Mean Spirit

‘You …’ Cindy became aware that the hand holding the phone was shaking. ‘You’re having me on, I think, Gregory.’

‘Cindy, I wish that were the case.’

‘But I don’t … I don’t … I have no idea what this can be about.’

But he was rather afraid that he did. Some of it, anyway.

He began to breathe harder and covered the mouthpiece to conceal it. He was what he was; he had never attempted to cover it up. He was renowned as an eccentric — this was accepted. He had no sexual secrets — well, not many. But yes, the ammunition was there, he had always been aware of that.

But people liked him. He was popular. On the stormy seas of controversy, was not popularity the greatest balast?

‘Cindy, I want to help you,’ Gregory Cook said. ‘No bullshit, all right? I personally contacted the editor — rang him at home, tonight, not two hours ago — and, as a result, I’m empowered to offer you … let’s call it sanctuary. We’ll move you to a luxury hotel, a secret destination. We’ll give you a sum of money, precise details of which I can discuss later. And we’ll let you tell your side of the story — in effect your life story — to an experienced writer, probably me, which we’ll publish exclusively and simultaneously — that’s the key point — thus negating the damage caused by our dockland friends. Are you with me?’

‘I may be just slightly ahead of you. You want me to co-operate in the manufacture of what I believe is called a “spoiler”.’

‘Yes,’ Gregory Cook said. ‘In a word. We can have you away from your little tin shack before those bastards are out of the pub. What do you say?’

‘Gregory, it’s …’ Cindy took a breath, thinking fast. ‘A magnificent gesture, it is, on your part.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I would like, however, a few minutes to peruse my BBC contract. To make absolutely sure it contains no clause precluding my acceptance of your generous proposal. I don’t think, for one minute, that there is such a clause, but I would like to be certain.’

‘No problem, Cindy. Bring the contract with you. We’ll get our lawyers to run through it.’

‘Please. It will take me ten minutes. Just give me your number and I shall call you back.’

‘Cindy, these fuckers could well be on their way. They’ll certainly be there by morning.’

‘Just a few minutes, Gregory. A few short minutes.’

A few short minutes it took him to unpack his cases and repack them with fresh things.

And gather his drum and his cloak of feathers.

And Kelvyn Kite in his pink case.

And load them all into the Honda, which he drove to his lock-up behind Dai Gruffydd’s lightless service station on the Haverfordwest road.

Why? Why this? Why this now?

In the lock-up was nested his Morris Minor. Unthinkable, somehow, to flee in the Honda. Cindy hoped she would start for, if she did not, it would be the very worst of omens.

XXVII

There was even a metal bracket which had supported the hacker. And, yes, a pale patch on the wall which, even in the meagre glow of a single lamp, gave Bobby Maiden a clear guide to the size and shape of the implement.

‘What now? Get rid of the lot?’ Seffi Callard said. ‘Take out all the brackets, paint the wall?’

‘So that your Mrs …’

‘Dronfield.’

‘… is faced with the smell of fresh paint and-’

‘OK, forget it. No wonder people get caught. They must get themselves caught half the time.’

‘Tangled webs.’ Maiden thought it was incredibly unlikely that Mrs Dronfield would make connections, but … ‘Perhaps if we move the saw across so that, instead of hanging down, it …’ lifting the part-rusted blade ‘… fits horizontally, occupying the vacant bracket and covering the space, where …’

‘Very good,’ she said when he’d repositioned the other tools to close gaps. ‘You realize what you’ve done.’

‘Become a serious accessory. This gets out, end of career.’

‘The feeling I’m getting from you is that that might almost be a relief.’

‘Dunno. How would I make a living?’ He stood in the dim corner between the door to the kitchen and the bottom of the stairs, forming a picture of how it happened. ‘What were your first feelings when you came down and found those guys?’

‘What do you think?’ He couldn’t make out her face, but he saw her shiver. ‘You any good at lighting fires, Bobby?’

‘Did you feel they were expecting you? Waiting for you? Knew you were around?’

‘It was Grayle they didn’t expect.’

Maiden bent over the hearth, picked up a poker and raked at the cinders. Found a pile of old newspapers and a box of firelighters. Wondered where she lived the rest of the time, what classy apartment she’d abandoned for this dim cave.

‘You plan to stay here tonight?’

‘Too late to go back. Do you want to ring Marcus and tell him?’

‘Did you tell anyone else about what happened at the party? Apart from Marcus and Grayle and me?’

‘Only Nancy. And as I was already wondering how far I could actually trust her, I told her no more than she’d learn from anyone who’d been there. The vase breaking, that kind of thing. Nothing about him.’

‘Well,’ he said carefully. ‘He could be a bit irrelevant. To someone else.’

‘Despite your liberal attitudes. Despite your death experiences …’ ice in her voice ‘… this is the one part of it, I suspect, you’d still rather wasn’t there.’

‘I try to understand,’ Maiden said.

She came across the room, stood over him as he knelt at the hearth. ‘Imagine you’re a woman. You’re in a lonely house and every time you pick up the phone to make a call there’s some sickening heavy breather on the line.’

Maiden built a pyramid of coal around a firelighter.

‘Or you’re in a two-roomed apartment,’ she said, ‘and there’s one room you know you can’t go into. A door you can’t open. What do you do?’

‘Perhaps you move out of the apartment.’

‘And how would I make a living?’ He looked up at her. She didn’t smile. ‘Is that really all you think this is?’

The cramped, flagged forecourt of the cottage behind St Mary’s Church was big enough for a Mini and virtually nothing made since. There was a feeling of security about this. Anyhow, Grayle had always felt safe here.

Even though it was only a few miles from where Ersula had died.

This hadn’t mattered, somehow, the way it would have if she was living in some modern condo and her sister had been killed in the next block. All to do with the age of the settlement, how many violent deaths it must have absorbed … while the old stone homes huddled snugly together and the church bells still rang out over the rich, pink soil.

Grayle drew the curtains. Checked the door — one lock and a small bolt; in New York she’d had four locks and a big chain and a peephole.

She was OK here, on her own. She’d lived alone, most of the time, in New York. Where was the difference?