A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  Pete heaved a sigh. So much for staying silent. “For a start, we weren’t guarding them, we found them. And when we went back later in the night, they were gone, and so was Bilko … to La-la Land.”

  Locke ignored much of Pete’s cynical response. “So what were these DVDs? Porn? Pirates?”

  Pete had cause to revise his earlier opinion. There was a time to lie and this was it. “Dunno.”

  “Liar,” Locke bit the accusation off.

  “Prove it,” Pete invited.

  “I will when we study your video gear.” Locke appeared to Pete as a man both triumphant and totally in control of the situation. “I always said I’d get you, Brennan, and now I have. Copyright infringement, production and selling of illegal recordings, and murder.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Pete. “You missed out assaulting a police officer.”

  Locke was overjoyed. “I didn’t even know about that.”

  “Because,” Pete spat on his knuckles, “it hasn’t happened yet.” He pointed at the door. “That lump of wood has more brains than you. It’s there to do a job and it does it. It opens and closes when we want it to. Now why don’t you start doing your job before I knock your head against the door and see if I can drill any of its intelligence into you?”

  Locke ignored the threat and carried on with his list of potential charges. “There’s also trespass …”

  “We were authorised to be at Melmerby Manor,” Pete interrupted.

  “You were authorised to go looking for spooks according to Speccy Brand …”

  “Sceptre Rand,” Pete corrected.

  “Whoever,” Locke snarled. “You weren’t supposed to be ferreting round the warehouse seeing what you could nick. Who did these DVDs belong to? Jimmy Tate?”

  Pete decided a lie was in order yet again. “Dunno. I was gonna follow it up when we got home, this morning, but Bilko’s body persuaded me I’d better ring you instead. And let me tell you something, Locke, you’re gonna look a total idiot when your forensic boys tell you I never touched Bilko, and you have to stand there with your broken arm, apologising to me.”

  “I don’t have a broken arm.”

  “The door will soon put that right.” Pete sat forward, leaning on the tabletop. “Now get your brain in gear, man, and let us out of here so we can all start looking for the real killer.”

  Locke pointed a shaking finger at Pete. “If I decide to let you go, you will mind your own business.”

  “While you carry on accusing me?” Pete sneered. “Not likely.”

  Locke drummed irritable fingers on the table. He looked at Keynes, who raised her eyebrows and gave a half-shrug of defeat.

  “The trouble with questioning ex-cops, guv,” she pointed out, “is that they know the form.”

  Pete gave her a round of applause. “There’s a girl with sense. You could go far, Ms. Keynes. Especially if you have dinner with me.”

  Andrea ignored his suggestion, and asked, “You never saw Bilko all night?”

  “Not until we found him in the warehouse,” Pete confirmed.

  “Even though you had the place covered with video cameras?” she pressed.

  “We didn’t have the stables covered.” Pete waved at the stack of papers in front of her. “You have all this in my statement. I’ve nothing to add to it.”

  The two police officers went into a hurried and whispered discussion. Pete knew what they were doing: deciding whether or not to release him. A moment later, Locke focused on him. “All right, you can go... for now. But I’m warning you, Brennan, you learn anything, you bring it to me.”

  *****

  Heavy clouds, coupled with low temperatures, threatened snow over the town when they finally emerged from the police station just after 9:00 a.m.

  Sceptre yawned. “I need some sleep.”

  “Breakfast first, I think,” suggested Kevin.

  “The Germ Factory?” asked Pete.

  Kevin grinned broadly. “The Germ Factory.”

  Pete hailed a taxi, which swerved violently into the kerb alongside them. He opened the door and let Sceptre in, and Kevin nipped round the far side to join them on the back seat.

  “The Germ Factory,” Pete ordered the driver.

  “How is it everyone knows it by that name?” asked Sceptre as the driver pulled away. She had become a regular at the place since moving in with them, but she had never taken a taxi in Ashdale and had not realised that even the cab drivers knew the place by its sobriquet.

  Pete laughed. “It’s always been The Germ Factory. Even when I was a kid.”

  The Germ Factory was the affectionate name for Wilf’s Café, situated on the ring road surrounding the Cranley Estate. Wilf Mannion ran the joint with his wife Sheila, and, as Pete explained, he was known for his easy approach to life. Even when Environmental Health prosecuted him for trying to pass off dog food as stewing steak, he simply claimed he bought the cans without labels as a job lot from an unnamed source.

  Kevin had good cause to be grateful to Wilf on that occasion, since he was the unnamed source in question.

  “I actually helped him unload the boxes from his van into the café.” Pete smiled at the memory.

  Sceptre disapproved. “Kevin, how could you sell dog food as fit for human consumption?”

  “I didn’t,” protested Kevin. “I thought it was stewing steak, too.”

  “So you mean the tins had no labels when you bought them?”

  “Exactly,” affirmed Pete, still chuckling. “Mind you, it says something for the stomachs in this area when Wilf’s homemade meat and potato pie, containing the finest horsemeat this side of a Grand National aftermath, was the most popular dish on the menu, and nobody twigged until the nosy-parkers from the health department took a few tins away for analysis.”

  The rush hour was over, the roads were free and clear, and the taxi made rapid progress to the Cranley area. Sceptre stared out at the leaden sky. Working class cafes were a world away from garden parties and afternoon tea on the lawn.

  Bringing herself away from memories of a contented childhood, she asked, “Pete, what’s the story with you and Locke?”

  His features clouded. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Sceptre smiled encouragingly. “We’re supposed to be business partners. It would be nice to know where one’s partner is coming from.”

  Pete did not answer, but instead stared grimly out at the rain, lost to his memories just as she had been.

  The taxi driver pulled in outside The Germ Factory, where Kevin handed over the fare before they climbed out and hurried into the café, out of the rain.

  Pete and Kevin had been regulars at The Germ Factory for years, and since moving in with them, Sceptre, too, had become known to the proprietor, who had even gone to the trouble of stocking health foods for her.

  “At least they look like health foods,” Pete had once commented. “Knowing Wilf, they could be rabbit food, and I wouldn’t know the difference unless I saw Benjamin Bunny nuzzling the packet.”

  Wilf looked surprised, but was, as always, pleased to see them. “You’re not normally up until lunchtime.”

  “Long story, Wilf,” said Pete. “Remind me to tell you about it some time. We’ll have two bacon sandwiches for me, a full breakfast for Kev and a bowl of muesli for Sceptre. Kevin’ll pay.”

  Wilf passed the order through a hatch to his wife, then began to pour tea for them.

  “How come it’s always my turn to pay?” Kevin complained

  “You’re the only one with any money,” Pete reminded him, “and I don’t think Wilf’ll give me credit.”

  Wilf confirmed it. “I trust in God, but everyone else pays cash.” He passed the mugs of hot tea across the counter and took Kevin’s money. “Sit you down, I’ll bring your food over when it’s ready.”

  They took a table by the window. Kevin picked up one of Wilf's complimentary newspapers and puzzled briefly over the sports headlines on the back pages until he re
alised it was the previous day’s. “Hey Wilf, what happened to today’s papers?”

  “Nobody’s left any behind yet,” the proprietor called back.

  With a grunt about tight-fisted businessmen, Kevin skimmed through the newspaper. “Look at that,” he said suddenly, pointing to a small article on one of the inside pages. “Some bloke has set a record by eating twenty-seven meat pies at one sitting. Amateur. I bet I could have gone to thirty.”

  Neither of his colleagues was listening. Sceptre toyed with a menu while Pete continued to stare moodily through rain-streaked windows.

  “I’m sorry,” Sceptre said suddenly to Pete.

  Her apology brought him out of his thoughts. “Huh?”

  “My question about you and Chief Inspector Locke. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Oh, right,” said Pete. “You didn’t upset me. You just reminded me, and when I think of it, I always get angry.”

  She smiled encouragement. “Want to talk about it?”

  He gave a heavy sigh, took a swallow of tea and shook his head.

  Kevin studied Pete and thought better of opening another can of worms. To distract Sceptre’s attention from Pete’s antipathy for Chief Inspector Locke, he asked, “What are we gonna do about getting our gear back from plod?”

  “Stop worrying about it,” Pete advised. “We’ll get it back when they’ve finished all their tests.”

  “Well,” said Sceptre, in agreement with Kevin, “our investigation won’t go much further without it all, and we need to go back to the manor later this week to concentrate on those areas we may have missed.”

  Kevin shook his head. “If you think I’m going anywhere near that place again, you can think again.”

  The arrival of their food shut him up.

  “By the way, Kev,” announced Wilf as he placed their orders before them, “had a mate of yours in yesterday. Asked me to ask you to call on him when you had the time.”

  Kev tucked heartily into his bacon and eggs. “Who?”

  “Ronnie Wilcox. Summat about some whisky.”

  Kevin blanched and almost choked on his food.

  Pete glowered at him. “Whisky? What are you doing selling whisky to Ronnie Wilcox?”

  “Who’s Ronnie Wilcox?” asked Sceptre.

  Kevin chewed on his food again. “Just a bitta business, Pete.”

  “Tell me more,” Pete ordered.

  “Who’s Ronnie Wilcox?”

  “I got hold of this consignment of whisky from Latvia,” Kevin ploughed on over Sceptre’s question.

  “Scotch? From Latvia?” Pete sounded dubious.

  Kevin nodded. “Old Sporran it was called. Fifty cases, forty quid a case. Two grand. Easy money. Ronnie was made up with the deal.”

  “Who’s Ronnie Wilcox?” Sceptre wanted to know.

  “So why does he want to see you?” This time it was Pete who rode over Sceptre’s question.

  Kevin swallowed a large bite of sausage and laughed nervously. “Well, see, the whisky might have passed through a light shower on its way across from Latvia.”

  Pete stared in disapproval. “You mean it was watered down?”

  “It says 40 proof on the label,” said Kevin with a glum nod. “I think they might have added one zero too many. It was more water than whisky.”

  “And now Wilcox wants his cash back.”

  Sceptre came in forcefully as the conversation flagged. “Will someone tell me who the hell is Ronnie Wilcox?”

  Pete bit into a bacon roll. “He runs Flutter-Bys, Ashdale’s premier nightclub-cum-dump, and has a nice little sideline in anything and everything that’s crooked, including knocked-off booze, hooky betting, loan sharking and pimping. And oddly enough, I was there yesterday.”

  “Nice class of person, in other words,” commented Sceptre. “And is he really anyone to worry about?”

  “Everyone is scared of him but for one man,” said Pete, aiming a finger at his own chest. “Me.” He swallowed half his mug of tea. “When I was a DC, I lifted him and his goons more times than you’ve had your knickers …”

  “Thank you Pete, I get the picture. And now you say he wants his money back?”

  Kevin agreed. “Seems likely. Pete, will you see him for me?”

  Sceptre reached across and touched Kevin’s hand. “I’ll come with you if you want, Kevin. Talk to him. He can’t be that bad.”

  “Can’t he?” demanded Pete. “If he doesn’t get his money back, Wilcox is likely to have Kev concreted into the next motorway bridge.”

  “Yes, but it’s two grand Pete,” Kevin whined.

  “So take it out of the bank and pay him back,” Pete suggested.

  “It never went in the bank. I used it yesterday to pay Bent Benny for the gear we used at Melmerby Manor.”

  Pete shrugged. “In that case, take it out of one of your secret accounts and give him it back.”

  “Aw, Pete …”

  “No arguments. When we’ve finished breakfast, we go to the bank, you draw the cash, and we go see Wilcox. I want a word with him anyway. Flutter-Bys is the last place Bilko was seen alive.”

  Chapter Nine

  From The Germ Factory, they took a taxi home. The two men left Sceptre to catch up on her sleep, while they took Kevin’s van down to Flutter-Bys.

  When Groom let them in, they found Wilcox cleaning glasses, while Lawson and Wilcox’s wife Sylvie were generally helping to ready the place for opening.

  Once upon a time, Wilcox’s wife had been a good-looking woman, but her lifestyle of booze and unsociable hours had taken its toll, leaving her with a large girth, narrow shoulders, and spindly legs. A large scar on her cheek, picked up in a fight, hadn’t helped, either. It had left her with the face of a professional boxer, and a lazy eye that looked like a boxer’s after 10 rounds. It was an acceptable analogy for most people because Sylvie was equipped with fists like a boxer’s as well, and she packed a punch many a welterweight would envy.

  On Pete and Kevin’s arrival, all work ceased, and the pair found themselves hemmed in near the bar. Groom and Lawson kept out of range of Pete’s long arms, while Sylvie moved in close, keeping Kevin between her and the ex-cop.

  “Well, if it isn’t Little and Large,” laughed Wilcox. “Again.”

  Pete was in no mood for Wilcox’s usual bravado. “Shut it, nurk, or I’ll make it so you’ll be checking the beer barrels from the inside.”

  “Tough talk, Brennan, but you’re outnumbered again,” Wilcox chuckled. “And as if that’s not enough, you brought this tub of lard with you. You must like testing the handicapper.”

  Pete was tired of the constant, immaterial threats. “I’ve warned you once, this is twice, don’t push me a third time. You were asking for Kevin at The Germ Factory?”

  Wilcox held up a bottle of whisky. The label showed a piper in jacket and kilt. Above the image was the label, Old Sporran. “He sold me forty cases of this crap.” Wilcox pointed an accusing finger at Kevin. “I’ve drunk cola with more clout. I want shot of all those bottles of water, and I want my money back.”

  Pete snapped his fingers, and, choking back a sob, Kevin handed over the money.

  “I was saving that money for my old age,” Kevin complained.

  “Try to screw me over again,” Wilcox warned, “and you won’t have an old age.”

  “Don’t make threats you can’t back up,” Pete advised as he handed the money to Wilcox. “There’s your cash back. Do what you like with the bottles. We don’t wanna see them again.”

  “Hang on, hang on,” protested the other. “It’s not that simple, is it? I took that booze in good faith. He’s had my cash, he’s used it, now I want it back ... with interest.”

  “Okay,” Pete agreed, and Kevin looked momentarily more worried. “Here’s my offer. You take your money back, you get to keep the bottles, and I don’t rip out your jawbone and use it as a novelty can opener.”

  If Wilcox was worried, he didn’t show it. Causally, he lit a cigar an
d leaned on the beer pumps. “Get this straight, Brennan. Unless I pick up another five hundred, the filth might get to know about the alleged booze he flogged me.”

  Pete was as unworried as Wilcox. “If they do,” he promised, “they might also get to know about the loaded roulette wheel and marked cards in your gaming room. You take your money and shut it.”

  Wilcox’s face turned a deep shade of red as his temper rose. He looked at Groom and Lawson. Groom’s forehead still showed the marks from his meeting with Pete the previous day. He decided not to press his luck till his keepers were back in form. “I won’t forget this, Brennan.”

  “You’d better, because if you don’t, I’ll try out the world’s first brain transplant and make you forget.” Wilcox pocketed the money and Pete went on, “Now, you recall I asked about Bilko yesterday? Well, I found him. Or rather, Kevin did.”

  “I’m happy for you,” scowled Wilcox. “Give him my regards.”

  “He’s dead.”

  Groom, Lawson and Sylvie exchanged haunted glances. Wilcox merely shrugged. “And?”

  “Ronnie,” suggested Kevin in an effort to counsel the club owner, “I wouldn’t upset Pete if I were you. We’ve had a bad night, he hasn’t had much kip, and he might just take it out on your place.” He looked around the dimly lit, shabby room. “I mean as dumps go, it’s never been the best, but you do keep a nice beer.”

  “Well, thanks a lot, Keeley,” sneered Wilcox. “I really must get you to work on my publicity.”

  “Cut the cackle,” Pete snapped. “Someone was fooling us around last night, Ronnie, and I wanna know who.”

  Wilcox held up his hands, palms upwards, as if demonstrating his innocence. “Why should that have anything to do with us?”

  “Because whoever it was used a heavy van, like yours, and one of them wore high-heeled shoes, like hers.” He pointed at Sylvie’s feet and the pair of spiky heeled shoes she was wearing. “Only not like hers. These were more block heels.” He looked over Groom and Lawson. “Do either of your muppets go in for cross-dressing?”

  The two men appeared outraged; Wilcox merely sneered in silence. Sylvie examined her nails, then leered at Pete. “It’s not wise to make accusations, Brennan. It could get you a good kicking.”