‘So she stops herself being a patsy for poltergeists, having windows explode on her, all this, by letting the … entities communicate with her. By acting as a mouthpiece for the dead. And, incidentally, making a lot of money out of it.’
‘You make it sound sordid,’ Marcus said.
‘Well, some people would say that. Like, how long has she known that half the stuff she’s passing on to the bereaved might be horseshit? From the picture you’re giving me of her, I think she has a lot of explaining to do, Marcus.’
And then they both saw the shadow in the study doorway.
‘Whenever you want,’ Persephone Callard said.
XII
Vic clutton wanted to meet in the Crown because it was his local now, how about that? The most expensive hotel in Elham. No villains, right?
Or none that Vic knew. Diving into the genial after-work crowd in the mellow oak bar, Bobby Maiden spotted an iffy estate agent drinking with a solicitor named in four too many wills and a county councillor believed to have imported kiddie porn and plastic sex aids from Amsterdam.
But, OK, not Vic Clutton’s kind of villain. This man was Old Crime, and Maiden was almost sentimental about him. He bought a large malt whisky for Vic and a Malvern water for himself.
‘How long you been back, Victor?’
‘Never been away, Mr Maiden.’
Victor/Mr Maiden: quaint Old Crime courtesy.
‘Just hanging out below eye-level, sorter thing,’ Vic said. ‘Wallpapering. Carpet-fitting. Old girlfriend of mine, her bloke died, left her a house. Danks Street, just round the corner almost. Nice area. Upmarket.’
Maiden nodded. ‘You’re looking well on it, anyway.’
‘Feeling better, Mr Maiden.’ Vic looked plumper and untypically ungrizzled. New suit, light blue. ‘Feeling very much better, thank you.’
Couple of years now since Vic’s son, Dean, the lowest kind of freelance doorway dealer, was grassed up by Tony Parker’s establishment and formally nicked by Riggs’s man, Beattie. Occupational hazard. But while on remand — here was the catch — Dean hanged himself in his cell.
At least, the coroner saw no reason to doubt that Dean had done it himself. But Maiden knew an example had been made of Dean to underline the downside of freelancing on Parker’s ground. A slice of bitter irony for Vic, who, as Parker’s man, had in fact planted the smack on his son — for his own long-term good, Vic had thought, the boy being a user, too.
Very bitter irony, and for a while Maiden had thought there was a real chance of Vic giving evidence that would send Riggs down.
‘I’d’ve done it, Mr Maiden,’ he said now, apologetic. ‘I would have, you know that. But where was the point, with Parker dead, Riggs gone? Where was the point in me getting meself a reputation?’
Maiden nodded. Understandable. And after all, if it hadn’t been for Vic on the night he nearly lost his eye, it could have been significantly worse. Like death, for the second time.
Equally, if it hadn’t been for Vic — in a way — there wouldn’t have been a first time. Still …
‘Reason I called you, Mr Maiden.’ Vic sipped delicately at his whisky. ‘The word is, your personal premises was penetrated last night, yeah?’
Maiden drank some Malvern, said nothing.
‘I hope this isn’t a nasty surprise. I mean, I presume you’ve been back there since last night. Knowing how wedded to the job you lads is.’
‘Can’t have been obvious,’ Maiden said. ‘Or I’d have reported it to the police.’
‘That is true,’ Vic said. ‘Oh well. Perhaps it didn’t happen after all.’
‘Who told you it did?’
‘Possibly the lad who didn’t do it,’ Vic said.
Maiden leaned back in his chintzy chair, had to smile.
Vic looked pained. ‘Mr Maiden, I’m trying to help you here.’
‘All right,’ Maiden said. ‘Say it happened. In fact, to go further, say your friend was indirectly commissioned by one of my fun-loving workmates.’
‘Yes.’ Vic nodded sagely. ‘I would say you’re on target there, Mr Maiden. Making it difficult to be too hard on the boy, as I see it.’
Maiden flipped over a diffident palm. ‘Almost impossible.’
‘Good enough. All right, say this lad was a mate of Dean’s and therefore sees me as an uncle, sorter thing. Confides. Not happy at all about the associations he’s been forced to make, when all he was trying to do was pay his way through college. Art student, yeah?’
‘Art critic, too,’ Maiden said.
‘Well, he probably found the work in question a bit … what’s the word?’
‘Passe?’
‘You know what these youngsters are like, Mr Maiden. If you can tell what it is, it’s not art. Getting to the point, though, what happened, there was a raid on this flat. Up the Hillholm? A student party?’
‘Right.’ About three weeks ago. Tip-off. Beattie had gone in with DC Darren Guttridge. Very disappointing, Beattie said next morning.
Vic Clutton smiled. ‘That’s what they said, is it? Likely what happened, there may have been a preliminary visit. Substances removed to a place of safety, sorter thing, while new friendships is forged.’
So an art student found in possession of serious substances had been spared prosecution in return for carrying out minor favours for Beattie and Guttridge. Maiden shook his head sadly.
No wonder the lettering was neat.
Maiden wondered if his impending promotion was general knowledge, but Vic didn’t appear to know about it.
‘Congratulations. That would make you the governor, sorter thing. Be in a position to change things, put certain careers on hold? Like you make recommendations to on high, and they’d have to listen to you, am I right?’
‘Mmm … to a point.’
‘Be your responsibility to clean out your own kitchen is what I’m saying.’
‘That is the point.’
Vic nibbled his glass. ‘All right. Listen. This is no more than hearsay, so don’t go taking it down on no tablets of stone, yeah?’
Maiden spread his hands. No notebook, no wires.
Vic Clutton brought his head and his voice right down.
‘Who’s your favourite ex-policeman?’
‘Go on.’
‘Word is he’s never got over it,’ Vic said, addressing the table. ‘You probably understand the psychology of this better than me, being filth, but first and foremost he saw hisself as a copper. Officer of the law, sorter thing. No matter he made the odd half million greasing Parker’s wheels, it was all in a good cause. Keep the streets clean and tidy for the ladies of decent Rotarians and such.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Law and order, Mr Maiden. Mr Riggs still believes he was the best thing ever happened for law and order in this town.’
Maiden bent to try and catch Vic’s expression. Vic still didn’t look at him, talking to his drinks mat.
‘All right, you’ll say, but he’s down in Birmingham or somewhere now and in the private sector, probably making so much straight money he has no need to grease anybody’s wheels no more.’
‘Well, not the same wheels.’
‘But the point is, Mr Maiden, he’s still smarting. If he hadn’t gone — and he’s said this … very, very bitterly, I’m told — if he’d been still around, he was in direct line, within eighteen months at the most, for the great and exalted post of Assistant Chief Constable of West Mercia. A position very much suited to his lifestyle and social skills, Mr Maiden.’
‘I’m sure he looks really smooth at the Private Security Companies’ Ball.’
Vic said, ‘There could be a danger, Mr Maiden, in taking this too lightly, sorter thing.’
‘You’re saying he’s still got an interest up here?’
‘Got a very deep personal interest in you,’ Vic said. ‘Almost obsessional is what I hear.’