Mean Spirit

main street.

Under the overhanging wooden sign of the Ram’s Head, known as the Tup — domain of Amy Jenkins, glittery, garrulous divorcee from the South Wales valleys. Two cars and a Land-Rover outside the Tup, but no other vehicles on the move and no people about. A marmalade cat strolled along the wet pavement and hopped on to a wall.

That feeling of returning to a spiritual home. Or somebody’s spiritual home; whenever Maiden came back here, it always seemed to be related to death.

Out of the village into pink soil country, up to where the sign said, Capel-y-ffin: mountain road, unfit for heavy vehicles.

Under the tree branches locked across the narrow road like the antlers of fighting stags, the road dipping and the Black Mountains sinking out of sight because they were so close. But you would still feel them there, an underlying dark weight.

Or maybe that was the sombre weight of the crime-scene pictures in his head. The dispassionate police mind having photographed it from many different angles. A file of sickening images to flip through.

And one maverick factor preventing the drawing of conclusions.

When he finally drove between the wings of stone at the entrance to Castle Farm, Maiden allowed himself to start worrying seriously about Grayle and how it was no surprise at all to her that Justin Sharpe was lying dead in his own garage.

She came out alone to meet him, head bowed. A small, hesitant shadow in the darkening yard.

First, patting her Mini like it was a dog that came home, looking up at him from across the bonnet, big eyes behind those unruly tresses glistening with rain.

‘Hey. Bobby Maiden.’

‘Grayle Underhill.’

She straightened up, stood awkwardly, a couple of yards from Maiden.

‘Thanks for collecting the car.’

‘Pleasure. Well. Not all of it. Obviously.’

‘No.’ Grayle smiled wanly. ‘But, uh, thanks for bringing the car away without reporting whatever it was you oughta have reported.’

‘And that would be …?’

‘Uh huh.’ A shake of the head, spray flying from her hair. ‘This is interview-room stuff, right? Could we skip that part?’

‘Whatever.’

‘Right. OK.’

She had her small hands crossed in front of her, like ready for the handcuffs.

‘So, uh …’ She took a big breath. ‘Well, it was me, Bobby. I killed him. I killed Justin. There you go. That’s it.’

‘You killed Justin Sharpe.’

‘Yes, I did. OK … OK … I realize …’ pushing her hands up at him ‘… I realize there’s no way you can cover this up, with your job and all, but I’m grateful you brought the car out of there because obviously that would complicate matters on account of being a link between us … like, if they could prove I already knew Justin, then they’d be less likely to believe I just struck out at him with the chopper out of total fear — which was the truth of it, so help me — and they’d think there was some history to this, which is not true because the history between Justin and me goes back no further than … Wednesday, was it only Wednesday, Jesus, it’s like … What?’

‘Grayle, sorry … what did you kill him with?’

‘Uh, it was like …’ holding out her hands to demonstrate the length of it ‘… it was a hedging tool. Big, heavy knife? Like a butcher’s cleaver?’

Grayle shuddered.

‘And you chopped him … where?’

‘In the face.’ She swallowed. ‘Obviously. It was …’

‘Where was this?’

‘At Call … in a cottage about three miles from the garage. He ran out with his head pouring blood. See, I knew he was hurt bad, but I didn’t know-’

‘Grayle.’

‘See, I would’ve told you before you went there, Bobby, if Marcus hadn’t-’

‘Grayle.’ Maiden put up both hands to stop her. ‘The thing is Justin Sharpe was crushed to death underneath an old Volkswagen Beetle.’

‘Wh … huh?’

‘If anybody hit Justin with anything resembling a butcher’s cleaver, all I can say is he heals well. It was his chest that was crushed. His face was unmarked.’

Grayle stood there for a moment in the grey rain, blinking, gulping in air and rain.

Her face collapsing like a wet Kleenex, she fell, sobbing, into Bobby Maiden’s arms.

With Marcus — no matter how long since you’d last met — it was always like you’d just been out for fish and chips and returned without the mushy peas. You came to accept this.

However, he had more of an excuse than usual: he’d been unwell. But getting better, Grayle said, although this year’s flu was a mean and lingering virus.

‘This makes no bastard sense, Maiden.’ Marcus was pacing the low-beamed study like a rhino in a pigpen. ‘If Underhill didn’t … then who …?’

Grayle said, ‘Where did Callard go?’

‘Went to change into something dry.’ Marcus sat down heavily, snatched off his glasses, pushed his palms over his face and through his battleship-grey hair. ‘Maiden, I … Bloody sorry to hear about Clutton. Didn’t really take it in on the phone this morning, too concerned with my own agenda. Owe the man my life. Thought I’d had it that day. Will you, ah … will you get whoever did it?’

Maiden shrugged.

Grayle said, ‘Did I meet this guy? I don’t recall.’

‘Don’t think you did, Underhill. Poor bastard lived a shadowy kind of life, I’d guess. Now the shadowy death. Seems to be this whole stratum of society functioning quite oblivious of the law. I always relished the idea of other levels of existence. Appreciated anarchy.’ Marcus watched the logs burning in the stove. ‘All rather frightening now. Getting bloody old is what it is. Feeling helpless.’

‘Bugger off, Marcus.’ Maiden sat on the sofa. ‘These are just toerags, as my dad would say. Can’t let yourself be intimidated by toerags.’

This was all wrong. He should be furious at being set up, being dropped into an alien crime scene, discovering a suspicious death he couldn’t report, driving away in what might have been evidence.

Feeling sorry for Marcus — this was unnatural.

‘Bobby …’ Grayle came to sit next to him. She was still looking limp with relief. ‘Where’s this leave you?’

‘That’s an interesting question.’

‘Hang on,’ Marcus said, ‘how do you know it wasn’t an accident? Dangerous places, vehicle workshops, especially when you’re on your own.’

‘Well, the original idea might’ve been to make it look like an accident.’

The top of Justin’s big, black moustache had been visible under the tail of the VW. His skin tinted green from a mossed and mouldy skylight. His eyes glazed into a forever kind of desperation. He’d lain face up, hair in the grease, squashed like a cockroach under the heavy ruins of a car with no tyres. Two-thirds of him under the car, ribs crushed, the spirit squeezed out of the body like toothpaste from a tube, the tube left flattened in the middle. Maiden could still smell, under the pervading oil, the stench of Justin letting everything go, into his overalls. Questions thumping down in his head, drab packages he didn’t want to open: how long had the body been here? Was it possible he was already dead when they dumped the car on him?

Or was he lying here, face up, screaming as it came down?

Got all these hard friends.

‘There was one of those hydraulic jacks about two feet from the rear end of the car. I think someone jacked the car up and made him lie down underneath.’