A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  The High Master turned. His hand was already travelling beneath his robes, but Minton grabbed the wrist.

  “Try it,” warned Minton. “Frank was tough but dumb. I’m tougher and a lot smarter.”

  The High Master smiled and brought his hand back into view. “Perhaps your fears are well grounded, Alec. What is it you want?”

  Minton relaxed. “You’re certain we can cut the deal after tomorrow night?”

  “It’s property, Alec,” said the other, “and you should know that it takes time, but yes, I am sure that come the spring, a corner of what is now the Ashdale Arena will be ours. The Venerable Disciples of Loki will be formally established, and we will make a handsome profit on it. All the more now that there are only the three of us.”

  “Then all I need is a ticket out of the country.” Now Minton grinned. “Maybe I can found a new branch in Europe.”

  “But your passport …”

  “You think I didn’t learn anything from Swede?” Minton cut in. “I can have a new passport by morning. But I need money.”

  “Soon done, my friend,” the High Master said. “Be at the lodge tomorrow and we’ll sort you out.”

  *****

  Pete looked glumly at his front, offside wing, then glanced a couple of hundred yards along the road where the flashing blue lights of emergency vehicles surrounded the wrecked car. Finally he turned his focus on Sceptre. “Are you okay?”

  Squatting on the sidewalk, knees up, hands clasped around her shins, chin resting on her knees, she nodded. “I’m sorry about your car.”

  “Never mind the car,” said Pete. “That’ll mend. As long as you’re all right.”

  “Fishwick tried to stop it. Nordqvist’s spirit was too strong.” She brushed away a small tear.

  “Yeah. Right.” Normally Pete would have argued, but he concluded that Sceptre was in no state for it. He bit his tongue and examined the crumpled wing of his car. The headlight was broken, the side panel crushed in, brushing against the front tyre.

  “Did you see who was driving?”

  Sceptre shook her head. “No. Fishwick just said the driver had been following me since I left home.”

  Once more Pete found it hard to respond without cynicism, so he kept quiet. Instead, he offered his hand. Sceptre took it, stood and broke down, sobbing. She buried her face in his shirt.

  Pete patted her, comforting her. There were many times over the last year when he had wanted Sceptre in his arms, but not like this.

  He looked towards the accident scene again, and picked out the figure of Chief Inspector Locke making his way towards them. He could not see the man clearly, but there was something about the way Locke walked, as angrily as he talked, that made him as easy to spot in a crowd as a tomato in a display of apples.

  “She all right?” Locke asked.

  Pete nodded.

  “Able to talk?”

  Pete snorted. “Does it look like it?”

  Sceptre pulled away from Pete, sniffed back her tears and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I’ve already given one of your officers a statement, chief inspector.”

  Locke looked over the damage to Pete’s car. “I’ve read your statement,” he said, “and I’m not arguing with your version of events.” He pulled at the buckled wing. “It’s obvious that the other vehicle struck yours. However,” he straightened up and faced her, “the dead man is Ginger Green.”

  Pete felt his colour drain. “Jesus.”

  “Exactly. Know who else we found in the car?” Locke hastened to answer his own rhetorical question. “Frank Anders. Throat cut.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “I can’t work out what’s going on here,” the Chief Inspector went on. “The other day we found Danny Corcoran dead in a vat of crap, tonight it’s Ginger Green driving head on into a concrete memorial while carrying Frank Anders’s dead body, and Green was wearing that idiot Punch & Judy badge, the same as Corcoran. Who’s next? Alec Minton? They were both known associates of Corcoran’s.” He turned on Pete. “And whisper has it you were at Ashdale Construction earlier today looking for Minton.”

  “Yes, but he wasn’t there, and I was looking for Minton, not Ginger Green.” Pete’s gorge rose. “What is with you, Locke? Do you think I’m guilty of everything that goes wrong in this town? Do you imagine I sat in the car with Green, made sure he’d hit the war memorial and then jumped out at the last minute? I’m such a bloody super hero, aren’t I, that I could do that without picking up a scratch? And naturally, I must have slashed Anders’s throat too.”

  “All I’m saying, Brennan, is that there is more than coincidence going on here.”

  “Definitely,” Pete agreed, “but you’re looking in the wrong direction. You should be talking to Ollie Henderson and asking about Minton, not hassling us.”

  Sceptre pulled in her breath. Pete noticed that she did so shakily. “It’s my belief, chief inspector, that Green and Corcoran were involved in the murder of Gus Nordqvist, and that his spirit is now seeking vengeance.”

  “From beyond the grave?” sneered Locke. “I’ll let it go, Ms Rand, because you’re obviously upset, but don’t test my patience too far. Brennan?”

  Pete shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. I can only repeat what I just said. Speak to Ollie Henderson.”

  With a grunt, Locke turned and walked off, meeting Keynes half way. The pair stopped and talked for a moment, and Pete heard Locke shout, “WHAT?” before they hurried back to the accident.

  “I wonder what that’s about?” muttered Sceptre.

  Pete took out his mobile. “Let’s try and find out.” He called up Andrea’s number and made the connection. “Andrea? Pete. What’s going on?”

  He could see her turn back to look in his direction. “I can’t talk right now. I’m busy. I’ll ring later.”

  Pete shut the phone down. Sceptre raised her eyebrows and he shrugged.

  *****

  Someone hammering on the door woke Pete at nine the following morning.

  Passing Sceptre’s door, he found it closed. He tapped softly on it, pushed it open an inch and saw her still asleep. He closed the door gently so as not to disturb her, and strode through the living room as the hammering came to the door again. He opened it to find Andrea Keynes on the step.

  He shivered in the icy weather. “Morning Andrea.”

  She barged past him.

  “Morning Pete,” he muttered, closing the door again. “Nice to see you. Nice to see you, too, Andrea.”

  “Where the hell have you been?” she asked when he joined her in the living room. “I’ve been knocking for the last five minutes. You with a woman?”

  “No but now that you mention it …”

  “Forget it,” she cut him off. “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Why don’t you make some tea,” Pete suggested, “while I get dressed, and then you can tell me exactly why you are here.”

  He returned to his bedroom, drew on a pair of jogging pants and a T-shirt, pressed his feet into Reebok trainers and when he came back to the living room, it was to find Sceptre, still in her pyjamas, looking tired and drawn drinking tea with the CID woman.

  “My two favourite chicks,” he said, sitting at the table and drinking from a beaker, “and one of ’em’s already dressed for bed. Does life get any better than this?”

  “Do be quiet, Peter,” Sceptre scolded him. “Andrea has news for us.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “When forensic were going over Green’s car last night, they found a detonator,” Andrea reported. “It prompted them to look a little closer and they turned up certain chemical traces in the boot. Overnight, the analysis has been confirmed. TNT.”

  Pete whistled. “Where the hell did Green get his hands on TNT?”

  “You do mean TNT the explosive, don’t you?” Sceptre asked.

  Pete eyed her. “Is there any other sort?”

  “Oh dear lord,” was all Sceptre could say.

  “Th
ere is only one source in Ashdale,” Andrea said. “Ashdale Construction, and only a couple of people had access to it. Ollie Henderson himself and Alec Minton.”

  Sceptre was still puzzled. “Why would a building contractor want TNT?”

  “They handle demolition too,” Pete advised Sceptre. “I would imagine they keep a stock of explosive for when they’re bringing down mill chimneys and power station cooling towers.”

  “Precisely,” Andrea confirmed. “We’ve been at his place since seven this morning. Not only does he keep TNT and detonators, but he’s some missing.”

  “How much?” Pete asked, ignoring Sceptre’s look of alarm.

  “As far as we can gather, about twenty-five pounds.”

  “How much damage could that do?” Sceptre wanted to know.

  “Depends where you place it,” Pete said. On an aeroplane in flight, it would be catastrophic.”

  “In a shopping mall,” said Andrea, “it would take out many windows and passers-by would be cut to ribbons by flying glass.”

  “Stick it at the base of a nail bomb,” Pete reported, “and you have a homemade anti-personnel mine of incredible destructive power.”

  “I get the picture,” said Sceptre, stemming the tide of examples. “But why have you come here, Andrea? You don’t imagine we have anything to do with …”

  “No, Sceptre, we don’t,” Andrea admitted. “Even the chief said you wouldn’t be involved in this. You’ve been investigating the death of Gus Nordqvist, and Pete has already said that Corcoran was involved, which we accept. It looks as if Green was too, and they’re both known associates of Minton. Is there anything you can tell us that might give us a lead?”

  Pete shook his head. “Our inquiries have turned up very little other than what I’ve already told you. Gus Nordqvist was a member of some odd religious sect and Danny Corcoran and Ginger wore the same badge, but we have no proof of anything.”

  Andrea frowned. “You mentioned it last night, but what do you mean an odd religious sect? Christian fundamentalists, or something?”

  “A pagan cult,” Sceptre explained, “named the Venerable Disciples of Loki. Loki is an old Norse deity.”

  “The god of evil,” said Pete. “Have you considered that Henderson might be involved in the disappearing explosives?”

  Andrea chewed her lip. “So far, the only thing Henderson is truly guilty of is failing to report the stuff missing.”

  “He’ll pretend he didn’t know,” Pete pointed out.

  “He did try pretending he didn’t know,” Andrea confirmed, “but we found an email and a hard copy report from the senior shot firer. Henderson knew about it last week.”

  “What would a man like this Green want with explosives?” asked Sceptre. “Would he be planning a bank robbery or something?”

  Pete laughed. “Sorry, Sceptre,” he apologised, “but your innocence is showing through. If you’re going to blow a safe, you don’t use twenty-five pounds of TNT. You might blow the safe away, and half the building with it, but you wouldn’t get it open.”

  Sceptre shrugged. “In that case, I repeat, why would Green want this explosive?”

  Andrea shrugged this time. So did Pete.

  “Neither Green nor Minton are terrorists,” Andrea said.

  “But Nordqvist was,” said Pete. “Remember Copenhagen?”

  “Silkeborg,” Andrea corrected.

  “I knew it was somewhere east of Hull. Could they have been supplying a terrorist cell?” Pete suggested.

  “If so, the Anti-Terror Squad knows nothing about it. Locke called them the moment we got the report. They’ve had surveillance on a few individuals and groups in Ashdale, but as far as they’re aware, Ginger Green and Alec Minton have had no contact with any of them. Obviously, that was only —” she checked her watch, “— two hours ago, and we’ll get a more detailed report later, but for now, this is not linked to terrorism.”

  “Then,” said Sceptre, “I repeat. Why would this Minton person steal explosives from his employer?”

  “We don’t know,” Andrea admitted.

  “Tell you what’s never been looked into,” Pete said. “Ashdale Arena.”

  Andrea was puzzled. “What about it?”

  “Well, both Minton and Green worked there on behalf of Ashdale Construction and the Wicked Witches are playing there this Friday,” Pete reminded her. “Plus, correct me if I’m wrong, Sceptre, but didn’t Trent tell you old Michael Andersen considered that area sacred?”

  “He did indeed,” Sceptre agreed.

  “Yes, but Pete, we’ve found Nordqvist, so I don’t see what …” Andrea trailed off, a look of horror spreading across her face. “Oh my God, there’ll be a hundred thousand people in that place tonight. Suppose that these nutters had decided to blow the place to hell while the Wicked Witches were on stage, tonight? Nordqvist would never go along with it because of his relationship with Nag Lane, so they killed him to shut him up.”

  “Blow it to hell?” Pete laughed. “With twenty-five pounds of TNT? It’ll take a damn sight more than that to bring the arena down.”

  “Agreed,” Andrea said, “but you could still kill and injure a lot of people with it.”

  “Or worse, you could blow those two sisters to hell with it,” said Sceptre.

  Andrea was already dragging her mobile out of her bag. “Anything’s possible. I’ll get the bomb squad onto it.” She stood up and made for the door.

  “Hold it,” Pete said. “I’ll come with you.”

  “I’m going to the arena.” Andrea was already on her way out as she dialled the station.

  “So am I.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  With Pete and Andrea gone, Sceptre showered and dressed, and by the time she returned to the living room, it was to find Kevin sat before the TV, wearing only his underpants. “I do wish you would dress, Kevin. It’s unnerving seeing you in nothing but Y-fronts.”

  He raised his left foot, with its white strapping. “I’m wearing this as well. Besides, I don’t hear you complaining when Pete comes in wearing only his boxers.”

  Sceptre began to collect her belongings together, dropping them into her handbag. “The sight of Pete in his shorts is a lot more pleasant than you in your underpants.”

  “That’s what I love about you, Sceptre. The way you bolster my ego.”

  “I have to go out,” she said, putting on her coat. “Don’t overdo it on that ankle.”

  “Not much danger of that, Sceptre,” he said slurping from a beaker of black coffee. “I’m heading for the arena about five-ish.”

  “What time does the show start?”

  “Eight,” he told her, “but I like to make a night of it.”

  “I’ll be back before you leave,” Sceptre assured him. “Oh, damn. I’ve no transport. Kevin, do you have a number for taxis?”

  Kevin tossed her his mobile. “Be my guest. You’ll find one in the directory.”

  She called up the menu and pressed T to take her to the correct area. “I can’t see it.”

  “It’s under C for cabs.”

  “Obviously.”

  *****

  Thirty-five minutes later, after paying the taxi driver, she rang the doorbell of Trent’s lodge.

  Dressed, as always, in his business suit, a crisp, plain blue shirt and red tie offsetting the sombre browns of the suit, he was surprised to see her. “I was expecting you last night, Ms Rand.”

  “I’m sorry to have put you out, headmaster, but there was a bit of an accident last night. We’ve only just learned that after the police took away all our equipment on Tuesday night, they left a length of audio-visual cable in the library. I wonder if I could trouble you for the keys to the school so I can retrieve it.”

  “Of course,” he smiled. “I’ll get my coat.”

  “Oh there’s no need to trouble yourself,” she said. “I know where it is and I’ll lock up again behind me.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.” He ducked back into the
house and returned a few moments later with the keys. “You will make sure the doors are locked again?”

  “Of course.”

  Sceptre passed through the side gate and ambled along the drive, her shoes crunching on the sand and gravel. The movie crew had moved on to the Ashdale Arena, their work completed 24 hours previously, and the school grounds had taken on the silent, contemplative aura of any seat of learning.

  Into that stillness, came the sound of Fishwick’s voice in her head. “Are you sure this is wise, Madam?”

  “I think so, Fishwick.” Sceptre replied. “Did you find any storage areas near the roof access?”

  “Indeed, Madam. It’s in the room closest to the roof staircase.”

  “If I’m right, Fishwick, Mr Trent will undoubtedly take action to stop me, especially when I confirm my findings on the roof. For the moment, I don’t want you to take any action to prevent him.”

  “You’re walking into the lion‘s den, Milady.” Fishwick voice brimmed with worry.

  “I’m aware of that,” she said, “but as things stand we do not know what this is all about. I’m banking that, like most megalomaniacs, Trent will want to gloat. Until I know what they’re doing, what we’re up against, I want him to feel totally secure, so if he should restrain me, take no action until I call for you.”

  “Very good, Madam. I shall not be far away.”

  Sceptre reached the doors, unlocked them, and jogged up the staircase to the first floor. She walked quickly along the corridor, past the library, her mind filled with the memory of Monday night and the awful sight of Loki materialising so close to her, and reaching the far end, unlocked the roof access and hurried up the stairs.

  A blast of freezing air hit her as she stepped out into the cold sunshine once more. From here she could see across much of the town to the moors beyond. She could also see the sheet of grey polymer Fishwick had described, anchored to the roof, covering what she imagined was the great seal.

  On closer examination, she learned that it was fastened with inlaid steel bolts and she would need a wrench or something to free them.