Mean Spirit (14 page)

Authors: Phil Rickman

‘You sleep OK, Marcus?’

‘Some of the time.’ He was sitting at his desk. He had books out. He looked up beyond Grayle at Callard and then beyond her to the door, like she might have brought someone unpleasant in with her.

‘Coffee?’ Grayle said. ‘Breakfast, even?’

‘Give it a try, I suppose.’

‘Try hard, Marcus. Listen, I’ve been giving some thought to the problem of the car.’

‘Sorted,’ Marcus said, eyes directed back to the page.

‘Persephone’s gonna drive me over there and we’re gonna check out the situation. OK?’

Marcus looked up. ‘Don’t you ever listen to me, Underhill? I said it’s sorted. Arranged. Your vehicle will be picked up by lunchtime.’

‘What?’

‘And brought here by tonight.’

‘Marcus …’

‘Yes?’

Grayle facing him, hands on hips. ‘By whom, for Chrissakes?’

‘By the police,’ Marcus said.

XIX

A MONTH SHORT OF THE TOURIST SEASON, ONLY ONE OF THE THREE
village shops seemed to be open: a newsagent’s and general self-service store. When an elderly man in a pale blue bobble hat came out, Bobby Maiden walked over the cobbled street to intercept him.

‘Garage? Lord, no.’ The old man gathered up his bicycle from the shop wall, stowed a box of eggs in its saddlebag. ‘You want a garage, Stroud’s about your nearest.’

‘Bloke called Justin runs this place.’

The old man laughed, began to push his bike up the street. ‘Sorry, I thought you said a garage.’

Maiden walked alongside, half-smiling.

Peaceful, golden village. Stone footbridge over the little rippling river. A platoon of ducks waddling up the bank. Maiden had come by taxi from Gloucester station. He felt the cool air all around him, a sense of detachment, a strange freedom. With a car, you were always somehow umbilically connected to the place where you’d parked it.

‘Justin Sharpe you’re after, is it?’ The old man swirled his lips, looked like he wanted to spit.

A set-up.

Maiden shouldered his canvas overnight bag. He’d been set up.

Putting it all together, it seemed that Andy Anderson had phoned her old friend Marcus Bacton early this morning. By eight-thirty, Marcus had phoned Maiden. They hadn’t spoken for six months,
but Marcus came on like they’d been cut off thirty seconds earlier.
Look, word has it, Maiden, that you’re without a car at the present time. As it happens; Underhill needs a vehicle, ah, retrieving … silly cow lost her exhaust in the middle of the Cotswolds. Course, I’d see to this myself if I wasn’t at death’s bloody door
…

Well, OK, Maiden accepted that Andy had his best interests at heart, was unhappy at the thought of him being solitary on the Solway Firth.

Marcus, however …

He found the screen of fast-growing conifers on the edge of the village, and what they were concealing: derelict petrol pumps, cracked concrete forecourt, a crumbling grey utility building with big double doors.

Nobody around. He strolled across the forecourt. Saw what the old guy had meant about the definition of the word
garage.
No way were these working business premises. But when he reached the grey building and peered through a window thick with sagging cobwebs, he thought he saw a small red vehicle in there.

Grayle’s Mini?

Just pay for the car and then get a receipt, would you, Maiden? If the chap’s reluctant to hand it over to you, give me a call and I’ll let Underhill talk to him. Absolutely straightforward.

‘You’re some piece of work, Marcus. How could you
do
this?’

Marcus put on an innocent, wounded expression. Grayle had seen it too many times.

‘Are you insane? Are you one hundred per cent freaking
insane
? Bobby’s a
cop.
Cops operate according to some cop version of the Hippocratic Oath. They learn about a crime, they are obliged to file a report.’

‘Of course he won’t file a bloody report!’ Marcus fished out a bunch of tissues. ‘Man’s on our side now. Stared into the abyss. Eyes opened to the larger truths. Anyway …’ shuffling a stack of notes ‘… if there’s a problem, he could find out for us, couldn’t he? Through the police computer. If there’s anything known on this Justin fellow. If anyone’s been taken into hospital with severe facial injuries and no adequate explanation.’

‘Aw, yeah,
great
.’

‘And if there isn’t a problem, then … no problem.’ Marcus blew his nose.

‘How much did you tell him?’

‘Told him the address.’

‘You mean you didn’t even suggest that Justin might be a vaguely dubious character?’

‘Should I have?’

‘Bobby’s walking into this blind?’

‘Well …’ Marcus grunted. ‘I mean, how much does he need to know? Picks up the car, brings it over here, you take him out to dinner at the pub or something and …’

‘You shit.’

Back on the road, he found the old man leaning on his bike under the conifers.

‘Not there?’

‘Not there,’ Maiden confirmed.

‘It’s a bit early for Justin, mind.’

‘It’s lunchtime.’

‘Aye. Try his house, I would. Even his wife knows where he is, sometimes. Well, I
say
wife … But if she doesn’t know where he is, if you go in the Lion around half-one and you ask for young Scott Ferris, he knocks around with Justin, at nights. Scott Ferris. Big lad, ginger hair. Now then, mine of information, aren’t I? Eyes and ears. What would your business be with Justin, you don’t mind me asking?’

‘He’s repairing a car for this friend of mine, broke down a few miles from here. She found his card in a phone box.’

‘She?’

‘Mmm.’

‘’Bout your age?’

‘Few years younger.’

‘Oh, dear me,’ the old man said. ‘Oh, bloody hell.’

On the western rim of the village was an estate of former council houses, mostly sold to tenants now – you could tell by all the porches, cladding and extensions. There were more signs of life here:
washing lines, toys and bikes in the gardens. Maiden guessed many of the old cottages in the village centre were holiday and weekend homes.

Set back from the main road, just before you reached the estate, was a plain, modern, detached house in the same reconstituted Cotswold stone. There was a swing in the garden and a slide. A half-sized motorbike, for kiddy scrambling, was leaning against the side door, which opened before Maiden reached it.

‘Don’t ask me, cause I don’t friggin’ know,’ a woman snarled.

Razored blonde hair. Fierce.

‘You must be Sandra,’ Maiden said.

‘And who are you, her husband? Well, don’t come whingeing to me, mate, I’ve had this situation more times than you.’

‘Where do you reckon they are?’

‘Fuck knows.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Not long ago enough.’ Sandra half shut the door. ‘Why don’t you try the pub? That’s his second home. This is his third home. Maybe.’

Sandra shut the door all the way.

Maiden stood by the slide.

Marcus Bacton. Wouldn’t you know it would be like this?

Problem with pubs, they had too many eyes, especially for a stranger outside the tourist season. It was nearly an hour before Scott came out of the White Lion. Maiden had watched him through the window, idly tossing darts. One of only four customers, so no mistaking him: big lad, well built, straight ginger hair combed forward, old-fashioned pudding basin.

He stumbled slightly on the steps; he’d had a few pints.

‘A word, Scott,’ Maiden said.

‘Who’re you?’ He wore no earrings or anything of that nature.

‘Army?’ Maiden wondered.

‘What of it?’ Scott looked ready to smash his face in and throw him in the river.

Ah, well. Maiden displayed his warrant card.

‘I’m not driving, squire,’ Scott said.

‘I’m not Traffic. Just want a word, that’s all.’

‘What’s this about?’ Scott looked worried, but not worried
enough for it to be significant. Maiden led him to a bench above the riverbank.

‘Justin Sharpe. Mate of yours?’

‘Not specially. I know him.’

Maiden shook his head.

‘What’s he done?’ Scott said.

‘What do you think he
might
have done?’

‘How would I know?’

‘You don’t work with him, then?’

‘Nobody works with him.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Cause he … cause he don’t employ anybody no more. Look—’

‘The word is you go out at night with him, on the piss.’

Scott closed his eyes briefly. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘just spell it out. What’s he done?’

Maiden waited. Scott breathed in, bit down on his bottom lip. A duck came over to check if they were eating sandwiches. Maiden leaned back on the bench, clasped his hands behind his head. What the hell was he getting into here?

It was about Vic Clutton, he concluded. He had this pent-up rage inside him. He was looking for a target. Any target.

Scott said, ‘If he’s in trouble, it’s nothing to do with me. I don’t need any trouble. Coming out the army in a few weeks.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I’m looking around.’ The lad smiled faintly, embarrassed. ‘Been thinking about the police, actually.’

‘Really.’ Maiden kept his face expressionless.

‘So you see the problem,’ Scott said.

‘Of having a mate like Justin?’

‘He’s not a mate really. He just latches on to you. Wants to go clubbing with you at weekends, down Gloucester, Cheltenham. You know?’

‘Wife and kids, though, hasn’t he?’

‘Sort of. Some of the time. What’s he done?’

‘What about women? Likes to put it about?’

‘You need me to tell you that? Mind, he talks a lot of bullshit – this totty, that totty. You don’t believe half of it. Like the other day, he reckoned he picked up this American tart, like a hippy type, and
she’s all over him, and so he give her one in the grass round the back of the garage. That’s Justin.’

‘I see.’

‘Man, you must know what he’s like or you wouldn’t be asking. Old feller died, left him these garages and he flogged the other for a building site, but the council wouldn’t give him planning permission for this one so he’s letting it go to rack and ruin, deliberate eyesore. While he spends the money he got from the other place.’

Maiden nodded. It was what the old man with the bicycle had told him.

‘Now he thinks he’s this big man. Likes to hang out. In Gloucester and places. Gives you all these stories. How he used to go round Cromwell Street and shag Rose West when Fred was out fitting somebody’s bathroom. All this shit you know he’s made up. And how he’s got all these hard friends.’

‘How hard?’

‘Got to be harder than Justin. Comes over tough, but you lean on him, he’ll fall over.’ Scott stood up. ‘Look, I said enough, all right? He ain’t a mate, but I ain’t a copper yet, neither.’

Maiden stood up. ‘Good luck then, Scott,’ he said. ‘Might see you around.’

Again, behind the screen of conifers it was a different world, a different season – the old petrol pumps sad sentries under the white sky. The only colours were the oily rainbows in the old puddles which defined the forecourt’s cracks and hollows. There was no car outside, no truck, only the sombre remains of a disembowelled van at the side of the garage.

Behind the grey building, a fence of corrugated metal sheets divided the garage from a field.
Picked up this American tart and she was all over him, and so he give her one in the grass round the back of the garage.

Lying bastard. Hopefully.

Maiden shouted, ‘Justin!’

A crow flew up, protesting, from behind the building. He tried the doors.

One opened a few inches. A padlock fell from a hasp. Maiden widened the gap enough to squeeze through.

Inside, the garage was cobwebbed and derelict, the concrete floor slippery with old grease. Rags of grey light trailed from slimed-up, cobwebbed skylights.

‘Oh hell,’ Maiden said.

He’d smelled the smell.

There were two vehicles in here, an ancient VW Beetle and a red Mini. Maiden walked around the Mini.

It had an exhaust pipe but not a new one. Maiden bent down and saw that the silencer was held in place by a length of wire, wound round twice. Justin had failed to obtain a new system – or hadn’t even tried – and had simply tied the old pipe back the way it had been before it fell off.

His shoes sliding on a grease slick, Maiden walked over to some workbenches. Under dusty grey drapes of light dangling from the roof-panes, he saw the tools on the workbench gleaming blue. Very few of them, spanners and stuff, nothing as sophisticated as welding equipment.

Justin must have sold most of the gear. There was about enough here to change a wheel and that was it. Yet he was still leaving cards in phone boxes in rural areas. A way of picking up women?

Maiden went back to the car, tried the door. It opened. The key was in the ignition. He looked over into the back and on the floor. He took out the key and opened the boot. Spare tyre, tools, three copies of
The Vision.
He closed it quietly, got into the car, pulled out the choke, turned the key. The engine fired first time. Good. Because he’d need to get Grayle’s car the hell out of here.

He switched off. Went over and put his shoulder against the garage door and opened it wide. No need for both doors to get a Mini out of here.

He took some breaths of fresh air, then he went back into the garage.

With the door open, white light fanned through cobwebs dotted with mummified flies. It lit up the old Volkswagen and the splayed fingers in the grease.

‘Maiden? Is that you? Where are you?’

‘I’m in the car park of a roadside diner. Marcus, is Grayle there?’

‘Did you get the car?’

‘Yes, I’m in the car now. If you could just put Grayle on.’

‘Excellent.
Underhill!
No problems, I assume, Maiden?’

‘Well, we can talk about that.’

‘What’s that supposed to …? Yes, it’s Maiden … hold on a second.’

‘Bobby?’

‘Hello, Grayle.’

‘You got the car?’

‘Yes, I—’

‘You saw him? You saw Justin?’