A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

“I’ll need itemised bills for expenses.”

  Haz had obviously picked up the same, streetwise business acumen as Kevin, although his best pal usually tried to dodge itemised bills.

  “No problem. If I find him, I want another two grand.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “I’m not finished yet,” Pete told her. “There’s one last thing. My partners and I do a little ghost hunting and we’re standing security here tonight. They may need to come back during the day.” He smiled. “Sceptre thinks every building in town is haunted. Arrange passes for her and my buddy, Kevin Keeley, so we’re cleared for this site and then you’ve got a deal.”

  “Now wait a minute …” Briscoe began, only to be cut off by Haz.

  “Done,” she said.

  Happy with the way things were going, Pete relaxed a little. “Tell me about Nordqvist.”

  Haz lay back on the couch, one long leg dangling to the floor. Her tight, black costume showed more thigh than was strictly decent, and the matching skimpy top left little to the imagination. Pete told himself that if he met her in a bar and she were not who she was, he would probably have hit on her, but her public record using and dropping men put him off even as he thought of it.

  It was Briscoe who answered. Sitting further along the van, close to the exit, he toyed with his cigarette lighter. “He was Euro trash.”

  “Nag loved him,” Haz said.

  “He was on the make.”

  Pete swung his attention to Briscoe. “You didn’t like him?”

  “I didn’t care about him,” Briscoe said. “Screwing around with Nag, he was distracting her.”

  Pete raised his eyebrows at Haz. She could not have been less interested if Pete had said their latest album had sold only half a million copies. “Haz, if you want me to find this guy, I need to know everything that you know about him. If I don’t get the background, I won’t find him. You’re out of pocket two grand. That may be peanuts to you, but it won’t help your sister any.”

  Haz sat up. Again she was all attitude, pouting, chin jutting forward, shoulders tense. “We met him when we were on the pub circuit, right? He was a hick musician working in a bar. But he was good. We took him on as part of our backing. By the time we won the Star Light, Star Bright contest, he and Nag were in love. We made him our roadie. What more do you need to know?”

  “Where was he from?”

  “Sweden,” Haz replied. “Somewhere near Stockholm. He moved to England when he was in his early twenties.”

  Pete sifted the information and slotted into a mental filing cabinet that was currently empty. “Tell me about the night you last saw Gus Nordqvist.”

  With a glance, Haz handed over to Briscoe, while she remained in her seat fidgeting with her mobile, knees bouncing agitatedly, flicking the corners of her magazines. Pete guessed she was waiting for him to go so she could take her fix. He wanted to grab her by the scruff of the neck, run her into the station, and again he had to remind himself that he was no longer on the force.

  “Three weeks ago, when we played Eastlands. Manchester,” Briscoe reported.

  “It was a good night,” Haz interjected. “A full house, fifty, sixty thousand people there. Mostly kids, lots of mums and dads.” Her scowl deepened and it was directed at Pete. “People who appreciate our talent.”

  “Sad sacks, you mean.” Happy that he had got the message across, Pete invited, “Go on.”

  “The girls came off stage about ten, ten fifteen. Nordqvist ran them to their hotel. The Bower.” Briscoe waited for Pete to be impressed.

  Pete refused to oblige. “I know it. Keep talking.”

  “After he dropped them off, he came back to the Arena. It was part of Nordqvist’s job to make sure all the gear, electrical and electronic, was accounted for, properly packed away and stowed on the truck. I left around midnight and he was almost through. He should have been no later than ten or fifteen minutes behind me, but …” Briscoe shrugged. “He never showed.”

  “How would Nordqvist get from the Arena to the Bower?” Pete asked.

  Briscoe leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands forward, still playing with the lighter, its metal surface glinting in his dark hands. “His own car. Well, the car the girls bought for him.”

  “Seven series BMW,” Haz said as if making certain that Pete understood how much money she and her sister could lay out for their staff.

  Pete threw it back at her. “No stretch limos?” It was cynical. He made it cynical. Anything to get up her nose.

  “In this business,” Briscoe said, “the worst thing you can do is move around in a stretch limo. It makes you stand out, makes you a target for every fruitcake stalker and potential kidnapper on the street.”

  “And you’d know about them,” Pete observed

  “That Beamer had everything,” Haz said, ignoring his jibe at Briscoe. “Run flat tyres, tinted and bullet proof windows, and more lines of communication than the CIA. We were safe in that car.”

  Pete grimaced. He had insulted the pair of them, but they were not bothered. It was almost as if he didn’t count, as if Nordqvist didn’t count, as if the entire business was nothing more than a sop to the spoiled, younger sister.

  He stood up and looked out onto the greens where the technicians were packing up for the day. He turned back on Haz and Briscoe. “To get from the Arena to the Bower takes ten minutes, tops. Are you sure Nordqvist left the Arena?”

  “He left,” Briscoe said, “and he took the car with him. Listen, Brennan, it don’t matter what you think of me or her, we’re not dumb. We waited the following morning, and when he didn’t show we made our own way to the next gig …”

  “Which was where?”

  “Gateshead,” said Haz.

  Briscoe picked up the thread again. “I took the girls there. We expected Nordqvist to show, he didn’t. When he didn’t show for the next couple of days, we reported it to your lot. Some guy called Locker.”

  “Chief Inspector Locke,” Pete said. “He’s an old friend.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Pete confirmed. “Well, I call him a friend, but he’s the one I punched. He’s the one who fired me. So you told Locke. I assume he investigated?”

  “He did,” Haz said. “Fat lot of use it was. His people went through the usual routine, checking ports and airports, drew a blank and officially listed him as a missing person. We’d already checked every boat to Ireland and the continent. Gus and the car were not on any of them. We put out a general call at the ports and airports for the car. Nothing. Since then we haven’t heard diddley. Now you have the complete picture, you’re being paid to find him, get out there and look.”

  “Right.” Pete zipped up his fleece. “I’ll need to talk to Nag some time.”

  “No way will she speak to you, man,” Briscoe said. “She doesn’t like cops.”

  Pete’s gorge rose. “What is it with you people? You want me to find Nordqvist, I’ll look, but you’ll bloody well talk to me, and you’d better make sure the snotty little cow understands that.”

  Haz leapt to her feet, her fists clenched. “Don’t you talk about my sister like that.”

  Pete never flinched, never blinked. He held her fierce eyes with a steely glare. “You try it. The split second your arm moves, I’ll break it, and if he tries to intervene …” he jerked a sideways thumb at Briscoe, “I’ll break him too. When you speak to me, Harriet Lane, you speak to me with respect, because if you don’t I’ll kick your arse so hard that you won’t be able to sit for a month.” He paused to let his temper cool and give her the opportunity to back off. “I’m out of here, now. When I come back I’ll want to speak to your sister. Make sure she knows that, make sure she can keep her filthy mouth clean long enough to answer my questions.”

  *****

  Sited not far from the newly completed Ashdale Arena, the Bower was an unassuming, low-rise building, built of redbrick with few windows in the front elevation. But for the illuminated sign on the
flat roof, it could have been mistaken for a supermarket or warehouse.

  The modest front, however, hid the last word in opulence. Boasting only 30 suites, every detail had been carefully planned to ensure that wealthy patrons were as pampered here as they were at home. From the most luxurious furnishings to the solid gold bathroom fittings to the standard Jacuzzi, no expense had been spared.

  The manager, Ranji Patel was a third generation Bangladeshi, Ashdale born, his cultural heritage contrasting strongly with his Northern English accent. A slender man, about 5’10” tall, he was easy going to a fault, but, as Pete well knew, he was efficient and, when he had to be, ruthless with his staff. Ranji knew that his job, all their jobs, hinged on ensuring their celebrity and VIP guests were 110% happy at the Bower.

  He greeted Pete with a toothy grin and listened while Pete explained what he was about.

  “I can’t divulge anything about our clients, Pete,” he explained.

  “I’m not asking you to, Ranji. Haz Lane has hired me and I need to talk to you about the night they played Eastlands.”

  “Come into the madhouse.” he turned to his brunette receptionist, and said, “Sarah, I’ll be in the back office with Mr. Brennan for a while.” He moved to the end of the counter, and lifted an access section. “Come on through, Pete.”

  Pete accompanied Ranji to the back office, its single window overlooking Bower Brook, a tiny tributary of the River Ash, from which the hotel took its name. Across the stream, visible through the barren branches of nearby trees, were open fields, rolling away into the distance before giving way to the residential buildings of North Manchester. The only blot on the unsullied landscape was the West Ashdale hypermarket, the only 24-hour supermarket in the area, standing about half a mile from the hotel.

  Ranji cleared off his desk top, throwing files and correspondence to the floor, planted himself in a chair and threw his feet on the desk corner.

  Sitting opposite, Pete fired his opening shot. “You remember that night?”

  “Yep. The Wicked Witches stayed here.” Ranji’s face lit with excitement. “You know they came from Ashdale originally. But Pete, I just said, I can’t give you any low-down on them.”

  “Save the adverts for Country Life and Radio Ashdale. I told you, I’m actually working for Haz Lane.” Pete paused so that Ranji could be suitably impressed. “That night,” he went on eventually, “Gus Nordqvist was supposed to join Haz and Nag here, but he never showed. I’m trying to find him on their behalf, and I’m chasing shadows, but the Bower seems as good a place to start as any.”

  Ranji gave a shrug. “I’d have thought you were better off starting at Eastlands.”

  “Word is he was seen leaving Eastlands.” Pete waited for Ranji to speak.

  When he did, there was little he could tell. “Well, I dunno what you want from me. They were all booked in; Haz, Nag and that manager of theirs, that Sonny Briscoe, and Nordqvist. They all showed, but he never did. I wasn’t on duty that night, but the filth turned up a few days later asking questions, and they took away a security videotape.”

  Pete was surprised. “They did?”

  “Yep.” Ranji dropped his feet to the carpet, and sat forward. “See, Nordqvist drove a seven series Beamer. Specialist job, so I’m told. Bulletproof glass and everything. Anyway, our security camera covers the main entrance, and a car like Nordqvist’s was caught on camera at the entrance. It stopped for a minute, but didn’t come in. Then it drove off again.”

  Pete opened the filing cabinet of his mind again, and slotted the information into it. “The registration plate didn’t show up on the tape?”

  Ranji shook his head. “Doesn’t work like that. Our cameras don’t cover the entrance properly, they cover the parking lot. The road outside is sort of on the periphery, if you know what I mean. The car looked like Nordqvist’s but then again, it looked any other black BMW.”

  “And which way did it drive off?”

  The hotel manager waved through the window. “West. Towards the hypermarket.”

  “Could I see the tape?” Pete asked.

  “I don’t have any objection, but plod might,” said Ranji.

  Pete was surprised. “Plod?”

  “Yeah,” Ranji nodded. “Chief Inspector Locke. Your old boss. He took it away and we never got it back, but if you can get it off him, you’re welcome to it.”

  Pete stood up and shook hands. “Cheers Ranji. At least I have a start.”

  Chapter Four

  “The headmaster is a man named Norman Trent,” Sceptre said. “Has he been told we’ll be here all night?”

  Pete hung a hard left into Ashdalean Road. “Don’t know and does it matter?”

  “Well, yes,” Sceptre replied. “We’ll have some lights in the school. If he sees them and he’s not been made aware of our presence, he’ll probably call the police.”

  “I’ll get Sherlock to let him know,” Pete assured her as the school gates appeared in his headlights 200 yards ahead. “Did you find anything out at the library?”

  “Quite a bit.” Sceptre cast a glance behind to ensure that Kevin’s van was still with them. Happy to see him turn into the road 100 yards behind them, she faced front again. “The spirit of the Reverend James Emmet is supposed to haunt the chapel and the crypt. He was headmaster from 1929 to 1942. He had a fondness for Ashdale Breweries Old and Mild. No specific sightings of him but there are reports from many people who’ve heard someone whistling old music hall songs in the chapel and the place was empty. They’ve also found things like prayer books moved and the numbers on the hymn board shifted around. According to the stories, he’s more mischievous than malicious.”

  Pete eased off the gas, slowing down as he neared the gates. “Could he be this man in black Sherlock was on about?”

  “I don’t know. I sent Fishwick on one reconnaissance this afternoon, and I’ll get him to check the place out again while we’re unloading Kevin’s van.”

  Pete stopped yards from the gates and flashed his headlights into the school grounds. Four hundred yards away, near the conglomeration of filmmakers’ caravans, Sherlock returned the signal, and Pete and Sceptre climbed out of the car.

  A waning moon, approaching 3rd quarter, hung above the western horizon, shining in a black, cloudless December sky spangled with stars. Bitter cold snapped at their cheeks, condensed their exhaled breath. Through the wrought iron gates, the school look dark, forbidding, sitting in isolation despite its proximity to one of Ashdale’s more affluent suburbs.

  As Kevin pulled in behind them, the lights of Sherlock’s van bobbled up the asphalt drive and came to a halt the other side of the gates. He climbed out, unlocked and opened them, and tossed the bunch of keys to Pete.

  “Every key you’ll need is on there, Pete,” he said.

  “Cool.” Pete dropped them in his pocket. “Sherlock, can you do us a favour before you split? Can you let the headmaster know we’ll be in the building for the night?”

  “He already knows,” Sherlock said. “Apparently you came to some arrangement with Haz Lane.”

  Pete nodded. “She needs me and access to the school was part of the price.”

  “Yeah, well, talking of the Wicked Witches, this is a kosher, up front job for me,” Sherlock said, “so it has to be done right.” He dug into his coat pockets and came out with a swipe card and an A4 sheet of paper, and handed both to Pete.

  Pete saw that the A4 sheet was a plan of the school and grounds, marked with red crosses.

  “The crosses are the patrol points,” Sherlock explained. “You have to visit them every two hours and swipe the card through them. If you forget, I don’t get paid, and if I don’t get paid …”

  “You won’t be sleeping with your missus for a few nights,” Pete cut him off. “Stop panicking, Sherlock. I’ll see to it.”

  “In that case, I’ll leave you to it. Keep the gates locked, Pete, but you need to open them again by half five for the early morning cleaners. My day crew team will
be here for eight. Catch you later.”

  Sherlock climbed into his car and drove off. Pete stood to one side while Sceptre drove his car through and Kevin followed, then closed and locked the gates before climbing into the passenger seat of his estate.

  “Drive on, Milady,” he grinned.

  Sceptre scowled. “Very amusing, Peter.”

  Pete laughed. The only time she used his full name was when he annoyed her.

  “Isn’t this security business going to interfere with our work?” she asked.

  Pete checked the plan. There were four crosses on it: three on the main building, the fourth at the gates. “It’ll take me about ten minutes out of every two hours. When we get the van unloaded and the equipment shipped into the building, I’ll leave you and Kev setting it up while I do the first round. That way, I can concentrate on the ghost hunting for a couple of hours.” He laughed. “Not that I expect you to come up with much. The tale of a drunken old vicar from World War Two is hardly likely to set the paranormal world on fire, is it?”

  Sceptre pulled the car to the shallow steps leading to the school entrance. “One piece of concrete evidence, Pete, is all we need. That will be enough to turn the real world upside down and make everyone think about reality in a different light.”

  As they got out of the car, so Kevin climbed down from his van, took a drag on his cigarette and looked up at the school coat of arms, the knight, left arm resting on his shield, his sword pointing up from the right hand, and above it the school motto.

  “Mv …miv … mivlit …” Kevin tried to read the motto. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Sceptre read it aloud. “Multi sunt vocati, pauci vero electi. Many are called, few are chosen.”

  “What a lot of bull.” Kevin moved to the rear of his van and threw open the doors. “Not many are called to this place, but all of ’em are chosen as long as their parents have the money to pay the fees.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette and crushed it out. “Any ghosts in this place are probably the parents of kids bankrupted by the fees.”

  Leaving Kevin to haul the cartons containing their equipment to the back of the van, ready to be carried into the building, Sceptre and Pete climbed a short, broad flight of steps to the doors, where Pete sorted through the keys Sherlock had given him and after three misses eventually found the right key.