Mean Spirit

‘Extensive. Not counting the ones excluded on account of having fingers too arthritic to hold the gun steady.’

‘Is Seward really that upset?’

‘Think of Clarence as a not-over-bright brother Gary felt responsible for. Vicious as a cobra, but not over- endowed up top. You gave him a gun, knife, spanner … pointed him in the right direction, waited for the screams. And he never knew when it was over. The one time I nicked him, I sent six bobbies in with batons. When I got there, four of them were sitting on Clarence, the other two getting helped into an ambulance with half an ear in a paper bag and that much blood around they weren’t sure which of ’em’s it was. Never a domestic animal, Clarence Judge.’

‘What was it he went down for last?’

‘Rape and attempted murder — sadly, nothing to do with Seward. Clarence’s night off. Took the barmaid home, but she changed her mind. Naturally, the Met offered him a deal for Seward, but Clarence is too loyal.’

‘Matter of honour, for Seward, then, seeing the killer go down?’

‘Seward has no honour,’ Ron Foxworth said coldly. ‘Matter of pride. And talking of pride … let me say one thing, my son, and let me say it very clearly. If it were to turn out to be your delicate, artistic fingers on Seward’s collar, as distinct from my gnarled old digits, I just can’t tell you how upset I would be. Just can’t begin to tell you.’

Marcus snatched up the phone. ‘Yes!’

‘Mr Bacton, it’s Nancy Rich. My secretary’s done some checks with the school, where there are still people who remember you. Having spoken to you herself she says you simply have to be the same person. I’m therefore inclined to accept that you have Seffi’s best interests at heart.’

Marcus grunted. Could imagine how people at the bastard school had described him.

‘So perhaps I can ask you some questions,’ Rich said. ‘What was Seffi’s state of mind when you last saw her?’

‘Erratic,’ Marcus said. ‘Confused. She stayed here for a few days, now she’s missing. Listen, I do know the background. I just don’t know how much of it you know, but I understand you spoke to Persephone on the phone yesterday morning.’

‘Yes. But that was about a contractual arrangement. It’s not something I would normally discuss.’

‘Look,’ Marcus said. ‘I don’t know what other clients you have-’

‘Let’s just say that none of the others are in this particular line of work.’

‘Quite. And I don’t suppose any of them would find themselves in the position of being used by a man with an extensive criminal record to try and contact a violent psychotic who’s been in his grave for over a year.’

A considerable hush.

‘Oh my God,’ said Nancy Rich. ‘Are you serious?’

‘No.’ Marcus eased himself on to the desk. ‘I’m entertaining my fucking self.’

‘That’s impossible.’

Underhill came into the study then. And Maiden.

Marcus was inspired.

‘Look, Rich, this is a police matter now. I have a detective with me. Would you like to speak to him? Name’s Maiden. Inspector. I can put you-’

‘Absolutely not!’ Rich said, aghast.

The sun struggled against heavy, muscular clouds, strings of vapour twisting like tendons. A meshwork of illusion and lies obscuring the light.

Lies. Lying to himself. Sheltering behind the confusion of his identity, flailing in the dark and swirling soup of his motivations, his impulses, his ambivalent sexuality. This way, that way, insubstantial, capricious. His bangles rattled cheaply, his pearls were paste, his Oxfam shop woolly jumper a mass of plucks, his bra full of bubble- wrap.

‘I hate that Cindy now for what he’s caused. It’s like he’s sneering at ordinary people’s good luck.’

Taunting voices carried on the wind.

‘I must say, I never liked him myself. People like that, they’ve always got a chip on their shoulder, haven’t they?’

‘Angel of fucking Death …’

‘… chosen as God’s tool to break the hold of the National Lottery on the public’s consciousness?’

Cindy’s mouth stretched into a silent scream. What if this flip remark was on target? What if he had become a channel, a conduit? But not for God, not for good. He thought of Colin Seymour, who planned to introduce handicapped youngsters to the thrills of flying, rising above nature’s blackest jokes.

Cindy laid his hands on the collapsed capstone, massaging its ancient heart, until the stone and his hands grew warm.

Give me knowledge, give me inspiration, give me truth, give me direction, give me clarity of mind.

He straightened his spine, breathed deeply into his abdomen for a hundred seconds. Then he closed his eyes and set up an earth rhythm on the drum until it began to sound in his solar plexus beneath the waistline of his blue skirt. The beat vibrating directly through his body, emerging in his spine. Ascending the spine

(dummm)

… to her head

(dummm)

… to his shoulders

(dummm)

… down her arms

(dummm)

… into his fingers

(dummm)

… and into the stone.

‘Old stone.’

(dummm)

‘Strong stone.’

(dum-dummm)

‘Strengthen me.’

(dum-dummm)

‘Hold me hard.’

(dum-dummm)

‘Against the dark.’

(dummm)

Marcus put down the phone.

Maiden and Underhill were standing on either side of the unlit woodstove. Marcus shook his head.

‘Surprising how educated, law-abiding people are so reluctant to get involved with the police. Oh, she said, that would put her in a very difficult position. Client confidentiality, all that bollocks.’

Underhill said, ‘They found Justin, Marcus. The cops finally found Justin. Bobby just talked to-’

‘Where’s Lewis?’

‘Up at the Knoll.’

‘Hmm,’ Marcus said. ‘How much do either of you know about this fellow Kurt Campbell?’

XXXIX

In the early evening Bobby Maiden borrowed Marcus’s truck and drove down to the village, to Grayle’s