A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  “And of course, you never called the law.”

  “What? To let ’em know that 25,000 pirate DVDs had been lifted?” Sherlock sounded shocked. “I might be stupid, but I’m not an idiot. Can you imagine what Jimmy Tate would have done to me?”

  Pete accepted the explanation. “So what did you do?”

  Sherlock shrugged. “I belled Tate. What would you expect me to do?”

  Pete nodded. It was logical enough. “And he had the standard screaming fit at you?”

  “And how. I told him about the flat tyre and why I couldn’t make it, and he asked why I hadn’t put another guard on to cover the calls. Well, on the money he was paying, I couldn’t afford it. That’s why I covered the job myself. It was the only way I could make a profit.” Sherlock’s voice lowered to an angry grumble. “He never paid me for that night’s work, either.”

  “Well, you can hardly blame him, Sherlock,” Pete commented. “You’re paid to do a job and you didn’t do it and he lost his DVDs as a result. Besides, you picked up £500 for not doing the job, didn’t you?”

  Holmes fiddled with a ballpoint pen. “Granted, but with Jimmy refusing to pay me, I barely broke even on the night. I wish I’d never agreed to do it.”

  “In that case,” said Pete more persuasively, “you won’t mind telling me who paid you to turn a blind eye.”

  Sherlock was diffidently evasive again. “Come on, Pete, you know the form. No names, no pack drill.”

  “Not the first time I’ve heard that in the last couple of days,” said Pete, “and it’s not good enough, Sherlock. I want names before Locke locks me up. Either cough or I’ll redecorate this place with your brains.”

  Holmes looked wretched. “If he finds out, he’ll kill me.”

  “It might be preferable to what I’ll do.” Pete stood up and ambled around the office, helping himself to a cup of water from a cooler by the door. “You’ve done well for yourself, Sherlock, but how many of your contracts will duck out when they learn that you did six months after claiming welfare for three kids who never existed?”

  “Come off it, Pete, you wouldn’t grass on me, would you?”

  “I wouldn’t, no, but Sceptre Rand might. She’s as honest as the day is long and she disapproves of any form of criminal activity, no matter how trivial. Now tell me, who paid you?”

  It was a long time before Sherlock spoke and when he did it was in total misery.

  “Ronnie Wilcox.”

  Pete absorbed the information with satisfaction. So it was Wilcox who had nicked the DVDs. All he needed now was confirmation.

  He beamed at Sherlock. “Good boy. You know it makes sense. I’ll leave you with it. Let me remind you that Ronnie won’t hear a word from me, so if I learn that he’s found out about this conversation, I’ll be back, and it won’t be a social call next time.”

  Satisfied with his morning’s work, Pete came out, climbed into his hired Ford and considered his next move. He could either go back to Flutter-Bys or check on Kevin’s progress. He glanced back at the windows of Sherlock Security where Sherlock stared back at him, looking unhappy. Pete grinned back, and Sherlock returned to his desk.

  “Check on Kev, I think,” he said to his car, and fired the engine.

  As he pulled away, his mobile rang. He tutted irritably and pulled back into the kerb, killing the engine. Taking out the phone, he made the connection.

  “Brennan.”

  “It’s DC Keynes. If you’d like to come to the station, you can have your car, your computer and video stuff back. There was nothing on any of it to give us a clue what happened to Bilko.”

  Pete had known all along that their equipment would reveal nothing, but he refrained from saying, “I told you so.” Instead, he said, “I’ll pick up Kev and we’ll come right there. Any news on the pickup that ran me off the road last night?”

  “We found it at midnight in Alexandra Park,” Keynes reported. “Not a pretty sight. It was stolen from outside the owner’s home an hour before it connected with you, and when the driver had done with it, he torched it. Forensic are working on it right now.”

  *****

  Sceptre rolled from the bed, where she had been taking a nap, crossed to the window, and parted the curtains to look out on the street. Both Kevin’s van and the pale blue, hired Ford Pete was using were absent. Pete had rung earlier, and she guessed that Kevin had gone out to meet his friend to collect the car and equipment from the police station.

  Persistent rain poured on the untidy street, and the window was covered with condensation. As she looked out, something began to happen to the condensation. A line appeared, then another, and another.

  Sceptre was not afraid. Fishwick had been at her side too long for much to frighten her. But she was intrigued.

  As she watched, the lines began to form letters, and the letters a word.

  W... G... J... A... M... W.

  WGJAMW, or WIGJAM as Kevin pronounced it. Again.

  What did it mean? First the text messages, then the radio, and now written by an unseen finger in the condensation on a window. She knew it was important, but it had not yet clicked into her place in her mind.

  “Fishwick?” she called to the room.

  He replied promptly. “Yes, Madam.”

  “Is there another spirit nearby?”

  “Yes, Madam. It is the same aggrieved spirit we have encountered so often over the last few days.”

  “And you can’t yet confirm his identity as Steven Bilks?” Sceptre asked.

  “I feel certain, Madam, that it is the soul of Bilks, but he’s so angry that he cannot remain calm for long enough to remember much of his earthly existence.”

  “And yet he can deliver mobile telephone messages,” Sceptre pointed out firmly. “He can get his voice carrying on radio waves. How is he doing that?”

  “I do not know, Madam. He does, but he is not calm enough to tell me.”

  “I see.” Sceptre mulled over the information for a moment. “And do you know what this strange message, W-G-J-A-M-W means?”

  “No, Madam. He is trying to tell you something, but I don’t know what, and once again, he is not calm enough to explain.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick.” Sceptre broke the communication and wiped the window with a towel so she could see out again. “But at least I remember where I’ve heard wigjam before.”

  *****

  After dropping off the hire car and getting his deposit back, Kevin ran them to the police station to collect their equipment. As they drove through the busy streets, he listened to Pete’s account of his morning.

  “So it was Wilcox,” said Kevin worriedly. “What are you gonna do?”

  Pete looked smugly satisfied. “I was gonna see him today, but we have to be back at Melmerby Manor tonight, so I’ll give him a day to stew, then go see him tomorrow.”

  “Pete, he’s already run us off the road! If you tackle him head-on over this, he won’t be so gentle.”

  “Relax,” Pete breezed. “I’ll persuade him.”

  “I know your idea of persuasion; breaking fingers instead of heads. But it won’t work with Wilcox and his mob. They’re dangerous, and if Sherlock’s rung him …”

  “What do you mean, if? You know Sherlock. He’ll have been on the jelly bone ten seconds after I left him. You leave Ronnie Wilcox to me and concentrate on the ghost hunt.” Pete smiled in anticipation of busting a few heads.

  Kevin shunted his van into the rear yard of the police station and switched the engine off. “I don’t know which is more frightening; Wilcox or Melmerby Manor ... or even you.”

  “In that case, think about setting up a business name.” Pete gave his pal a jaundiced stare. “You do recall you’re supposed to be thinking up a suitable name for us.”

  “I’m on with it, I’m on with it,” Kevin squeaked.

  They hurried from the van, through the rain to the rear reception and announced themselves. The officer on duty made a brief call, then allowed them through to
the interior, where Keynes met them outside the property room. Pete greeted her with a warm smile.

  “You’re looking very pretty, Ms. Keynes.”

  “That’s DC Keynes to you, Brennan. Just get your gear and your car keys and go.” She gestured into the room.

  Kevin followed her pointing finger with his eyes; Pete made no effort to move but leaned against the doorpost. “I feel we got off to a bad start. How about having a night out with me? Or a night in if you prefer.” Pete gave her his most charming smile.

  “No thanks,” she shook her head. “I told you, I don’t like bent coppers.”

  He gestured vaguely at the corridor and its many offices. “You won’t like working here, then. Did Locke ever tell you how many bent cops I pointed out to him?” His eyes narrowed. “I was screwed for a single error of judgment. There were men here who had been taking graft for months. For years.”

  Keynes looked uncomfortable. “Yes, well, you weren’t the only one screwed, were you? What about the chick you were supposed to be bringing in?” She turned away from him. “Just get your belongings and scram.”

  As Kevin came out carrying a laptop and its cables, Pete moved into the room and picked up one of three cartons. “Any progress on the drunk driver?” he called over his shoulder.

  “I told you,” she replied. “We found the truck. Forensic are still working on it, but I wouldn’t bet on them finding anything.”

  Pete came out of the room again, carrying the carton. “Ah, it’s so comforting to know that when the chips are down, we can still rely on the filth to bugger the job up altogether.”

  “Just get a move on,” Keynes snapped.

  They took the hint and got a move on.

  Ten minutes later, their equipment loaded into Kevin’s van and with Pete settled comfortably behind the wheel of his estate car, they pulled out of the police station and back into the afternoon traffic.

  “I notice you didn’t tell her about Wilcox,” Kevin said when they pulled up outside the flat after a further ten minutes.

  “Tell her what?” asked Pete. “That Wilcox carried out a robbery the police know nothing about, and stole 25,000 copies of a DVD that, legally, don’t exist? Talk sense, Kev.”

  “Pete,” complained his chum as he opened the rear doors of the van, “it’s odds on that Wilcox killed Bilko, and we know he nicked the DVDs. Plod should be told.”

  “I agree,” said Pete, “but we have no evidence other than the say-so of a known liar … Sherlock. If you were plod, would you do anything on Sherlock’s word? Not likely. You might drag Sherlock in for questioning, but that’s about it. As a private eye, I can do a lot more. I can wind Wilcox up, push him, twist his arm, break his arm if I have to. I’ve told you already, leave Wilcox to me. When I have enough evidence, I’ll see Padlock and rattle his chain.”

  It was just after two by the time they unloaded the van. Kevin set up the computer for Sceptre, who began work immediately, studying the video images from their night at Melmerby Manor. Behind her, Pete and Kevin continued to argue, bringing a frown of disapproval from her.

  “I wish you two would keep the noise down,” she complained.

  “Why?” asked Pete. “Listening for the phantom playing the organ, are you? A selection of haunting melodies?” He grinned. “D’yer gerrit, eh? Haunting melodies.”

  Kevin stared blankly at him. “No.”

  “These are ghosts, right? Ghosts haunt, and if he was playing the organ he’d be playing haunting …”

  “There wasn’t no organ at Melmerby Manor. And anyway, the tape from Bent Benny has him talking about wigs and jam, not playing no organ.”

  “I’m trying to concentrate,” said Sceptre. “The things I’m looking for are so tiny, so fleeting, they’re easy to miss.”

  “Yes, well, the things we’re looking for actually went missing,” Pete pointed out, “and if we can get them back, we can still pull five grand on the deal, and help Wilcox to get where he belongs: the nick.”

  Sceptre gave a frustrated sigh. “Gentlemen. The noise. Please. Anyway, I need you both to see this.”

  They came to look over her shoulder, and Sceptre ran the video clip. It showed Kevin at the cafeteria counter, making tea. As they watched, the sugar bowl slid along the counter to Kevin’s elbow, and he made use of it. They heard him ask for the milk, and it too slid along the counter. Sceptre’s voice, closer to the camera and its inbuilt microphone, drowned out other sounds, but shortly after she had finished speaking to both Pete and Kevin, a spoon, hidden away on the upper shelf high above the level of the camera’s lens, suddenly appeared and dropped to the counter.

  “There you are,” said Sceptre, triumphantly. “Explain that.”

  “I can’t,” Pete admitted. “Well, I can, but you wouldn’t like my explanation.”

  Both she and Kevin laid suspicious eyes on him. “Go on,” Sceptre invited.

  “This machine has been with the filth for the last 24 or 36 hours. They could have fooled around with it.” Pete paused a moment to see if they would react. When they did not, he went on, “I was a cop, I know what they’re like.”

  “Crap,” said Kevin. “I know the cops have CGI experts on call, but they couldn’t put that together so quickly.”

  Sceptre gleamed victoriously. “That is exactly as it happened. Kevin will swear to it.”

  “Of course he will,” said Pete, as Kevin nodded in further agreement with Sceptre, “but would you take Kev’s word for it? He’s like Sherlock, the man we were discussing on our way from the police station. Kev is well known as a man who will do anything to make a fast buck, so no one would believe him, and if you try presenting that as evidence, every sceptic in the world will swear it’s been done by camera trickery. Even I think it has been.”

  The doorbell put an end to the argument. Kevin went to answer it. Pete and Sceptre could hear muted voices from beyond the front door. Kevin returned a moment later with Mike McKinley at his side.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” Kevin declared glumly.

  Sceptre glanced up. Pete noticed a sudden, unmistakable light of interest in her eyes, and his features darkened. “What do you want, McKinley?” he grumbled.

  The reporter matched Pete’s height and good looks but was almost ten years older. Wearing a quilted coat and flat cap to keep out the weather, he gave the impression of a football commentator looking for a post-match interview. He held up a cassette tape. “Rumour has it you’ve been listening to Radio Cemetery.”

  While Sceptre shut down her work on the video images, McKinley ignored the daggers of ice the others aimed at him and slotted his cassette into Kevin’s player. He hit ‘play’ and jacked up the volume. They all listened to the huge hiss of white noise and the faint voice in the background.

  “What’s that he’s saying?” asked McKinley. “Wigwam?”

  “WGJAMW,” Sceptre struggled to pronounce it.

  McKinley poised his pen over a notebook. “How do you spell that?”

  Kevin grinned. “I-M-B-I-S-E-A-L.”

  The reporter studied the word. “That’s not how you spell imbecile.”

  “There you are, then,” said Kevin, “don’t ask me to spell wigj... wojo... whatever the tape says. We prefer to think of it as wigjam.”

  McKinley paused his scribbling. “So you didn’t find anything at Melmerby Manor?”

  Pete scowled. “Yes, we found Bilko’s body, but the police have it now.”

  “Oh yes, I heard about that,” McKinley commented and made a note. “You’ve been questioned, I believe?”

  Sceptre frowned at her partners. To McKinley, she said, “It’s nothing to do with us. We’re only concerned with the hauntings at Melmerby Manor, and we’re going back tonight.”

  McKinley’s eyes lit up enthusiastically. “That’s great. How about having a reporter there, on the spot, to note down anything that happens?”

  “Like a reporter suffering a terminal thump to the head?” demanded Pete, and Sceptre
stepped in once more to prevent a riot.

  “Pete,” said Sceptre with a good deal more enthusiasm for the idea than her colleagues would have preferred, “we need the publicity. We’ll be there by five o’clock, Mr. McKinley, before it gets dark, and we’ll be happy to have you along, as long as you’re prepared to be objective.”

  Kevin chuckled. “Oh, he’s objective. I’ve been objecting to him for years.”

  “Look, Keeley,” protested McKinley, “just because I chose to expose a few of your scams and …”

  “Business propositions,” Kevin corrected, with forced aplomb.

  “Scams and rip-offs,” McKinley reiterated. “Just because I exposed you as a con man and went public on your mate Brennan as a bent copper, you don’t have to take it personally. If this ghost hunting stuff is pukka, I can do you a lot of good.”

  Kevin looked to Pete for guidance and Pete shrugged. “If nothing else, Sir Henry might hate McKinley as much as he does you, and chuck the cutlery at him instead.”

  “I’ll go for that,” agreed Kevin cheerfully. “Five o’clock then, at Melmerby Manor, McKinley, and don’t be late. I’d hate for Sir Henry to be kept waiting.”

  McKinley frowned puzzlement. “I thought the owner of the hall was Jonathan Melmerby.”

  Much to Pete’s irritation (he would have preferred to throw McKinley out) Sceptre stepped in to explain, and from his point of view, she appeared even more enthusiastic. Pete could not fathom whether it was talking about her work or cosying up to McKinley that made her appear so happy.

  “Sir Henry died in 1652,” she said, “but his spirit haunts the place to this day. He’s a poltergeist. He throws things at people he dislikes.”

  “Whereas Pete just throws people he doesn’t like... especially reporters.” Kevin grinned at McKinley.

  The reporter ignored the jibe and put his notebook away. “Until later, then.” He, too, smiled. “I’m gonna enjoy this. An on-the-spot report from the Next World. Could be a prize-winner.” He grinned broadly and gave them a thumbs up. “Mike McKinley, the hack who knows how to hack it.”