Mean Spirit

He remembered reaching for her, and she was gone. He remembered her waving goodnight, a small wiggle of the fingers at the doorway. Sometime in the night she must have come down and put the duvet over him.

‘And, to be honest, it kind of gives me the creeps. Wouldn’t have been … me, would it? And I’m such a proud bitch.’

‘Oh God,’ Maiden said.

‘Come on, guv,’ Seffi said softly. ‘It’s only fucking spiritualism. Tell me.’

He blinked, shook his head. ‘Her name was Em. Emma. But the first time I met her she was calling herself … Suzanne.’

She nodded.

‘She liked to put on this cockney persona … TV cop-talk. Guv. What’s happening, guv? You know?’

‘Sure.’

‘We met … erm … in the course of the job. Kind of.’ Maiden closed his eyes, his throat tightening. ‘Nothing happened. But it was going to. About to. That night. We booked into this hotel in South Wales and-’

‘No.’ The tips of her fingers on his lips. ‘Don’t. Don’t talk about that.’

He wanted her to know about the sweet trolley. How, in the hotel dining room, he and Em had agreed to dispense with the sweet trolley, the last thing before …

Him coming back into the room. Too late. Coming back to blood-soaked sheets.

Seffi said, ‘All right. Let it go.’

‘Where …?’

He wanted to ask, Where is she? Where is she now? Powerfully aware, for the first time, of why people went back to mediums, kept on going back, in a delirium of longing.

‘I felt it was all right. For the first time, I felt she …’

Wasn’t blaming me.

‘Slept like …’ Without dreams about her.

‘You mustn’t want her,’ Seffi Callard said. ‘You mustn’t want her back.’

‘No. I mean … I know.’

He wanted Em to go on, to fly, never to look down at him floundering.

‘Thank you,’ he said. Half-amazed at himself.

Seffi stood up.

‘By the way,’ she said, ‘there never was a Mrs Dronfield.’

XXIX

‘You alone, Bobby? I mean, really alone?’

To try and improve the signal to the mobile, Maiden moved out from the wall towards the Jeep, which had been parked all night, half-concealed, on the edge of the wood.

Nine-fifteen. Seffi upstairs, bathing and changing.

‘I’m alone.’

‘You all right, Bobby?’ Ron suspicious.

‘Mmm,’ Maiden said uncertainly. ‘Sure.’

Was he alone? Was Em gone? Was he no longer carrying her death? Did he believe that?

Or had his need for her been transferred … to someone else?

A slippery slope. More things in heaven and earth. Oh God.

‘I’m sorry, Ron. Not been up long.’

‘I bet. Fucking hell, Bobby, you picked up a package there, my son. Everybody was saying you got religion or something, into weird beliefs, but, this …’

‘Seffi Callard,’ Maiden said.

Who, for wild, incandescent moments, had been … someone else.

Ron said, ‘See, you hanging out with a notorious voodoo lady who takes money off people for another chat with Uncle Horace who’s passed on, that’s a potentially difficult situation. The Archangel, bless him, is very much on your side right now. You don’t want to blow it.’

The Archangel: Alan Gabriel, noted lay-preacher and Chief Constable of West Mercia. Who, as head of CID, had gathered his whole team for prayer before a major drugs raid, in order to imbue the troops with the spirit of the crusaders of old.

‘After your remarkable recovery from death, Bobby, and then the Green Man result, closely followed by the discreet departure of Riggs — who everybody says they spotted was a wrong-un even though nobody did — well, you were up there and gliding. Plus, Bradbury likes you. And when word floats up to Mr Gabriel that you’re religious — am I telling you something new here, Bobby?’

Maiden groaned.

‘Mr Gabriel takes it as a sign from the Almighty. A holy vision … All right, I exaggerate, but he says to Bradbury, “I want that man bundled into the lift without delay. To the roof”.’

‘The roof.’

‘Unless the cable gets cut. I’m just flashing danger signals, Bobby. On two counts. One, Mr Gabriel is a team manager and so takes an extremely dim view of a player breaking formation. Two, Mr Gabriel’s definition of religious observance is unlikely to include sticking it into a notorious pagan goddess. So, a question. As you are out of your playground and well into mine, is there anything you want to tell me you couldn’t tell me last night?’

‘About what?’

‘About anything. All right, never mind, I’ll tell you something. It appears Sir Richard Barber leases his nice new apartment from Bright Horizon Developments. Bright Horizon is Gary Seward and an otherwise reputable builder called Stuart Etchison, who purchased this rundown block in Cheltenham last year, turned it into quality, no expense spared.’

‘You’re saying Seward is Barber’s landlord?’

‘Thought you’d like that. I like to be helpful when I can.’

‘Can you do anything with that?’

‘Can you? Let me know. Don’t forget. Oh, and Bobby … another passing coincidence. We have an ID on our axe victim in the ditch. Well, I say axe victim — the PM makes it more complicated. What actually killed him was a massive blow on the head not from an axe. Or possibly delivered with the blunt end of the axehead.’

‘Really?’ Maiden trying not to show more than professional interest.

‘Probably from behind. But that’s by the by. We’ll know a lot more when we find the implement. Geezer’s name was Jeffrey Crewe. Big boy. Twenty-six years old. Fit.’

‘So what’s the coincidence?’

‘Oh, yeah … Young Jeffrey had a good job. In Worcester. At the Midlands depot of an expanding security firm. Which one, Bobby? Go on, try a reasonable guess.’

‘Really?’

‘Forcefield Security, indeed. Making him an employee of your old guv’nor. Although seemingly off duty at the time of his demise.’

‘Is that the coincidence?’

‘Perhaps you’re the coincidence, Bobby. You showing up like this and having that very special relationship with Martin Riggs. One of whose employees gets his head decisively beaten in.’ Ron paused. ‘Only kidding, son.’ He laughed. ‘Only kidding. You have a nice day with your exotic friend, wherever you are. And, er, if there is anything else you want to tell me, make it quick, eh? It’s just not