A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  He chuckled at the sight of a battered old Ford ahead. That was a driver who would be feeling the cold. Its rear end was dented, the back window shattered, its lights smashed and its offside wheel wobbled alarmingly as it plodded along.

  The driver pulled into the left. Pete checked his mirror and moved over to pass. Without warning, the beat up car pulled out. Pete braked sharply and the car tore off along the road, its erratic progress made even more hazardous by the wobbling rear wheel.

  The dark Ford moved at a frenetic pace and tore off to the right. Pete rushed after it, slamming the brakes, dragging the wheel hard right. He stopped dead.

  Semi-detached houses surrounded him. He was in a small estate of short and narrow streets, some of them cul-de-sacs, others winding and twisting their way back to the main road. He cruised along them looking left and right, hovering over the decision whether to turn this way or that. After ten minutes of cruising one street, turning, gliding along another, reversing into a drive to backtrack here, shunting to turn around there, he gave it up, made his way back out onto the cross town road and turned right. Someone, somewhere, someday would let slip information and Pete would have the driver.

  Less than ten minutes later, he pulled into the car park at Ashdale General Infirmary, paid his parking fee and ambled into A & E to find Sceptre amongst the crowd of walking wounded.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Hurt yourself or are you chasing surgical spirits now?” He grinned. “D’yer gerrit, eh? Surgical spirits?”

  Sceptre was not amused. “Yes, thank you, Pete. Your humour is up to its usual standard. Actually, I was with Kevin when the car tried to mash him.”

  Pete’s smile disappeared. He took the seat next to her. “What happened?”

  Sceptre gave him a brief account. Pete listened, asking occasional questions to clarify this or that point.

  “You’ll have to run me to Bent Benny’s,” she concluded. “You can bring Kevin’s van back. I’ll bring your car.”

  “Yeah, no problem,” Pete agreed. “You didn’t get this car’s number?”

  Before Sceptre could answer, the double doors leading from the treatment area swung open and a trolley appeared. Kevin sat up on it, playing games on his mobile phone.

  “You don’t look that hurt,” Pete said.

  Sceptre took his phone. “And you’re obviously well enough to play games.”

  “Hey, give that back.”

  Sceptre pointed to a sign banning the use of mobile phones. “They interfere with medical machinery,” she said switching it off and dropping it into her pocket. “What’s happening, Kevin?”

  “They’re taking me to X-ray,” he sulked. “They don’t think it’s broken but they wanna make sure. Tell you what, it doesn’t half hurt, though.”

  “I’ve asked once, I’ll try again,” said Pete. “Did either of you get the car’s registration?”

  Still sulking, Kevin sneered. “Oh, of course. First thing I thought as he aimed for my head. I must get his number and then, the next time I’m short of a homicidal maniac, I can bell him.” More seriously, he went on, “it was a dark Ford. That’s as much as I know. It won’t be too hard to find. The back end was all smashed in, one wheel was hanging off, the lights were gone and the number plate was broken.”

  A shock of recognition ran through Pete. Hadn’t he just chased such a Ford along Carlton Road and searched for it through that maze of streets? “Damn.”

  His colleagues looked at him in surprise but Pete was lost to his thoughts, busy weighing up the possibilities.

  “What’s wrong?” Sceptre asked.

  “The same guy just tried to run me off the road.” Pete grimaced and smacked his fist into his palm. “But there’s only one place he would go after trying it. Ashdale Autowreckers. Get rid of the evidence.”

  The porter coughed.

  “Sorry, chum, we’re holding you up.” Pete said. “Listen, Kev, Sceptre will run me over to Bent Benny’s. I’ll pick up your van and Sceptre will come back here to pick you up when they’ve done cutting off your leg.”

  Kevin pulled out his tongue as he was wheeled away.

  Coming out into the cold day, Pete drove them out of the car park.

  “What’s wrong, Pete?”

  He snapped out of his brooding thoughts. “Huh?”

  “You’ve been moody since Kevin told you what happened.”

  “Nothing,” he said, “I’m just annoyed with myself. I should have had that car. He couldn’t move that fast with his back wheel hanging off, but he managed to dodge me.”

  “How do you know it was the same car?” Sceptre demanded.

  Hassling with the mid-morning traffic, he told her exactly what had happened after he left Henderson’s yard.

  “It’s a bit thin,” she said. “There could be hundreds of wrecks in this town, and a good proportion of them will likely be dark Fords.”

  He grunted. “Like you, I don’t believe in coincidences. I’ll leave you with my car and Kev’s computer, then I’ll pay a quick call to Frank Anders’ place on the way back.”

  “Frank Anders?”

  “Owns Ashdale Autowreckers. Scumbag. Top his own granny for a few thou’ but we never managed to pin anything on him while I was on the force. And like I said, it’s the only place in town where the driver could get rid of a wreck without too many questions.”

  “Please be careful, Pete.”

  He laughed. “Concern? I’ll bet you love me deep down.”

  Sceptre gave him a thin smile. “No. But without you, who else would we get to carry the heavy weights about when we’re on an investigation?”

  Pete grinned. Cynicism was a sign of genuine concern, and it was as close as Sceptre ever got to admitting that she cared.

  A quarter of an hour later, he pulled up outside Bent Benny’s shop, parking behind Kevin’s van.

  They joined Benny, but Ashdale’s iffiest electronics genius could not enlighten them about the events.

  “Like I told Kev, Pete, I saw nothing.”

  Pete took the keys to Kevin’s van and handed his car keys to Sceptre.

  “Go back to the hospital and wait to see what they’re doing with him. I’ll go to see Anders and his oppos. If they discharge Kev, take him home and I’ll catch you up there later.”

  “Well, don’t be too long,” Sceptre urged as Pete unlocked Kevin’s van. “I’m going back to the Ashdalean tonight I want to watch what Trent gets up to.”

  Pete did not hear her. He was already on his way out of the shop. Climbing into Kevin’s van, he started the engine, slotted it into first and pulled away.

  Kevin had bought the vehicle some years earlier for next to nothing and in deference to its age, he treated it gently, much to the irritation of other road users. Pete, on the other hand, drove it more aggressively, taking the revs up to maximum in each gear before changing up, and if nothing else, keeping up with the flow of mid-morning traffic.

  He retraced his route back towards the hospital, passing Henderson Construction’s offices for the third time, except that five hundred yards further on, he turned up a bumpy dirt track, and pulled into Ashdale Autowreckers’ yard.

  All around him were stacks of wrecked vehicles, rusting shells and engine blocks, while over to the right was the huge crusher, busily compressing a car into a single cube of metal and plastic, a large crane standing by, its magnetic grab already holding the next vehicle for the crusher.

  Killing the engine, he climbed out, to be greeted by a scowling Frank Anders. “I thought we’d seen the last of you when plod fired you.”

  “I’m surprised you weren’t expecting me an hour ago,” Pete replied.

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Don’t come the innocent with me, Anders. Someone tried to run me off the road in a wrecked old Ford. The thing was so bad it’d be easy to spot so there’s only one place he would have come to get rid of it. Here. And don’t tell me he didn’t,” Pete pressed on as Anders opened his mouth to p
rotest. “I just want to know who he was.”

  “None of your business,” said Anders.

  “Under most circumstances, I’d agree,” said Pete charitably, “but the driver tried to run Kev Keeley down and then he had a go at me. I’d say that makes it my business.”

  Anders held out his right arm and snapped his fingers. Like magic, four of his employees appeared, each carrying a weapon: an iron bar, a long wrench, large bolt cutters, a short length of heavy chain.

  Pete shook his head humorously. “You’re making a big mistake, Frankie. I may not be on the force, but I still have friends at Barn Street Station, and if I go to them with what I know, they’ll go through this place like a dose of salts.”

  Anders sneered. “What makes you think you’ll be in any state to bring anyone here, Brennan?”

  Pete hovered for a moment, then half turned as if he were about to leave. Suddenly he spun, grabbed Anders, yanked him close, turned him and locked a strong arm around the scrap dealer’s neck. The hired hands moved in.

  “Stay put,” Pete barked, “or I’ll break his neck and put him in a wheelchair for life.” Anders, short, but stocky and powerfully built, wriggled and Pete tightened his grip. “Now that I have your undivided attention, who brought that dark Ford in?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You’ll be going there first, Anders. Now talk.”

  “I’m saying nothing … ugh.”

  The final exclamation was cut off as Pete tightened his headlock again. “You’re not thinking this through, Frank. If I have to, I’ll throttle …”

  Pain shot through the back of Pete’s neck. Darkness swam up to meet him and he crumpled to the ground.

  *****

  He was probably unconscious for less than a minute, but when he came to, he found his hands bound with what felt like thin, nylon rope. Two of Anders’ thugs bundled him into the back of Kevin’s van, while their boss stood by grinning.

  “Bit off more than you could chew, Brennan,” Anders said. “And for the last time.” He held up the van keys. “Lock him in.”

  Having laid him on his back, they had bent Pete’s legs up to push him in. Gripped by blind fury he kicked out and had the satisfaction of seeing the sole of his boot slam into an unshaven face. But it did not belong to Anders. The scrap dealer came, clenched his fist and brought it down onto Pete’s prone abdomen. Pete tensed his muscles to absorb the blow. It hurt, knocking the wind out of him.

  “Shut the damn doors,” barked Anders.

  His men obeyed and once he turned the key in the lock, he pressed his face to the back windows, leaving Pete with a sadistic grin.

  Ignoring the pain in his stomach, Pete rolled over, backed himself into the van wall, and brought himself to his knees. The first priority was to get rid of the wrist bindings. After that he would deal with Anders and his crew.

  Pete looked around the van with dismay. With his usual lack of care, the back of his van was a total mess. Half drums of cable, cartons of photocopying paper and envelopes, even a tube of glue were scattered everywhere. There was even a pair of safety boots, a hardhat and high visibility vest for those times when he had to deliver to a construction site, but there were no tools. Kevin kept those at home and even when he took them with him, they stayed in the toolbox or the utility belt. From a security point of view, it made absolute sense, but in a crisis like this, it came up short.

  It only served to increase Pete’s irritation. In locking him in the back of Kevin’s van with his wrists tied, Anders was buying minutes to make sure any evidence of the dark Ford was erased. Not, he reasoned, that it would do any good. The minute he was free, he’d make …

  Pete’s thoughts tumbled to a halt. Once free, he would make Frank Anders pay for this. And wouldn’t Anders know that? And wouldn’t that scare the hell out of Anders? The answer to both questions was yes, which only served to underline the obvious conclusion. Anders had no intentions of waiting around for him to be free and since the scrap yard was his only income it meant he could never let Pete free.

  He heard shouting from outside, and behind it the throaty roar of the crane’s diesel engine. Pete moved to the front of the van and stared through the windscreen.

  Black smoke poured from the crane’s overhead exhaust. The driver swung his jib towards the stacks of rusting shells and put down the hull he was carrying. Then a magnetic disc swung towards Kevin’s van.

  “Oh shit.” Pete’s heart raced. He felt himself consumed by fear. Frantically he looked around for a way out.

  “Never kid yourself that you’re not afraid,” a police instructor had once told him. “We’re all afraid at some time in our lives. The trick with fear is not denying it, but handling it. Deal with it. Let yourself be scared, but don’t let yourself be dominated by it. Think through the fear.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out with a long, slow hiss.

  Reason began to trickle through the dread of imminent death. There had to be something sharp enough in this hunk of junk to cut through the thin bindings. He kicked cartons over, looking for something, anything that might help. Nothing. Not even an old tin can with a roughened edge to fray the thin ropes.

  With a deafening CLANG, the magnetic grab landed on the van roof, rocking the vehicle on its ancient suspension. The crane driver revved his engine. The van lifted into the air. Pete was thrown flat. Pressing his back to the van wall, he struggled back to his feet. The rocking of the van as it moved through the air threatened to throw him over again.

  He glanced through the side window. They were swinging the vehicle towards the crusher. He calculated that in two minutes the van would be a small cube of metal, plastic, rubber and glass, with what was left of him somewhere inside.

  With difficulty, he climbed over the seat, and dropped in behind the steering wheel. Anders had not thought to lock the driver’s door. Half turning, Pete got his fingers to the catch, snapped it and the door swung open. For a moment he careened on the edge. It was a drop of twenty feet or more, and for one mad moment, as he teetered on the precipice, he thought about jumping for it, but the uneven ground, littered with scrap engines and body parts, changed his mind. At the very least he would break his leg and no matter what happened he would be at their mercy.

  The van swung into place above the crusher and began to go down. Two of Anders’ men stood on the safety platform. As the van reached their level, they caught the bottom and spun it so that it was long ways on and would drop straight into the crusher.

  “Frank,” one shouted, “the door’s open.”

  “Just line it up,” Pete heard Anders shout.

  They steadied the vehicle. Pete frantically looked around the front area seeking something to help him from his bonds.

  “Let it drop,” shouted Anders.

  Realising what was about to happen, Pete threw himself flat and face down across the seats, curling his knees up, and bracing himself.

  With a sickening rush, the van dropped. The open door snapped on the body of the crusher, and was torn off with a horrible protest of tortured metal and shattered glass. The van bounced on its tyres, almost jostling Pete off the front seat.

  He shook his head, clearing his senses. He had to get out. Forcing himself upright, he shuffled back to the driver’s seat.

  And from the outside came the whine of hydraulic pumps putting the crusher into action.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hovering above the A & E waiting room, where Sceptre was reading a magazine, Fishwick noticed the two furious spirits hurtling in from different reaches of the Spirit Plane.

  Happy that the mistress was safe at the hospital, he followed the crimson trails and found himself above a scrap yard. The men were about to start the crusher, but as they did so, Vali hurtled in, screaming his name, aiming right at the men. A split second before he could strike, Loki rushed in and deflected him.

  The two spirits became locked in combat. They rolled across the yard, smashed into a stack of rusting car bodi
es, and brought it crashing to the ground, scattering the crew.

  “I don’t know why you two blokes can’t just get on with each other,” Fishwick chuckled. “And what are you doing in a scrap yard? Apart from having a scrap?”

  Circling round and above the fighting pair, he checked the yard. He could see nothing of any interest. The crane driver sat in his cab, safe from the falling stacks, an old van had been placed in the crusher, ready to be turned into a cube of scrap. There was something awfully familiar about the van … Mr Keeley’s.

  “Now what is Kevin’s van doing here?” Fishwick asked himself. “I thought Mr Brennan had taken it …”

  He rushed into the van. Mr Brennan. Trying to get out.

  “Start the damn crusher, Frank,” shouted one of the two men on the platform. “He’s getting out.”

  Anders emerged from the gates, where he had run when the stack fell, and rushed for the crusher’s operating mechanism.

  Spurred by a sense of alarm, Fishwick checked Pete’s back and found him tied. “So that’s the plan, is it?” He ducked into the gap behind Pete and began to work at the thin ropes.

  “Sit bloody still, will you,” said Fishwick as Pete wriggled.

  Then suddenly, Pete was out and on the upper edge of the crusher.

  *****

  Pete heard the crash of metal when the stacks fell, but he did not know why the machine had not started up, and he didn’t stop to worry about it. He was finally out of the van and stood precariously on the outer edge of the crusher. Part of the machine’s framework, it was a narrow strip of steel girder which ran all the way back to a safety platform.

  Ten feet below him, on the ground, Anders’ men picked up stones, nuts, bolts, even large pieces of scrap metal to throw at him. Pete toyed with the idea of jumping down, but instantly forgot it. With his hands bound, he would stand no chance. He had to tackle the two on the platform.

  He dashed along the top edge, ignoring the hail of missiles coming at him. The crusher went into action, and somewhere across the yard a second stack of corroded car bodies came crashing down. The men below scattered, running from the cloud of rust and dust kicked up by the fallen bodies.