A Spookies Compendium Page 4

  “Jimmy Tate.”

  Pete nodded. “Precisely.”

  Kevin was practically drooling. “If the recording is as good as the quality of the cover, it’ll make for some good viewing.”

  Sceptre felt like a child left out of a school prank. “Who’s Jimmy Tate?”

  Pete fired the engine, slotted the car into first and pulled away. “Remind me to tell you sometime.”

  *****

  Time and distance had little meaning on the astral plane. For Fishwick, locating the angry spirit was as simple as looking around for the outburst of emotion and then moving toward it. He could be 10 kilometres or 10,000 kilometres away, it made no difference to the old butler. He would be able to detect the spirit and be with him in an instant.

  He found the spirit hovering above an old manor. “Now then, how are you doing, me old mucker?”

  “Wigjam!” roared the spirit.

  “What’s tha doing here? Git outta my house.”

  The interjection came from another spirit, one that communicated with a broad Yorkshire accent. The newcomer had roughly the shape of a stocky, broad-shouldered man. There were no facial features to distinguish him from any other of the millions of spirits who never went through The Light, but Fishwick was able to identify them all individually. His mistress had asked how he was able to do so, and he did not know. There were no visual clues, such as facial features, on the spirit plane, but he just knew.

  In contrast, the angry one was a ball of blazing energy, glowing red and orange, like the fires of the sun. He darted hither and thither, unable to make sense of this half-world, unable to make sense of himself.

  “It’s not your house anymore, is it, chum?” Fishwick argued with the new arrival. “Not been your house since you passed on.”

  The figure glowed purple with indignation. “It belongs ter me and my family, now git on with thee.”

  Fishwick ignored the order. “Who were you?”

  “Sir Henry Melmerby.” The announcement came with a degree of hubris. “In life, I was thy better, so think on and show some respect.”

  Fishwick’s training as a manservant compelled him to take a deferential step back. “So what are you doing hanging round here, Sir Henry?”

  “I told thee, it’s my house. And she keeps me here.” The putative head of the spirit form jerked in the direction of another spirit, a sadder one, hovering nearby, its attention rooted on the property below.

  At Sir Henry’s mention, the woman drifted to them. Her form, like that of all females on the spirit plane, had a gentler, curvier shape about it. She glowed a dull, mournful blue, but flashes of red appeared as she spoke to Sir Henry. “Tha done me, you old bugger,” she complained. “Aye, and tha wouldn’t own up to it, would tha? Tha’d rather see me swing.”

  “Aggie Devis,” Sir Henry explained. “There were a bit of a misunderstanding between us.”

  “That were no misunderstanding what tha did to me. Tha knew what tha were doing.” Aggie bristled vermilion with anger. “Aye, and not only ter me. There were all them others an’ all.”

  Fishwick backed off and left them arguing. He turned to the angry spirit, its fiery energy blazing now to crimson. “And what’s your story?”

  “Wigjam!” roared the spirit.

  “A disgruntled housemaid, a randy squire and an incomprehensible lunatic.” Fishwick sighed to himself. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  Chapter Three

  Originally built to accommodate lower income families, the Cranley Estate sat on the north-eastern outskirts of Ashdale. A maze of narrow streets encircled by an access road, it was owned and managed by the local council, and like many such estates up and down the British Isles, it suffered from neglect born of under-funding, over-population and inappropriate letting. Anyone considered a ‘problem tenant’ was housed on Cranley.

  Many of the properties were boarded up, awaiting repair and renovation so they could be re-let, but council employees willing to work on the estate were thin on the ground, would only go out in teams of three or four, and then only in daylight.

  Pete and Kevin had been joint tenants of 63 Nineveh Crescent for five years. The arrangement and area suited both. Cranley had a couple of good pubs and a small shopping area, which dealt with their day-to-day needs. In addition, Pete’s fearsome reputation ensured that they were never hassled. Unruly teenagers, who often congregated in certain areas of the Estate, gave them a wide berth. Loan sharks and drug dealers, who flourished in the general lawlessness of Cranley, kept their distance and for Kevin, the unwillingness of the police to venture onto the Estate meant he could cook up his occasionally dodgy deals in comparative safety.

  The day began just after noon when Pete finally crawled out of bed and met Sceptre in the kitchen where she was preparing a cup of chamomile tea.

  “I know where the spirit went after leaving the Bilks’ place,” she declared.

  Pete, still tired from the night’s exertions, merely grunted and made himself a mug of strong, sweet tea.

  They made their way into the living room and sat at the table beneath the windows, where he scanned the sports pages of the previous day’s Ashdale Evening Chronicle and Sceptre sat, warming her clasped hands on her mug. “Fishwick came back to me just after four this morning and told me he’d tracked the spirit down to Melmerby Manor. It’s not difficult for him, apparently. Better than that, he says there are other spirits there.”

  She narrowed her gazed at Pete, who continued to take in the news of alleged discontent in the ranks of Ashdale Athletic Football Club.

  Sceptre raised her voice. “Pete, I’m talking to you.”

  He put the newspaper down. “So what do you want me to say? Hurrah, old Fishy’s found the poltergeist hassling Angie Bilks? For God’s sake, Sceptre, I don’t even believe in Fishwick.”

  “Then how do you explain last night?” she challenged.

  “I told you. I need to think about it. Whatever it was, I don’t believe it was ghosts.” He picked up his newspaper again.

  Sceptre pressed him. “All right then, how do you explain my knowledge of an emergency at 16 Rossington Terrace?”

  With an angry sigh, Pete tossed the newspaper on the settee and scanned the room. His eyes fell on Kevin’s computer workstation by the rear wall. Like everything else to do with Kevin, it was untidy, the work surfaces littered with books, bills, letters, overflowing ashtrays, empty cups and empty cigarette packs. To one side of the computer sat a portable radio. Getting to his feet, Pete crossed to it and switched it on. There was a hiss of static and for a moment, nothing else. Then came the voice.

  “Control from delta-four-zero, we have an r-t-a on Shambles Island. A trucker’s lost it on the approach, rammed up the back of a Jeep. Over.”

  “Delta-four-zero from Control, you need the paramedics? Over.”

  “Er, negative, Control. You could get it out to Radio Ashdale, avoid the area for the next hour or so. Over.”

  “Roger, wilco, delta-four-zero.”

  Pete switched the radio off again and rejoined Sceptre at the table. “Kevin’s always monitoring the emergency wavelengths. He could have left that on last night, you heard it while you were asleep, and it registered on your consciousness.”

  “Nonsense,” Sceptre declared. “There were two doors between that and me, both of them closed. There’s no way it would have registered with me.”

  Pete forced patience on himself. “We know less about the abilities of the human brain than we do the surface of the Moon. When we sleep, we’re theoretically aware of everything that goes on around us, but we choose to disregard most of it. That’s how new mothers always know when their babies need them. Now if you were halfway between waking and sleeping, a radio broadcast like that, which your mind would be tuned to, could become a dream. You would have dreamt that Fishwick told you when in fact it was the radio.”

  “Pete, I did not dream it.”

  “You say that,” he placated her, “but yo
ur dreams can be remarkably real, you know.”

  Sceptre raised her voice to a shout. “I didn’t dream it.”

  “All right, all right.” With a grin, Pete crossed his two index fingers and held them forward. “Pax, pax.”

  Sceptre fumed for a moment. From the bedrooms came the sound of Kevin moving around. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  Pete checked the clock on the DVD recorder. “Turned noon, time he was up anyway.” He rejoined Sceptre at the table.

  She took a sip of tea and, as he picked up his newspaper again, she asked, “You have heard of Melmerby Manor?”

  Pete sighed and raised his eyebrows above the newspaper. “Come again?”

  “It would help,” Sceptre complained, “if you put down the paper and listened to me. I asked have you ever actually heard of Melmerby Manor.”

  With a weary sigh, Pete dropped the paper again and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Yes, I have heard of Melmerby Manor. Ashdale’s only genuine stately home, open to the public from April to October, owned by some bigwig in London who never shows up there except to collect the takings at the end of the season.”

  The hall door opened and Kevin wandered in wearing only a pair of baggy underpants. “Who turns up at the end of the season to collect the takings?”

  Kevin’s habit of turning out in his underwear had troubled Sceptre when she first moved in, but time had acclimatised her to his less savoury habits. But that did not mean it did not still unnerve her.

  “I do wish you would dress before you come out of your room,” she reminded him.

  “I haven’t got anything you haven’t seen before,” Kevin complained.

  “You don’t know whether I’ve seen it before or not,” Sceptre pointed out, “and even if I have, it’s usually presented in a better format than you.” She stared pointedly at his baggy undies. “Most floppy discs are reserved for computers.”

  Kevin took instant offence. “I don’t need snide remarks from you.”

  “He gets enough from everyone else,” grinned Pete.

  Kevin scowled. “At least when they talk about me, they use my name.”

  Now Pete frowned in anger. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Sceptre could see an argument brewing. Determined to head it off, she asked, “Talking of names, I thought you were supposed to be thinking up a business name for us, Kevin.”

  With a glower at Pete, Kevin replied, “I’ve been working on it. How about Exorcists Unlimited?”

  Sceptre’s face fell.

  “What, you don’t like it?” Kevin sounded offended.

  “You make us sound like a bunch of rogue church officers,” Sceptre pointed out.

  “So you want me to have a rethink?”

  Sceptre did not reply, but looked to Pete for support. He just shook his head.

  “All right,” said Kevin, huffily, “I’ll go back to the drawing board. In the meantime, who turns up at the end of the season to collect what takings?” Both Sceptre and Pete looked puzzled. Kevin reminded them, “You were talking about someone collecting money at the end of some season.”

  “Oh, that.” said Pete. “I was talking about the rich bitch that owns Melmerby Manor.”

  “Oh, him.” Kevin’s interest waned and disappeared. He wandered into the kitchen.

  “Him? I thought Melmerby was a woman.” Pete directed his question at Kevin’s disappearing back, but it was Sceptre who responded.

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” she asked with a smirk.

  Pete shrugged and finished his tea in anticipation of Kevin bringing a refresher. “When I was a cop, I was once sent out there to investigate a break-in at the back gate. They didn’t have it properly secured. Anyway, I ended up talking to Lady Clarissa Melmerby. An old bat worth more money than the three of us will ever see in our combined lifetimes, and she was moaning about the time it had taken us to get out there.”

  “Lady Clarissa is Sir Jonathan Melmerby’s wife. He happens to be a millionaire financier. Works in the City, and do you know something else?”

  “What?”

  “I know him.”

  Whatever grand effect Sceptre hoped to produce with her announcement, it did not work. Pete merely gave a sigh and asked, “Why doesn’t that surprise me? All you top nob families feed from the same trough, don’t you? I supposed mummy had you earmarked as a bride for Melmerby’s eldest son?”

  Sceptre ignored his cynicism. “No. As far as I’m aware, the Melmerbys are childless. Sir Jonathan was a great friend of my mother’s, and that’s proved very useful this morning.”

  “How so?” asked Pete.

  Sceptre could hardly contain her excitement. “I rang him, and he’s given me permission to investigate Melmerby Manor and its hauntings.”

  Kevin returned with a single mug of tea and sat between them. “Who’s given us what permission to investigate where?”

  Pete rattled his mug on the table. “Where’s my tea?”

  Kevin scowled. “You know where the kettle is. After the way you called me, you can get your own tea. Now, since you woke me up, the least you can do is bring me up to speed.”

  Sceptre looked at Kevin’s computer set up. “You know your laptop? Can you rig it to drive EMF sensors, video cameras, microphones and whatnot, from a distance?”

  Kevin gave a tubby shrug and a gaping yawn. “I’d need to get the gear and the software, but yeah, I have enough memory to work with. Why do you want it?”

  “Melmerby Manor.” For their benefit, she reiterated her earlier conversation with Fishwick and then detailed her phone call to Sir Jonathan Melmerby.

  When she had finished, Kevin stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So you wanna set up the cameras, audio feeds, magnetometers, infrared motion sensors, and maybe a few PIRs to eliminate mice and stuff, and drive it all from the computer.”

  “Seven out of ten for comprehension,” said Pete giving him a mock round of applause.

  Kevin ignored him and focused on Sceptre, whose mouth was hanging open in an expression of horror and revulsion.

  “Eliminate mice and stuff?” she gasped. “What are these PIR things? Laser beams? We’re ghost hunters, Kevin, not exterminators.”

  “I didn’t mean kill them,” Kevin yelped in his own defence. “A PIR is a passive infrared sensor. It needs both heat and movement to trigger it.” He could see she was no nearer understanding. “Look, your bog standard ghost is cold, isn’t he? If he walked past, he’d trigger an infrared motion sensor, but he wouldn’t trigger a PIR. So if you use a PIR and it triggers, you know you’ve got something alive, like a mouse, rather than something dead.”

  Sceptre calmed down. “Oh. I see. And you can set all this up?”

  Kevin nodded. “Yeah, it’s no sweat. All we have to do is get all the gear and the cables to run it back to a modem.” Kevin moved to his desk, picked up his cigarettes, lighter and a ballpoint pen. Returning to the table, he lit a cigarette and had his first coughing fit of the day, causing Pete to comment on his habit. Refusing to rise to the bait, Kevin tore the flip top from the pack and began to list the items he would need. “We’ll want a couple of fifty-meter drums of mains cable, audio/video feeds and a distributor board.”

  “Kevin,” said Sceptre, interrupting his train of thought, “you know you said these PIRs only detect movement and heat?”

  He stopped writing. “What about it?”

  “We need to detect movement, so they’ll be no good.”

  He sighed with enforced patience. “That’s why I said we need both infrared motion sensors and PIRs. If the motion sensor triggers and the PIR don’t, you know you’re dealing with a spook. Geddit?”

  “Oh. Right.” Sceptre watched a moment as he went back to his list.

  “I’ll need the motion sensors too, and magnetometers with auto triggers, couple of ion counters, one or two direct-reading thermometers, EMF metres. Hand-held are the best…”

  “Kevin,” Sceptre interrupted aga
in.

  “What?” His irritation at the interruption was beginning to show.

  “How do you know all this?” Sceptre wanted to know. “Have you been on a ghost hunt before? Only you never mentioned it.”

  “I just know it, right?”

  Pete laughed. “He’s watched so many ghost hunters at work on the Sci-fi and Living channels, he knows exactly how they work.”

  “You watch them, too,” Kevin pointed out. Addressing himself to Sceptre, he went on, “I know about electronics. I know how the gear works, and it’s all about using a bit of common sense, isn’t it? Ghosts are some kind of energy form, so you need equipment that will register energy. If you can fit it with auto triggers, they’ll kick the video and audio equipment in when they’re triggered. But you have to make sure you’re not triggering this stuff with mice, spiders and what-have-you. Hence, the PIRs.”

  Sceptre nodded her understanding and chewed her lip. “Is it going to be expensive?”

  Kevin gave an easy shrug. “You’re looking at three or four grand, but I know a face who’ll let me have it all on hire and I can screw the price down to the ground. We’ll get away for under five ton.”

  Pete’s features darkened. “Which face?”

  “Benny Stringer.”

  This time Pete’s face screwed into a mask of disdain. “Bent Benny? He’s hookier than you.”

  Sceptre’s pretty face registered surprise. “What a curious nickname. Bent Benny. Who is he?”

  “Runs a shop over on Chapel Road,” Kevin explained, “and he sails a bit close to the wind now and then.”

  “Now and then?” Pete’s voice dripped scorn. “Put it this way. If it’s electrical and it’s not nailed down or bolted to the wall, it’ll be for sale in Bent Benny’s shop the next day. He’s one of the biggest crooks in Ashdale.” He jerked a thumb at the DVD recorder. “He sold that to Kevin and swore blind it hadn’t fallen off the back of a lorry.”

  “Well, it hadn’t,” Kevin defended his contact.

  “No,” said Pete. “It never even made it to the lorry. He nicked it straight from the factory in Birkenhead.”