Mean Spirit Part 2

Justin glanced at the road as a big hedge came up fast in the windshield, dead ahead. The road was about as wide as a garden path. Driving with two fingers crooked around the wheel, Justin spun around the bend, then turned back on Grayle.

'Seffi Callard, eh?'

Grayle sat up hard, pulling her flimsy black raincoat together across her thighs, dragging her purse on to her lap.

'Relax, my sweet. I've travelled this ole road about a million times.' Justin swivelled his gaze lazily back to the windshield. 'I know every little bend, every pothole.' He smiled, his big moustache spreading. 'Every little hump.'

Hump? She closed her eyes briefly. Another G.o.dd.a.m.ned ladies' man. Kind of guy who'd just realized he wasn't going to have too many more years of scoring chicks below a certain age threshold, not even puny, nervous, 31-year-old blondes. Grayle coughed, tucking flyaway hair into her coat collar.

'So she's staying with her old man.' Justin was now using one crooked forefinger to control the throbbing wheel. 'Paper said she'd gone abroad.'

'Well, just don't spread it around.' Grayle was annoyed with herself for saying too much.

'Who would I tell?'

'She'll like, uh, probably be going abroad tomorrow.'

'Close friend of yours, then, Miz Callard?'

'Not awful close.'

'Quite a girl in her time.' He glanced at Grayle again and winked. She noticed his overall had become unb.u.t.toned to just below the waist. He smelled of engine oil. Were those overalls next to the skin?

'Really,' she said.

'That's what they say,' Justin said airily. Grayle supposed that if she'd been a guy, this was where they'd be starting up with all the ribald, s.e.xist stuff, Justin outlining all the things he wouldn't mind doing with Persephone Callard.

'Who?' she said.

'What?'

'What who say?'

'Oh,' he said, 'the papers. You know.' Maybe a touch wary now, in case she really happened to be a close friend of the Callard family, fallen on hard times.

'Right,' Grayle said. 'The papers.'

'They're saying she's cracked up. Lost her marbles. You believe that?'

'Well, I wouldn't know, Justin.'

'So she's not a close friend of yours, then.'

'No.'

'Ah.' Justin slowed up. 'You're a reporter, right?'

Grayle sighed. 'Kind of.'

His smile was now too smirklike for comfort. She knew what he was thinking now: what kind of reporter drives a 25-year-old heap with etcetera, etcetera?

'I work for a small, specialist magazine,' she said quickly. 'You wouldn't have heard of it.'

'I see.' Justin the ladies' man leaned back, relaxed again, as the rain came down harder on the ochre ploughed fields to either side. She could guess his idea of a small, specialist magazine. 'So, er ... does she know you're coming to interview her?'

'Well, of course she does. You don't drive all this way if you don't expect someone to talk to you. Least, I don't.'

'So she's expecting you.'

'Sure. She's expecting me in like ... like a couple hours ago.'

'She is, is she?'

'Most certainly.' This shameless probing was making her decidedly uneasy. 'We talked on the phone just this morning. She's probably calling around by now to find out why I didn't show up.'

Complete lie about the phone; according to Marcus, Persephone Callard was not taking any calls right now.

'What's your name, my sweet?'

'I-'

'To put on the bill?'

'Oh. Right. Underhill. Grayle Underhill.'

'Grayle.' Rolling it around his mouth like candy.

'As in holy.'

'And are you?' His hand moved up and down the gearstick suggestively.

'Devout,' Grayle snapped. Jesus, however creepy Persephone Callard turned out to be, she was unlikely to be in the same league as this guy with his big moustache and his overalls open to the groin.

'You believe in that stuff? Her stuff?'

'Uh ... some.'

'You ask me,' Justin said, 'she's a total b.l.o.o.d.y fraud, your Miz Callard. All that mumbo-jumbo and communicating with the departed spirits. Load of ole b.l.o.o.d.y twaddle.'

'That's what they say around here, is it?'

'It's what I say, Grayle. Way I see it, look, the stuff she does, if she was some old lady with a crystal ball she'd be lucky to get fifty pence for it in a b.l.o.o.d.y tent at the village fete.'

'Well,' Grayle said carefully, 'that's, uh ... that's one argument.'

''Stead of which, Grayle, she's mugging the aristocracy for five K a time, and they all thinks she's somethin' special on account of her ole man's loaded and got a t.i.tle and a big b.l.o.o.d.y house. You wanner see her strutting round Stroud in her fancy clothes, nose in the b.l.o.o.d.y air. Nothin' snottier on this earth than a coloured girl that reckons she's a cut above. You know what her mother was, don't you?'

'A nurse,' Grayle said tightly, 'as I understand it.'

'Oh, that's what they calls 'em now, is it? You're a reporter, why'n't you expose her for a cheat and a phoney?'

'Well, I, uh ... my job is ... Are you sure this is the right road to Mysleton?'

'It's the picturesque route.' Justin laughed, like his display of self-righteous, racist rage had blown down a barrier between them. He looked more relaxed. Not a good development, in Grayle's view.

'Um, Justin, in light of the time I already lost, I think I would prefer to take a chance on the shabby route ... like through the factory estates and stuff?'

'There aren't any fac-' He turned to her. 'You're b.l.o.o.d.y having me on, Grayle!'

And what he did next ... she could not believe this ... he reached over and rubbed her G.o.dd.a.m.ned thigh, pushing up the hem of her skirt, like they were long-time lovers sharing an intimate joke.

'Jes-'

By the time she unfroze enough to grab his hand, he'd already pulled it casually back. The truck speeded up, going insanely fast for a road this narrow and twisting.

'This is my famous Cotswold Tour, Grayle. You want the commentary?'

'Look-'

If anything came around the bend now they'd be dogmeat.

'Relax, my sweet. Listen, if we don't get that ole exhaust sorted, you'll be looking for a hotel, right? I can probably help you there.'

'But it's gonna be ...' Grayle bounced off of the door as the truck took a tight bend on two wheels '... fixed, isn't it?'

'Friend of mine does accommodation.'

'Huh?'

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d actually thought he was going to fix her up with a room in some sleazy flophouse? She had to get out of here. She pushed herself up against the door, as more hedgerow reared up in the windshield.

Her mobile bleeped in the purse on the seat, between her and Justin.

'Excuse me ...' Diving into the purse, scrabbling for the phone, fumbling for the green b.u.t.ton. 'h.e.l.lo?'

'... erhill?' Marcus? His voice was breaking up badly. 'Underhill, I've ...'

'It's my ...'

My boss, she was about to say. She bit that off and jammed the phone hard to her left ear so that Justin couldn't hear the voice the other end. He'd slowed down and was watching her intently.

'Oh!' she cried. 'Ms Callard! Yeah, I'm just on my way. I had a problem. My car broke down. No ... really ... nothing too serious, and I got lucky I've been given a ride by a very ... a very kind gentleman called ... called Justin. Runs a small garage? In a village about three miles out of Stroud? Justin. Yeah. You know him? Gave me a ride in his ... his ... white ... Toyota ... truck.'

Justin slowed to a crawl, and she thought for a moment he was going to s.n.a.t.c.h the phone.

'... UCKING SCOTCH!' Marcus roared.

'So I should see you in about ... Oh, I should guess ten minutes? That would be terrific. Bye ... bye, Ms Callard.'

Marcus had broken up into unintelligible crackle. Grayle pressed the end b.u.t.ton. Trying hard to keep her breathing steady as she dropped the phone in her purse.

Justin's eyes were back on the road.

'Ten minutes, would that be about right, Justin?'

''Bout that,' Justin said sullenly.

'Good,' Grayle said, breathless. 'Terrific.'

Justin's face looked dark with suppressed rage.

II.

Psychic Seffi

Gives up the

Ghosts

by Stuart Burn Super-psychic Persephone Callard has turned her back on the Other Side.

The 5000-a-session medium is being treated for clinical depression, it was revealed last night.

And Seffi, 35, whose clients have included TV soapstars and the late Princess Diana, has told friends her career has reached a dead end.

Seffi's manager, Nancy Rich, said, 'She's been overworking that's all.

'She's not had a holiday in about three years and she's desperately tired.'

But a friend said the high-society psychic had been having trouble sleeping and had lost two stones in weight.

'She went to see her doctor and was referred to a consultant psychiatrist. She just wants to be left alone and won't be taking on any more clients for a while if ever.'

Last night, Seffi's whereabouts were a mystery. It was believed she could be on her way to the villa in Tuscany owned by her father, ex-diplomat Sir Stephen Callard.

Seffi Callard has been a controversial figure since she was a teenager.