Shiver

by Andrea Frazer

  It took several hours and the purchase of some specialist equipment before they managed to filter out all extraneous noise. Then they played the clip again and again, watching the cleaner raise his pumpkin at the sound of his name: Runolf.

  James frowned. ‘Strange name. Are we hearing correctly? Definitely Runolf?’

  The trainee, whose grandparents had escaped Valdovia during the troubles of the fifties, nodded. ‘I asked my grandfather. It’s an old-fashioned name, found mainly on the coast. Definitely Runolf.’

  James nodded slowly. ‘OK. Let’s give it a try.’

  A ripple of anticipation ran round the office. Rosalie had loaded up the cleaner’s grinning pumpkin program and with trembling fingers typed in the password Runolf.

  The pumpkin’s mouth widened in a smile.

  Access Denied .

  A groan of dismay rose from the assembled programmers. Rosalie put her head in her hands.

  See you October 31st . The pumpkin burst into little pixels, leaving a blank screen.

  ‘Nearly, but not enough,’ James said. ‘We need his full name. Runolf who?’

  So now there were only three days left. Three days to find the Pumpkin Hacker’s surname, and only one winning ticket left in the lottery. Rosalie took a long sip of water. She must have been standing there a long time in James’s kitchen because the silvery glow of the moonlight was tinged with orange. The sun was nearing the horizon.

  She sighed and placed her glass on the drainer. Pointless going back to bed. She was about to head for the shower when she heard a muffled oath from James’s room. His door swung open and he appeared in the doorway, hair ruffled, wearing only the shorts he’d gone to bed in. Rosalie kept her gaze from the well-defined chest and strong legs, fixing it instead on his face. What she saw there made her start forward.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The lottery in Valdovia have emailed. The final winning ticket has been claimed.’

  ‘So soon?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s bad luck, but it happens.’

  ‘How soon before the news is released to the press?’

  ‘Not long. Later today, I imagine.’ He ran a hand through his hair, his usual habit under stress. ‘We need to get back to the office and try something else before the Pumpkin Hacker finds out.’

  ‘But what can we do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he threw over his shoulder, turning back into his room to find his clothes. ‘Pray for luck.’

  VIII

  Despair reigned in the IT department. Clive Miller had his head in his hands. The others sat resigned, their empty screens redolent of failure.

  ‘So what have we got?’ James looked round at the blank faces.

  Someone held up a print-out. ‘This is a list of every Runolf in Valdovia. One hundred and thirteen of them.’

  There was silence in the room, broken only by a watch ticking.

  Rosalie spoke. ‘We have to crack this password before the Pumpkin Hacker discovers the last ticket has gone, otherwise he’s going to activate his program.’ She went on tentatively, looking at James, ‘We don’t have a choice, do we? We’ll just have to plump for one of the surnames on the list.’

  James ran his hand through his hair, still ruffled since he’d woken. He’d had no time to shave, and there was a faint shadow on his strong chin. All eyes were on his, waiting for his decision.

  He nodded slowly. ‘Fine. Let’s choose a name. We have a one in one hundred and thirteen chance. Better odds than winning the Valdovian lottery, at any rate.’

  A sigh went round the room.

  ‘Here,’ Clive said to his daughter. ‘You choose. And best of luck.’

  The programmers murmured their wishes for luck, some of them touching wood, some crossing their fingers.

  Rosalie took the list with shaking hands.

  ‘Ronulf Aaron

  Ronulf Abadi

  Ronulf Babalic… ’

  She scanned the names hopelessly. Finally her eyes fell on two identical entries: Ronulf Macari. If there were two of them, didn’t that lessen the odds? She straightened up, and made her way to one of the screens. The programmers edged out of her way, their expressions grim.

  Rosalie brought the hideous pumpkin back up on the screen. She sensed James at her back, and then his hand on her shoulder. The cursor winked mockingly. Rosalie glanced down at the list again, checking the spelling, and began to type.

  ‘Ronulf …’

  The door of the IT room flew open.

  ‘Ronulf Stiltzschen!’

  Stefan, the young trainee, was doubled up in the doorway, breathing furiously and clutching his side. ‘Ronulf Stiltzschen,’ he gasped again. He waved a photo at the astonished room and collapsed on the floor.

  IX

  It was Halloween. Rosalie was in the kitchen of James’s flat, drinking champagne and nibbling on a piece of gingerbread. Outside in the street the lights from the children’s lanterns bobbed along as they wandered up and down the road trick or treating. James had popped to the corner shop to stock up on more sweets, giving Rosalie strict instructions not to open the door to anyone in his absence. They were celebrating the Pumpkin Hacker’s defeat, but although his malicious program had been disabled, the mysterious cleaner was still at large.

  After Stefan’s dramatic entry into the IT department, the room had erupted. James had called for quiet, and the programmers listened in astonishment as Stefan gasped out his tale. He told them how as a last resort he’d asked his Valdovian grandparents if they knew anyone called Ronulf. It was a wild hope but, armed with the photo Rosalie had managed to snatch, it was worth a gamble.

  As it turned out, Stefan’s grandmother had a cousin who lived on the coast, where Ronulf was still a relatively common name. Her cousin’s daughter was the only person with an internet connection, and so they’d emailed her a copy of the cleaner’s photo. Within a few hours, they’d heard back. The word on the coast was that Stefan’s grandmother’s cousin’s friend’s neighbour had a nephew Ronulf who’d come to no good. Ronulf Stiltzschen. Could it be him? With the email came an attachment – an old school photo. The Ronulf in the photo was forty years younger, but it was unmistakeably the Pumpkin Hacker. The same tortoise head and the same jagged toothed smile in a malicious, youthful face.

  Ronulf Stiltzschen . After listening to Stefan’s tale with mounting joy, Rosalie had entered the password. The entire room held its breath. The grinning pumpkin on the screen disappeared. The room let out a collective cheer, and Stefan was carried on the programmers’ shoulders up and down the corridor and then out into the grounds.

  After that, getting rid of the malevolent software had been relatively easy. With Miller Software off the hook, James had phoned the police, and the Serious Crime squad were now on Ronulf Stiltzschen’s trail. Which meant there was nothing left to do but enjoy Halloween, and finally go on that date.

  Rosalie smiled to herself as she took another sip of her champagne. She was lost in memory of that first date when there was a knock on the door. She stilled. Perhaps James had forgotten his key? She placed her champagne glass on the counter and went out quietly into the hall. The frosted glass in James’s front door revealed the outline of several children, and a childish treble called out, ‘Trick or treat!’

  Rosalie’s anxiety subsided. There were a few sweets left in the dish in the hall, and she grabbed a handful and opened the door. A group of small people in fancy dress looked up at her. One of them held out a bag, and Rosalie dropped the sweets into it.

  A chorus of thanks, and then the group darted away. All except one stocky little figure in a long, flowing cloak. He was peering up at her from behind a pumpkin mask. Rosalie looked down, a small frown creasing her brow.

  ‘Aren’t you going to join your friends?’

  The pumpkin head turned to examine the street, and then back to Rosalie. A pair of gloved hands lifted off the mask, and Rosalie gave a cry, jumping back into the house to close the door.

  Th
e Pumpkin Hacker’s surprisingly strong arm shot out, clasping her leg. He rose slowly from his kneeling position, and Rosalie saw that he had fastened a pair of child-sized trainers to his knees, and his stubby legs had been hidden beneath his cloak. Kneeling on the pavement he had been no higher than one of the other children.

  He reached himself to his full height, his bald head jutting forward, and took hold of her arm in a fierce grip.

  ‘Trick or treat,’ he said, his beady eyes hot with anger. ‘And it had better be treat.’

  Rosalie tried to pull away, and there would have been an unseemly struggle on the doorstep, when all of a sudden a missile came flying through the air, hitting the side of Ronulf’s head with an almighty thwack. Anger was replaced by surprise in his expression, and then he fell, almost in slow-motion, his head hitting the pavement and his cloak billowing up around him.

  Next to him, the missile – a small squash – rolled away into the gutter.

  Rosalie gave a stifled sob, and then two strong arms were around her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said shakily. ‘That was a great shot.’

  James shrugged. ‘I used to play rugby.’ He gazed down at the figure of the Pumpkin Hacker, lying senseless on the drive. ‘It’ll be a while before he comes round from that blow.’

  James’s expression was harsh, his eyes on the prone form on the ground, but then his arm tightened around her. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  Rosalie gazed up at him, filled with the conviction that she’d never in her life felt more OK. There was only one thing she could do in the circumstances.

  ‘Will you marry me?’ she asked him.

  And so Clive Miller’s daughter and James King did get married, and after that they lived pretty much happily ever after. And on Halloween they always took their children to Morocco, where no one celebrates it.

  Dead Ringer

  Bill Kitson

  ‘Del, I don’t like it. This place scares me.’ Elaine’s voice was nothing more than a breathless, fearful whisper.

  Del wouldn’t admit it, but he felt the same. It had seemed like a good idea when he’d suggested it, but that had been in broad daylight, with other people around them. Now, in the cold and dark of a winter’s evening, it was much less exciting. ‘It’ll be OK, Laney, you’ll see,’ he whispered back, hoping he sounded convincing.

  Neither of them appreciated the irony of their whispered tones. They were standing by the massive trunk of an ancient yew tree, one of several that had been planted centuries earlier in the graveyard alongside St Jude’s Church. The young couple were surrounded only by those who had long ceased to hear anything.

  Or so it seemed, until a scarcely audible rustling from the long grass nearby signalled that some creature had been disturbed by their whisper. It was followed by a sudden flapping of wings and the indignant hoot of an owl deprived of its evening meal.

  Elaine clung to the boy’s arm. ‘Let’s go, Del, I’m scared.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, Laney, I promise. It was only an owl. Once we get inside we’ll have the place to ourselves. We can shut the world out. There will be just you and me.’

  He wasn’t going to be denied. He had planned this night in detail. His words sounded romantic, and Elaine felt desire overcome her fear. Like Del, she had wanted this for a long time, and in a village such as Lingtoft, privacy was all but impossible. Choosing Halloween had been a masterstroke. Both sets of parents would be occupied guiding their younger children as they walked around the village seeking treats. The party at the Cross Keys that would follow, with its fancy dress competition and a buffet supper, would ensure they had several hours together without anyone missing them. They had been able to sneak off undetected. Plenty of time for them to do what they so desperately wanted.

  Admittedly the crypt of St Jude’s wasn’t exactly the ideal love nest, but in the circumstances it was the best they could hope for. Mixed with Elaine’s reservations about the choice of venue were a host of others, centred on it being her first time. She tried to shelve these doubts, and asked, ‘How will we get in? You said you’d see to it.’

  Del chuckled, the sound almost alarming in the silence. ‘Have you seen the lock? If you breathe heavily on it, the door will open. Besides …’ He touched the back of her hand with something cold, making her start with surprise.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘The key to the crypt. I borrowed it last Sunday. It hangs on a nail in the vestry. It was seeing the key that gave me the idea of using the place.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s the right key?’

  ‘I know it is. There’s a whacking great tab on it that says crypt.’

  ‘Have you been inside?’

  ‘Course I have.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘It smells a bit fusty, and there are three stone tombs inside, but nothing more.’ He ran his fingers lightly across the back of her hand, ‘No creepy-crawlies. I smuggled a couple of blankets in to make sure we were comfortable.’

  They had reached the end of the paving stones that formed the path and were alongside the wall of the church. They groped their way round the outside in the darkness, guided by the rough limestone wall, cool against their hands. ‘Nearly there,’ Del told her, his excitement mounting. ‘I reckon it’s safe to use the torch now.’

  ‘OK, Del, if you say so.’ Her hands were trembling now, partly from fear, partly from desire.

  The sudden brilliance from the light made them blink and look away hurriedly. Del stepped forward and went to unlock the old wooden door, but as he attempted to put the key in the lock, the door swung open. ‘That’s odd,’ he muttered, ‘it wasn’t locked.’

  Elaine had other things on her mind. ‘Del, you did bring something, didn’t you?’

  Del grinned in the darkness. He knew exactly what she meant. ‘Of course I did. I wouldn’t be that thoughtless. Unless you want to be a teenage mum?’

  ‘No fear.’

  She clung tightly to him as he pushed the door wide, noticing the damp, musty odour he had described. It might have put them off, but desire was taking control. ‘Come on, Laney.’

  Del guided her down the short flight of stone steps, holding her hand and shining the torch at her feet. She immediately stepped onto the floor of the crypt. He took her in his arms and began kissing her lips, her face, her neck, his hands seeking her breasts beneath the coat and sweater she was wearing. She wriggled free of the coat as he slid it from her shoulders and it fell to the floor as he tugged at her sweater and then unhooked her bra. She shivered as he slipped one hand lower, moaning softly as he touched her skin, then his hand was behind the waistband of her jeans, inside, groping towards its target. Del’s whole body trembled as he achieved his objective, and as she unbuttoned his jeans, he gasped with delight. His slight movement caused him to knock the torch he had placed on the nearest tomb, dislodging it so that it rolled to one side.

  Elaine’s mouth was close to his ear; her scream all but deafened him. She wrenched herself free from his arms, stumbling back towards the steps as she screamed and screamed again. Del saw her outstretched arm, her hand pointing beyond him. He turned, and as he saw the obscenity that had terrified her, the scream became a duet.

  ‘Trick or treat?’ The question was more of a demand than an enquiry. The child who delivered it could not have been more than six years old. She wore a grotesque witch’s mask, the old crone’s image being in stark contrast to the piping treble voice.

  Carol repressed a smile with difficulty. ‘Gosh, you scared me.’ She reached back alongside the front door of her flat and picked a carrier bag from the table. She held it out for the youngster to choose from the contents, smiling over her head at the anxious mother hovering a few paces in the background. As the little witch held up her reward, a pair of chocolate bars, Carol’s mobile began to ring. She watched the mother shepherd her charge away to the next door before answering. ‘DS Benson.’

  ‘Caro
l, sorry to disturb you, but I’ve had a report of what sounds like an extremely gruesome murder.’

  Carol’s superior, Detective Superintendent Geoff Parker, sounded apologetic. ‘I’m afraid you and Diane will have to handle it. Louise and I are off to London on the first train in the morning.’

  Carol knew that the couple were going on their long-awaited holiday to New York. ‘No problem, Geoff, give me the details.’

  ‘There aren’t many, I’m afraid. Two kids found the body. It was in the crypt of St Jude’s Church in Lingtoft village.’

  Carol winced; Lingtoft, right at the head of the dale, probably the most inaccessible settlement in her patch. Her brain centred on one thing Parker had said. ‘Did you say the crypt? What were a couple of kids doing in a church crypt during Halloween? Trying to raise the devil?’

  ‘They were certainly trying to raise something. From what I could gather they’d sneaked in there for a spot of nookie. An odd place to choose to get your leg over, I admit, but this is Lingtoft we’re talking about, and they’re all a bit weird up there.’

  ‘Thank you for reminding me, Geoff. Has anyone else been informed?’

  ‘No, Carol, I thought as you were going to be in charge of the case I’d give you the privilege of rounding up the troops.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ Her tone was sarcastic. Asking their pathologist to turn out on a cold, wet night was likely to provoke an angry response. ‘OK, Geoff, you go off and enjoy yourself. I’ll drag the pathologist from in front of his telly and rouse forensics from their laboratory. Give my best to Louise. Don’t think about us slaving away here.’

  ‘I won’t, Carol. One more thing, Happy Halloween.’