Jake Conley Mysteries Collection

Chapter 19

Relieved to sense only positive energy in his newly blessed flat, Jake wondered how to set about clearing his name. He dismissed every plan that came to mind as inadequate until he settled on the idea of phoning the local newspaper and asked to speak with the reporter who had written the piece about the ghost.

“Is that Claire Heron?”

“Speaking.”

“Uh, hello. It’s about your report of the ghost by the Minster. Well, I think I can add considerably to that story.”

When Ms Heron showed interest, Jake went on to describe his misadventures from the road accident to his release from custody earlier in the day. When he’d finished, there was a long silence, making him think he’d lost the line.

“Hello?”

“Yes, sorry. I was just pondering over what you told me. As I understand it, you’re under suspicion for the murder of your fiancée and trying to accuse a ghost of the crime, and you’d like me to go public with this. It’s highly irregular, Mr Conley. I doubt very much I can get it past my editor.”

“Look, Ms Heron, I’m sure you can understand my problem. Nobody seems willing to take me seriously. But I swear to God, I didn’t kill Livie; I loved her.”

“I’ll tell you what, there are some elements you’ve given me that we can run with. I’ll have to check with my editor regarding the murder. You can understand it’s complicated. There are the police to consider, not to mention the effect on the public of publicising a homicidal ghost in the city centre. Let me get back to you on this; I’ve got your number.”

When the journalist had rung off, Jake cursed. He realised she wouldn’t write what he wanted her to publish, but it left him to start over in a quest to prove his innocence. He decided to ring Abigail to find out more about Livie’s last hours and to convince her of his blamelessness, but she kept declining the call, and he got nowhere. He called her every foul name he could think of but on calm reflection didn’t blame her. If he’d been in her shoes, he’d have done the same. The rest of the day he spent idling, playing chess against the computer and losing, reading a novel about a Second World War fighter pilot, and finally watching a documentary about the origins of the universe.

The next morning, he went out early to buy some food for the next few days, and passing a newspaper vendor, he bought a copy of The Post. Having put his purchases in the fridge and cupboards, he settled down in an armchair with a glass of prosecco and turned to page five of the tabloid. The name Jake Conley leapt off the page at him. Claire had written an article headed THE MINSTER GHOST – ITS BACKGROUND.

Eagerly, he read: Further to the sighting of the ghost of a Saxon warrior near the Minster by Mystic Mu, another York resident, Mr Jake Conley living in Skeldergate, has come forward with his own testimony. Some months ago, this unfortunate gentleman was the victim of a road accident that left him in a coma, as a result of which he claims to have undergone a psychic awakening. While researching his novel about an eighth-century Northumbrian king, Mr Conley did some field work, which took him to Ebberston, near Scarborough. Near the village, he visited a cavern known as Elfrid’s Hole, where he says he saw the warrior and heard other tormented spirits within the cave. Local legend relates that King Aldfrith, protected by his men and lying wounded after a battle, sought refuge from his enemies there. “I’ll bet my last twenty pence that they’re still protecting him to this day,” says Mr Conley, who swears the warrior spotted near the Minster followed him to York from Ebberston. “The ghost has attacked me twice, and I’ve had to have my flat blessed by a priest to keep him away,” he says. The novelist insists the ghost of the Saxon warrior is no danger to the general public but adds, “He’s giving me sleepless nights, I can tell you.” The article went on to give historical details about King Aldfrith, and Jake lost interest.

Further to the sighting of the ghost of a Saxon warrior near the Minster by Mystic Mu, another York resident, Mr Jake Conley living in Skeldergate, has come forward with his own testimony. Some months ago, this unfortunate gentleman was the victim of a road accident that left him in a coma, as a result of which he claims to have undergone a psychic awakening. While researching his novel about an eighth-century Northumbrian king, Mr Conley did some field work, which took him to Ebberston, near Scarborough. Near the village, he visited a cavern known as Elfrid’s Hole, where he says he saw the warrior and heard other tormented spirits within the cave. Local legend relates that King Aldfrith, protected by his men and lying wounded after a battle, sought refuge from his enemies there. “I’ll bet my last twenty pence that they’re still protecting him to this day,” says Mr Conley, who swears the warrior spotted near the Minster followed him to York from Ebberston. “The ghost has attacked me twice, and I’ve had to have my flat blessed by a priest to keep him away,” he says. The novelist insists the ghost of the Saxon warrior is no danger to the general public but adds, “He’s giving me sleepless nights, I can tell you.” He drank his prosecco and refilled his glass. There was nothing in the article that helped his cause because there was no reference to the murder of Olivia. At this stage, Jake was indifferent to Ms Heron’s piece, but had he known what effects it would have, he wouldn’t have been so complacent.

Sheffield, South Yorkshire

Sheffield, South YorkshireThe same morning, Dr Stuart Dow, self-styled Doctor, was reading a copy of The Sheffield Star. On an inside page it carried a synthesis of the two Minster articles published in The Press of York. Stuart Dow was fascinated. As a founding member of the Yorkshire ghost-busting outfit Spook-a-Spook, proud manager of his own f*******: group page, and organiser of various conferences at county and inter-county level, he was honour-bound to follow this up. He snatched up his mobile and tapped in Russell Leigh’s number.

Spook-a-Spook, “Hey Russ! Have ye seen this on page eight of the Star? What do you mean ye wuz gonna ring me? I should perishin’ hope so! Can ye call Veronica then? I’ll get the van and load up the equipment. Sounds like we’re onto a cracker here, matey. I’ll get around to your place for midday. See that Ronnie’s there, pal. It’ll save me running around all the flamin’ mornin’. Right-o, see ye later.”

He unlocked a wall cupboard and took out a proton pack, with its hand-held wand ready to fire a controlled stream of protons to neutralise the negatively charged electromagnetic radiation of a ghost so that it could be held in the active stream. This was followed by an ECU – an Ecto Containment Unit – and three pairs of Ecto goggles. He swore when he grazed his thumb against the cupboard frame and reached deeper inside for the Giga Meter and the PKE meter beside it – the Psycho-Kinetic Energy meter. He surveyed the equipment with pride. They’d started out with nothing more than torches and night glasses, but now, through contributions and membership fees, they’d established a collection worthy of the most professional of units.

All right, there were sceptics who didn’t believe in ghosts, but he, Doctor Stuart Dow, could prove their existence and had already rid several properties of unwelcome presences, earning himself a bit of brass and boosting his growing reputation as a serious ghost buster. Getting rid of the Wentworth Woodhouse ghost was still the finest feather in his cap. The poor tormented ghost of an eighteenth-century maid who’d died in front of the house under the wheels of a horse-drawn carriage had plagued unsuspecting guests for more than two hundred years, but Stuart Dow Esquire had dealt with her once and for all, make no mistake.

DoctorHe gathered up as much as he could carry down to the drive and packed the equipment into the boot of his car, made a second trip for the rest, grabbed his jacket and their camping gear, then drove to Russell’s place.

The unwariness born of a brash confidence in their own abilities, or perhaps the basic underestimation of the danger they faced, led Dow and his assistants to pitch camp in the clearing containing Elfrid’s Hole. In perilous situations, it is often the most timorous who pay the heaviest price. In this case, Russell Leigh expressed his concern, eying the black hole in the rock with unease.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Stu. We don’t know what’s in there. We should pitch the tents somewhere else.”

“Don’t be daft, lad. What’s up wi’ ye? I’m not carting loads of equipment backwards and forwards just because ye’ve got the wind up.”

“He’s got a point, Russ,” Veronica agreed. “Come on, we’ve done plenty of places worse than this, and nowt’s happened.”

If Ronnie was all right with it, Russell thought, he could only acquiesce. So they pitched the tents, lit a fire, and brewed tea, a task he particularly enjoyed. Around the fire they discussed the relative merits of a night- or day-time reconnaissance of the cavern, and to Russell’s relief, and surprise at his reaction, decided to do the recce in the morning. What was it about Elfrid’s Hole that spooked him so much? He couldn’t find a rational reason because he’d been on so many ghost-busting expeditions in places with a far creepier atmosphere and not been spine-chilled like this.

Normally a sound sleeper, also on hard ground, Russell lay restless and alert. After an hour, he strained his ears, a footfall? A fox, or a stray dog? Something was out there. Near their tent! He tried to control his breathing and steady his heartbeat. Why was he so jumpy? Then he heard it: a wheezing intake of breath. Not an animal, then. He glanced across the tent. Stu was sound asleep. Had Ronnie left her tent? Was she safe? Russell Leigh made the fatal decision to check on her.

He struggled out of his sleeping bag as silently as possible so as not to wake his companion, unzipped the entrance flap, and poked his head out into the cool night – and lost it. A single vicious axe blow beheaded Russell Leigh, former taxi driver, would-be ghost buster, at the age of twenty-nine.

In the morning, Veronica’s insistent screaming was shrill enough to rouse Stuart Dow from a deep, refreshing sleep. His bleary eyes told his befogged brain that Russ should not by rights be lying half inside the tent door. Ronnie’s screaming also told him something bad had happened. Quite how bad, he could never have imagined. Never in his life had he seen the horror of a decapitation. That the victim was a dear friend and that arguably he was to blame for his death for not considering Russell’s qualms made matters worse.

With Veronica’s help, he spread a groundsheet over the body, trying his best not to contaminate the crime scene.

“We have to call the police,” he said, tapping 999 into his mobile, relieved that there was a strong signal in this remote spot. Having supplied the essential information, he concentrated on comforting Veronica, whose nerves were shattered. All thoughts of ghost busting at Elfrid’s Hole he consigned to the past. All they could do now was wait for the police to arrive.

Skeldergate, York (two days later)

Skeldergate, York (two days later)Jake’s mobile buzzed and vibrated on his coffee table. He’d set it on silent mode overnight. He snatched it up to see a number without a name.

“Mr Conley, hello. Claire Heron speaking. I’m calling to get your take on the Ebberston murder.”

Jake sat up, interest afire. He’d not watched the news or surfed the web for a day or so, preferring to cloak himself in silence in an attempt to contemplate his personal problems.

“What murder?”

“Surely you must have heard? It’s splashed over all the dailies with television covering little else. There’s been a gruesome killing at that cavern you told me about–” a brief pause as she name-checked, “Elfrid’s Hole. A member of a ghost buster team from Sheffield was beheaded there two nights ago. Don’t you see, Mr Conley? This helps your case.”

Jake did see, and after a series of excited questions and answers supplied to Ms Heron for a new article, he rang off, sat back, closed his eyes, and pondered his next move.

didFulford Road Police Station, York

Fulford Road Police Station, YorkDetective Inspector Mark Shaw stared at his superintendent, who had deigned to visit his office.

“I’m sorry, sir, do I understand correctly that you wish to link the Ebberston murder to the Greenwood case? Of course, there is more than one element that links them. I’ll get onto it at once, sir.”

As good as his word, Shaw rang the doorbell of Jake’s flat twenty minutes later and, not content, pounded on the door with his fist. One might as well make the suspect anxious, he believed.

When Jake opened the door, he pushed his way into the flat without ceremony.

“I’m guessing you’ll know why I’m here.”

“No idea, a social call?” Jake sneered. He’d formed a deep dislike of this ill-mannered policeman.

“Mr Conley, pleasant as your company is, I’m here on official business because our murder inquiry has become a double murder. I have to ask you, sir, where were you between six in the evening on Tuesday and the same time yesterday?”

Jake looked thoughtful but replied, “That’s easy, Inspector, I was at home in the flat.”

“And you didn’t leave the building at all?”

“No.”

“Is there anyone who can corroborate this?”

“I shouldn’t think so, I’ve been alone all the while. Oh, except–”

“Yes?”

“Yesterday afternoon, a journalist rang me about what happened at Ebberston. But I suppose that’s no good, I could have taken the call anywhere, couldn’t I?”

“Don’t underestimate police technology, sir. I’m sure the call can be located if necessary.”

“Oh, I see,” muttered Jake, as ever uneasy in the presence of the supercilious policeman.

“Equally, we’ll find out if you were in, say, Ebberston, two nights ago.”

“I wasn’t!” Jack shouted, red in the face. “You can’t pin a double murder on me. I haven’t done anything!”

“I must say, this murder in Ebberston is very convenient. It looks like somebody is trying to make the police believe in ghosts, Mr Conley. Now, that somebody wouldn’t be you, would it, sir?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, Inspector. All I know is that I was here, minding my own business at the time of the Ebberston murder. I didn’t even find out about it until Claire from The Post rang me yesterday.”

“Regarding your own business, sir, might I take a look at your computer?”

“I think you need a warrant, Officer…but as I’ve nothing to hide…” Jake rose from his armchair, strode over to his desk and switched on his laptop, typed in his password and pulled out the chair for the policeman.

Shaw looked through the browsing history, expecting to find the site of the Sheffield ghost busters. His search drew a blank, so he scrolled through the trash folder of the e-mail. Nothing incriminating. But then, knowing the criminal mind, he wouldn’t be fooled.

“I’m going to ask you to let me take this computer to our lab for a day or two, Mr Conley.”

“What for?” Jake’s tone was aggressive.

“To rule you out of our inquiries, sir.”

“Well, in that case, I suppose so.”

He could always go into the Internet on his smartphone if he wanted to surf. It was connected to his router.

Having shown out the detective, Jake sat down to contemplate what had happened. One thing D.I. Shaw had said stuck in his mind. The Ebberston murder was convenient for him. It could prove that he hadn’t lied about Livie’s death. Whether the murderer was the ghost or a living person, Ebberston connected them. He should begin there, where he’d clear his name.