A Spookies Compendium

by David Robinson

“I know nothing about it,” he said. “They hired me to find Gus Nordqvist, I found him, she owes me two grand and I’m due at the Bower later this morning to collect. What about Wayne Niles?”

  “He’ll be officially declared a hero once your statement is in,” Andrea said.

  *****

  Two hours later, Pete drove into the car park of the Bower, where Ranji showed them to the Wicked Witches’ suite.

  Neither of the sisters was in a good mood, but they were grudgingly grateful to Spookies.

  “You exposed our manager as a crook,” Haz said as she wrote out a cheque for Pete, “and you saved our asses. That’s good enough for me. And if you want regular work, we could do with some proper security.”

  “It’s tempting,” Pete said as he folded the cheque into his wallet, “but how long do you think it would be before I kicked your butt? Thanks Haz, but no thanks.”

  “There are some odds and ends to clear up,” Sceptre said. “Like the missing cocaine. Sonny was so certain that you two had it.”

  “We did,” agreed Nag. “Michael Andersen wasn’t quite the dozy old idiot everyone took him to be. He knew what was going on, so he gave the book to our mother the day before he died.”

  Pete frowned. “Sounds like he knew he was going to die.”

  “Elderly people usually do, Peter,” Sceptre said. “Please go on, Ms Lane.”

  “Haz had an addiction problem and it was too great a temptation when it came to us, so I dealt with that problem.” Lounging idly on the settee, Nag went on, “The book was called The Gods of Scandinavian Mythology. It was a massive thing. Big and heavy, leather bound. When I unlocked it and opened it, I found the drugs inside. I locked it back up again and persuaded my mother that we couldn’t keep it. So we got rid of it.”

  Sceptre stared. “Nag, that was a very valuable antique.”

  “No,” the junior Wicked Witch disagreed. “It was worthless. Sonny or Trent or someone, had cut all the pages out, making like a hollow in the middle of the book. That’s where they stored the drugs.”

  “Makes sense,” said Pete. “That way when Sonny and Trent and the others turned up for VDL meetings, it was the most natural thing in the world to have readings from a book.”

  “Correct,” said Nag. “I never told mother what was in it, I never told Haz. I simply persuaded mum to get rid of it and we did.”

  “How?” Sceptre asked.”

  Nag smiled. “I’m saying nothing, but I will tell you this. It’ll never show up again for hundreds of years.”

  *****

  Christmas Eve dawned clear cold and frosty. Ivan Jarvis unlocked the crypt door, leaned in and switched on the lights. Nothing happened.

  “Sorry, Your Ladyship,” he said, “but we haven’t put new bulbs in yet.”

  Sceptre smiled and held up her lantern. Behind her, Kevin switched on his spotlamp, and further back still, Pete switched on a rechargeable light. It promptly dulled.

  “Thanks, Kev,” he said.

  Leaving Jarvis in the chapel, Sceptre led the way down the steps. “Fishwick,” she called.

  “Yes, Madam?”

  “Did you check?”

  “I did, Milady, and you were dead right.”

  “Thank you Fishwick.”

  “What was that about?” Pete asked as they reached the bottom.

  “The book that Sonny Briscoe hoped to inherit from the Lane sisters,” Sceptre said. “I know exactly where it is.”

  Following her along the lower gallery, Kevin asked, “Is there a reward for finding it?”

  “No Kevin, there is not.” Sceptre smiled. “Like Nag said, it will never be found. Or at least not for hundreds of years.”

  She stopped before the casket, and Pete suddenly understood. “Nag buried it with Andersen,” he said.

  “Nothing of the kind,” Sceptre disagreed. “They stored the explosives in Andersen’s sarcophagus, didn’t they? If Nag had left it there, they would have found it. When they disturbed his coffin to place the explosives, they angered his spirit. He would have made them pay but before he could, his old enemy turned up: Vali. That disoriented him.” She smiled at Pete. “I warned Briscoe, Trent and Minton that they had unleashed a power they could not control. Michael Andersen thought of himself as the incarnation of Loki, just as Gus Nordqvist thought of himself as Vali. Loki was angry, Vali wanted revenge. It was one of his traits. But when it was all over, when Vali was dispatched, then Loki’s anger would have turned upon those who had taken his cause and corrupted it: the Venerable Disciples of Loki.”

  “So why did he attack you?” Kevin wanted to know.

  “Lust, I think,” Sceptre said. “Pardon my arrogance, but remember the tale of Michael Andersen and the Danish women he impregnated?”

  “He was a randy old sod,” Pete said.

  “Precisely.”

  “You still haven’t told us where Nag Lane hid the drugs.”

  “The time capsule,” Sceptre said. “If you recall, I found a scrapbook in the library belonging to Oliver Henderson Junior. It was open at a clipping showing the Wicked Witches when they commissioned the time capsule. It won’t be opened for five hundred years.”

  Moving further along the crypt, she paused before another casket and ran her hand along the new stone covering. Dipping into her bag, she took out the VDL badge.

  “I think it was damned generous of the school to let Nordqvist be buried here,” Kevin said.

  “Given the adverse publicity surrounding their headmaster’s involvement in a drug smuggling operation, I’d say they didn’t have much choice,” Pete said.

  “And I think you’re both right.” Sceptre placed the badge on the stone. “You can rest in peace, Gus. You did what you set out to do. You saved her life. Mine too. And for that I’ll be forever grateful.”

  THE END

  The Haunted Market

  Sat across the table from the smiling, eager faces of Sceptre Rand and Kevin Keeley, Pete Brennan remained obdurate and immovable. “I am not spending Christmas Eve hunting ghosts in Ashdale Market Hall.”

  “What else are you gonna do?” demanded Kevin.

  Pete did not need to think about it. “Go down the pub and get rat-legged, same as I do every year.”

  “Pete,” Sceptre begged. “Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

  “Behind the bar of the Snipe Inn,” he retorted, “in a bottle marked whisky.”

  Sceptre clucked irritably. “There are times when I get very frustrated with you, Pete.” She leaned forward, her green eyes burning into him. “Listen, Ashdale market hall has a reputation for being haunted, and the manifestations always happen at Christmas.”

  “And I suppose you know all about it?” Pete demanded.

  “Of course.” Sceptre replied as if the answer should have been obvious.

  Across the room, a small, silver Christmas tree glittered with tinsel. Sceptre reached behind it and retrieved a buff folder. Returning to the table, she took out an A4 notepad, studied her neat handwriting for a moment and launched into her explanation.

  “The market hall was built in 1860, owned and run by Rudge and Corley, two of the most notorious landlords in the town. They’d throw their own mothers into debtors’ prison for missing the rent. In the winter of 1869, there was a great cholera epidemic, which claimed many lives, and saw the traders’ profits nosedive, but neither Rudge nor Corley would relent. They wanted their rent. Many of the traders were forced into bankruptcy by the two misers and even at Christmas they demanded extortionate rents. Jacob Corley died in 1872 and his ghost haunted the market hall still seeking its rent.”

  “Jacob Corley,” mused Pete. “I suppose the other was Ebenezer Rudge?”

  “No,” she corrected him. “George Rudge.”

  “G. Rudge?” asked Pete. “Grudge.”

  Sceptre ignored him. “Rudge lived in a house attached to the hall and died in 1875. It was said that on his death, his face was set into a vision of terror and the rumour soon spread
that he’d been visited by Jacob Corley’s ghost, ordering him to mend his ways.”

  “Right,” Pete agreed. “And I suppose he was also visited by three spirits. The ghosts of Christmas past, present and future.”

  Ignoring him, Sceptre pressed on. “Ghosts have been seen for many years, usually on Christmas Eve, as if they’re wandering the spirit world, seeking forgiveness.”

  “And where was Bob Cratchit,” asked Pete, “out in the snow with his begging bowl, or running a book on Grudge’s chances of getting through the pearly gates?”

  “Pete,” Kevin protested, “this is reality.”

  “Reality my eye,” Pete snorted. “It’s hogwash. It’s Scrooge and Tiny Tim. It’s a euphemism for cleansing the soul and seeking the good which is supposed to be in us all.”

  Sceptre would not hear it. “I’ve been in that market hall, Pete, and Fishwick tells me there are lost spirits there.”

  “I’ve told you before,” Pete countered, “I don’t believe in Fishwick.”

  “Oh, you’re impossible. Her pretty face livid with anger, Sceptre stormed off to the kitchen.

  “No I’m not,” Pete shouted after her. “I’m perfectly possible. Especially for a good looking bint like you.”

  Staring after her, Kevin rounded on Pete. “Now look what you’ve done. You know how sensitive she is about Fishwick. He’s her channel.”

  “Yes, and she’s like the telly channels. Temperamental.” Pete narrowed his eyes on his best friend. “And what’s your angle on this? Got some kind of fiddle arranged have you?”

  “No,” said Kevin defensively.

  “Kev, I know you, you don’t do nothing for nothing.”

  “All right, so I’ve cut a deal with the market manager. I get him a shed load of publicity through the ghost hunt, and he bungs me a few hundred. We need the dosh and it’s buckshee advertising for him when it hits the papers.”

  “The papers?” Pete’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

  Kevin looked sheepish. “The Ashdale Chronicle has already agreed to cover it.

  “The Chron?” Pete almost exploded. “That rag.”

  “Just cos they panned you when the police fired you,” Kevin argued. “Pete, you can’t hold a grudge forever.”

  “Why not?” Pete demanded. “Half the spooks you and Sceptre chase do.” He simmered for a moment. “And will the reporter be there with us in the market hall?”

  Kevin shook his head. “I’ll give them the copy over the phone. Apparently all their hacks are booked somewhere.”

  “Yeah. Like the Red Lion for their Christmas thrash,” Pete whined.

  A moment’s sulky silence followed. Sceptre returned with mugs of tea.

  Kevin sipped from his and eyed his old friend. With an encouraging smile, he said, “Come on, Pete. It’s a lark and we’ll have the rest of Crimmy and New Year to get legless.”

  Anger bubbled just under the surface. “All right, I’m in. But I’m warning you, if Rudge the grudge crosses me, I’ll give him a Christmas present he’ll remember for eternity ... a broken nose.

  *****

  Three weeks later, in the late afternoon of Christmas Eve, Ashdale Market Square was awash with the idea of Christmas. Decorations hung across the street, a giant tree, lights flickering in the December afternoon gloom, dominated the pedestrian square and street traders had donned festive costumes. The Salvation Army Band stood by the market hall entrance playing carols, while crowds thronged the area.

  A charity collector jammed her tin under Pete’s nose. He scowled and she backed off.

  “You really are a misery, Pete,” said Sceptre, dropping coins into the tin.

  “I hate Christmas,” he complained. “It’s why I get drunk.”

  Sceptre gave him a prim scowl. “And what’s your excuse for getting drunk the rest of the year?”

  “I drink to forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  “Dunno. I’ve forgotten.”

  “Well, if you ask me,” said Sceptre, pushing into the crowded hall, “you have a drink problem.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Pete said, “and it isn’t a problem. Barman places drink on bar, I drink it, no problem.”

  The hall was packed with shoppers chasing that last minute bargain or forgotten gift. People milled everywhere with gifts or decorations under their arms, lugging boxes of food or cartons of drink, the toy stall was inundated with customers clamouring for the attention of the two harassed assistants and at the Pick ‘n’ Mix sweet stall, the queue was ten yards long, while the smiling attendant assured an overweight lady that rich Belgian chocolate would have no affect on her figure.

  “She’ll still look like the Goodyear blimp,” Pete commented as they passed.

  John Dimmock, the market manager, met them outside his office, tucked away in a busy corner furthest from the main entrance. “We’ve over a hundred and twenty stalls,” he said, “and as you can see, this time of year, we’re going like hell.”

  “You’ve worked here long?” asked Pete.

  “Too long,” Dimmock moaned. “About twenty years. It’d suit me if the place burned down tomorrow.”

  “You must know about the ghosts then,” Sceptre pointed out.

  “Well, I’ve never seen anything,” he admitted, “but one or two of the traders have, and one member of the public, a woman, said she’d seen this old man hanging around the ladies lavatory.”

  Pete eyed Kevin. “Have you been up to your old tricks again?”

  “He said an old man,” Kevin interrupted. “I’m not even thirty. Go on, Mr Dimwit.”

  “Dimmock, please. Well, like your friend suggested, we get our fair share of winos and weirdoes hanging around, but this woman said when she challenged the man, he simply disappeared.” Dimmock snapped his fingers. “Like that. Into thin air.”

  “And this woman,” asked Pete, “did she smell of strong drink?”

  “At Christmas,” Dimmock noted, “everyone smells of strong drink.”

  Sceptre tut-tutted. “Will you let me ask the questions, Pete? Mr Dimmock, the ladies room, was it always a toilet?”

  “No. When the place was first built, Rudge and Corley had their offices in that part of the building.”

  Sceptre was satisfied. “There you are then. A spirit tied to this world by his own wrongdoings, trying to atone for his sins.”

  “By hanging around the ladies’ bogs?” Pete was incredulous. “Was he a plumber or a pervert?"

  Kevin was more worried. “He doesn’t hang about the gents too, does he, only I might have to go during the night.”

  “Shouldn’t worry, Kev,” chortled Pete. “You haven’t got anything to worry him.” To Dimmock, he went on, “Listen, Mr Nitwit …”

  “Please, it’s Dimmock.”

  “Has this bod been seen in other parts of the building?” Pete pressed on.

  “Oh yes,” said the manager. “All over. And always on Christmas Eve. He’s especially fond of the south east corner, and the music stall.”

  Kevin cheered up instantly. “He likes the Sugababes, does he?”

  Dimmock narrowed a quizzical stare on Kevin. “No, Mr Keeley. When Rudge and Corley ran this hall, the southeast corner was occupied by Bobby Butt, a cobbler. Rudge put him out of business on Christmas Eve, 1870. A Saturday. Bobby went to debtors’ prison, where he died.”

  “And now Rudge is trying to contact the dead man to atone,” said Sceptre.

  “Either that or he wants his boots mending,” Kevin quipped.

  Dimmock gave them another puzzled. “You did say you work as a team?”

  “Kev and me are the sceptics,” Pete explained. “So what’s the form, Mr Nutcase?”

  “For God’s sake, my name is Dimmock. Form? Oh, you mean what happens now?” He checked his watch. “It’s four thirty. The market closes in an hour. It takes the traders anything up to another hour to get out, and I lock up at a quarter to seven. After that, it’s over to you. You’re staying here all night?” />
  “Yes,” Sceptre agreed. “You’ll be here in the morning to let us out?”

  Dimmock nodded grimly. “I’m not happy about it, and neither is the missus, it being Christmas Day and all, but I’ll be here at eight thirty tomorrow morning. In the meantime, good luck. I open up here every morning and it’s creepy enough then. I wouldn’t spend the night here for twice the salary.”

  Kevin’s features paled and he broke wind with a loud raspberry.

  *****

  With the departure of the last of the day’s customers quickly followed by the stallholders, the market hall took on a forlorn air. When Dimmock switched off most of the lighting, the aura turned to disturbing.

  The 150-year-old building, typically built of stone and now protected under a preservation order, was a vast hall, a maze of stalls at ground level, with two upper galleries, one on each side, where other shops plied their trade. The roof was a large cavern criss-crossed by a latticework of iron girders from which the lamps dangled on long cables. When the lighting went down, leaving only one bulb in three working, the whole floor area became a mosaic of shadow with occasional pools of light forming brief oases in a desert of gloom.

  “Rather you than me,” said Dimmock as he came down from the gallery where his office was located.

  In the process of unpacking cartons of video equipment, Pete frowned. “Huh?”

  “Staying here for the night,” Dimmock said with an expansive gesture of both hands that indicated the entire hall. His stare narrowed. “Didn’t you used to be a cop?”

  Pete nodded. “Detective Constable Brennan. I got fired.”

  Dimmock nodded disinterestedly. “I thought I recognised you.” His eyes transferred to Kevin, coming along the north aisle, carrying two 50-metre reels of electrical cable, but with a cigarette dangling from his lips. “You do know it’s illegal to smoke in here, don’t you?” Dimmock demanded.

  Kevin put down the reels, took the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it underfoot. “That’s during the day, though, innit? No one’s gonna mind overnight.”

  Dimmock’s shrug said he was not prepared to get into the debate. “What’s happened to your girlfriend?”