Mean Spirit

‘The medium speaks of spirits, the psychiatrist of syndromes.’

That was an answer?

So Cindy went off to the Knoll, minus birdsuit, and Grayle carried his shaman’s case back to the farmhouse. She found Bobby Maiden hanging around the yard. He was in a curious state. Restless, looking a touch bewildered. He said Marcus had taken Callard into the study.

Bobby was unshaven. Which inevitably got Grayle thinking about why he was unshaven. And, again, about where he and Callard had spent the night.

They walked in the ruins. Bobby told her about the Cheltenham guy who screwed his dead son’s girlfriend, how he’d figured someone called Gary had set up Callard to reveal his secret at the seance. Bobby said he believed Callard when she denied this, but it had brought this person Gary into the picture. Later identified by this cop friend of Bobby’s as a well-known former big-time criminal, now on the talkshow circuit.

Grayle said, ‘Gary Stewart?’

‘Seward. Was a regular London villain. Wages snatches, stuff like that. Then protection. Then drugs, then protecting major drug dealers against other major drug dealers. And then he got rich and then he got nicked. Did seven years. Came out, let somebody ghost his memoirs and got richer. Last year he had his own quiz show on one of the cable channels. It was called “The Loot”.’

‘You know, I think I heard of this guy. Would he have toured his book in the States, couple years ago? Letterman? Jay Leno? One of those shows. I guess nobody took him too seriously — joke English hood, charming grin, quaint London accent.’

‘That’s how America sees our villains? A joke?’

‘Oh, yeah. English crooks are like Robin Hood. Quaint. Steal the country-house jewels. They get outsmarted in the end, but only by Hercule Poirot, on account of all English cops are either idiot toffs who ride to hounds or dumb, potato-faced guys with big boots. Sorry and all, Bobby, but we need our stereotypes. How, uh, how did you get along with Callard?’

‘She’s … interesting.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Impressive.’

So you made like rabbits the whole night, huh?

‘She told you stuff?’

‘Yes.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Told me stuff about …’ Bobby looked uncomfortable. ‘About Emma.’

Oh, Jesus, his major point of vulnerability.

‘Stuff she couldn’t’ve known?’

‘Unless you or Marcus told her.’

Grayle sighed. ‘No. We just told her you were a cop who was not as other cops. Like more of a fruitcake.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I kind of think she could’ve told me stuff too. About Ersula. Only I declined. I guess you didn’t … decline.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I didn’t decline.’

Goddamn New Age cop. They stood at the base of the headless tower. The wind seemed to be rising.

‘Bobby, did I do wrong, calling Cindy?’

‘He got me through a very bad night once.’

‘I know. That doesn’t answer the question.’

‘He makes connections we wouldn’t even think of. No, I’m really glad you called him. It was inspired.’

‘Let’s not go overboard, Bobby.’

‘She says she’s going to leave tonight.’

‘She does? To go where?’

He shook his head. ‘She’s not saying. There are things she isn’t going to tell us. And once she drives away from here …’

‘You’re a tad scared, right?’

‘Bit. These guys are not Robin Hood, and they’d spread Hercule Poirot’s little grey cells all over the ceiling.’ Bobby smiled sheepishly. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to …’

The wind began to rattle in the tower.

‘The Lottery person?’ Persephone laughed — a brittle, jittery laugh — at the utter absurdity of it. ‘This person, this shamanic therapist of yours is … that Lottery person?’

Marcus felt his face go red.

‘I watched it once,’ she said. ‘As a kind of social exercise, I suppose. It was … bizarre.’

‘One word for it.’

‘He’s transsexual or something, isn’t he? Flaunts that ghastly … bird thing.’

‘Kelvyn Kite,’ Marcus said through his teeth.

Persephone was sitting on the sofa in the study, dressed rather demurely, wearing no make-up, reminding him of how she’d looked in school uniform. Even plaited her hair; it hung down one side of her like a cathedral bell- rope.

‘I think’, Marcus shuffled, ‘that we should forget the whole thing. It was a mistake. If you have to go, you have to go.’

Persephone cupped her chin in her palms. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘No, it’s stupid. I’m just being a … self-righteous old phoney.’

‘Tell me.’

Sydney Mars-Lewis. Madman. The red kite. The aboriginal mentors, in North Wales.

‘Tradition goes back to Merlin. Allegedly. In that, if Merlin actually existed, he was probably as twisted and deranged as Lewis.’

Marcus explained, as best he could, the role that Lewis had accepted for himself: the misfit, the outcast who had grown up reviled, scorned, shunned. The walking duality of the man — male and female, sanity and madness, reality and fantasy. A foot in two worlds. At least two.

Watching her eyes appear to darken and knowing she was remembering her schooldays and the taunts of her peers. Witch doctor. Ju-ju woman.

He told her that Lewis had been an actor, an end-of-the-pier entertainer, a long-time occasional contributor to The Phenomenologist … and, as it happened, the first to suspect that a number of apparently unconnected murders in the British countryside bore the hallmarks of a single perpetrator: the Green Man.

‘Despite his high-camp demeanour and that irritating Welsh whine, he does seem to possess what I can only describe as a dowser’s sensitivity to … well… to the nearness of evil, I suppose. To be quite frank, Persephone, basically I can’t stand to spend too much time with the ludicrous bastard. Pains the hell out of me to admit he has abilities that will always be beyond me, but there it is.’

‘The Lottery man.’ She thought about it, with a watery smile. ‘Must be my day for light entertainers.’ She stood up, sudden rain flecking the window behind her. ‘Sure. What the hell? Let’s do it. Thank you, Marcus.’

‘If, when you meet him, you don’t like the look of the bastard …’

‘I’m sure I’ll love the look of him. But’, she took his hand, ‘whatever happens, I shall have to leave tomorrow.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Oh …’ For a second, she looked nakedly unsure. ‘There’s an appointment to keep. And then perhaps I’ll go abroad for a while. I need to think about things. Perhaps do something different, find some other way of using whatever abilities I possess before it’s too late.’

Too late?

‘Persephone, if people are looking for you …’

‘Then I’ll go somewhere they’ll never find me. India or somewhere. Join a bloody ashram. I’ll send you a