it.

‘Justin Sharpe you’re after, is it?’ The old man swirled his lips, looked like he wanted to spit.

A set-up.

Maiden shouldered his canvas overnight bag. He’d been set up.

Putting it all together, it seemed that Andy Anderson had phoned her old friend Marcus Bacton early this morning. By eight-thirty, Marcus had phoned Maiden. They hadn’t spoken for six months, but Marcus came on like they’d been cut off thirty seconds earlier. Look, word has it, Maiden, that you’re without a car at the present time. As it happens; Underhill needs a vehicle, ah, retrieving … silly cow lost her exhaust in the middle of the Cotswolds. Course, I’d see to this myself if I wasn’t at death’s bloody door …

Well, OK, Maiden accepted that Andy had his best interests at heart, was unhappy at the thought of him being solitary on the Solway Firth.

Marcus, however …

He found the screen of fast-growing conifers on the edge of the village, and what they were concealing: derelict petrol pumps, cracked concrete forecourt, a crumbling grey utility building with big double doors.

Nobody around. He strolled across the forecourt. Saw what the old guy had meant about the definition of the word garage. No way were these working business premises. But when he reached the grey building and peered through a window thick with sagging cobwebs, he thought he saw a small red vehicle in there.

Grayle’s Mini?

Just pay for the car and then get a receipt, would you, Maiden? If the chap’s reluctant to hand it over to you, give me a call and I’ll let Underhill talk to him. Absolutely straightforward.

‘You’re some piece of work, Marcus. How could you do this?’

Marcus put on an innocent, wounded expression. Grayle had seen it too many times.

‘Are you insane? Are you one hundred per cent freaking insane? Bobby’s a cop. Cops operate according to some cop version of the Hippocratic Oath. They learn about a crime, they are obliged to file a report.’

‘Of course he won’t file a bloody report!’ Marcus fished out a bunch of tissues. ‘Man’s on our side now. Stared into the abyss. Eyes opened to the larger truths. Anyway …’ shuffling a stack of notes ‘… if there’s a problem, he could find out for us, couldn’t he? Through the police computer. If there’s anything known on this Justin fellow. If anyone’s been taken into hospital with severe facial injuries and no adequate explanation.’

‘Aw, yeah, great.’

‘And if there isn’t a problem, then … no problem.’ Marcus blew his nose.

‘How much did you tell him?’

‘Told him the address.’

‘You mean you didn’t even suggest that Justin might be a vaguely dubious character?’

‘Should I have?’

‘Bobby’s walking into this blind?’

‘Well …’ Marcus grunted. ‘I mean, how much does he need to know? Picks up the car, brings it over here, you take him out to dinner at the pub or something and …’

‘You shit.’

Back on the road, he found the old man leaning on his bike under the conifers.

‘Not there?’

‘Not there,’ Maiden confirmed.

‘It’s a bit early for Justin, mind.’

‘It’s lunchtime.’

‘Aye. Try his house, I would. Even his wife knows where he is, sometimes. Well, I say wife … But if she doesn’t know where he is, if you go in the Lion around half-one and you ask for young Scott Ferris, he knocks around with Justin, at nights. Scott Ferris. Big lad, ginger hair. Now then, mine of information, aren’t I? Eyes and ears. What would your business be with Justin, you don’t mind me asking?’

‘He’s repairing a car for this friend of mine, broke down a few miles from here. She found his card in a phone box.’

‘She?’

‘Mmm.’

‘’Bout your age?’

‘Few years younger.’

‘Oh, dear me,’ the old man said. ‘Oh, bloody hell.’

On the western rim of the village was an estate of former council houses, mostly sold to tenants now — you could tell by all the porches, cladding and extensions. There were more signs of life here: washing lines, toys and bikes in the gardens. Maiden guessed many of the old cottages in the village centre were holiday and weekend homes.

Set back from the main road, just before you reached the estate, was a plain, modern, detached house in the same reconstituted Cotswold stone. There was a swing in the garden and a slide. A half-sized motorbike, for kiddy scrambling, was leaning against the side door, which opened before Maiden reached it.

‘Don’t ask me, cause I don’t friggin’ know,’ a woman snarled.

Razored blonde hair. Fierce.

‘You must be Sandra,’ Maiden said.

‘And who are you, her husband? Well, don’t come whingeing to me, mate, I’ve had this situation more times than you.’

‘Where do you reckon they are?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Not long ago enough.’ Sandra half shut the door. ‘Why don’t you try the pub? That’s his second home. This is his third home. Maybe.’

Sandra shut the door all the way.

Maiden stood by the slide.

Marcus Bacton. Wouldn’t you know it would be like this?

Problem with pubs, they had too many eyes, especially for a stranger outside the tourist season. It was nearly an hour before Scott came out of the White Lion. Maiden had watched him through the window, idly tossing darts. One of only four customers, so no mistaking him: big lad, well built, straight ginger hair combed forward, old- fashioned pudding basin.

He stumbled slightly on the steps; he’d had a few pints.

‘A word, Scott,’ Maiden said.