“I’ve just finished producing the Mind Games III copies, right? I’ve got 25,000 advance orders, which means a clear profit of 50 thou’. The entire load is stashed at my lockup, all ready for shipping out. Then, a coupla nights back, someone raided my drum and nicked the flicking lot.”
“You didn’t have them insured?” Sceptre wanted to know.
Jimmy looked at her with a strained expression on his chubby features. “Where do you get insurance on a lorry load of illegal pirate movies?”
“As opposed to legal pirate movies,” riposted Kevin.
“Surely your drum was alarmed?” Pete asked.
Jimmy hedged. “Well... after a fashion.”
Pete understood immediately. “You mean a dummy bell box?”
Sceptre frowned. “What’s a dummy bell box?”
“A dummy bell box,” Kevin explained, “is what it suggests. You have an alarm box on the outside wall of the building, but no works inside it. The place looks as if it’s alarmed, but it isn’t.”
“I did have security on the job,” Jimmy defended himself. “Sherlock’s.”
Pete groaned. “Tony Holmes?”
Jimmy slurped his lager. “That’s him. Worked for one of the pukka companies before he set up on his own.”
“He served time four years back,” Pete said. “The only reason he could set up in security was because Kevin here and Wilf Mannion between them cooked up, no pun intended, a false background for him.”
Jimmy’s face fell. “Oh,” was the only comment he made.
“Well, I must say, Jimmy,” commented Kevin, sipping his beer, “for a businessman, you’ve got all the acumen of a total berk.” He placed a finger to his temple and turned it several times, indicating his opinion of Tate’s sanity. “No alarm on your lockup, and you use an out-and-out crook like Sherlock for security.”
“He was cheap, right? I didn’t become a millionaire by throwing money about.” Jimmy gulped down the rest of his can and cracked another.
“Did you not report the theft to the police, Mr. Tate?” Sceptre asked.
Jimmy looked at her, then at Pete. “Where do you get them, Brennan?”
“Sceptre is a cut above me and you, Tate. She’s a real Countess.”
“Well, my naïve little bit of upper crust totty, how interested do you think the law would be in a load of stolen pirate DVDs? They’d do me for producing them.” He turned once more to Pete. “Anyway, the minute it all went missing, I put the word out on the street. Five grand to whoever can turn it up. But I only let the, er, right people know. The underground bods. That’s why, when you turned up, Keeley, I knew you shouldn’t have known, and that’s why I figured you’d nicked them.”
“A few nights back, Bilko rang us,” Nicky took up the story, “and he said he had a lead on them, but we haven’t seen him since.”
“You know what a mouth almighty Bilko is,” said Johnny. “You can’t always trust him, and I figure he was just mouthing off. He wanted the reward money, and he didn’t know nothing.”
Jimmy summed it all up. “If you tell me where they are, the reward money is yours.”
“Bit difficult,” Pete admitted, having finally calmed down. “We know where they were … Melmerby Manor … but they disappeared again. And by the way, Johnny, you’re wrong. Bilko must have known something because he was topped.” Pete paused briefly to let his words sink in. “We found his body at Melmerby Manor, and whoever left him there took the DVDs.”
Johnny displayed no emotion; Nicky looked shocked and Jimmy disappointed.
“Tell me you’re joking,” groaned the fat man.
“Would I joke about something like that?” Pete demanded
“Probably. You used to be plod, and you coppers always have an odd sense of humour.”
Pete ignored the jibe. “Bilko must have found something because the DVD Kevin brought you didn’t come from Melmerby Manor. I found it at Bilko’s drum the other night.”
Jimmy scowled. “Angie mentioned you’d been there.”
“Bilko didn’t give you any clues as to what he knew?” Pete wanted to know.
Jimmy shook his head. “Nicky told you, I put the word out on the street, he rang and said he’d heard whispers in Flutter-Bys. Other than that, I know nothing, but the deal still stands: you find them and the five grand is yours.”
*****
From the Tates’ house, they drove back to the flat, where they left Kevin’s van, and using Sceptre’s Fiat, drove to the Crown and Anchor, and spent much of the evening discussing the turn of events until they called it a night at ten o’clock.
“I can’t drive,” objected Kevin, unwrapping a bar of chocolate. He broke off a large chunk and put it in his mouth. “I’ve had three lagers,” he pleaded in the light of their disapproving glances.
“So have I,” complained Pete.
“Yeah, but you’ve got friends on the force.”
Sceptre took the keys from them. “I’ll drive,” she said and climbed behind the wheel. “It’s my car anyway.”
She climbed behind the wheel, Kevin got in the back and Pete sat himself in the passenger seat, next to Sceptre. “Pete,” she asked as they drove away from the pub towards the Cranley Estate, “when you were arguing with Jimmy Tate he said he still had the tape of you and Nicky, and you said it wouldn’t work because you’d been fired. I presume he was blackmailing you.”
Pete’s features darkened at the memory. “Don’t ask.”
Sceptre clucked. “There’s a lot about you that you’re not telling me.”
“How do we go about finding the DVDs?” asked Kevin to change the subject.
“Easy peasy,” said Pete, happy for the distraction. “I was a detective, you know.”
Kevin snorted at Pete’s assertion. “According to Locke, you couldn’t detect a smell in a bunged up lavatory.”
“Neither can you with a broken nose.”
Kevin fell for it once more. “I don’t have a broken nose.”
“Yet.”
Kevin swallowed the last of his chocolate and reached for a cigarette. Lighting it, tossing the pack on the seat, he gave a disdainful sniff. “Okay, Hercules Porrit, where do we start?”
“We call on Sherlock, the most crooked security guard in town.”
Silence fell, punctuated only by the uneven purr of the engine and the swish of wipers on the screen. Sceptre peered through the rain, concentrating on her driving.
Light began to grow in her rear view mirror. She checked and saw a pair of headlights gaining on them with a speed that dizzied her. Sceptre eased her speed and tucked in tight to the kerb to give the car room to overtake. The lights grew larger as the car approached, but the driver made no effort to pass.
“Damned tailgaters,” she cursed. To take her mind off the erratic driver, she said, “May I remind you that we still have a haunted house to deal with?”
“Frankly,” Kevin said, “I’m glad to be out of the place.”
“We have to put our findings together, Kevin. Run through all the videos, see what we can see, and then¾” She took a deep breath. “¾We have to go back.” She glanced in the mirror. The vehicle behind hung dangerously close to her bumper. Sceptre wound down her window and irritably waved him round.
The combination of shock and his cigarette caused Kevin to have a violent coughing fit. Getting his breathing under control, he gasped, “Go back? Sceptre, let me remind you, that Henry Melmerby had it in for me, and I told you before, no way am I going back to that place.”
“Kevin …”
Sceptre never finished what she was about to say. The lights of the car behind, which had been growing steadily brighter, suddenly blazed on high beam, and there was a tremendous bang as it rammed them.
She struggled with the steering wheel. “What the—?”
The car rammed them again. Sceptre’s head snapped back and she emitted an angry cry of pain.
“What’s he doing?” cried Kevin.
“M
aybe he doesn’t like Sceptre’s bumper stickers,” Pete said while she fought a battle with the steering wheel. He reached across and steadied it for her. “Swap places!” he ordered. Still gripping the wheel, he half stood. Sceptre sneaked under him, wriggled over the gear lever and settled into the passenger seat, drawing the seatbelt across her midriff. Pete, meanwhile, dropped into the driver’s seat, changed down a gear and hammered the gas pedal to the floor. Behind them, the crazed vehicle came with them, its bumper ramming theirs and giving them another sharp jab in the back.
“Do something!” Kevin panicked. “Wave him round.”
“I’d have to wind the window down and it’s too cold,” snapped Pete, his sarcasm lost on Kevin.
They came into the residential area of the Cranley Estate, the street lined with houses on both sides. Pete’s mind was ahead of the game. Residential property meant parked cars, even if they were on one side of the road only.
Even as he thought of it, a parked lorry appeared in the dim street lighting a couple of hundred metres ahead. The rogue vehicle backed off, then pulled out, accelerating rapidly until it came alongside. Now he could see it was a stout pickup truck. Pete slammed the brakes on in an effort to make it overshoot, but it slowed too, sideswiping them, its front corner pushing on Pete’s door, pressing him into the kerb. The parked truck came nearer. Pete pushed the wheel out, trying to force the pickup over. There was a tussle as they careered along the road. He braked again, but the pickup forced him along.
Sceptre crouched in the passenger seat, too terrified to look. Kevin half lay on the rear seat to protect himself from the impact. At the last moment, the pickup broke free and accelerated away. The parked wagon was just metres ahead. Pete stood on the brakes. There was a squeal of protest from the tyres, sliding on the wet road. He let go of the steering wheel and threw up his arms to protect himself as they smashed into the lorry.
Chapter Ten
Pete came around quickly. He heard the horn blaring and realised his head was resting on the steering wheel. He looked out, saw flames and smoke coming from under the bonnet, and then glanced across at Sceptre. She was unconscious, her head slumped back against her headrest. Pete realised that on impact, she must have jerked forward, probably hit her head on the dashboard and bounced back. For a horrible moment, he worried that her neck might be broken. He put a finger to her throat, felt a pulse and breathed a sigh of relief.
Smoke seeped into the Fiat’s interior. In the back, Kevin groaned and sat groggily upright.
“Get out, Kev,” Pete ordered. He yanked his door handle. It would not open. He shouldered the warped door. No good. The compact Punto was smaller than his estate car, and there was insufficient room to get any force behind his movement.
“Pete…”
“Get out, Kev. Now.”
“But Sceptre…”
“Get out. I’ll see to her.”
Kevin shouldered the rear door open and leapt out. Pete reached across and past Sceptre’s inert form to try forcing her door. That, too, was so badly battered it would not move. He pressed her seat belt release, but it refused to work.
The smoke began to sting his eyes and choke him; his lungs felt like they were on fire. He threw himself over the seat and followed his old friend out into the fresh air, gulping it in to relieve his tortured lungs. He briefly studied the damage, seeking a way of getting Sceptre out. The Fiat’s nose was smashed in; its engine was pushed back, buckling the doors, making them impossible to open. The clouds of smoke coloured with orange flame he had noticed coming from under the bonnet were now creeping backwards, the flames igniting anything that would burn. There was only one way to get her out: through the window.
He removed his jacket, wrapped it around his fist, and hammered it against the passenger window. The result was a set of bruised knuckles and no effect on the window. He cursed the invention of safety glass.
The flames were climbing higher. Soon they would reach the gas tank at the rear, where the deadly mixture of air and petrol would ignite and then... boom!
He looked around. Even a stone ornament would have done as a hammer to smash the window, but the houses all had gardens with only neatly trimmed hedgerows, and there was nothing of any use to him. Ahead of him, Kevin was rooting through the back of the lorry, seeking anything that might help. Alongside him, the flames took hold.
*****
Inside, Sceptre came to her senses and hammered at the window. Tears streamed down her face, and her pretty features turned to a mask of terror.
“Fishwick!” she screamed, fighting frantically to release the door.
“Be calm, Madam,” came Fishwick’s voice. Suddenly, she felt the seatbelt release jiggling.
*****
Doors opened along the street. Neighbours rushed out, some of them yelling, others simply staring. Wearing only pants, a vest and carpet slippers, the owner of the truck appeared, a short, tubby man, thinning on top, wearing a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. He stared, appalled at the damage. “What have you done to my truck, man?”
“I don’t like bright yellow wagons, so I thought I’d try ramming yours off the road,” retorted Pete. “Now stop asking stupid questions. Have you a fire extinguisher?”
“Oh naturally, I keep one in my back pocket,” said the driver. “And you accuse me of asking stupid questions. I’ll get you a hammer.”
“Make it snappy. I’ve got to get her out before the smoke kills her.”
The truck driver ran to the front of his vehicle, reached into the cab, came out with a carpenter’s hammer and rushed back to Pete.
“Lean over, out of the way,” Pete ordered Sceptre. “Cover your face and eyes.”
Sceptre obeyed. Pete smashed the hammer into the Punto’s window. It cracked. He drove it home once more and the glass shattered in a crystal shower. Pete reached in. Almost instantly, he began to cough. The air was thick with black, choking smoke, rich with toxic chemicals released from the burning and melting plastic of the dashboard and upholstery. He grabbed Sceptre under the armpits and hauled her back. She was trapped by the seatbelt. Leaning back out into the fresh air, he called for a knife, and the lorry driver rushed off to his cab again.
He returned a moment later and handed Pete a carpet knife. Pete leaned into the car and sliced at the belt. The knife bit into it, but he knew it was too slow. Sceptre would be dead long before he could cut through eight centimetres of reinforced webbing. Throwing the knife out, he leaned in once more, trying to ignore the poisonous heat. Sceptre gagged and began to lose consciousness. He slipped his hands under her armpits again.
“I’m gonna try drag you out through the belt,” he said and pulled.
Immediately, she cried out as the belt caught on her hip.
“Bear with it,” he told her and pulled again.
And then the seatbelt came free, the tongue sliding out of the anchor as if the release had been pressed. Without stopping to question how it could happen, Pete yanked her out of her seat and through the window, to the pavement, where she stood, sobbing, burying her face in his chest.
“Look out!” yelled Kevin. He pointed to the underside of the car, where the flames, driven by fierce winds, were licking back to the gas tank.
Dragging Kevin behind him, followed by the truck driver, Pete threw himself and Sceptre over the hedgerows into the truck driver’s garden.
“Get down, you nutter,” Pete warned the truck’s owner. He covered Sceptre with his body.
People ran in all directions; the truck driver threw himself to the ground next to Kevin. The Fiat exploded in a ball of flame, a huge pall of black smoke billowing into the night sky. As the charred remains continued to burn, people began to come back to watch, and there came the distant blue lights and wail of a fire engine.
Kevin and the truck driver emerged from the garden and stared, hypnotised, at the wrecked car. Pete and Sceptre returned, too, and all three watched the shell of their vehicle blazing away. Around them, people were scurrying
to put out the small blazes ignited by flying debris from the explosion.
“Great,” complained the lorry driver. “You’ve smashed up my truck, wrecked my hedges, broken my carpet knife. What are you gonna do next? Go in the house and beat the wife up?”
Pete ignored him. “That was a close call.”
Kevin nodded. “I’m stunned. How could I be so stupid?”
Pete and Sceptre were puzzled. “It wasn’t your fault,” said Sceptre, still coughing up smoke from her lungs. “You didn’t invite that moron to run us off the road.”
“It’s not that,” said Kevin with a broad, half-drunken grin. “I left my cigs on the seat. They’ve just gone up in smoke.”
*****
Her face lit by the flashing blue lights of the fire engines, DC Keynes surveyed the scene with dismay. It looked like a small disaster area. The burned-out remains of Sceptre’s car were covered in foam, thick hoses covered the road, firemen were everywhere, ensuring the smaller blazes were properly extinguished, and at either end of a fifty yard stretch of road, uniformed police officers directed traffic away from the area. Nearby an ambulance stood, its doors open, the attendants drinking coffee and smoking under the disdainful eye of the fire chief.
Keynes turned back to Pete. “So your car was insured?” she asked. “That’s a first for you, isn’t it Brennan?”
Pete shook his head. “I’ll have to get myself a publicity agent. I’ve got an appalling image.”
“Yeah,” agreed Keynes. “The cons don’t like you because you used to be a copper, and the cops don’t like you because you were bent.”
He looked her in the eye. “The cops don’t like me because I grassed them up for taking graft. Do you take graft?”
“Let’s concentrate on your accident, shall we?”
“That’s an interesting description, Ms Keynes,” said Sceptre. “Accident. Is that the official term for attempted murder? And by the way, the car was mine, not Pete’s.”
The strobe lights of the fire appliance, made Keynes appear more irritated than she was. “Listen, Septic …”
A Spookies Compendium Page 16