Mean Spirit (54 page)
‘High Knoll,’ Grayle whispered.
‘Yah. I took the cross from around my neck and I laid it on the stone, and I sat there and I waited for the dawn. Wasn’t much of one, but I felt… I felt some strange things. I mean, it was … good. And I was able to … you know, pray and things like that, and I… I told … whoever … that I didn’t want to see anything like … again.’
‘Honey,’ Grayle said, ‘you must’ve been freezing.’
‘Froze my ass.’ Seffi smiled. ‘Actually I didn’t feel cold at all. I feel … I suppose I feel rather colder now.’ She reached out. ‘Just a bit. Hold my hand, Bobby?’
He tried. He couldn’t.
Her hand lay still as stone between them.
‘Thank you,’ Seffi said. ‘That feels so much better.’
THE HOSPITAL ADMINISTRATOR AT ELHAM GENERAL HAS TRIED TO
reason with her. Talked about staff shortages, about her pension.
Sister Andy Anderson told him to go boil his head.
Before she can think better of it, she drives home to the red-brick street by the derelict furniture warehouse, does the usual slalom between the old cars, about three per household, and rushes in to pack a case, leaving the front door open behind her.
When she comes down from the bedroom, there’s this woman sitting bold as bloody brass on her sofa, under Bobby Maiden’s gouache of the ruins at Castle Farm.
‘Whit the
fock
…?’ Andy’s accent is always made denser by shock.
The woman sits quite calmly, bag on knee. She’s wearing a shapeless old fake-fur jacket. ‘Message from Bobby, Sister Anderson. He says if you can make it to Castle Farm your healing skills would be most appreciated.’
Andy relaxes. ‘Already on ma way, hen. I must be psychic.’
Earlier, from the hospital, Andy left a furious message on the answering machine at
The Vision.
This followed the call she had in the middle of the night from Marcus Bacton, in another hospital.
Bastards have abandoned me, Anderson. I’m giving them precisely one hour and then I’m pulling this bastard monitor out of the bastard wall and calling for a bastard taxi.
Andy suspected the Health Service had done all it would ever be permitted to do for Marcus Bacton.
She remembered what she’d said to Bobby Maiden when he told her she’d never leave Elham.
It’ll happen. One day soon, I’ll be just a memory here. A grating Glaswegian growl in the night. A stale smell of high-tar smoke in the lavvy.
Happened sooner than she’d figured. Looked like only alternative medicine was going to get Marcus Bacton back on his feet.
‘Don’t I know you?’ she inquires of the woman. ‘Like from years ago? Were you no’ once brought in from Feeny Park with …?’
‘That’s right. Consuela. Connie.’
‘Aye. So you would be Vic Clutton’s …’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m so sorry, love.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wis down tae Riggs,’ Andy says. ‘You do know that?’ What the hell, she’s away from here today; doesn’t matter what she says now. ‘And one day, they’re gonnae—’
‘Riggs is dead,’ Connie tells her.
‘Nae kidding,’ Andy says slowly.
‘He was shot. In a lavatory. At a big house in the Malverns.’
‘Where’d you learn that?’
‘In tomorrow’s papers,’ Connie says.
‘I see.’
‘What I reckon, somebody with a real grudge must’ve been tracking his movements for several days. Must’ve known somebody inside Forcefield Security. Learned he was due to attend this reception. And … you know … planned ahead.’
‘That’s bloody devious,’ Andy says.
‘Anyway, I just happened to be passing that way last night, and I run into Bobby, and I said I was coming back this morning, and he said would I tell you the score. He said you was … all right. But I knew that anyway. From Victor.’
‘I’m honoured, hen.’ From Consuela, Andy learns what she already knows about Marcus Bacton. Also that Bobby is going to need his hand bandaging regularly while he thinks – very hard this time – about leaving the police. And that Cindy Mars-Lewis is considering minor corrective cosmetic surgery.
‘Wee Grayle?’
‘The American girl’s all right, the dog’s all right. The police are looking for Kurt Campbell, the hypnotist. Oh. Yeah. Persephone Callard – you’ve heard of her? The psychic?’
‘Aye, I have.’
Connie says without emotion, ‘She won’t be seeing any more spirits. She was in a shooting incident.’
‘Oh.’
‘She was blinded,’ Connie says.
‘Jesus God.’
‘Madman with a shotgun.’
‘Have they got him?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘I see. Is all this gonnae mean a lot of explaining for Bobby?’
‘I wouldn’t know, sister.’ Connie stands up. Her small handbag seems surprisingly heavy.
‘Or for you?’ Andy lifts an eyebrow.
‘Well, Bobby …’ Connie hesitates. ‘Bobby thinks I’d be better off never having left town these past few days. Though, obviously I couldn’t’ve spent them at home.’
‘On account of it was too upsetting for you. Keep looking out the front window, seeing where it happened to Vic. I can understand that. It’s probably why you’d’ve been better off staying with me.’
‘That’s what Bobby thought.’
Andy nods. Thinks about it.
‘Well,’ she says, ‘it’s been nice having you, hen.’
LOTTO BLAZE
WAS CINDY
STITCH-UP!
MIRROR EXCLUSIVE
by Gregory Cook
The Lotto inferno which wiped out a whole family may have been started in a bid to destroy top TV host Cindy Mars-Lewis.
The amazing allegation came last night from Cindy’s former producer after police revealed that the fire in Banbury, Oxfordshire was arson.
Jo Shepherd, 28, said, ‘I know it sounds incredible, but we’ve all known for some time that certain people had it in for Cindy.
‘When two jackpot winners died in close succession, it’s my belief that somebody saw their chance …
‘I think the Sherwin family were the tragic victims of a secret vendetta that’s gone way out of control.’
The BBC were thought to have fired Cindy after he was accused of jinxing jackpot winners with a series of cruel jibes.
BBC chiefs refused to support Jo Shepherd’s theory last night. But a spokesman said, ‘We do agree that this curse story has got completely out of hand, and we would very much like to talk to Mr Mars-Lewis.’
Cindy, however, was still in hiding last night…
Thanks – for crucial technical assistance – to Richard Morris (hypnosis), Ken Ratcliffe and Mike Kreciala (ballistics).
And thanks especially – for the core plot and a brilliant edit – to my wife, Deborah.