It was as if Bilks had just been reminded of it. His voice was shocked, filled with awe. “I’m dead. But what about Angie and Damon? What will they do?”
Fishwick looked down on Sceptre and her friends. “Get on with their lives, mate. That’s what the living do.”
‘And what about me?” asked Bilks. “Is it time for me to go through The Light?”
“That’s up to you,” Fishwick explained. “If your work is done, you can go through, or you can stay here and hang about with me, keep an eye on your wife and child.”
Bilks disappeared. In a second he reappeared. “It’s no good. Like this, I would only frighten them. I think I’d better move on.”
Fishwick glowed a little brighter. “Just as you wish.”
“Thank you,” said Bilks, drifting slowly to The Light. “Thank you for your help.”
Fishwick watched him drifting further and further back until The Light had him in its grip and he disappeared into its welcoming brilliance. “My pleasure, me old china.”
Chapter Nineteen
It was ten o’clock on Monday morning when Andrea Keynes visited Sceptre, Pete and Kevin at their flat. They had all been questioned and released on Saturday night, and she had come to give them a clean bill of health.
“We’ve been out at the manor all weekend,” she reported, “working under floodlights at night, getting that wrecked racking out of the way, piece by piece, so we could shift Wilcox’s body. Trouble is, no one’s come up with a convincing explanation as to who drove the forklift truck.”
Pete had had the whole weekend to think about Wilcox’s actions. “Since you took the keys out of his truck when you handcuffed Lemmy Groom, Wilcox must have figured he could do a runner on the forklift truck.”
Keynes laughed. “Leg it on a forklift truck? And do you think we wouldn’t have noticed as he passed us and plodded into town on it?”
“Knowing your men, they’d have held up the traffic and waved him through.” Pete thought about the devastation again. “He probably rammed it into the racks by accident, then ran for it, but he was so confused, he ran the wrong way. Or maybe he believed there was a rear exit.”
“Locke had it figured another way, Pete. Like you came after him and rammed the racks. That makes it manslaughter at least. Possibly murder.”
“Well in that case, I’m glad I was with you.”
Keynes stared through the windows at the grey light of a grim Monday morning and a heavy sky threatening more snow. She glanced back and smiled. “Be thankful for your fairy godmother. Me. Groom swears that there was no one in that warehouse but Wilcox, and I told Locke it wasn’t you.”
Pete was satisfied, but Fishwick knew otherwise and had already imparted his knowledge to Sceptre, who passed it on. “It was Bilks who drove the truck, Bilks who killed Wilcox,” she insisted. “He was getting his revenge for his own murder.”
No one believed her, although Keynes did confirm that they had officially cleared up the murder of Steven Bilks. “Groom and Lawson admitted that it was Wilcox. Smashed Bilko with a baseball bat in an effort to keep him quiet, and went a bit too far.”
“It was cold-blooded murder and Wilcox got just what he deserved,” Pete grunted. “So we’re officially in the clear, are we?”
“On all fronts,” Keynes confirmed. “We did find a hell of a mess on the floor of Flutter-Bys’ cellar. Butter, eggs, yogurt, and in amongst it all were thousands of pirate copies of Mind Games III. Johnny Tate said they belonged to his brother, but Jimmy is denying it. Do you know anything about them?”
“Me?” Pete put on an air of virginal innocence. “Would I have anything to do with pirate movies?”
Keynes gave a throaty laugh. “All right. I won’t push it, but you have one last thing to do, Pete.”
He was mystified. As far as he was concerned, everything had been covered. “What’s that?”
Keynes grinned. “Buy me dinner.”
With an eye on Sceptre to see if it provoked any reaction (it didn’t) Pete agreed and showed the Detective Constable out. When he returned, he found Sceptre in good form, expounding her own theories to Kevin.
“Wilcox heard the ghost of Steven Bilks in that nursery, it terrified him, he ran for it and Bilks chased him down to the warehouse, where he drove the forklift truck into the racking.”
“I must say,” Pete commented, rejoining them at the table, “he’s very versatile, our Bilko. He’s been sending text messages to Kev ever since he died, he’s been through you once — which is one more time than me or McKinley — and now he’s driving a forklift truck. If he were that clever, he could have made an honest fortune when he was alive, instead of passing his time breaking and entering.”
“All right,” Sceptre bristled, “who threw the marbles at Wilcox?”
“You did,” Pete declared.
Sceptre promptly disagreed. “No, I mean after I’d run out of them. He had me on the floor, choking me. Someone threw marbles at him to get him off me, and it wasn’t Fishwick.”
Pete gestured at his best friend. “Kev, then.”
“No,” Kevin denied, “I was busy poking Sylvie in the eye with my pinwheel.”
“We’ve had this debate before,” Pete objected, “when Kev got the milk and sugar and forgot. I think it’s happened again. He thinks he was poking Sylvie in the eye, and in reality he was chucking marbles at Wilcox.”
Sceptre gazed calmly at him. “You’re just afraid that I may be right.”
*****
“Pay you? Have you gone completely mad, Brennan?”
Opposite Jimmy Tate, Pete fumed. “We had a deal, Tate. Find your DVDs and you pay us five grand.”
Jimmy nodded. “That’s right. But you didn’t find them, did you? The filth did … in Wilcox’s cellar. If you’d told me that when you came earlier and left it to me to pick them up, I’d have paid you, and plod would have been none the wiser, but you didn’t.”
“I didn’t know they were there until Wilcox walled me up in his cooler,” Pete yelled.
“Irrelevant. You hadda play the big hero, didn’t you? Finding Bilko’s killer and all that, and where’s it got us? Johnny and Nicky are walled up, and when they get out, they’re gonna clear off together, and Trading Standards have impounded all the DVDs, and I’m out several grand. Not only that, they’re investigating me, which means I’ve had to trash all my gear, wipe all the hard drives, get rid of written records and stuff. It’ll be a year before I’m back in business.”
“Jimmy,” said Kevin, “we showed you that your missus was having an affair with your brother.”
“You think I didn’t know about that? Get real, Keeley. What woman in her right mind is gonna find this attractive?” Jimmy swept his podgy hands down from shoulder to waistline.
Sceptre tried to reassure him. “Mr. Tate, there are remedies for chronic obesity. You could have your jaw wired and your stomach stapled.”
“Ugh,” was Jimmy’s response.
“All right then, how about a few classes in self-esteem. There are those women who find intelligence attractive.”
He dismissed her with a snort. “I don’t have intelligence, lady. I’m streetwise, but I’m still a blimp, and women like Nicky find my bank balance the most attractive thing about me. I knew about her and Johnny months ago.”
Sceptre was amazed. “And you did nothing about it?”
“Yes, I did. I kept my trap shut.” Jimmy swallowed a large swig of beer. “He was my brother and she was my wife. As long as I played dumb, they stayed here.”
Pete reared angrily. “They were going to walk out on you, with your money.”
“Yes, and if I’d known, I could have talked them round. Instead, you dragged them into the Bunfight At The No Way Hotel, and they’re nicked. Now, they’ll never come back.” Jimmy glared at the team. “You get nothing.”
They emerged from Tate’s house and climbed into Kevin’s van.
“You have to feel sorry for him,” said Sceptre, se
ttling between her partners.
“Sorry for him?” Pete slammed the door. “If we ever meet again, I’ll kill him.”
“He’s lost everything,” she pointed out.
“Not quite. He’s still got his money.” Kevin fired the reluctant engine and ground the gears into reverse. “And look on the bright side, Pete. You’ve shut down Ashdale’s biggest dealer in porn and pirate movies, and you’ve helped rid the town of one of its gangsters. Wilcox. Admittedly, we didn’t earn on it, but you can’t have everything.”
“Kevin?”
Kevin dropped the van into first and drove off down the drive towards the gate. “Yes, Pete.”
“Shut up and lend me 50 quid,” ordered Pete.
“Yes, Pe …What?” Kevin was so shocked, he braked hard and the van skidded into a small tree, smashing one of his headlights. “Now look what you’ve done.”
“I think the tree’s okay,” said Pete as Kevin drew away from it.
Sceptre laughed and Kevin boiled. “What about my van?”
“What about that 50 quid?” asked Pete.
Kevin dropped the van into gear again and drove through the gates and onto the main road. “Pete, give me one good reason why I should lend you 50.”
“I’m taking Andrea Keynes out tonight,” Pete reminded him. “Come on, I’ll pay you back when things pick up.”
Kevin shook his head. “You shouldn’t have agreed to take her out when you didn’t have the money.”
“I was banking on Tate paying up,” Pete explained.
Sceptre smiled. “Lend him the 50 pounds, Kevin. You must owe him that for the number of times he’s saved your hide.”
Kevin pulled turned right onto the Ashdale road and plodded along with the afternoon traffic. “I’ll want a receipt.”
Sceptre handed Pete a small notebook and pen. He scrawled “IOU fifty sovs”, signed it and passed it to Kevin. Pulling up at a set of lights, Kevin checked it.
“Hey,” he protested, “this is signed Donald Duck.”
Pete smiled innocence. “Must have been Bilko’s hand guiding the pen.”
*****
Ten minutes later, as they pulled into the car park of the Crown & Anchor, Sceptre’s telephone rang. She took it from her bag and made the connection. “Hello, Spookies.”
“Spookies now, is it?” McKinley’s voice came down the line. “How you doing, sugar? Just wanted to know how you got on the other night.”
Climbing out of the van, Sceptre covered the mouthpiece and reported to her two partners. “McKinley.”
“Tell him where to get off,” Pete suggested, leading the way into the bar.
“Better yet,” said Kevin, “tell him where the railway station is and what time the next London train leaves, and tell him to be under it.”
She ignored them. “What can we do for you, Mr. McKinley?”
“I want to apologise for Saturday night,” the reporter confessed.
Sceptre smiled to herself. More soberly, she announced to the mouthpiece, “Your apology is rejected by a majority of three to none.”
“Come on, Sceptre,” begged McKinley. “I bottled out. It isn’t the first time. Heroes, like your pal, Brennan, are thin on the ground, and I don’t reckon to be one. Let me make it up to you and buy you dinner tonight.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, and hung up.
Following her partners into the bar, Sceptre bought a bottle of wine, and they retired to a corner table.
“So what did the scumbag want?” Pete asked.
She poured three glasses from the bottle. “He wants to take me to dinner.”
Pete was aghast. “You’re not thinking about it, are you?”
Sceptre pushed a glass to each of them and took the third for herself. “Why not? You have a date with that detective.”
Pete thought about it for a moment, then said, “Yes, but McKinley is probably only after the bottom line on the police investigation. He’ll get what he wants and dump you.”
“Pete,” Sceptre said, “someone once told me that there is no such thing as bad publicity. McKinley may be a creep, and he certainly won’t get what he really wants, but he may be useful to us in the future.”
“The future?” Kevin swallowed hard. “I’ve had it with ghost hunting. My future is in buying and selling.”
Sceptre ignored him. “We were extraordinarily successful at Melmerby Manor and that is our future.” She raised her glass. “Gentlemen, I give you a toast.”
Mystified, her partners raised their glasses too.
“I give you... Spookies.”
THE END
The Man In Black
Chapter One
“Sod the rules.”
His voice echoing around the empty corridor, Danny Corcoran jammed a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips and lit up. He drew the smoke in and let it out with a long, satisfying hiss.
What difference did it make? All the toffee-nosed kids had gone home for Christmas and the other cleaners were on the ground floor. There was only him here. Where was the problem in sneaking a quick smoke?
Taking another drag, he checked his wristwatch. Seven thirty. Another half hour yet, and he only had the library to do. Wouldn’t be much to do in there, either. Kids and staff all away, no one would be reading library books. At worst it would need a quick once over with a brush and a check on the bins.
With a third pull on his cigarette, he nipped the end, tapped it with a finger to ensure that it was out, and tucked it behind his ear. Sorting through a bunch of keys, he unlocked the library door and walked in, reaching up to flick on one row of lights on. Half the fluorescent tubes in the room sprang to life. Trent, the headmaster, was always moaning about the electricity bill. These public school wallahs were all the same. Teachers or kids, it made no difference. Pots of money and always whining about the cost of things.
“The rules of the upper classes,” he said. “Keep a stiff upper lip, no running in the corridors, no piddling in the baths, no blubbing when you take six of the best, and keep your eye on the bank balance. Oh, and no talking in the library.” He grinned and put a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he whispered to the empty room.
Some of the little snots could do with living in the real world for a change. Spend a bit of time in the nick, struggle by on dole money and a few quid from a part time job like this, rack their stuck-up brains to work out where the next pint or fix was coming from. But they didn’t have to, did they? All they had to do was ring mummy or daddy and ask for a few thou’ to tide ’em over until they got right in their heads … if ever.
Danny crossed to the window, turned the vertical blinds and looked out.
Beyond the lawns and paths of the Ashdalean School, the town was a random conglomeration of tangerine streetlights, dotted with the animated white of car headlamps. Monday morning and the world was coming alive again. Away to the east, he could see the moors, and above them, the first harbinger of daylight; a pearly gleam cutting into the night sky.
Closer to the building, the school grounds were crowded with trucks and trailers and caravans, and even at this early hour the area was a hive of activity. The movie people were in town, using the school to make the new pop video with the Wicked Witches. Danny watched men and women coming and going, rigging gantries and lights, checking their cameras over, laying tracks for the mobile cameras.
Real work.
Danny wouldn’t mind being in with that movie crowd. “Gotta be better than brush-pushing,” he said to himself.
In the middle of the melee stood Trent, the headmaster, shrouded in an overcoat, a dark tie cleaving his crisp white shirt in two, chatting to the American director. Danny’s lip curled. Snooty git, that Trent. An old boy of the school. Always had an eye on the purse strings, and Danny would bet next week’s wages that he was talking to the director about money; how much the school would get for letting the Wicked Witches use the premises, how big a cut he, Trent, would see personally, for arranging it.
With a yawn, Danny turned away from the window and scanned the library with a practised eye. He knew where the crap would usually be. Toffee wrappers under the tables, dog-ends in the waste bins (he wasn’t the only one to smoke where he shouldn’t) sheets of photocopier paper screwed up into balls and thrown on the floor instead of in the bin. But he’d given the place a good doing over yesterday. Wouldn’t be none of that today.
He hated libraries. Spooky places, they were. Places for old duffers, nerdy kids or tramps wandering in off the street for a warm. You couldn’t drink in libraries, couldn’t smoke (you couldn’t smoke anywhere these days, never mind the libraries) couldn’t talk, couldn’t fart, couldn’t do anything in a library except read, and who wanted to read? Reading was for sad sacks. Reading was for them as liked to watch life go by. Danny didn’t watch life go by. Danny lived life.
He wandered around the room and checked everything he had to check. The bins were empty and the floor was clean. He guessed they would be. No one had been in the room since yesterday. Nothing to do.
Dropping his broom and dustpan, he sat down and threw his feet up on the table. To do the right thing, he should go back downstairs, report to Ivan Jarvis, the supervisor, and help the others, but why should he? Did any of them ever come up here to see if he needed a hand? Did they hell as like.
He stretched, yawned and dug into the pocket of his jeans for his cigarette lighter. With his other hand, he reached behind his ear. As he did so, something flicked the cigarette away. Danny dropped his feet to the floor, snatched his head round, first one way then the other.
A Spookies Compendium Page 33
