The audience were quietening now; the two men beside him seemed to have finished their discussion about electric screwdrivers. It was 7.45 p.m. exactly. Behind him he heard the hiss of a ring pull being tugged on a can of drink. A mobile phone beeped an incoming text message, and he saw the earth mother delve into her macramé handbag, pull the phone out and switch it off, her face reddening.

Then the medium sauntered in, with all the presence of a man looking for the door to a pub urinal. About forty years old, standing a good six foot four inches tall, he was dressed in a baggy orange T-shirt with a string of beads around his neck, fawn chinos and shiny white trainers. He had buzz-cut hair, a few days growth of stubble, a prizefighter’s broken nose and a massive beer belly, and, Grace noticed, he was wearing a very expensive-looking watch. For some moments he appeared not to notice that he had walked into a crowded room. Grace even began to wonder whether this actually was the clairvoyant.

Then, facing the blinds, Brent Mackenzie spoke. His voice was thin and reedy, far too small for such a large man, but very earnest. ‘I’m not using my memory tonight,’ he said. ‘I want to do my best for all of you. I will have a message for each of you tonight; that’s a promise.’

Grace glanced around; just a sea of silent, rapt faces, waiting.

‘My first message is for a lady in here called Brenda.’ Now the clairvoyant turned and scanned the room. The pudding-faced mother put her hand up.

‘Ah, Brenda, love, there you are! If I said there was a move imminent in your life, would that be right?’

The woman thought for a moment, then nodded enthusiastically.

‘Yeah, that’s what the spirits are telling me. It’s a big move, isn’t it?’

She looked at each of her daughters in turn, as if for confirmation. Both of them frowned. Then she looked at the medium. ‘No,’ she said.

There was an awkward silence. After a few moments the medium said, ‘I’m being told it is a bigger move than you realize at the moment. But you are not to worry about it; you are doing the right thing.’ He nodded reassuringly at her, then closed his eyes and took a pace back.

Grace watched him, feeling uncomfortable about the man. This was a typical ploy of a medium – to manipulate what he said when it did not resonate.

‘I’ve got a message for a Margaret,’ Brent Mackenzie said, opening his eyes and scanning the room. A rather mousy little woman in her late thirties who Grace had not previously noticed put up her hand.

‘Does the name Ivy mean anything to you, darling?’

The woman shook her head.

‘OK. What about Ireland. Does Ireland mean anything?’

Again she shook her head.

‘The spirits are very definite about Ireland. I think you will be going there soon even if you don’t realize it at the moment. They say you will go to Cork. There’s someone who will change your life who is in Cork.’

She looked blank.

‘I’ll come back to you, Margaret,’ the clairvoyant said. ‘I’m being interrupted – they are very rude sometimes in the spirit world; they get very impatient when they have a message for someone. I’m getting a message here for Roy.’

Grace felt a jolt as if he had plunged his finger into an electrical socket. Brent Mackenzie was stepping towards him, staring hard at him. He felt his face burn and all his composure went; he stared back at the medium now towering over him, feeling confused, helpless.

‘I’ve got a gentleman with me, I think he might be your father. He’s showing me a badge he used to wear. Does that mean something?’

Maybe, Grace thought, but I’m not giving you any clues. I’m paying you to tell ME things.

Grace stared at him blankly.

‘He’s showing me his helmet. I think he was a police officer before he passed. He has passed?’

Grace gave him a reluctant nod.

‘He tells me he’s very proud of you, but you are having a difficult time at the moment. Someone is blocking your career. He is showing me a woman – with short blonde hair? Is her name Vespa, like the motor scooter?’

Now Grace was mesmerized. Alison Vosper? He desperately wanted to speak to the man, to tell him the name Sandy. But his courage had deserted him. And he did not want to lead him. Was Brent Mackenzie going to tell him something about Sandy? Some message from his father about her?

‘Your dad’s showing me something, Roy. It’s a small insect. Looks like a beetle. He is quite agitated about this beetle. He’s not very clear-’ The clairvoyant cupped his head in his hands, turned round once, then again. ‘I’m sorry, I’m losing him. He said it could save something.’

Grace, staring up at him, suddenly found the courage to speak. ‘What exactly did he say it could save?’

‘I’m sorry, Roy, I’ve lost him.’ The medium looked at someone else. ‘I’ve got a message for Bernie.’

Grace barely noticed. He was thinking. The man had got two hits. His father and the beetle. He said it could save something.

He would grab the clairvoyant at the end of the session, no matter how tired he was, and pump him for more.

What did the man mean? What the hell could it save? His career? Another life?

But he did not have to worry about getting hold of Brent Mackenzie when the evening ended. The clairvoyant, wearing a long anorak over his T-shirt, was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Roy, isn’t it?’ he said.

Grace nodded.

‘I don’t normally do this, but could we have a word in private?’

‘Yes, sure.’

Grace followed him into a tiny consulting room containing a desk, a couple of chairs and several dozen white candles, and the clairvoyant closed the door behind them. In this room he seemed even bigger, towering over Grace.

Remaining standing, Mackenzie said, ‘Look, I’m sorry; we didn’t have a very satisfactory session. I didn’t want to say too much in there, in front of everyone, you know. Some things are private. This doesn’t often happen to me, but I picked up some really bad feeling about you. I’m talking about this beetle thing I saw; I can’t get it out of my head. Like one of those you see in ancient Egyptian writings.’

Tilting his head up at him, Grace said, ‘A scarab?’

‘Yeah, exactly. Scarab beetle.’

Grace nodded. ‘Yes, that makes sense.’

The medium gave him a strange look. ‘Makes sense?’

‘It’s to do with work. I can’t really talk about it.’

‘You’re a copper, aren’t you?’

‘Does it show?’

The clairvoyant smiled. ‘I was a copper myself, for ten years. Manchester CID.’

‘You were?’

‘Yeah, well. Long story. Save it for another day. The thing is, mate, they’re telling me you are in real danger. Something to do with this scarab beetle. You need to watch your back.’

33

By the time Tom had figured out how to light the barbecue, it was already past the children’s bedtime. And by the time he had finally cooked their sausages and burgers, Jessica was sound asleep and Max was grizzling.

And now he had drunk too much rosé wine, and he had to finalize the quotation for twenty-five Rolex Oyster watches engraved with a logo in a microdot, and email it to Ron Spacks. The DVD distribution giant had confirmed he was dead serious about placing the order, and Tom had promised the quotation would be with him no later than tonight. He had found a legitimate supply source that would give Spacks a bargain, and net him close to £35,000 profit on the contract. Not only a very sweet deal, it would be a massive help to his business – and his life – at this moment.

He stared fondly at Kellie, who was lying in front of the television, watching Jonathan Ross interview a rock star Tom had never heard of. Lady, as usual, was sitting by the front door with her lead in her mouth.

He hauled himself up the stairs, gripping the banister rail for all he was worth, as if he was climbing Everest the hard way.