“There you go.” Kevin tossed the thing back to Pete. “Supplied by B. Stringer Electronics, Chapel Road, Ashdale. Told you it was one of Benny’s.”
“Right.” Pete dropped it in his pocket. “I’ll want a word or five with Bent Benny tomorrow. In the meantime, Kevin, you’re in the frame again. Check tonight’s video footage, will you? See if that message on the attic wall was there when we turned up.”
Kevin transferred his attention to their computer system and searched out the footage. Using a lens similar to the webcam they had just found, their camera gave a distorted view of the whole room, and on the back wall, the message, WGJAMW, could clearly be seen. At the bottom of the screen was the timer strip Kevin had set up, and it read 17:23:37.
Pete laughed in triumph. “See? It was there at half past five yesterday afternoon.” He sneered at Sceptre and McKinley. “Some ghost hunters you two are. How could you miss it?”
Sceptre blushed and McKinley coughed to hide his embarrassment.
Pete scowled his disapproval. “Oh, I get it. You were distracted. With each other. Sceptre, how could you? With him? Especially when I’m so close.”
“Pete, I…” Sceptre began.
“I mean I thought you had better taste than a scumbag like McKinley,” protested Pete. “Even Kevin would have been easier for my bruised ego.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“‘What,’ being the operative word,” said Kevin with a pointed stare at the reporter.
McKinley took instant umbrage. “Are you calling me some kind of animal, Keeley?”
“If the cap fits,” said Kevin and left his words hanging.
McKinley took in the frank envy in Pete’s eyes. “Come on, guys. She said she wasn’t an item with either of you.”
Sceptre gave him a withering stare. “I object to being described as ‘she’ and I’m not ‘an item’ with anyone. I am a woman, not a thing, and I am not a possession.” To Pete, she said, “Forget about Mike and me. Where do we go from here?”
“You go on with your ghost hunt. I’ll see Bent Benny in the morning.”
Chapter Fifteen
Sylvie nudged Wilcox in the back. His eyes opened and he stared at the green LED display of his alarm clock registering 4:00 a.m. It took a moment for him to realise he was in his own bedroom, in the living quarters above the club.
“There’s someone downstairs.”
Wilcox grunted. “Do you know what the bloody time is?”
“There’s someone downstairs, you twit,” Sylvie urged. “Burglars.”
The word snapped his brain into overdrive. He threw off the duvet, dragged open the drawer of his bedside cabinet, and took out an automatic pistol. Cocking it, he marched out of the room and onto the landing, where he met Groom and Lawson, both carrying baseball bats.
“Someone downstairs, Ronnie,” said Groom.
“Tell me about it.” Wilcox hurried on down the stairs and through the private access into the clubroom. “Lemmy,” he barked, “Check the front and side doors. Tommy, you do the cellar. Come on. Move your arses. And don’t overdo it,” he shouted as they split up. “I want them alive.”
“Don’t overdo it?” queried Groom. “Who was it that put Bilko’s lights out?”
*****
Lawson made his way carefully down the cellar steps. He was tired, and when his sleep was disturbed, it made him angry. Angry enough to damage the scroats who had the nerve to break into Flutter-Bys.
He cheered himself up with the thought that it might be that pig, Brennan. He’d love to give Brennan some serious GBH.
The cellar was quiet. When the club was open, there would be the occasional hiss of compressed gases from the beer feeds, or the click of a pump switching on, and there would be the muted sounds from the main room up above, but at this hour, it was silent but for a light buzz from the cold store.
He reached the bottom of the steps, baseball bat at the ready, and turned sharply to his left, looking under the stairs. Nothing. No one. He padded across the stone floor and checked the cage where the spirits, expensive wines and tobacco products were kept. All secure.
A glance around at the crates of bottled beers, packs of canned drinks and cases of wine told him he was the only one there.
Finally, he turned his attention to the cold store. He gripped the handle to open it¾and paused. Was that a whisper?
He cocked an ear, his brain editing out the sound of the cold store motor. There it was again. A faint, distant whisper. Almost inaudible. Almost like...
“Wigjam.”
It was clearer this time. Coming from somewhere behind the cold room. But there was nothing behind the cold store other than a brick wall.
“Ronnie?” he threw the question into the cellar.
He stepped to the side of the giant fridge and looked around. Nothing. No one. Again.
He decided that his tired mind was playing tricks on him. Fatigue and all that fooling around up at Melmerby Manor was tricking his hearing.
He returned to the cold room door and gripped the handle again.
“Wigjam.”
Anger consumed him. “You’re dead meat, whoever you are,” he shouted and yanked the door open.
A blast of foul-smelling methane struck him full in the face. “WIGJAM!” The roar almost deafened him. Something rushed past, hurling him across the cellar. He picked himself up groggily, looked around for his dropped bat. An empty, galvanised metal beer barrel hurtled through the air and clanged onto the floor next to him. He stood and ran. A bottle of wine sailed through the air and smashed into the stairs as he reached them.
“WIGJAM!”
Lawson fled in terror.
*****
Fishwick arrived to find the spirit of Steven Bilks wreaking havoc in the cellar of Flutter-Bys.
“Take it easy, me old china, or you’ll have a heart attack.” The nonsense of such a statement struck Fishwick. “Bin over here all these years, and I’m still talking to ’em as if they’re alive,” he reproved himself.
“WIGJAM,” roared Bilks.
“What about wigjam?” Fishwick wanted to know.
“WIGJAM.”
Bilks flew off through the astral plane, and Fishwick was left to ruminate. “I don’t even know what a bleeding wigjam is.” He made his way to Melmerby Manor and hovered above Sceptre’s sleeping form in the cafeteria. For a moment he considered reporting the events, but changed his mind. “Let her sleep. There’s always tomorrow.”
*****
In the clubroom, Wilcox passed Lawson a shot of whisky. The thug took it in shaking hands and gulped it down.
“So you didn’t see him?” Wilcox demanded.
“I’m telling you, Ronnie, there wasn’t anyone there.”
Wilcox dismissed the idea. “He was well hidden, you mean. And he probably got out through the beer trap while you were running away.” He picked up a bottle of Old Sporran, recalled that it was mostly water, and instead reached for a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Pouring himself a generous slug, he sipped on it, his face beaming with pleasure. “Better than that witch water Keeley dumped on me.” He turned to face his two thugs. “I’ll bet it was that toerag, Brennan.”
“Ronnie, I tell you…”
“I don’t wanna hear it, Tommy,” the boss cut him off. “Tomorrow, the pair of you can get the word out. I wanna know who broke in.”
*****
At Melmerby Manor, the night wore on with no other significant events. Their equipment picked up the occasional orb, travelling wispily across the floors or through the air, their microphones and tapes collected the odd noise, but there were no other major manifestations.
At just after six-thirty, with the first, pearly light of dawn showing through the cafeteria windows, Sceptre checked on everyone. Kevin and McKinley were dozing, Pete stood by the windows, staring moodily at the coming day.
For her, the entire night had been a disaster. Brought to the brink of death, her
life saved by a man dead for 90 years and another man who was fixated with the idea of her becoming his girlfriend (whether she wanted to or not) and as if all that were not enough, she had foolishly let her guard drop and passion overtake her with yet another man whose bona fides she was already beginning to question. She took a crumb of comfort from the fact that she had stopped McKinley in time, but that was the only relief in a night of discord.
Moving quietly so as not to disturb the two sleeping men, she left the table and crossed to the window to join Pete.
Outside in the crystal clear air, a third quarter moon lit up the sky, just above a bright, steadily shining star.
“Venus,” she whispered. “The goddess of love. Brightest planet in the sky. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Pete grunted.
On the ground beyond the windows, a crispy white coating of frost covered the faded lawns and barren tree branches. The windows of Pete’s car, McKinley’s car, and Kevin’s van were iced up, and it would be another hour before the sun rose to thaw them out.
She tried again. “So beautiful, and so peaceful.”
Pete still said nothing and Sceptre began to feel guilty again.
“Look, Peter, I’m sorry. McKinley and I were alone, and I suddenly found him, er, attractive.”
“What?”
It was as if he had just registered her presence and the way she used his full Christian name rather than the more common, abbreviated form.
“I thought you were bothered about McKinley and me,” she explained.
“What?” he repeated. “Oh, I see. No. I was just thinking about the last few days and how odd it’s all been. We could be in serious trouble, if we don’t watch ourselves. I told you, Locke probably doesn’t believe it’s anything to do with us, but he can make life difficult, and as a private eye, I rely on my reputation for honesty.” He looked down at her and shrugged. “Besides, you and McKinley are nothing to do with me, are you? Your life’s your own.”
“Nothing happened …well, we kissed and then he got a bit physical.” She gave a murmur that could have been a cynical laugh. “Octopus hands. But that’s all.” Sceptre wondered why she was bothering to explain the situation. Was she taking care to ensure Pete did not think less of her, or was she simply rationalising the non-event to herself?
He confirmed his apparent lack of interest. “I just said, didn’t I, it’s nothing to do with me. Just watch him, though. I know him. He doesn’t care about anyone but Mike McKinley. He’ll use you, get the copy he wants from you and then dump you. I know. I’ve seen him do it before.”
Her intuition pointed her towards the core of his warning. “Your business with the prostitute?”
He nodded. “The general details were never meant to be made public, but he was dating a policewoman. She let slip secrets in bed, and the next thing we knew, it was all over the Chronicle. The editor dressed it up in moral outrage, but it didn’t fool anyone. That rag is all about digging dirt, and McKinley did a good job digging it on me. What’s worse, to sweet talk his way out of a potential lawsuit for publishing the story, he named the policewoman who told him the tale, and she lost her job, too. Trust me, he’ll do it to you if he has to.”
Sceptre gave a sad little laugh. “I have no real job to lose, have I?”
“Probably not, but you have your reputation, and by the time McKinley has done with it, it will be in tatters. He’s scum, worse than the Wilcoxes of this world. At least you know where you are with them.”
Silence took hold again. Sceptre watched a fox emerge from the trees bordering Melmerby Manor’s retaining wall and amble across the lawn.
“Going home after a night’s hunting,” she commented. “A bit like us, really.”
“Except that the fox knows what it’s looking for.”
“So do we,” Sceptre assured him, “if only you’d open your mind.”
“Let’s not start that again, eh?”
She smiled up at him. “Fishwick finds your scepticism easier to deal with than I do. Apparently, he was like that in life. But think, Pete, I told you where to look for that camera, didn’t I? Fishwick told me where it was.”
“Or you spotted it and you think Fishwick told you where it was.”
“What would it take to convince you?” she asked
He shrugged. “Fishwick would have to materialise in front of me … and even then I’d swear it was booze or fatigue tricking my eyes.” His brow knitted in perplexity. “You told us your butler was killed on the Somme.”
“And so he was,” Sceptre agreed.
“Then how would an old git like that recognise a webcam?”
“Pete,” Sceptre said patiently, “Fishwick has been watching the real world for over 90 years. Just because he is a ghost, doesn’t mean he’s lost the capacity for learning. Besides, his description to me was of something like a billiard ball, not a webcam.”
He sighed. “Always an answer, isn’t there?” He checked his watch. “Six-forty. Nearly time we were wrapping it up.”
They walked back to the table.
A question occurred to Sceptre. “Pete, what would Benny Stringer stand to gain from that computer set-up?”
“Nothing. Bent Benny is like your boyfriend here.” Pete gestured at McKinley. “He only gives a damn about himself. If I go to him and pay for information, I’ll get it, but if Wilcox goes to him and pays for information, he’ll get it. Benny works for Benny. No one else.”
“And will you pay him?” she asked.
“No,” he promised. “I’ll persuade him. Don’t worry about it; Bent Benny will tell me all I want to know. Now hadn’t we better wake up Sleeping Beauty and Rip van Winkle here? We’ve an hour’s work taking the equipment apart.”
Sceptre nodded. “You’re probably right. It’ll be daylight soon, and I don’t think we’ll get anything else now.”
McKinley was slumped in his chair, his ankles crossed on the seat opposite. Pete kicked the second chair from under his feet, and he awoke with a start. Across the table, Sceptre tapped Kevin gently on the shoulder and he awoke slowly, groggily.
“Why couldn’t you wake me like that?” complained the reporter.
“If I tapped you, it would be with a hammer,” Pete assured him, “and I’d get a round of applause from most of Ashdale for doing it.” He clapped his hands together like a market trader about to offer a deal. “Okay people, we have to get our gear dismantled. Kev, me and you will take the attic rooms; Sceptre, you and the git here can deal with the first floor landing.”
*****
In the corridor outside the master bedroom, Sceptre disconnected the jacks connecting the camcorder to the mains supply. At her shoulder, McKinley looked back, watching Kevin and Pete disappear up the attic staircase.
“You should watch Brennan, you know,” the reporter warned.
Carefully removing the camcorder from its tripod, Sceptre was not listening properly. “Hmm?”
“He’s bad news to women,” McKinley grumbled on. “Sent out to arrest a woman and he jumped her in exchange for not running her in.”
Sceptre had heard this time but did not immediately answer, preferring to ensure the camcorder was packed properly in its box, a minor distraction which gave her a few more seconds to formulate a reply.
At length, she looked up from the task. “Pete has told me all about it, and you are editing the tale for your own purposes, aren’t you? The woman concerned was that kind of woman, wasn’t she? And Pete insists that she lied to wreck his career.”
“Well …” McKinley trailed off and gave her a silly lop-sided grin. “All right, so I’m trying to eliminate the competition.”
Putting the box on the floor, Sceptre turned her attention to the tripod, folding the legs together, unfastening the butterfly nuts that held the extended, telescopic legs in place.
“There is no competition,” she declared, sliding the legs up and locking them in their shortest position. “I’m not interested in Pete, I’m not intereste
d in you. And where you find the nerve to criticise him, I do not know. You jumped to the wrong conclusion about me last night, didn’t you?”
“Okay, okay. I did. I admit it. But hey, you’re such a good-looking woman, I just got carried away.” He smiled. Sceptre did not.
McKinley backtracked along the landing, pulling the cables free of the wall so they could be wound back onto their drums. “Why not let me make amends. Have dinner with me.”
“I don’t think so,” said Sceptre, collecting the camcorder and the tripod and following him along the landing.
He paused at the head of the stairs and turned to face her. “Oh, come on, Sceptre. Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance?”
“Did you give Pete a second chance?” she demanded “Or the young female officer who told you the tale?”
“I was arrested,” he howled. “And I’ll bet Brennan never told you that, did he? Don’t you believe in telling the truth when faced with the cops? They demanded to know who had given me the information and I had to tell them. I did run a piece afterwards in which I said their treatment of her was too harsh.” He softened his approach. “Come on, Sceptre. Have dinner with me. All right, so I’ve given Brennan some stick in the past, but tonight has shown me that he has considerably more assets than I ever gave him credit for. It’s a damn good job he was with us last night when you had your seizure, or you’d have been a goner.”
At a nod from her, he began to make his way downstairs, pulling the cables clear of the wall as he went. At the bottom, they worked as a team, Sceptre drawing the cable slowly towards them, McKinley winding it onto the drum. When it was done, they stacked everything up by the door, ready for loading into Kevin’s van.
She had used the time to contemplate his last words. Ignoring his earlier flattery, she decided he was right. Everyone did deserve a second chance, and it occurred to her that Pete and Kevin might be wrong about him. His job inevitably meant invading someone’s privacy, and it was impossible to be both objective and please everyone. By the time they were finished with the cables, she had relented.
A Spookies Compendium Page 25
