A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  Her manly features turned more gorilla-like. Angrily, she snapped her fingers. “Lemmy, Tommy, sic him.”

  Head down, Lawson charged like a bull; Pete sidestepped and Lawson flew past him.

  “Olé,” Pete called as Lawson’s head connected with the car’s headlamp.

  Groom came, threw a punch; Pete caught the fist and twisted. “Your mate,” said Pete, “has dented my headlight. I’ll have to hammer it out again... with your head.”

  Reaching across, he took Groom’s head and brought it down on the bonnet. With the two pugs reeling, Sylvie came and threw a right; Pete caught it and glared into her offset eyes. “I’ve warned you before not to mess with the big boys,” he said. He head-butted her, and she, too, staggered back.

  Pete chuckled at the groggy threesome. “Tell your boss if he wants to see me, he comes himself.”

  “No sweat, Brennan, I’m right here.”

  Pete turned to find Wilcox behind him, bringing a bottle down through the air. Pete put up an arm to protect himself, but the bottle cracked on his forehead, and he sank to the ground.

  Wilcox grinned and looked at the bottle of Old Sporran. “I always knew this junk would be good for something.”

  *****

  In the reception area of Ashdale police station, Sceptre was negotiating with Locke. “Chief Inspector, we can’t get in touch with Pete, and he’s in terrible danger.”

  “Good,” said Locke. “Maybe it’ll keep him outta my hair for a while.”

  Sceptre struggled to keep her patience. They had been trying to ring Pete for the last half hour. His mobile had rung the first time Kevin tried, but it was not answered and since then, it had been switched off. In desperation, they had come to the police station, only to find Locke in a bad mood brought on by a manpower shortage after trouble at a football match.

  Sceptre tried to assert her authority as an aristocrat. “Listen to me. Wilcox murdered Steven Bilks; Pete has gone to see Wilcox, and he could be next if Wilcox realises he knows the truth.”

  Locke eyed her; from one side, Keynes gave Sceptre and Kevin a sympathetic shrug.

  “You know for sure that Wilcox killed Bilko, do you?” demanded the Chief Inspector.

  “Yes,” retorted Sceptre.

  “And how do you know?” he asked.

  “Steven Bilks told me,” Sceptre declared.

  Locke snorted. “Oh, I forgot you’re psychiatric, aren’t you?”

  “Psychic!” she snapped.

  “Same thing, in my book.” Locke wagged an angry finger at her. “Well, listen to me, lady: Sceptre and spectre are spelled using the same letters, and so are stupid and sod off …”

  “No, they’re not,” interrupted Kevin.

  “Don’t get technical Keeley, just do it.” The Chief Inspector’s voice rose in proportion to his colour. “Get out of my hair and my life. If you expect me to go chasing after Brennan, you’ve got another think coming. If Wilcox tops him, he’d be doing me a double favour. I get Wilcox walled up for life and I get rid of Brennan.”

  Racked with frustration, they came out of the police station.

  “Now what do we do?” asked Kevin.

  Sceptre chewed her lip. “Try Pete’s mobile again.”

  Kevin recalled the number from his phone’s memory and clicked the connect button. He put the instrument to his ear and listened. After a moment, he cut the call.

  “Still switched off.” He clucked impatiently. “Do we have a number for Melmerby Manor?”

  “Of course, but what’s the point of ringing it? Or did you imagine that the spirits can manipulate matter well enough to answer the phone?” Immediately she said it, Sceptre regretted her sarcasm. “Kevin,” she went on more gently, “if Pete was out at the Manor and found we’re not, he would have phoned us, wouldn’t he?” From the glum look on Kevin’s face, Sceptre guessed he agreed. After a moment’s thought, she said, “What about those other two. The Tates?”

  Kevin checked his watch and shook his head. “He wants us out at the manor within the next half hour, and he was on his way to see the Tates when I spoke to him on the phone. For him to meet us out there means he must had done with Jimmy and Johnny and been to see Wilcox.” He looked at her as if seeking inspiration. “You got any ideas?”

  Sceptre shrugged. “We could go see Wilcox ourselves?”

  “Why don’t we just swallow a couple of hundred morphine pills?” Kevin suggested. “As a way of killing ourselves, it’s less painful than going to see Ronnie Wilcox.”

  She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “If we go to Flutter-Bys,” Kevin explained, “we let Wilcox know that we know and he’ll do the same to us as he did to Bilko.” Kevin took out his mobile and dialled Pete’s number once more but received only his voicemail. “Sceptre, we have to face it, if Pete has faced them out, they may have already killed him.”

  The notion filled her with alarm. “Fishwick?” she called out, and then listened in silence to her butler.

  “There are no new spirits in this locale, Madam,” he assured her. “Well, there are, but most of them have gone straight through The Light, and if Mr. Brennan had come over, I’m sure he would be angry enough to stay on this plane.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick.” Sceptre came back to the world of the living. “Fishwick assures me that Pete is not dead.”

  Kevin snorted. “Oh, well, that makes everything tickety-bloody-boo then, doesn’t it? I mean if Fish ‘n’ chips says Pete’s fine, let’s go home and watch TV.”

  “No. We’re not going to do anything of the kind.” Sceptre chewed her lip in desperate thought. “You don’t suppose he could have gone out to Melmerby Manor already, do you?”

  Kevin became even more agitated. “I just suggested that, and you said he would have phoned us first.” He unwrapped a stick of gum, popped it in his mouth and let his jaw work on it. “Sceptre, I have a bad feeling about this. If Wilcox has him, he’ll want to know exactly what Pete knows, and Pete’s idea was to tempt Wilcox out to the manor. Ten to one, that’s where Wilcox will take him to bump him off, just like he did with Bilks.”

  “According to Fishwick, Bilks was killed at Flutter-Bys, not the manor.”

  “Oh well, we must get these things right, mustn’t we.” His frightened eyes looked into hers. “Wherever Bilko was killed, wherever they decide to ice Pete, we’ll be next.”

  Sceptre became decisive. “We need help.” She retrieved her mobile, flicked through the address book until she found McKinley’s number, and dialled it up. A moment later, she was connected. “Mike? Sceptre. We have a problem. We think Wilcox may have Pete, and we believe we could be the next targets. We’re on our way out to Melmerby Manor, and we could do with some support.”

  “Melmerby Manor? Sceptre, I thought we had a date.” McKinley sounded aggrieved.

  “We do. I’m simply switching the venue. Now will you help us deal with Wilcox and his crooks?”

  At the other end of the line, McKinley hedged. “Well it’s a bit difficult. I’m not generally into... good grief is that the time? I have an interview at eight with Chief Inspector Locke.”

  Sceptre struggled to contain her disappointment and anger. Making an effort to keep her voice even, she said, “Strange. I’ve just been with Locke, and he said nothing to me.”

  “Did I say Locke? I meant the Chief Constable.”

  “Oh? And what about our date?” Sceptre began to tap her feet.

  “Rain check,” begged McKinley. “I’ll get back to you after I’ve spoken to him. Catch you later.”

  He hung up on her and Sceptre stared at the telephone as if it had betrayed her.

  Virulent rage pumped the blood through her veins. “You … you … COWARD!”

  Shivering in the snow, his brain idling, Kevin jumped at her final, shouted word. “What?”

  Sceptre did not answer. She stomped to the van, and leaned her forehead against it, fighting down the disappointment. “Charming and persuasive,” she
hissed, “and it’s nothing but a thin coat of paint to hide the truth.”

  “What are you on about?” asked Kevin.

  She turned to face him, her face suffused with fury, and held up the telephone. “I should have listened to my head last night, rather than my heart. I will never trust another man as long as I live.”

  From the look on his face, Kevin guessed what had happened. Softly, he reminded her, “You can trust me and Pete.”

  Sceptre tried to calm down. “Yes. I was generalising, Kevin. I didn’t mean Pete and you but the male sex as a species.”

  Kevin’s brow furrowed as he tried to sort out her meaning. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sceptre brought the debate to an end before it could properly begin by changing the subject.

  “Right, partner. It’s down to you and me. What are we going to do?”

  He shrugged. “Go home and wait for Pete to ring us?”

  Sceptre shook her head. “And leave Pete at the mercy of these gangsters? I don’t think so. Like you said, he wanted us out at Melmerby Manor, and that is exactly where we will be.”

  “Now, hang on, Sceptre, let’s not lose our heads. Chasing ghosts is one thing; hassling Wilcox and his goons at Melmerby Manor is an entirely different bottle of aspirin. That guy can seriously damage your health.”

  “So you’re happy to leave Pete to their brutality, are you?”

  “Like I said, Pete could already be dead, and before you say it, I don’t trust Fishwick on this one. People snuff it all the time, and do they carry ID cards into the next world? No they do not, and Fishy can’t spot them all.”

  Sceptre folded her arms and tapped her foot irritably on the ground. “Nevertheless, we are going to Melmerby Manor.”

  “Look, I don’t wanna stand out here in the snow, arguing the toss with you…”

  “Good. Then let’s get in your van and go.” She moved to the van.

  Kevin hung back. Sceptre waited by the passenger door. Once again, she tapped her foot impatiently. Reluctantly, Kevin followed her. A minute later, they drove out of the police station yard and into the snowy streets.

  Behind them, Keynes started her engine and followed at a discreet distance.

  *****

  Pete came around slowly. His back ached, he had a storming headache, he felt cold and, when he tried to move his hands, he found they were tied behind his back. He shook his head to clear it and took in his surroundings.

  The room was small, cramped and poorly lit, filled from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, with cartons, packed in so tightly that he would have to go outside just to change his mind. Pete recognised the cartons immediately. He had last seen them at Melmerby Manor when they filled the floor of the stable warehouse. They were Jimmy Tate’s pirate DVDs.

  He rolled first to his knees, then, pressing his back against the nearest of the cartons, struggled to a standing position and looked around for some means of cutting the rope biting into his wrists. All he could see were cartons. Behind the boxes containing the DVDs were other cartons of butter, bacon, ham, and other cooked meats. He could make out catering-sized pots of yogurt and cream, and two litre containers of milk, but there was nothing on which he could get any purchase.

  He cleared his head and thought about his likely location. Wilcox had taken him by surprise in the alley outside Flutter-Bys. At seven on Saturday, even a bitterly cold, snowy Saturday, the streets of Ashdale would be packed with people out on the razzle, and he reasoned that they would not risk taking him anywhere but inside the club until very much later. So he was in Flutter-Bys, but where exactly?

  The room was cold. Not freezing, and perhaps as many as five degrees above: the kind of chill that, with his overcoat, would not get to him for some time. He searched his memory for those occasions when he had raided the club as a police officer. There was a cold store in the cellar, next to the cage where Wilcox kept his spirits and cigarettes. That was it. He was crammed into the cold store of Flutter-Bys’ cellar along with the cartons of stolen, pirate DVDs, and there was barely room to swing the proverbial cat.

  He faced the door, a thick, heavy-duty affair designed to keep the chill in rather than others out. There was no handle on the inside. He kicked it and instantly wished he hadn’t. The only effect was to send pain lancing along his leg to his knee, and he doubted that the sound could even have been heard out in the cellar.

  He perched his backside on the corner of a carton and took the weight off his feet. The situation was one of his own making. Like his best friend, he had suddenly become obsessed with the money (Jimmy Tate’s £5,000 reward) and he had stupidly decided to play a lone hand.

  Still, all was not lost. They would have to come down here and move him at some point, and he would not go without a fight.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I’ll tell you what we’ve never tried,” Sceptre said suddenly.

  Behind the wheel, Kevin peered through the heavy snow into darkness as his ancient van plodded along Melmerby Lane. “There’s hundreds of things I’ve never tried. Swimming with concrete shoes on, for instance, but that’s something Wilcox will put right if he catches us tonight.”

  “I’m talking about our current situation,” Sceptre responded irritably. “We’ve never tried ringing Steven Bilks’ mobile.”

  Kevin snorted. “You reckon he’ll answer? I didn’t know your butler and his chums had a mobile network over there.”

  Sceptre ignored his sarcasm, reached across and picked up his mobile from the drinks tray. She recalled Bilks’ number from the incoming text menu, and dialled it. “Wherever it is,” she said as she waited for the connection to be made, “it must be switched on or you would not have been receiving text messages from it. If so, we can contact the police and get them to put a GPS trace on it.”

  “And do what?” Kevin demanded.

  Impatience got the better of her. “Are you being deliberately obtuse?”

  “I can’t be.” He objected. “I don’t know what it means.”

  “Kevin, you are our tech head. GPS tracking will lead them to the phone’s location and, hopefully, Bilks’ killer.” She became excited. “It’s ringing.”

  Kevin wiped condensation from the windscreen with his sleeve. “Good. If you get through to Bilko, tell him to stop texting me.”

  Sceptre sniffed disdainfully. “I didn’t expect an answer.” Taking out her own mobile, she transferred Bilks’ number to her address book, and then dialled the police station. “Chief Inspector Locke, please,” she asked when the call was answered. “Tell him it’s Sceptre Rand.”

  There was a delay of about a minute, during which Kevin stopped at the gates of Melmerby Manor and climbed out to open them.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Rand, but the Chief Inspector is too busy to speak to you,” said the desk officer.

  Sceptre puffed out her cheeks. “All right. Take a message for him. I’m going to give you a mobile telephone number. It belonged to Steven Bilks. The phone is still switched on, and it’s probably where Bilks dropped it when he was murdered. If Locke gets a GPS trace on it, it may lead him to Bilks’ killer.”

  *****

  Pete had relied upon his physical strength for much of his life, and he had the idea that if he tugged at the bonds around his wrists, he might be able to stretch the rope enough to loosen it. One tug, however, sent a stab of agony through his wrists, and he realised immediately that he was not bound with rope. Instead, fine wire, about the same thickness as that used to make paper clips, had been expertly twisted and looped round his wrists so that no matter which way he tried to free himself, it would cut into his skin.

  With an effort, he struggled to bring his fury under control and bring his logical processes into play. Wiring his wrists together like that, they must have used pliers to twist the wire into place, and if he could hook it over something, anything, he might be able to undo it.

  But he was crammed into a tight space, hemmed in by the cartons and the steel door, none of which was any use t
o him.

  In a further paroxysm of fury, he kicked the nearest box.

  As if taking a cue, a mobile phone whistled the theme tune to Laurel & Hardy. Pete cursed again. It was in his pocket, and he couldn’t get to it to answer...

  “Your phone doesn’t play the theme to Laurel and Hardy, you berk!” he told himself.

  He cocked an ear. The ringing was coming from one of the upper shelves. If he could get to it... but how?

  He looked around. Nothing to see but the boxes. A slow smile crept across his face. The very manner in which the cartons had been packed into the cold store provided the perfect answer. They were so tightly packed that they formed a near-solid wall, strong enough to bear his weight. Pressing his back to the door, he jacked himself up with a foot against the nearest carton and twisted his head to the right. The phone was there. Half-pushed behind a catering pack of pure orange juice.

  Pete leaned over, nudged the carton of orange juice away, gripped the phone with his lips and tried to pull it towards him. It slid away. He repeated the process. The phone slipped from his mouth once more. Praying that whoever was ringing would not ring off, he tried and lost it a third time. His legs ached. His calf muscles screamed for release. The weight of his back pressing his bound hands into the door made the wire bite into his wrists. The phone was tantalisingly close.

  Summoning every ounce of strength, he lifted himself a fraction higher. “Don’t ring off,” he urged the phone. He locked his knees to keep him there, ignored the pain in his wrists, and craned his neck over the shelf.

  Got it!

  Filled with triumph, the phone locked firmly in his lips, he dragged it towards him. Then, in a sudden flurry of activity, two things happened.

  First, the phone stopped ringing. Pete shelved his disappointment and considered ways in which he could get the thing into his hands, but then the door suddenly opened and he fell backwards, out into the cellar of Flutter-Bys, dashing the mobile phone to the floor of the cold room.

  He cursed audibly.