Mean Spirit (12 page)

XVI

THE WORD WENT UP TO HEADQUARTERS AND, AROUND TEN P.M.
, Bradbury himself arrived in Elham, brought in from home.

Bobby Maiden was kept waiting nearly an hour. Sitting alone in the CID room, drinking tea from the machine, while the Superintendent talked first to Steve Rea from Traffic and then to Barrett and then Beattie, God forbid.

Eventually, Beattie came back, expressionless. ‘Mr Bradbury’d like a word. Sir.’

No look of triumph, at least. The clock over the door said 23.54. In the passage, Maiden heard a drunk en route to the cells, screaming, ‘Tried to touch me up, that fucker. You see that? Bleeding police bum-bandits …’

The door to the DCI’s office was ajar. Maiden tapped.

‘Come in, Bobby.’

The man strongly fancied as the next ACC (crime) was draped tiredly behind the desk that was supposed, in a couple of weeks’ time, to be Maiden’s.

Generally loose kind of bloke, Bernard Bradbury. Big, clean, pink hands, but otherwise insubstantial, somehow, a blur materializing in bigger and bigger chairs. Maiden’s dad had known Bradbury when the boss had been a young PC up in Wilmslow, where Norman Plod was an old PC. Norman sneering when Bradbury got his stripes at twenty-six,
Shiny-arsed clerk. He’ll go far, you watch.

‘Sit down, Bobby. With you in a second.’ Bradbury was reading
statements, looking unimpressed. Maiden’s own statement would be somewhere in the pile.

He sat quietly. He was not quiet inside. Inside, he was like a burning building, everything collapsing inwards. Almost expecting Bernard Bradbury to be feeling it, pushing back his chair from the heat.

But Bradbury, this mild, schoolteacherish presence, was immune to heat. And straight, Maiden thought. This was the man who, two weeks ago, had strongly suggested Maiden apply for the proposed DCI’s job.

He shuffled his reports into shape, packed away his reading glasses, faced Maiden at last.

‘Thought you might like an unofficial chat at this stage, Bobby. Or shall we pull in a third party? Up to you.’

‘Expect I’d say the same things either way, sir.’

‘
Would
you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’ Bradbury hit the reports with the heel of his hand. ‘So this is a pile of manure, is it, Bobby?’

‘I think I can smell it from here, sir,’ Maiden said.

‘Let’s not call him Vic,’ Bradbury said. ‘Let’s call him Clutton, shall we?’

‘He’s the victim, sir.’

‘Not necessarily, from where I’m sitting,’ Bradbury said.

He talked about Maiden’s car. ‘Not hedgehog blood,’ he said, echoing Beattie.

Maiden said nothing.

‘We’ve got another witness now, Bobby. Girl of twelve doing her homework in her bedroom. Heard the car hit the gate and rushed over to the window. This is the house next door but one to Clutton’s girlfriend’s house.’

‘This girl see the driver, sir?’

‘What if I said she did?’

Maiden shrugged.

‘Well, she didn’t. Not from that angle.’

‘Pity.’

‘Yes,’ Bradbury said. ‘All right, let’s go back over the sequence. According to your statement, you met Clutton in the Crown just
before six. We also have statements from three, ah, respectable local businessmen who were occupying a nearby table. All of whom confirm that the discussion between you and Clutton was, at times … heated.’

‘Not from where I was sitting, sir.’

‘A solicitor. An estate agent. And a county councillor.’

‘Sorry, sir, I thought you said respectable.’

‘Let’s not get clever, Maiden. Right – Clutton was your long-time informant, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Or your friend, perhaps?’

‘There are levels of friendship.’

‘You’re agreeing that there
was
a more personal connection between you and Victor Clutton then?’

‘We had some history.’

Bradbury hissed softly through his teeth. ‘This is really not what I want to be hearing from you, Bobby. What were you and Clutton talking about?’

‘He’d asked to meet me. He had some information.’

‘About what?’

Maiden sighed.

‘Don’t piss me about, lad.’

‘My flat was broken into. I, er … didn’t report it.’

‘You didn’t report it?’

‘There was nothing stolen. And not much damage.’

‘You
didn’t report it
?’

‘It would have reopened a can of worms I wasn’t quite ready to reopen.’

Bradbury drew a long, long breath.

‘As you can imagine, I’m already under pressure to fling open the doors to the jackboots from CIB.’

‘Mmm.’

‘I don’t want those buggers clumping round the place if it can be avoided. You’re not helping me avoid it.’

‘With respect, boss,’ Maiden said, ‘CIB should have been in here en masse two year ago.’

‘Don’t.

‘Sorry?’

‘I can see your little bloody can of worms rolling towards me, Maiden. I would like you to pick it up very carefully and place it neatly back on the shelf behind you.’

‘You’re saying you don’t want to know what we were discussing in the Crown?’

‘I said place it
on the shelf.
I didn’t say throw it in the bin.’

‘Just that some things have a limited shelf-life,’ Maiden said.

Bradbury began to hiss through his teeth again, tapping his knee as though he was trying to keep something off the boil.

‘All right,’ he said eventually, ‘off the record, I think we both know that quite a few people were very glad when that business appeared to have sorted itself out. An inquiry would’ve cost silly money with no appreciable change in the situation.’

‘Except that a senior officer of this division might have been doing serious time by now.’

‘And this force would be under the wrong spotlight again.’

‘But the bastard’s still—’

‘Maiden.’

Maiden shut up.

‘I’m trying to help you, lad,’ Bradbury said.

Come on, Mr Maiden, I’m trying to help you
… No-one had seen Vic die. No-one had heard him scream, probably because he hadn’t screamed. The killer must have been parked, in Maiden’s car, out of sight but close enough to watch him and Clutton emerge and go their separate ways on foot.

Maiden said quietly, ‘I really, really want the bastard who nicked my car and drove it over Vic Clutton. Whoever he is. Whoever he’s … linked to.’

Bradbury hit the reports again. ‘Lad, there are some people, not ten yards from this office, who think we’ve already got him in the building.
No.
I mean you, you daft bastard! You say in your statement that you and Clutton came out of the Crown and there was your car … gone. Anybody else in the car park at the time to back this up? Apparently not. So, you’ve got only one witness to the apparent theft and he’s dead. Right. You could’ve gone back in the pub and used the phone there to report the car stolen. You didn’t. You could’ve called in here – not much of a detour, if my geography’s reliable. You didn’t. You went home. Mr Cool.’

‘Did they find any prints on the car?’

‘Apart from yours?’

‘Oh, come on, boss,’ Maiden said. ‘Whoever did this didn’t even
attempt
to make it look like a hit and run.’

‘Ah yes.’ Bradbury leaned back. ‘Hit and run. You know a bit about hit and run, don’t you, Bobby?’

‘This and that,’ Maiden said tonelessly.

‘Never caught whoever ran you over, did we? Night you snuffed it.’

Maiden said nothing.

‘You see, if we open up your famous can of worms, we also find the old rumour that your accident coincided with your ultimately fruitless investigation of the late Tony Parker …’

‘Only fruitless because he died, sir.’

‘… whose payroll, at that time, as is fairly well known, included one Victor Clutton.’

‘But—’

‘Working, I believe, as a driver. And minder to Mr Parker’s daughter, Emma, who—’

Maiden stood up. ‘That was nothing to do with this, and you bloody well—’

‘Sit down, Bobby. I’m merely pointing out what’s going to be said if we open the can of worms. Sit the fuck
down.’

Maiden sat.

‘Now,’ Bradbury said, ‘while nobody is suggesting you deliberately planned this man’s death, being stupid enough to knock him over with your own car, there
has
been the more likely suggestion that you and Clutton fell out in the pub and he walked out and you followed him in your motor, in a bit of a rage, and …’

‘Whose theory is that?’

‘… quickly abandoning the car and later reporting it stolen.’

‘In which case, how did I get back from that layby up the bypass in time to report the theft to Lisa Starling? No buses. Could have hitched a lift, I suppose, but that would’ve been a risk.’

‘Perhaps you’re very fit, Bobby.’

‘Not any more.’

‘You still made it to the hospital on foot. Who told you about it, by the way?’

‘Mutual friend. A nurse. Why don’t you just caution me, boss?’

‘This is the unofficial chat, Bobby. You see, while I’m a man best noted for not costing the Service any money when it can be avoided, you, on the other hand, are that rarity – a copper who’s managed to progress through actual thief-catching talent. Which, admittedly, means fuck all these days – it’s people like
me
who are valued by our masters, Home Secretary downwards. However, in these very particular circumstances, it seemed clear to me that you should be the man to take charge of Elham CID and I still believe that, all right?’

Maiden couldn’t form a reply; he was losing touch with Bradbury’s reality.

‘But if that can gets opened now, Inspector Maiden, there’s no way you’ll get that job. Your career goes on ice until it’s sorted. Which may be a while.’

‘I don’t really know what you mean.’

‘You bloody do, Bobby. Now …’ Bradbury slid the thin sheaf of statements into a cardboard file ‘… I understand you’re on leave. Two weeks. Beginning tomorrow morning.’

‘Boss?’

‘So, off you go. Much as we would value your input on this vexed issue, I’m afraid we can’t afford to pay you, Bobby.’

‘Pay’s not a problem,’ Maiden said.

‘Go
home,
lad. I don’t believe you murdered bloody Clutton, but I’m not having you anywhere near the investigation. Until we pull somebody, we’ll tell the media it was a hit and run and the car was nicked, which is why the driver pissed off. We won’t tell them who it was nicked
from.’

‘Somebody will,’ Maiden said.

‘And I shall make it known’, Bernard Bradbury half-rose, ‘that if anybody leaks this, I will have his balls on a saucer, next to his warrant card. And
you
– I don’t want you muddying waters. I don’t want any freelance stuff, any private sniffing around. If you go away – which I strongly recommend – leave me a note with address and phone number. In fact, take your mobile and keep it charged.’

‘What if I disappear?’

‘You won’t. Will you?’

‘No,’ Maiden said.

‘Right,’ Bradbury said. ‘Have a nice time.’

*       *       *

‘Guy’s right,’ Sister Anderson said over after-midnight fish and chips in the hospital grounds. ‘How’s he gonnae get to the bottom of it with you trampling the evidence?’

It was Andy’s breaktime. Maiden had bought the chips from a van outside Feeny Park.

‘It’s a question of what they wanted the most, Bobby – you set up or Vic out the way. No’ for you to speculate. Get out the place, let the boss guys take care of the cleaning.’

‘Except they won’t. In the end, they’ll just recarpet,’ Maiden said gloomily. ‘They don’t want the scandal and they don’t want to spend the money. Nothing changes.’

‘In which case, you’re no’ gonnae change it on your own, are you, son?’ Andy stabbed at her chips with a wooden fork. ‘Jesus God, Bobby, for a guy working tae expand his inner consciousness and find enlightenment, you can be a real dense bastard sometimes. I was doing Saturday night patch-up jobs on Victor Clutton when you were still writing to Santa Claus, and I can tell you, this is no’ what the guy wid want. And don’t you go canonizing him. He’d only pawn his halo.’

Maiden smiled. Andy looked up as an ambulance came in – no flashing lights, so that was OK.

‘Mind, y’ought to tell Marcus Bacton Vic’s gone. If the auld thug hadnae been around that day at the castle, Marcus’s guts’d be spread over his own doorstep.’

‘I’ll ring him tomorrow.’

‘Why don’t you just go call on him. Stay awhile in his wee dairy, borrow some of his weirdy books and contemplate your immortal soul.’

‘What, like you contemplated yours?’ Maiden said.
‘Aw, ah’m gettin’ oot o’ this, Bobby. Ah’m awa tae the sticks tae be a healer.
See, when it comes down to it, you’re still here and I’m still here because we’re half-afraid it’s where we’re meant to be.’

‘No’ a problem. I’ll jump when I’m ready, but I may have to push you out the hatch. Meanwhile, you go off on your own to some sodden shore you’ll just think about it the whole time. Go listen to Bacton rant. Consider the Big Mysteries. Take a stroll in the hills with wee Grayle Underhill.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘No, you won’t. You’ll think about bloody Riggs and bloody Beattie. I’ll tell y’another thing –
you’,
Andy pointed the fork, ‘need a woman. You cannae fret over Em till you’re too old tae get it up.’

‘Who brought that up?’

‘Go home, Bobby. You want a herbal sleeping pill?’

‘No thanks.’

When he’d gone, Andy went back to Accident and Emergency and smoked a cigarette, hanging out of the sluiceroom window.

Remembering the night, not so long ago, when Bobby Maiden lay on his back, the crash team backing off, despondent –
three minutes gone, three and a half.
Andy refusing to call off the defib, hands on the top of his head, his hair all stiff with blood. Feeling, inside her own head, the sun rising beyond St Mary’s, through the gap in the stones of the High Knoll burial chamber, the heat travelling down to her fingers.

A healing place.

Despite the best efforts of the Health Service bureaucrats, Elham General was a healing place, too – though this was sometimes harder to credit than the legend of the Holy Virgin’s appearance at High Knoll.