Читать книгу Deadly Burial - Jon Richter - Страница 9

Sunday

Sigurdsson recognised the feeling. It settled so gently around his shoulders, like a lightweight cloak, familiar and barely perceptible at first. Then, slowly, it would begin to cling to him, like a cold damp sheet sticking to his flesh. Then it would tighten, closing insidiously around his throat and chest until he couldn’t breathe, as though he were embraced by a nightmare creature. A parasite, feeding upon his fear.

He felt it now, as he sat inside the little passenger ferry, trying to calm his breathing even as the vessel bobbed and lurched on the irritable sea between North Devonshire and the island of Salvation, his destination. Maybe it was the pressure of the investigation he would be spearheading, the prospect of dealing with a distrustful local police department that resented the interference of ‘mainlanders’ like him. Maybe it was the fear of his career continuing to spiral down the toilet as his DCI sent him on yet another joke assignment… professional wrestlers for god’s sake! He’d taken a load of stick from his colleagues, especially those who hadn’t forgiven him for his formal complaint against Townsend, which was pretty much all of them. Maybe it was the pressure of grinding out a living surrounded by colleagues who despised his attention to detail, his determination not to cut corners or sacrifice his professionalism for anything. Townsend had been a corrupt bastard anyway, as well as an utterly incompetent policeman.

But he knew it was none of those things. It was his own mortality that drove DI Chris Sigurdsson to suffer from panic attacks.

He was afraid of death.

He rode the convulsions of the modest craft, envisaging his own freezing and watery demise, a bloated corpse floating facedown into an anonymous harbour somewhere. He imagined another mortuary, another human being reduced to an assemblage of guts and meat on a sterile table in front of him, organs extracted and laid out like the pieces of a grisly board game.

He thought about strychnine poisoning.

The sort of thing that only happened in films, or Agatha Christie novels. A drug that caused the muscles to spasm uncontrollably, twisting the victim into excruciating contortions, lips peeling back into a grotesque grimace as their heart was strained beyond breaking point and they literally died of exhaustion.

Apparently it had happened while the ageing performer was in the ring. The crowd had thought it was part of the match. The paramedics had thought it was a massive heart attack… until a post mortem had been conducted and revealed a filigree of injection scars in his rump, upper arms and lower abdomen, and enough of the drug in his system to kill off a horse.

A pro wrestler, his body failing him, using steroids to cling on to his musclebound physique, or maybe to simply make it through another show… somehow he had contrived to instead pump himself full of a substance that would ensure nothing but an agonising suicide. But was it an elaborate self-destruction, or just a tragic blunder? Or… had someone deliberately switched the syringe?

DCI Wells had anticipated some media interest, given the victim’s fame in pro wrestling circles, and had dispatched Sigurdsson to assist with the investigation. He would liaise with Inspector Carin Mason, who at thirty-four was a few years younger than him, having also progressed rapidly within the force, although she hadn’t yet taken the CID exams to become a fully-fledged detective.

Sigurdsson’s fingers drummed uncontrollably against his thigh, a pulsing blob of nausea gyrating in his stomach. He needed something to distract him. He thought about striking up a conversation with the ferry’s other passengers, a group of young lads sitting opposite him. Maybe they could tell Sigurdsson a few things about the island. The detective had never visited Salvation and knew very little about it – Wells had called him earlier that day and he’d had scant opportunity to prepare.

He knew from a Google search that the place was five square miles in size, with a population of under two thousand people. He knew that it used to house a convalescent home for soldiers, which had closed down decades ago; today it was a privately owned seaside resort. He knew that its main attraction was its enormous wild rabbit population; with no natural predators to regulate their numbers, the creatures had spread all over the island, attracting hundreds of tourists each year to pet and feed and photograph them. There was a rabbit-themed amusement park, a rabbit-themed gift shop, and all manner of rabbit-themed merchandise. People even called it ‘Bunny Island’.

He also knew that in the 1990s a serial killer named Leonard Spitt had terrorised the small community, brutally killing six young women. Whether because of this incident, or simply because of the rising popularity of foreign holidays and the gradual decline that had affected all British seaside resorts, he knew that the island’s popularity had dwindled, and that today it was rundown and dilapidated.

He decided against making small talk and instead glanced around at the boat’s shabby interior, looking for anything to occupy his racing thoughts. He thought about disease, about the germs and bacteria scuttling invisibly across the grubby surfaces, across his legs, ascending his torso to crawl into his nostrils and his eyes…

He shuddered and knotted his fingers together, wringing his hands painfully to try to focus his mind, watching as his fingers turned in some places red, in others white. The colours of blood and bones.

‘Are you here to see the show, mate?’

One of the boys had addressed him, a skinny youth with dyed black hair swept severely across his face, almost hiding his eyes.

‘The show?’

The teenager looked embarrassed as his friends sniggered.

‘Oh, sorry. I thought you might be here for the wrestling too… just wondered if you wanted to share a taxi there with us. Never mind.’

‘Is the wrestling on tonight?’

‘Yeah, bell time was seven o’clock. We’re running late because of this knobhead.’ He playfully smacked his friend’s shoulder, and received a blow back in return. ‘We had tickets for last night’s show too, but it was cancelled.’

‘That’s a shame – why was that?’

One of the other boys, with a chubbier frame and a shaved head, interjected.

‘Vic Valiant had a heart attack in the ring! It sounded fucking intense. The show got called off and an ambulance turned up and everything.’

A suspected heart attack was how the papers and internet had thus far been reporting Schultz’s death.

‘Will be weird tonight to see if they mention it,’ the boy continued.

‘Do they often have shows on the island?’

‘No, this is a special double-weekender – AAW is doing like a cross-promotional thing, and they’ve got some proper big names over from America. The winner of the tournament gets a shot at the title next weekend!’

‘AAW?’

‘All Action Wrestling,’ grinned the lad in response.

‘The island seems a strange place to hold a big tournament.’

‘Not really,’ said the third member of the group, as though keen to get involved in the discussion. ‘The promoter was born here, so it’s like a sort of coming-home show for him. They normally tour all around the south west, and we try to get to as many shows as we can. Plus the island’s got a really cool history anyway.’

‘Yes, I’m a tourist myself,’ Sigurdsson lied. Much easier than trying to explain that he was a policeman investigating the death of one of their heroes, and that the gathering storm was too severe for air travel to the island, and so his DCI had thought the passenger ferry would be quicker than trying to organise a speedboat. Sigurdsson suspected Wells just couldn’t be bothered. ‘I heard about the rabbits and thought it would be an interesting place to go.’

‘Yeah man,’ said the third boy. Sigurdsson realised they were all wearing T-shirts that were something to do with the wrestling promotion, bearing names and slogans he didn’t understand. This boy’s said ‘Maniac’ in blood-dripping letters above a stylised AAW logo. ‘You know the story about those, don’t you?’

Sigurdsson shook his head, and the lad’s face lit up with malevolent glee.

‘The story goes that the island used to be a secret poison gas development site during the war. That hospital? They weren’t just rehabbing old soldiers, man. They were testing fucking gas on ‘em, nerve toxins and all sorts.’

Sigurdsson felt the noose of anxiety slowly tightening around his neck as the youth continued.

‘The rabbits were all kept there for the testing, underground. Then when the place got bombed in the forties, the rabbits escaped and overran the island, and bred like… well, you know.’

He sat back smugly, as though he had just unveiled an ingenious conspiracy theory.

‘You’re full of shit, Joe,’ the shaven-headed boy responded, and they all laughed.

Sigurdsson forced a smile too. His forward view was obscured by the ship’s wheelhouse, but through the window he could see the swirling mists ahead of them begin to darken, as if giving form to some imagined horror.

‘Well, have a great time at the show, boys.’

‘You should come and check it out, honestly, you’d have a great time. Wrestling’s making a big comeback, I’m telling you.’

The shadow was solid now, and Sigurdsson realised that it was Salvation itself looming out of the fog. He could see the sprawling outlines of buildings along the promenade, crowned by the tree-lined hilltop at the island’s centre. The silhouette of a Ferris wheel looked like the skeletal remains of some giant sea creature.

‘And you’ll have to go and visit the statue too.’

‘The statue?’

‘Man, you need to do your research! Saint Drogo? He’s on top of that big hill you can see. He’s like the patron saint of the island, or whatever. He has a golden foot, and if you rub it your wish comes true.’

‘Bollocks,’ said the boy with the dark hair.

‘It’s true! We used to go all the time when I was a kid.’

‘In that case I’m going to go and wish for your mum to stop phoning me for sex.’

‘Fuck you!’

Sigurdsson left them to their childish scuffles and looked again through the window as they neared their landing point. The jetty seemed like an outstretched finger, jabbing accusations at him. A shiver danced through his body as he thought about nerve gas drifting across war-torn battlefields, men choking and gasping as their blood oozed into the soil. He forced his brain onto the present, heard pleasantries forming on his lips as if spoken by someone else, someone not riddled with fear and neurosis.

‘Well, here we are then… it was nice talking to you all.’

They wished him a nice trip and dashed away as soon as they disembarked, keen not to miss too much of their show. Outside, the sky was rapidly darkening and the air seemed to hum with the threat of the lurking storm. Standing on the jetty, he watched the ferry’s small crew mooring the vessel, their movements hurried as if they too were afraid of the impending squall. As he watched, he saw a woman emerge from the gloom behind them, dressed in full police uniform. She strode confidently towards him, and as she approached he discerned a youthful face hardened by the strictures of formality and responsibility, this severity softened by a pixie-like crop of red hair cut short above her ears, the colour of peeled sweet potatoes.

‘Are you Sigurdsson?’ she asked, extending her hand as she neared him.

‘Yes, that’s me. Good to meet you,’ he replied, returning her firm handshake. ‘You must be Inspector Mason?’

‘That’s right,’ she said, snatching her hand away as though she couldn’t bear to be in contact with him for longer than was absolutely necessary. ‘All right, let’s get moving, we can exchange niceties in the car. If we hurry we might catch the show.’

‘You’re going to go to the All Action Wrestling event?’ he asked, following her along the pier with his travel bag slung over his shoulder.

‘Yep, and so are you, if you’re supposed to be helping out. It’s the last one of a weekend run tonight.’ Her voice was deep, in contrast to her slender frame and elfin looks. ‘Schultz was meant to be performing in all three. A bloke called Howard Penman runs the promotion – creepy little bastard to be honest – and I’ve arranged with him to keep the performers behind at the end so we can address them all together.’

Sigurdsson nodded, gazing at the faded signs and facades of buildings along the seafront, all of them seeming somehow sad and maudlin. There appeared to be no one out enjoying an evening stroll along the promenade, although that was probably because of the stinging gale that tore at them as they stepped off the jetty and onto Salvation Island itself. He could see groups of rabbits here and there, huddling for shelter underneath benches and litter bins.

‘Is everyone going to be present that was there on Friday night?’ he asked.

‘The only one missing is the bloke who was in the ring with Schultz when he collapsed. David Zheng is his name. Apparently he’s feeling too shaken up by what happened. I don’t blame him.’

‘We’ll need to interview him separately then,’ Sigurdsson murmured, mainly to himself.

‘Yes, of course,’ came the reply, as frosty as the wind. ‘We already know which hotels they’re all staying in. There are only a few still running these days.’

Mason’s car was waiting for them on the road close by, along with a stout middle-aged deputy who introduced himself as Mitchell. They clambered into the vehicle, and the burly sergeant began to thread expertly through Salvation’s narrow streets. Sigurdsson sat in the back seat like an unwelcome passenger.

‘So tell me about All Action Wrestling,’ he said eventually, not just because he needed to quickly familiarise himself with the case, but also to break the tense silence that had descended.

‘I don’t know much about them myself, to be honest,’ Mason replied. ‘I think we once picked up one of their wrestlers for headbutting someone in a kebab shop the last time they performed here. We aren’t exactly talking Hulk Hogan – they all have day jobs and just do this for fun. Not that I understand what’s fun about it… don’t the crowd know it’s all fake?’

Sigurdsson had been keen on professional wrestling as a child in the eighties, watching the aforementioned ‘Hulkster’ battling other stars like The Ultimate Warrior and The Macho Man Randy Savage. He even remembered the British wrestling popularised by World of Sport, with weekly bouts between the likes of Kendo Nagasaki and Giant Haystacks. He remembered being devastated when he found out that they all shared a drink and a laugh backstage after the show.

‘I think that isn’t really the point,’ he replied. ‘It’s like… theatre. Or a soap opera. And it really does hurt the participants, you know. The outcomes may be scripted, but they still take a lot of risks.’

She said nothing, but he imagined she might have sneered. Mitchell also remained taciturn, manoeuvring the police car through a baffling network of seemingly deserted streets, slowing every now and then as a rabbit scurried out of their way.

‘Where are the shows taking place?’ Sigurdsson asked.

‘Underground in a nightclub, of all places.’

As if on cue, Mitchell pulled up outside the garish pink sign of a seedy-looking bar called Rumours. He and Mason immediately left the car, and Sigurdsson followed them inside, flashing ID at the bouncer collecting tickets on the door. The grubby interior funnelled them through a narrow corridor into a small bar lined with TVs, in which a few punters were lounging and chatting, the monitors depicting poor-quality live footage of the show downstairs. Sigurdsson could make out a wrestling ring, in which a flabby man dressed in what looked like a flapping straitjacket grappled with a boy half his age. As he watched, the virtually naked and muscular youngster tore himself free from the older man’s grip, bounced off the nearby ring ropes and launched himself in a flying tackle that sent his opponent crashing to the mat; he could hear the crowd’s roar of approval through the pair of double doors at the other end of the bar. But Mason didn’t proceed through the doorway; instead, she glanced around the bar as though looking for someone.

‘Penman said someone would meet us here,’ she grumbled, by way of explanation.

At that moment the doors opened, the baying of the crowd inside increasing in volume as the room beyond disgorged a short, stocky man into the bar. He beamed widely at them.

‘Detectives?’

‘He’s the detective,’ Mason replied, nodding towards Sigurdsson without looking at him. ‘We’re pleased to have DI Sigurdsson assisting us with our enquiries. I’m Inspector Mason and this is Sergeant Mitchell.’

‘Bill Wheeler,’ the man introduced himself in a broad scouse accent as they exchanged handshakes, Sigurdsson wondering as they did so whether he had imagined the resentment behind Mason’s words. Detectives were not superior to other officers of equivalent rank, despite their portrayal in the mainstream media; they simply had a different specialism. He and Mason were peers, but even so her pride must have been injured when Wells told her he was sending in someone else to help her with her case.

‘Well, why don’t you follow me?’ Wheeler offered them another of his broad smiles. ‘I’ll take you to the VIP area.’ He escorted them through a side door, leading them down a narrow flight of stairs to another corridor, through another doorway and out into the club.

The crowd was not large, maybe only three hundred people at most, but they were making a lot of noise. The young wrestler seemed to have been victorious against his opponent, who was lying apparently unconsciousness in the middle of the ring while the referee held the younger man’s hand aloft. The audience were cheering and applauding loudly, whooping and chanting as though they’d just witnessed a major sporting triumph.

‘That’s Andrew Wilshere,’ Wheeler leaned in to inform Sigurdsson as they moved through a throng of cheering fans. ‘He’s the best UK talent we’ve ever had. Seriously, I think he could go places.’

They were in a raised area within the nightclub, with its own bar and seating for the thirty or so people that Rumours deemed to be Very Important. It was occupied by people who might have been the performers’ friends or spouses, although one man sitting alone at a table caught Sigurdsson’s eye due to his size and the cowboy hat he was wearing. He was hunched over and watching the action intently, ignoring them as they passed. Steps leading down to the main area were guarded by another bouncer to prevent the rest of the fans from accessing the VIP section, although the crowd seemed far too engrossed in the in-ring action to care.

The ring itself was erected right in the middle of the dancefloor, beneath a ridiculous plastic chandelier that dangled from the ceiling and surely obstructed some of the high-flying moves. Metal barriers created space around the edge of the ring, with a scattering of plastic seats containing those that had presumably paid extra for a ringside view. The main bar was opposite them at the other side of the club and seemed to be doing a decent trade for a Sunday night, as was the nearby merchandise stall where T-shirts and DVDs bore indecipherable names, slogans and symbols. A strange, insular, self-referencing little world.

‘Who’s the other wrestler?’ Sigurdsson asked their guide as he ushered them onto a pair of sofas either side of a small table. The beaten wrestler had rolled out of the ring and was exaggeratedly nursing his injured back as he staggered backstage.

‘That’s Mick Morgan. He’s been doing the indie circuit for years.’

‘The indie circuit?’

‘Independent wrestling promotions. As opposed to the big American giants.’

‘Why the straitjacket?’

Wheeler smiled.

‘He’s “The Maniac” Mick Morgan… sells a lot of T-shirts.’

‘When does the show finish?’ Mason asked impatiently.

‘There’s just the main event left. Mr Penman would have greeted you himself, but he’ll be out in a second to introduce the match. Then I’ll take you backstage to meet the fellas. It’ll be a good match you know – you might actually enjoy it!’ Wheeler grinned at Mason, whose eyes narrowed icily. Sigurdsson battled to suppress a smile. He watched Wilshere leave the performance area, still celebrating as though the win really meant something. Maybe it did. As the noise from the fans subsided, Mason asked another question.

‘So what do you do here, Mr Wheeler?’

The Liverpudlian shrugged. ‘I suppose I’m just Mr Penman’s bag man… I used to wrestle but I had to give it up years ago when I got injured.’ He patted his right knee to illustrate his point. ‘He’s been very good to me, keeping me around to manage the shows, help with the training and the booking. I even help Tommy out with the sound and lighting, sometimes.’

Mason’s response was drowned out by the deafening guitar chord that abruptly kicked in, sending the crowd into new paroxysms of adulation. A short, fat man with a bald head and a ridiculous ponytail scurried into view, hands aloft as the crowd cheered him. He continued to pump his arms enthusiastically as he scuttled towards the ring, followed ponderously by an absolutely enormous man in a dark suit. This second man had long, bleached blond hair, and wore sunglasses despite the darkness of the club’s interior, as though he were some sort of gangland hitman. He looked intensely intimidating, mainly due to his sheer bulk; he must have been nearly seven feet tall. His arms looked like someone had stuffed a jacket with bowling balls.

‘Who’s that?’ Sigurdsson asked Wheeler.

‘That’s Mr Penman. He’s getting a hero’s welcome, isn’t he?’

‘No, I mean who’s that giant following him?’

The blond man had assumed a position outside the ring, standing with his arms folded and facing back down the entryway as if to deter any threats against the ring’s occupant, who was still milking the crowd, strutting around and smirking as the generic rock music built to a crescendo.

‘Tall Paul is Mr Penman’s bodyguard. Not in real life, of course – we’re not quite famous enough to need round-the-clock protection,’ Wheeler chuckled as he explained. ‘It’s just part of the show. He’s a bit of a specimen though isn’t he?’

Sigurdsson watched as Penman was handed a microphone by someone at ringside, and made a show of waiting for the crowd to die down before he spoke. When he did, his voice was a grating high-pitched squawk, with a West Country accent that he was clearly trying to suppress.

‘Wow, what a match that was, am I right?’ Cue another huge cheer from the crowd. ‘I know it doesn’t seem possible, but the action just keeps getting better! And remember, Amazing Andrew Wilshere and “The Maniac” Mick Morgan are signed exclusively to All Action Wrestling, where you can see them perform live every single week! Forget the rest, ‘cos we’re…’ The crowd completed the rhyming catchphrase with a deafening cry, while Sigurdsson found himself watching Mason’s bored reaction. He couldn’t help thinking that she was very pretty, beneath the cold exterior. But he was a professional, and they had a suspicious death to investigate, and she clearly resented his presence here. He turned to watch Penman’s continuing spiel.

‘And don’t forget, as always, my lovely associate Monica,’ here he gestured towards the merchandise stall, ‘will be happy to help you choose your favourite T-shirts and DVDs of tonight’s stars. And I think I’m right in saying we’ve even got exclusive limited edition Mick Morgan straitjackets??’

Monica held one aloft and the crowd applauded again. It seemed as though they would cheer anything that came out of his mouth.

‘Okay, that’s enough of me trying to persuade you to give me your hard-earned cash…’ Penman grinned. ‘Let’s get on with the show… because it’s time for the main event!!!’ The most raucous cry yet exploded from the crowd. ‘And have we got an incredible match lined up for you tonight. After Friday’s tragedy, when a true legend sadly passed away in this very ring…’ here he paused, his expression suddenly a picture of sombre gravitas, ‘… his old buddy Kevin Samson will be dedicating his match to the honour of Vic Valiant’s memory.’ The crowd didn’t seem quite sure whether they were supposed to whoop and cheer again or just nod respectfully, so Penman hurried on. ‘And of course, this is the last of the quarter-final matches of our Salvation Slam Tournament! So, without further ado, it’s time to introduce the combatants!’

Another cheer erupted. Mason shouted above the din.

‘Bit low that, isn’t it? Playing on a dead man’s memory to drum up excitement?’

Again, Wheeler shrugged. ‘It’s just how it’s always been in this industry, miss. I’m sure it’s what Vic would have wanted.’

Her lip curled upwards in distaste as she retorted, ‘I’m sure. And please call me Inspector.’

Wheeler held his hands up apologetically, and Sigurdsson couldn’t help warming to the man. He agreed with Mason though – Penman’s delivery had been straight out of a P.T. Barnum showreel.

Again, the promoter’s crowing voice boomed through the makeshift amphitheatre.

‘Introducing first… weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds… hailing from the depths of Hell itself… The Necromancer!!!’

The lights abruptly went out, the fans once again whipped into a frenzy. Sigurdsson thought about their primal behaviour, suddenly aware of the acrid tang of their sweat in the crowded space. He imagined being set upon by the baying mob, lynched and trussed up or literally torn into pieces to satisfy their bloodlust. Hot spears of panic lanced through him from inside, like something trying to escape from his chest. God, please don’t let him have an attack now, not here…

Mercifully, as eerie cello music began to resonate, the lights began to rise again. After a long, melancholic refrain, choral voices joined in the haunting melody, and a man in a brown smock emerged from the back, proceeding gracefully down the aisle like a druid on his way to perform a sacred rite. The fans became hushed, almost reverent; even Tall Paul looked unsettled as he stepped aside to allow the curious competitor to slide into the ring. The man rose with slow deliberation to his feet, reaching upwards to remove the hood from his face… expertly timed to coincide with the music morphing suddenly into another rock track, laden with drums and discordant piano sounds. Beneath the cowl he wore a grotesque and devilish smile, and the fans booed and hissed at him, although a large contingent seemed to be cheering wildly. His bald head was decorated with strange insignia that suited the character perfectly.

Once again, Wheeler offered a running commentary of what was taking place.

‘The Necromancer was probably our most popular act before we got Samson and…’ his voice trailed off as he remembered that they no longer ‘had’ Vic Valiant. ‘He’s quite a big name on the UK circuit, so we’re lucky to have him performing for us. He’s been with us for five months, a real pro, big into his character too… to be honest I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper conversation with him.’

‘How old is he?’ Sigurdsson asked. ‘He looks in great shape.’ The Necromancer had removed his robe to reveal a lean, muscular physique that seemed to have not an ounce of fat on it. He wore black trunks and boots, but no knee or elbow pads, a tattooed pair of knives clearly visible on his forearms.

‘Late forties, maybe even early fifties, I think. I’ve just realised I don’t even know his real name – we all just call him “Mance” for short.’

‘Don’t you think “The Necromancer” is in pretty poor taste, two days after someone died here?’ Mason interjected. Wheeler readied a response but she cut him off. ‘Don’t tell me – it’s just the way the industry works?’

Wheeler shrugged once again and flashed her another smile. Sigurdsson remembered that Wheeler, and even Penman, didn’t yet know that their former colleague had died of something other than natural causes.

Unless, he mused, one of them was his killer.

‘And now, introducing his opponent,’ Penman shrilled as the music faded, ‘battling for the number one contender’s spot for the AAW World Heavyweight Championship… we’re honoured to have him here… The Strongman himself… Kevin… SAMSON!!!’

The name meant nothing to Sigurdsson, but the crowd went utterly crazy. People surged forward against the flimsy barricade and for a second he was worried that they would stampede into the ring itself, but they seemed bound by the code of this strange charade, and didn’t cross the boundary. Instead they simply hollered and yelled as a huge black man strode out of the backstage area. A cocky smile was fixed in place amongst the tangle of his beard, dreadlocks tumbling around his shoulders to belie the middle age evidenced by his receding hairline and the slight paunch concealed within the blue singlet he wore. Like his opponent, he approached the ring slowly, stopping to stand face to face with Penman’s ‘bodyguard’ as the crowd roared even louder. His eyes burned with animosity and confidence as he stared up into the eyes of the taller man – clearly this was an experienced showman who knew how to generate a reaction from his audience. Just when their intensity reached fever pitch and an altercation between the two seemed inevitable, Tall Paul stepped to one side, making a sarcastic ‘after you’ gesture towards the ring. Samson eyeballed him for a moment longer before climbing in through the ropes and mounting one of the corners (Sigurdsson remembered the word ‘turnbuckle’ from his adolescent wrestling lexicon), posturing for the crowd before a bell finally sounded to get the match underway.

As the two performers exchanged throws and arm locks, Mason began to quiz Wheeler more thoroughly.

‘So how does it work here? The wrestlers get paid a flat fee per show, or a cut of the takings?’

‘Depends who they are to be honest, miss – er, Inspector. The bigger names like Samson out there get paid a lot more, and they take a bigger cut of their merchandise sales as well.’

‘So was Victor Schultz a big name?’

‘Please, Inspector, call him Valiant – he hated it when anyone used his real name. Most of the lads here didn’t even know it.’

‘Okay, okay, have it your way – was Valiant a big name?’

Wheeler looked pained.

‘He… used to be. These days he is – was – a bit of a mess to be honest. Drink, drugs, the lot. He was virtually a down-and-out when Mr Penman found him. He’d been with us for three months, and we were almost like a rehab clinic for him; he’d made such an improvement, lost so much weight. It’s just a shame his body couldn’t get over that lifetime of abuse, I suppose.’

‘Don’t all the wrestlers do drugs? I thought they all took steroids.’

Wheeler smiled proudly. ‘If you’ll forgive me Inspector, that’s a bit of an outdated stereotype. We run things a bit differently here. I can’t vouch for what the lads do in their own time of course, but they certainly get a hounding from me if I think they’re into any of that rubbish, and I won’t tolerate it on the premises at any of our shows or training sessions. Most of them have full-time jobs to hold down anyway, so they can’t be dosing themselves up on painkillers or snorting coke after every show!’

‘But Valiant was a drug user, you say?’

Abruptly, the big man in the cowboy hat leaned across from his nearby table to interrupt.

‘I’ll tell y’all about Vic Valiant. The guy was a fucking piece of shit.’ His voice was a thick Texan drawl, perfectly complementing his headgear. He was wearing a garish cream suit and seemed to be about middle-aged, maybe in his fifties, with a bulbous head that bulged from his shirt collar like an overfilled water balloon. His round, red face, whose centrepiece was an impressive horseshoe moustache, turned a deeper crimson with each angry word he spat. ‘Time was he was a great wrestler,’ – he pronounced it ‘wrassler’ – ‘before the drink and drugs caught up with him. But don’t let those act as excuses – Vic Valiant was no good before he even touched any of that stuff. Anyways, I’m sorry to intrude on y’all’s conversation… I just speak my mind, know what I mean?’

Mason effortlessly switched her attention to the newcomer.

‘Sir, are you aware that Mr Valiant passed away on Friday night?’

‘Of course I’m aware. I was here to scout his ass!’

Mason looked confused.

‘But I thought –’

‘Look, personal feelings don’t mean shit in this business – my boss tells me I gotta go watch Vic Valiant, then I gotta go do it. Real reason I’m here is to watch The Strongman, mind you.’ He gestured towards the ring, where Samson was shouting in simulated pain as The Necromancer tightened a nerve hold on his shoulder.

‘Well sir, we’re police officers investigating his death, so if you think anyone had a reason to hold a grudge against him –’

Wheeler cut in. ‘What? Are you saying he was murdered?’

He looked shocked, but the American just smiled and answered before Mason could. ‘Seems that way, kid – doesn’t take three cops to investigate a heart attack.’

Sigurdsson decided that this was his opportunity to step in; Mason had dug herself a hole and he wanted her to know that he was here to help her, not to tip dirt onto her head. He addressed Wheeler.

‘We’re just here to explore every possibility. We’ll give everyone a full update when we meet after the show.’ He turned to face the Texan. ‘What’s your name, sir?’

‘Arn Adams, talent scout with the SWA,’ he replied.

‘Well Mr Adams, we’d appreciate it if you could come along to the debrief too.’

The red-faced man grimaced before responding. ‘Okay, but it best not go on too late, ah’ve got a plane to catch early tomorrow.’

He retreated sulkily to his seat and Sigurdsson again addressed Wheeler.

‘What’s the SWA?’\

‘Southern Wrestling Alliance. Both Valiant and Samson were on their books quite a few years back. I’m told Samson left when he got a lucrative contract in Japan… it obviously didn’t work out too well for him.’ He smiled wryly, glancing around at their squalid surroundings as the thud of a huge powerslam from The Strongman seemed to shake the entire nightclub.

Sigurdsson carried on quizzing Wheeler, aware that Mason was scowling at him from across the table. Mitchell still hadn’t spoken a single word.

The match ended comically when the referee was ‘knocked unconscious’ after Samson accidentally hurled his opponent right into him. Tall Paul seized the opportunity and snaked into the ring, carrying the ring bell and preparing to clobber Samson with it from behind, only for the big man to see it coming and sidestep neatly, the dazed Necromancer stumbling straight into the blow. As the audience roared once again, the giant stood distraught in the centre of the ring, hands clasped to his head as he realised his blunder, before Samson unceremoniously tossed him out through the ropes. The referee awoke just in time to make the three-count as the crowd favourite pinned his prone opponent, sending the audience into raptures.

The show ended with Samson celebrating, Penman admonishing his bodyguard as they exited together, and The Necromancer rather creepily sitting bolt upright and simply staring at the man who had vanquished him before stalking out of the venue.

It was all rather more polished and entertaining than Sigurdsson had expected.

‘So, what did you think?’ Wheeler asked, but doubts seemed to have clouded his thoughts, and he no longer smiled at them.

Mason made no reply, so Sigurdsson said something complimentary, before asking whether they could now head down to the backstage area.

‘Yes, of course. Some of the lads will be posing for photos with the fans afterwards, and Mr Penman will want me to take care of that, so if you don’t mind, I’ll hand you over to the boss?’

Wheeler led them, along with the overbearing figure of Arn Adams, through a side door from the VIP area and down more stairs, past a set of toilets. The smell of sweat became increasingly pungent as they descended – not merely the nightclub’s odour of a warm room full of people, but the concentrated stink of strenuous physical exertion. Eventually they reached a door leading to some sort of office. A corridor led off to their right and at its end they could see a number of wrestlers milling about in a staff room of some sort, presumably acting as a makeshift dressing room. Wheeler gestured for them to enter the office, and made his excuses before hurrying away along the corridor towards the performers.

Inside the small room, presumably designed for occupation by the nightclub manager, they found Howard Penman waiting for them.

His corpulent frame was squeezed uncomfortably into an office chair on the other side of a messy desk, and he welcomed them with a wide smile as though they were long-lost relatives. He still seemed to be breathing heavily, and repeatedly dabbed at the perspiration sheening his brow.

‘Hello, hello, I’m so sorry you’ve been kept waiting… did Bill look after you all okay?’

Mason seemed keen to reassert herself as the leader of the group.

‘Yes, thank you. He mentioned that some photographs would now be happening, but we’re very keen to get everyone together. We’ve asked Mr Adams here to join us, as he has a personal connection with the deceased.’

The Texan scoffed from the back of the room.

‘Well, my dear, I promise it won’t take too long – we and the performers rely heavily on the merchandising income, and these people will pay twenty quid a time for a photo with Kevin Samson… unbelievable eh?’ He grinned conspiratorially, then craned his neck to address the talent scout. ‘Arnie, I didn’t see you back there – here to poach my best talent again?’

Adams responded with another snort of contempt.

Mason was tenacious. ‘Well perhaps we can make good use of the time by asking you a few questions?’

Penman looked surprised for a moment before adopting the same solemn expression he had worn earlier in the ring.

‘Why, certainly… I’m happy to answer any questions you may have about this tragic incident.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Mason retorted. ‘Why don’t you start by telling us how Victor Schultz came to be working for you?’

‘Well, if you knew the industry, miss, you’d know that Vic Valiant was a big name once upon a time. People will always pay to see their childhood heroes… no matter how far they’ve fallen from grace. Nostalgia equals cash.’ He smirked again, and Sigurdsson felt a sudden dislike for the man.

‘That doesn’t answer my question – what brings a retired American wrestler to a tiny English island? The streets here aren’t exactly paved with gold.’

‘What makes you say “retired”? No one ever retires unless they can afford it. Valiant certainly couldn’t. I got in touch with him through my contacts in the business, and offered him double what they were paying him in the Midlands at the time. I’d like to think he enjoyed his time with us – we certainly assisted him financially.’

‘We’ve been informed that he was a heavy drinker and a drug user,’ Mason continued. Sigurdsson noticed Adams frown at her as she paraphrased his comments. ‘But your assistant Wheeler says none of that sort of thing goes on here. Do you think Schultz had cleaned himself up?’

Penman shrugged. ‘Who can say? Drug use certainly isn’t something I tolerate on the premises here – and all of my performers know that. But if you tell me you’ve found that Valiant was still abusing his body, it won’t shock me – after all, something must have killed him.’

Sigurdsson’s eyes narrowed at the callous undertones in Penman’s response. Mason’s distaste was barely concealed as she replied icily.

‘I agree, Mr Penman. And we’re here to find out what it was. If that means we have to search every bag in the dressing room then we will do just that. If it means we have to cancel shows while we’re here then we’ll do that too. You might be able to turn a blind eye to such matters, but unfortunately we cannot – because a man has died.’ Penman glared back at her, dabbing even more feverishly at his brow, face briefly twisted into a scowl of outrage. Then the muscles relaxed back into an easy, insincere smile.

‘Inspector, I understand completely. I’m not sure how we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Just let me know how I can be of assistance to your investigation.’

Mason returned the warmthless smile. ‘You can start by cutting short your photo session – I want everyone assembled in the dressing room in five minutes.’

Penman’s teeth seemed to grind behind his lips as he reached for the telephone on his desk, jabbing a memorised number into it as he lifted the receiver.

‘Bill? Yes, it’s me… we’re going to have to cut short the photos and get everyone together. I know, I know; unfortunately the police are… impatient to get this over with.’

He replaced the receiver slowly, perhaps too carefully, conveying a sense of contained anger.

‘Well officers, follow me and you can meet my superstars.’

Down the corridor the smell was even more overpowering – there was a shower available for the performers, but many of them hadn’t yet had the opportunity to make use of it. Men in various states of undress gradually filtered into the room, lounging on the benches and chairs that had been brought in to convert the staff room and adjoining kitchen into a makeshift changing area. A lithe black woman also joined the group, still towelling her hair. Sigurdsson couldn’t see any other women for her to compete against – presumably she had wrestled one of the men. The expressions of the group seemed to span a variety of emotions – scowls of distrust that Sigurdsson found all too familiar, wide-eyed surprise at the unexpected police presence, nonchalant humour from some that sat chuckling together. The youngster, Wilshere, who they had seen wrestling earlier, looked up at them with an earnest expression almost bordering on excitement. Tall Paul loitered in a doorway, still wearing his suit and sunglasses, leaning his rippling bulk against the frame. Sigurdsson wondered if the wall might suddenly collapse under his weight.

‘Okay boys, quiet down, quiet down…’ shouted Wheeler over the chatter, seeming to occupy the role of coach while Penman hovered silently behind him. ‘We all know what happened to Vic Valiant the other night, and we all know how sad we are to lose not just a wrestling legend, but a good friend.’

Sigurdsson glanced at Arn Adams, who was standing in a corner, but couldn’t read anything in his taciturn frown.

‘Our thoughts are of course with April, who will take as long as she needs before returning to the fold.’

Sigurdsson frowned and glanced at Mason, but she didn’t seem to react to the reference – maybe she already knew the ‘April’ that Penman had referred to. Making a note to clarify the point later, he turned his head to survey the assembly of faces – Mitchell’s vacant expression, Samson nonchalantly chewing gum, The Necromancer (must get his real name) standing upright with his arms folded, still wearing his robe rather than changing into conventional clothes. Close to him was another man, with a thick moustache and aviator shades, and a ridiculously small silver jacket draped over his shoulders, exposing a carpet of chest hair. He had a toothpick in his mouth and a championship belt slung over his shoulder; presumably the coveted title they were all vying for.

Wheeler continued, ‘Well, the good news is that the police want to make sure Vic’s death is investigated properly, and they’ve asked us to get you all together so they can talk to us. Er, I’ll hand over to you, shall I…?’ He looked at Sigurdsson, who winced internally, knowing that Mason would see this as a slight to her authority. He opened his mouth to hand over to her, but she interrupted.

‘Yes, thanks Mr Wheeler. Okay everyone, thanks for your time – I will keep this brief. My name is Inspector Mason, and these are my colleagues Sergeant Mitchell and Detective Inspector Sigurdsson. I know some of you must be very affected by what happened on Friday night, but the fact is that there are some suspicious circumstances surrounding Mr Schultz’s death.’

‘It’s Valiant,’ someone said. Sigurdsson winced again, this time at Mason’s lack of sensitivity.

She looked momentarily flustered before continuing. ‘The cause of death was identified during a post mortem conducted last night as strychnine poisoning by intravenous injection. Although there is a strong possibility that Sch… Valiant injected himself with the substance, we must eliminate all possibilities, and understand why he would want to do this, or even how he acquired the drug in the first place.

‘We will therefore need to interview everyone who was in attendance at Friday’s event, potentially more than once, until our enquiries are concluded. To that effect, I would like to request that none of you leave the island until next weekend.’

A few murmurs and grumbles circulated the room.

‘Screw that – I’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow, like I said before,’ Arn Adams drawled from the back of the room. Before Mason could respond, Wilshere suddenly blurted a question.

‘What’s strychnine?’

Mason turned to face the young wrestler.

‘It’s sometimes used to kill vermin, or as a pesticide.’

‘But it can kill people?’

‘The drug induces severe involuntary muscle spasms. Victor would have died in terrible pain.’ The reply was uttered not by Mason, but by The Necromancer. His voice was a deep intonation, like the ringing of a funeral bell.

‘But… I thought Mr Valiant died of a heart attack?’

Mason’s expression remained cool and detached as she responded.

‘No, I’m afraid not. That’s why we’re here.’

‘So you think someone here might have… poisoned him?’ Wilshere demanded, rising to his feet in visible agitation.

Sigurdsson risked the wrath of his new partner by interjecting.

‘Unfortunately that’s a possibility we have to explore. We owe it to Mr Valiant and his family to understand exactly the circumstances surrounding his death. And you can rest assured that we will leave no stone unturned.’ He gave the boy a reassuring smile, and Wilshere nodded slowly before resuming his seat on the bench.

‘Okay,’ Mason continued, ‘that’s all the information we have at this stage. We will take your telephone numbers from Mr Penman here, and contact you if we’d like to bring you in for questioning. Thank you all once again for your co-operation.’

At that point she turned and stalked out of the room, leaving Mitchell and Sigurdsson to follow her back along the corridor and past Penman’s office. Sigurdsson could feel stares boring into his back as he walked away.

A very strange group of people. And not a group with whom to make enemies, he mused as he thought about some of the powerhouses he had seen that evening, like Tall Paul and Kevin Samson. He wondered how many enemies Victor Schultz had managed to make in his short time here.

The drive from Rumours to the Grand Hotel, where Sigurdsson would be staying, was mercifully short. Rain had begun to fall, and although it was not yet the predicted downpour, its pattering on the car’s windscreen and roof seemed deafening in the glacial silence. Sigurdsson was relieved when they arrived and he could clamber out of the vehicle. ‘I’ll pick you up at half-eight tomorrow,’ Mason barked at him as he headed towards the lodging’s entrance.

Like the island itself, the place was shabby and dilapidated; age and regret seemed to radiate from its very brickwork. A very thin middle-aged woman welcomed him, handing him an old-fashioned key before showing him to his room. She seemed as much a part of the place as the furniture – a suggestion of vibrancy and optimism long ago replaced by embitterment and dereliction. As though she was slowly wasting away, like the building itself.

A rickety lift led them upstairs to a surprisingly large and well-furnished room, thoughtfully stocked with the little extras that many chain hotels no longer provide: kettle, teabags, little sachets of milk, complimentary shampoo and conditioner, a tiny sewing kit, extra blankets. But Sigurdsson had no time to make use of any of these – the energy had suddenly seeped out of his body, and he had to struggle just to clamber into the sagging bed. He fell asleep immediately, tortured as always by premonitions of his own death.