“If I set them up in here,” he explained, “no one can mess with them, can they?”
With McKinley’s help, he ran the cable back along the gallery, tucking it under display cases and exhibit stands to ensure no one would trip over it, and into the entrance hall, where they connected it to Kevin’s central power drum.
Satisfied, Pete stood back and checked everything over with a practiced eye. “Anyone starts fooling around tonight, and I’ll have ’em.”
*****
It was to be a long and boring evening. They sat in the cafeteria talking, occasionally dozing, McKinley fishing for bits and pieces of information, Sceptre telling him the plain truth as she saw it, Pete and Kevin remaining circumspect, although they frowned upon her honesty.
Eventually, when Kevin and McKinley dozed off, Sceptre and Pete were left alone and her interest in his past sparked again. “Pete, you never did tell me what went on with you and Chief Inspector Locke, or Jimmy Tate.”
“It’s not something I like to talk about,” he admitted.
“You’re ashamed?”
He gave a sardonic laugh. “Some chance.”
“Come on,” Sceptre encouraged. “Tell me.”
He heaved a sigh. “A few cops take bribes. I didn’t. I was a good cop. Honest and more concerned with law and order in this town than anything I could take for myself. My record of arrests and my courage in facing down muggers, robbers, and so on, was the reason I was promoted to Detective Constable so quickly. Then Locke sent me out to arrest a young woman on the Cranley Estate. Not far from where we live. She was, er, how can I put it so you delicate, upper-class ears won’t be offended? Her company did not come free of charge. She begged me not to take her in, because she’d been booked so many times before that they were sure to send her to prison this time. I didn’t fall for it, but I let her off with a caution. Then the rotten cow rang Locke and told him I’d offered to let her off in return for a freebie.”
Sceptre shook her head and tutted to show her disgust. “I’m shocked that you could be so trusting, but for her to do that is nevertheless disgraceful.”
“Well, Locke took the same line,” said Pete picking up his tale. “There was an argument during which I told Locke just how many of his men were taking graft from the pimps and pushers. He didn’t believe me, the argument got worse, he threatened to kick me all over town, and I lost my temper. Hung one on him. I was suspended, and later, fired. Not for allegedly taking advantage of a known prostitute: that was a lie and in any event, couldn’t be proved one way or the other, and no one would take her word for it. At worst, I would have been suspended and got off with a warning. No, I was sacked for striking a senior officer.”
Sceptre took his hand and held it sympathetically. “You enjoyed being a policeman, too, didn’t you? I can tell from the way you talk about it.”
He sighed again. “My father was a cop. He was the last policeman in Ashdale to be killed in the line of duty. He tried to stop a gang who’d just robbed a bank getting away, and they mowed him down with their car.”
A look of anguish came over Sceptre’s face. “Oh, Pete, I’m so sorry. You never mentioned it before.”
Pete glowered at the memory. “I was nine years old and it hurt. It doesn’t hurt anymore, but it makes me so mad. They were caught, tried and found guilty, and what did they get? Life. And what does life mean? The judge set a tariff of fifteen years, and they’re already free. They served less than thirteen, whereas me and mum... I was left fatherless and she was left without a husband and with only a crappy pension.” The glaze of reminiscence left his eyes and he focused once more on Sceptre. “That’s why I became a cop. I never wanted to do anything else. I vowed that no one should suffer the way I did. Locke is the same kind of man. Despite what you may think of him, he believes in the rule of law, and he’s as honest as the day is long. For obvious reasons, he has a blind spot when it comes to me. He’d be happy to see me rot in jail, but to be fair to him, a couple of months after I was fired, most of those men I’d named were suspended, three of them were fired and one went to jail, so he had obviously investigated my accusations, and he hated bent cops.”
Sceptre was silent for a moment, waiting to see if he had anything more to say. When he did not, she asked, “Have you ever thought that the prostitute was a set up? That the very men you were naming briefed her?”
Pete nodded. “Thousands of times. Trouble is, I only thought of it after I got fired. All I achieved was putting an end to my career. And Locke swore he would get me back one day for punching him like that.”
“So he’d love to pin a murder rap on you?”
Pete shook his head. “Don’t be fooled by Locke’s accusations. He knows we’re innocent, but you’re half right. He would love to pin something on me.”
Sceptre allowed a sizeable pause and then asked, “What about Tate?”
Momentarily lost in his memories, Pete stared through the rain-streaked windows. Eventually he said, “Similar scenario. About four years ago, I went out to arrest both the Tates. When I got there, no one was home except for Nicky, Jimmy’s missus. You’ve seen her. She was an actress before she married Jimbo. Anyway, we got talking, one thing led to another and …well... you know.”
“No I don’t.” Suddenly Sceptre blushed. “Oh. Right. I don’t have much experience of that kind of thing.”
Pete gave her a smile. “We can soon change that.”
“No, thank you, Pete.” Sceptre removed her hand.
Pete took up his narrative once more. “That was a set-up, and Tate had a video camera on us. When I went back the following morning, he showed me the tape and threatened to use it. You know, send it to Locke. I’d have been fired. Consorting with known criminals.”
Sceptre’s reaction amused him. When he first admitted that Tate had videotaped the incident, she shuddered in revulsion. Now her eyes widened in shock. “That’s a little more than consorting, Pete.”
“Consorting is the legal term, it’s also the disciplinary term for it, and even if you don’t have much experience of that kind of thing, you don’t need me to draw you pictures, do you?” Once more he sighed. “It was the one mistake I ever made… apart from trusting that tart.”
Sceptre sympathised. “I can see the fix you were in. So, what happened?”
“The price of Tate’s silence was my keeping him up to date on raids. What could I do?”
Sceptre thought about it for a moment. “You could have approached your chief and told him.”
Pete shook his head. “When I said, ‘What could I do?’ it was a rhetorical question. I may be daft but I’m not stupid. I told you, Locke doesn’t like bent cops, and he would have booted me off the force. Anyway, Jimmy had me snookered, and afterwards, every time we raided him, we found nothing more incriminating than a chocolate wrapper telling us he wasn’t sticking to his diet. I tipped him off to everything.” He sighed again. “I rationalised it because you always do. It wasn’t as if Jimmy was harming anyone but the big movie producers, but when I think about it, it disgraces the memory of my father.”
Sceptre clucked irritably. “And of course, when you eventually did get fired, it was for the same sort of thing with a prostitute, wasn’t it? Your sex addiction is a real problem. Have you never tried to do anything about it?”
“Sex addiction?” Pete raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I don’t call one mistake and one pack of lies in a lifetime an addiction, and how many girls have you seen me bring home since you moved into the flat? Contrary to what you may imagine, I have not had more women than you’ve had hot dinners.” He gave her a good-humoured smile. “Anyway, an addiction to sex would be preferable to being hooked on choccies and sweeties like him.” Pete cast an eye over his shoulder at Kevin, who was now snoring loudly. “So now you know why I’m prepared to take Tate’s money for recovering the DVDs. He cornered me into breaking the rules and took advantage of it, so if I can take him for five grand now, I will.” The bleep of an alar
m on Pete’s wristwatch told them it was eleven-thirty. “It’s time we were checking the place over.” He looked at Kevin’s dozing form once more, turned and kicked out at his pal’s chair. “Wakey-wakey, Sunbeam, rise and shine, supper time.”
Sceptre got to her feet. “Time to go to walkies.”
Kevin immediately became nervous. To McKinley, he said, “This is when things started to happen the other night.”
“Well, tonight,” said Sceptre, asserting her authority as psychic-in-residence, “we’ll stick together, and if you sense anything, Kevin, I’ll get straight onto Fishwick.”
They left the cafeteria to make their way round the house, heading for the uppermost floors first, then working backward, systematically checking the darker nooks and crannies of the building. They were a small huddle of people dwarfed in the immensity of the hall’s interior, the dim lighting and their torches casting long, dark and shifting shadows on the walls.
“So what’s with this Fishwick character?” McKinley asked, as they returned to the first floor landing and the master bedrooms.
“He’s my channel, my spirit guide,” Sceptre explained. “He is my contact with the Other Side.”
The reporter could not help but chuckle. “The other side? You mean West Yorkshire?”
“Oh, don’t you start. I have enough trouble with those two.” She gazed affectionately in the direction of Kevin and Pete, who were at the far end of the corridor, checking the rooms, switching off mains lights.
As they came back down the stairs, the meagre light from their lamps picked out hooded stares from portraits of those who had passed away in this grand mansion. From outside, the wind moaned and rain lashed at the building.
“As long as it’s moaning and lashing the building and not me,” said Kevin through chattering teeth, his fear intensifying with every light they doused.
“Wouldn’t it have been simpler to knock the mains off?” asked McKinley as they returned to the cafeteria.
“We had that debate the other night,” grumbled Pete, “and, as I pointed out then, it would kill our equipment too.”
*****
They settled again in the cafeteria, listening to the violence of the weather outside. Kevin soon nodded off, and, shortly thereafter, so did Pete and McKinley. For a while, Sceptre worked busily on her notes. But soon the pressure of the night and the many hours without proper rest began to take their toll, and her eyelids became heavy, drooping, dropping, finally closing...
She sat bolt upright, eyes staring, and gasped.
The sound woke all three men. They jumped as she let out a strangled cry. Her chest thrust out and her head snapped backward and she sat rigid on the chair.
“Did someone hook her into the mains?” asked Kevin.
Pete moved towards her. McKinley stopped him. “If she’s being electrocuted, it’ll kill you too,” the reporter warned.
“Reporter’s license again, McKinley?” sneered Pete. “Electrocuted? Do you see any wires?” He took another cautious step towards her. “She looks to me like she’s having some kind of fit. We’ve got to get her laid flat on the deck. McKinley, give me a hand. Kev, clear us a space.”
While Pete went to Sceptre’s aid, gripping her hands, Kevin began making what proved a futile effort to move the chairs and tables. McKinley, rather than doing as Pete had requested, took out his notebook and pen.
She still sat rigid on the chair, her eyes glazed, staring into space. Then she relaxed but began to breathe rapidly, almost panting as if she were exerting herself to her limit.
Unable to shift the furniture, Kevin looked at her and shrank back. “She scares me almost as much as the ghosts do.” He looked to Pete for guidance. “Maybe she’s going into a trance again. You know. To talk to her butler, Fish Slice.”
“For God’s sake, shut up, Kev,” Pete snapped, “and get that furniture moved.”
But Kevin’s jitters had finally got the better of him. Tugging uselessly at the table, his face wobbled in fear and he rambled, almost talking to himself. “She said I’m an unconscious telly frenetic.”
“More like a brainless telly addict,” snapped Pete.
Her breathing accelerated even further. The sound escaping her lips became a rapid conglomeration of rasping rattles. Pete gripped her more firmly.
“She’s hyperventilating,” he said.
“She’s hyperventilating, my backside,” flapped Kevin as he broke wind.
Pete released her, and she began to slide from the chair. Her limbs trembled; her eyes and mouth twitched rapidly, involuntarily. Pete moved behind her and pressed her shoulders to keep her there. He glowered at McKinley who was busy scribbling in his notebook. “Never mind taking notes¾give me a hand! Kevin, have you not shifted those tables and chairs yet?”
Kevin’s frantic mind shifted into a hysterical overdrive. “The bloody furniture’s fixed to the floor,” he cried. “Do something, Pete.”
McKinley knelt before her, pressing her feet down firmly to the tiled floor. Sceptre shook violently, struggling for release.
Pete nodded to McKinley. ‘We’ll carry her to the counter. There’s space on the floor in front of it.”
They made to pick her up, McKinley gripping her behind the knees, Pete tucking his hands beneath her shoulders.
Then suddenly she spoke. Her mouth opened. Her lips did not move, and the sound her throat emitted was tortured, guttural, unrecognizable as her own.
“WIGJAM, WIGJAM, WIGJAM, WIGJAM, WIGJAM!”
Suddenly her whole body tensed. Again her back arched, her chest thrust up and out. The trembling became an uncontrollable shudder. Some unseen force threw both Pete and McKinley back and away from her. They recovered quickly and tried again to move her to the area in front of the counter. For long seconds, while they struggled to control her, she bounced in the seat. Then, just as suddenly, all movement stopped. Her chest collapsed and she slid from the chair, lying completely still on the cafeteria floor.
McKinley got to her first. He put an ear to her chest. Stunned and frightened, he looked up at them.
“Oh my God, she’s dead.”
Chapter Fourteen
Standing by, flapping uselessly, Kevin almost burst into tears. “Do something!”
For a long moment, Pete stared at her lifeless body; then, gripped by a sudden determination, he shouldered McKinley out of the way and tore open her blouse.
“Pete, please,” gasped Kevin, averting his eyes from her lacy bra. “I know you’ve always fancied her, but not now.”
“Shut up, you idiot!”
Pete closed his mouth over hers, pinched her nose and breathed into her lungs. One, two. He left her mouth, moved down, the heel of his right hand at the base of her breastbone, left hand pressing down. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven... He returned to her mouth and breathed, one, two. Apply chest compression, one, two, three, four, five, all the way up to 30.
Standing back, feeling useless and ineffective, Kevin began to weep.
“Quit blubbing,” Pete snapped, “and call for an ambulance.”
“It’ll take too long to get here,” McKinley pointed out.
“Let me worry about that,” Pete said, breaking his mouth from hers, “you just call it.” Keeping up his resuscitation attempt, he shouted at her. “Damn you, Sceptre, breathe, will you!”
Sweat broke out on Pete’s forehead. McKinley watched in silent shock as he worked to bring her back. Alongside the reporter, Kevin fumbled with his mobile phone, his hands shaking so badly that he could hardly control his fingers.
The frustration of his fruitless efforts got to Pete. “Come on, you silly cow, breathe.”
Mouth to mouth, one, two, chest compression, 5, 10, 20, 30, mouth to mouth, one, two, chest compression, 5, 10, 20, 30. He glanced at his watch. Three minutes. He watched her. Not breathing. He felt for a heartbeat. Nothing.
“She’s going,” McKinley whispered while alongside him, Kevin was speaking quietly but urgently to the emerg
ency services.
“Not yet. She doesn’t go until I let her.” Pete lowered his mouth over hers again.
Breathe, one, breathe, two. Palm on breastbone, press, 5, 10, 20, 30. Mouth-to-mouth, chest compression, mouth-to-mouth, wipe away the sweat, chest compression.
*****
On the far side of the house where he was communicating with the spirit of Sir Henry Melmerby, Fishwick first realised something was wrong when he heard his mistress’ strangled, garbled voice uttering the incomprehensible word ‘wigjam’.
“Don’t matter how much she tries to hide her voice, I can still recognise it,” he muttered to himself. He swooped back to the cafeteria. Looking down on Sceptre’s rigid body from his vantage point near the ceiling, he realised instantly what had happened. Steven Bilks had possessed her.
But Steven Bilks was a fresh, new spirit; he did not know how to control a live body. All he could feel was his fury and frustration.
Fishwick had known such frustration himself on the fields of Flanders. Carrying his master’s body back to the British trenches, he had felt a rack of agonising pain and, to his fury, found himself here, on the spirit plane. That anger, that blazing outrage at having his life cut short so brutally, had been the cause of his inability to communicate with any of the Rand-Epping family, and it was only when Sceptre was born and he got his first sight of her angelic face that he had calmed down enough not only to communicate, but to learn to master his abilities to manipulate matter in the real world.
From Fishwick’s point of view, Sceptre was one body with two spirits fighting to control it¾and Bilks was winning! In his 90 years on the spirit plane, he had seen it before, and he knew that if a person was forced from his or her body, it was the devil’s own job to get him back into it.
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