A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

  “I checked with the girls,” Briscoe said, “and yes, their mother had received a large, leather book. Nag checked it, found it full of drugs and she got rid of it.” He grinned. “Haz was a user and she was protecting her sister.”

  “And for that you’re willing to murder them.”

  All three men laughed. “Not murder, Ms Rand,” said Trent. “Martyrdom.”

  Sceptre frowned and the light began to dawn on Sceptre. “And after you blow the Wicked Witches to hell, the arena, will fall into disuse, and the VDL will offer to buy a small piece of land to set up their local church.”

  Briscoe grinned again. “It will be dedicated to the Lane sisters, the Wicked Witches. In my distress I will open it up as a sanctuary to anyone in need of spiritual uplifting, anyone who is down and out. Brand new addicts in the making, Ms Rand. An army of street scum, wandering in out of the cold, ready for invigoration, ready to become hooked on that sweet white powder.”

  “All I can say is, as criminals go, you’re a set of incompetent fools, and the likelihood of you getting away with it is nil. For your information, Pete is already out with Detective Constable Keynes and they’ll check the arena after they’ve spoken to Oliver Henderson, if only because Green worked there.”

  “Indeed they will, Ms Rand,” agreed Briscoe, “but they won’t find anything because the explosive are not yet there.”

  “Then where are they?”

  “In the school crypt, of course,” said Trent. “In Michael Andersen’s casket. Ms Rand, it’s not we who are incompetent, but your friend Brennan. If he was half the police officer you claim him to be, he would have noticed that the dust was disturbed not only on the Reverend Emmet’s coffin, but Michael’s too.”

  Sceptre stared. “So you disturbed Michael Andersen’s coffin?”

  “Obviously,” Briscoe laughed.

  “This explains so much. Listen to me, all of you. Disregarding your criminal activities, you have unleashed a power which is beyond anything you can control. Even if I do not survive this encounter, those powers will destroy you all. They have already taken your friends Corcoran and Green, and they will not rest until you are all dead.”

  They laughed again. “We’ll take our chances,” Trent assured her.

  Sceptre struggled pointlessly against her bonds. “Fishwick, are you listening to all this?”

  “I am, Milady.”

  “Could you go to the crypt and check out their tale?”

  “Very good, Madam.”

  Rejoining the men in the room, Sceptre ignored their smirks. “My spirit guide has gone to check. When he comes back, he will free me and I’ll take the whole story to the police.”

  “I think not,” said Briscoe getting to his feet. “In fact, I think it’s time we were making a move. Norman, Alec, if you could go to the crypt and retrieve our equipment, I’ll wait with our guest.”

  *****

  Ducking his head into Andersen’s casket, Fishwick was greeted with the sickening sight of a grinning skull.

  “Sorry, old chum, but I know you wouldn’t mind.”

  He checked the rest of the sarcophagus and found, as Trent had said, packs of explosive, detonators and two timing devices.

  Returning to the headmaster’s lodge, he spotted Minton and Trent driving to the school.

  “That only leaves Briscoe,” he said to himself. “Easy for me.”

  He dropped into the headmaster’s study aiming precisely at Briscoe. “They’re telling the truth, Madam,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll deal with this bugger and then set you free.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick.”

  He was a matter of metres from connection with the High Master, ready to bowl him over, when a stunning ball of crimson hurtled in from across the Spirit Plane and knocked him sideways.

  “Hey,” Fishwick shouted. “I thought you were on our side.”

  “Loki!” roared the spirit and stood guard by Briscoe.

  Fishwick hung back. “Madam, we have a problem.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Driving along Ashdalean Road, Pete noticed the white van followed by a dark BMW coming the other way. Something about the Beamer’s registration rang a bell with him. SB… what was it?

  He dismissed it. He had more on his mind than cars, unless it was Gus Nordqvist’s, but he knew that to be an impossibility. Nordqvist’s registration had been WWT … something, something, something. And anyway, it was a safe bet that Frank Anders had crushed Nordqvist’s car soon after they murdered the roadie.

  Reaching the school gates, he spun the car round, killed the engine, climbed out and rang the bell on the headmaster’s lodge.

  Trent answered it a moment later, dressed in a pair of natty, pale blue overalls.

  “Mr Brennan. I’m surprised to see you here.” Trent appeared embarrassed by his overalls. “Just doing a spot of decorating. You know.”

  “Yes.” Pete could not be less interested. “Actually, I came looking for Sceptre. Apparently she was on her way to see you and she hasn’t been seen or heard of since.”

  “She was here,” said Trent. “She arrived about half past four. There was something she wanted to retrieve from the library. I let her in, she had a look around the library and obviously couldn’t find it, so she rang for a taxi and left.”

  Pete frowned. “She didn’t say where she was going?”

  “I’m afraid not. I assumed she would be going home.”

  “Thanks anyway.” Pete turned to leave, Trent made to close his door. On an impulse, Pete turned. “Oh. The taxi. You don’t know which company?”

  “Er … sorry, no. She rang from her mobile.”

  Pete nodded. “Well, thanks again. If you do see her, will you tell her to ring me?”

  “Yes of course.”

  Pete returned to his car, deep in thought. Sceptre had rung a taxi from her mobile? And yet, earlier, she had borrowed Kevin’s mobile to call one.

  “It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility, Pete,” said Kevin, when Pete rang him, “that she took a card off the driver and got the number off that.”

  “Yeah,” Pete agreed. “You’re probably right. All the same, it doesn’t sound right.”

  “Typical copper,” said Kevin. “Always smelling the proverbial.”

  “How’s the show?” Pete asked.

  “It doesn’t start for another half hour, but it’s gonna be great.” Kevin’s excitement burst through the phone. “That’s if you’ll ever get off the bloody phone long enough for me to enjoy it.”

  Killing the connection, Pete fired his engine and drove away from the Ashdalean. Further down the road, he reversed into a cul-de-sac and killed his lights. He checked his watch: 7:25. He’d give Trent ten minutes and if he hadn’t moved, he’d move instead … but he did not know where.

  He did not have to wait that long. Barely five minutes later, Trent’s dark red Mondeo drove past. Pete started his car, flicked on the headlamps and followed the headmaster.

  It soon became apparent that Trent was heading for the arena. Now he knew where he had seen those overalls before. The Arena crew. Pete kept a discreet distance behind, and once he was certain of the headmaster’s destination, he took a side road and cut across the West Side Estate, to bring him out into the industrial area surrounding the arena.

  The stadium loomed large up ahead and he could hear the noise from inside. Huge banners proclaimed, built by Ashdale Construction, completed a year ahead of schedule. “Complete with wobbly roof on the north stand,” Pete muttered as he climbed out of his car. “Perfect for a bomb attack.”

  The headmaster’s car stood out only because Pete was deliberately looking for it. Trent parked near the service section of the stadium and walked hurriedly from his vehicle to the entrance where he showed a pass or something to one of the security officers. As Pete watched, the uniformed security man pointed into the service access tunnel.

  Pete took out his mobile and called Andrea Keynes. While he wait
ed for the connection, he fished into the glove box and pulled out his binoculars.

  “A good PI is always well-equipped,” he said.

  “I know you’re well-equipped,” said Andrea, “but why ring and tell me?”

  Pete grinned. “Talking to myself, Andrea. Listen, chickadee, Sceptre is AWOL and incommunicado. She went to the Ashdalean, I checked up and Trent claims she left hours ago, but soon after I called on him, he left too, dressed as a stage hand and he’s arrived at the Ashdale Arena and just been given backstage access. What price the bomb has just arrived?”

  “Come on, Pete, I’ve had my ear chewed off once toady, I’m in no hurry …”

  “Andrea, I can’t get in here without you, and something is going off, even if it’s nothing to do with Sceptre. Just get down here and get me past security.”

  She clucked. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll meet you at the backstage security checkpoint.”

  “Roger dodger. Oh … hey, listen, while you’re at the station can you run a quick check on a car for me? Dark coloured Beamer.”

  Again Andrea tutted. “Give me the registration.”

  Pete did so and cut the connection. Next he dialled Kevin.

  “Pete,” protested his best pal, “it’s ten to eight and the show’s about to start. What do you want now?”

  “I want you to shut up whinging and start listening. Sceptre is missing and I followed Trent to the arena. He’s in there somewhere dressed as a stage hand. Do you have glasses with you?”

  “I don’t wear glasses, Pete.”

  “Not reading glasses, you dipstick, opera glasses. Binoculars.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Course I do. Who’d come to a show in a big stadium like this without them?”

  “Then listen up,” Pete ordered. “I’m waiting for Andrea to show. They won’t let me in without her. Scan the stadium, see if you can spot Trent. If you make him, buzz me back.

  “Yes but Pete, the show …”

  “Kev, I don’t care about the show,” Pete interrupted, “but I do care about Sceptre. She’s missing, she’s probably in danger and Trent has something to do with it. Just scan the crowd.”

  Kevin huffed into the phone. “I’ll bell you back.”

  *****

  Beneath the stage, Sceptre struggled pointlessly with her ropes. All she could do was watch the seconds tick away on the timing device a yard away. It read just over 22 minutes.

  When Fishwick told her of Loki’s intervention, she suddenly realised how stupid she had been in going to the Ashdalean alone. She should have taken Pete with her. She was going to die in just over twenty minutes and there was nothing she or Fishwick could do about it.

  Her butler had tried.

  When Trent and Minton returned from the crypt, they gagged her and manhandled her into a large crate marked ‘fireworks’. Sceptre found herself sharing it with their stock of explosives. During the 20-minute journey to the arena, Fishwick tried on a number of occasions to get into the crate and release her, but Loki fought him off every time.

  Once at the arena, they carried the crate across the sports field, pushed it under the stage and crawled in after it. Cracking it open, they dragged her out, allowing her to take in the grid of scaffolding that supported the platform above. They tied her to a central supporting pole, set up their explosives and Briscoe switched the timer on.

  With her unable to prevent him, he took the opportunity to fondle her. “Always wondered how much different aristocratic bubs are. Not much. Well, honey, been nice knowing you, but I gotta show to put on.”

  His actions and arrogance only exacerbated her fury. When she got out of this, she would teach Sonny Briscoe a lesson he would never forget.

  When she got out of it? It was now more a case of if she got out of it and it did not look promising.

  Communication with Fishwick was also impossible. He could no more understand her mutterings behind the gag than anyone else would have been able to.

  But her butler had not yet given up hope. “I’m trying to locate Mr Brennan, Milady, and I’m also trying to find Vali. If I can get him to come here and help me, I may just be able to get past Loki and free you.”

  “Thank you, Fishwick,” Sceptre said, although she feared it sounded nothing like that to him.

  She heard bumps and thumps from up above. The Wicked Witches had taken the stage. She checked the timer: nineteen minutes to go.

  *****

  Kevin scanned the stadium with his binoculars. A needle in a haystack would be child’s play by comparison to seeking one man in a hundred thousand.

  “So would winning the lottery, Kev,” he said to himself.

  And Trent dressed as a stage hand didn’t help much. There were hundreds of stadium and Wicked Witches officials kicking about the place, all dressed in the same, pale blue uniforms.

  The lights in the stadium dimmed. Great. His glasses were not electronic. They did not have night vision lenses.

  An announcer’s voice boomed around the stadium. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Ashdale Arena, and now let’s give a huge hometown welcome to our very own …. Wicked Witches!”

  The arena erupted in a barrage of applause and thunder of music. The lights came up. In the centre of the field, the band struck up the opening chords of their first hit, You’re Under My Spell.

  “Bugger Trent,” grumbled Kevin, and put his glasses back to his eyes to see the girls.

  Haz and Nag twirled and danced and sang in the glare of spotlights. Kevin tapped his feet and silently sang along with them. All around him, the audience clapped or stamped their feet to the rhythm.

  But then he noticed something. The spots were all around the stadium, and all trained on the sisters. Yet, there was something not quite right about the light coming from this side. It was dimmer. Almost as if one of the lights were out.

  Kevin lowered his glasses and turned his head to the left. A twin spot was out on the top row. A technician was up a ladder setting it right. Thinking that his must be an interesting job, Kevin pulled the glasses back to his eyes, adjusted the focus and his heart leapt.

  Trent. What the hell did he know about spotlights? As Kevin watched, the light came on and Trent climbed down his ladder, but he had left something behind. A small, black box, too small to identify.

  Kevin lowered the glasses, took up his mobile and dialled Pete.

  *****

  When his phone rang, Pete was out of his car making his way to the security barrier, wondering where the hell Andrea had got to.

  “Yeah, go on Kev.”

  “Pete, I’ve made him. He was farting around with a spotlamp on the top row behind me. He’s left something behind, just under the roof.”

  “Jesus,” said Pete. “They’re going to bring the roof down on the spectators.”

  “What? I’m sat under it.”

  “Stay where you are, Kev. Don’t say anything or you’ll start a panic. Where are you?”

  “Pete, if he’s leaving a bomb here, I’m …”

  “Kev, stay put and answer me,” Pete interrupted. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Sector C for coward, Row R for run like hell.”

  “Okay. Stay put,” Pete ordered. “Andrea’s on her way and I’ll be with you in minutes.”

  “Pete,” Kevin argued, “I’ve told you my opinion of heroism before. It’s all right but it has a habit of leaving you dead. I’m outta here.”

  “Make your way up to the top row, the access gallery,” Pete insisted, “and I’ll meet you there.”

  “Pete …”

  Pete cut the call off before Kevin could whine any further. Dropping the phone in his pocket, he hurried to the security barrier and gave the guard a garbled explanation of what was going on.

  “Listen sport,” said the security man, “do me a favour and bugger off. I’ve met your sort before. You are not getting in and that’s that.”

  “You seriously imagine I want to listen to that garbage?” Pete asked, cupping his ear
to the sound of the Wicked Witches. “There is a bomb in the stadium. It’s by a spotlight in sector C, and the guy who planted it is busy making his getaway.”

  “And I told you to clear off,” retorted the guard. “Or do I have to call the filth?”

  There was a screech of tyres from behind them. Pete turned to find Andrea’s car stopping a few yards away. “No need,” he said to the guard. “They’re here already.”

  Andrea climbed out and Pete hurried to meet her. As they walked back to the security barrier, he gave her a hurried explanation of what Kevin had seen.

  “You’d better be right about this, Pete,” she said, fishing out her warrant card. She flashed it at the security guard. “I’m Detective Constable Keynes, Ashdale CID. Get that barrier raised, and listen to me. There is a bomb in that stadium.”

  “It was checked …”

  “I know it was, I was here,” she interrupted. “The explosive has been brought in since the check, and you let them in. Get onto your boss, make arrangements to start getting people out.”

  “Jesus, missus,” protested the man, “there’s a hundred thousand of them in there. You mention the word bomb and you’ll have a panic on your hands.”

  “He’s right, Andrea,” said Pete. “We need to get to it and see if we can’t disable it.”

  She tutted. “So you’re a bomb disposal expert now, are you?”

  Pete checked his watch. “They’ve put this together in a matter of hours. They won’t have had time to build in any serious safety devices. All we need is Kev to cut the wires. Or alternatively, we can chuck it out of the stadium through the gaps under the roof.” He, too, rounded on the security officer. “Get onto Sherlock, tell him to meet us on the top row of Sector C.”

  They hurried through the barrier, into the stadium and up the rear stairs to the top. Bursting out onto the gallery, they found Trent hurrying towards them. His face registered first shock, then fear. He turned and ran the other way, barging into Kevin, shouldering him aside.