Mean Spirit

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 Frankie 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