DVD Extras Include: Murder (The Mervyn Stone Mysteries, #2)

by Nev Fountain

  ‘Yes, Stuart. I can imagine that.’

  ‘I wish I’d done this ages ago. Oh yes. Everyone thinks I’m great in here. And do you know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s because I’ve organised video weekends themed around sci-fi in general, and Vixens from the Void in particular! How funny!’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘I tell you Mr—Mervyn, I bet you can’t believe how many psychopaths, murderers and rapists are Vixens from the Void fans.’

  Mervyn shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ He pulled out a collection of empty cigarette packets from inside his top, which cascaded on to the table. ‘Can you sign a few of these? The boys in the library would just kill me if I didn’t ask.’

  Normally, Mervyn wouldn’t sign anything without getting paid an appearance fee, or if it was official merchandise. But he needed something from Stuart. Sighing, he got out a pen from his pocket. ‘All right. Who are they for?’

  ‘One’s to Psycho Billy, this one’s for Hammer Barry, this one’s for the Scorpion King—but could you make it out to “Bitch face”? It’s for his mum.’ Stuart grinned happily, as Mervyn signed the cigarette packets and handed them back.

  ‘Hey!’ A guard was pointing at Mervyn. ‘Hey big nose! Don’t pass cigarettes to the inmates!’

  ‘But I wasn’t. I was just…’

  ‘Shut up. Stay there.’

  Everyone in the visitors’ room watched as the cigarette packets were inspected and Mervyn was vigorously searched. Nothing dubious was found (apart from a Styrax key ring) and the guards returned to their places.

  ‘Just watch it you. And next time, don’t be clever.’

  Stuart watched the whole thing like it was a game and carried on as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Actually, talking of Vixens from the Void—and I talk about it a lot—I was thinking of organising a convention in here. Perhaps you could help out? Nothing big, perhaps a few panels, a handful of guests… H-wing is really keen to meet Vanity Mycroft. Do you think you could persuade her to make an appearance?’

  ‘I think that might be a bit dangerous.’

  ‘Oh gosh, H-wing are lovely. Don’t worry about Vanity.’

  ‘I was more worried about H-wing.’

  Stuart giggled like a girl, and despite himself, Mervyn joined in. Here he was, chuckling companionably with a mad multiple-murdering superfan. His job had finally sent him round the twist.

  ‘Perhaps I can help you. But I need your help first.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Stone?’

  ‘I need some details on a crime.’

  ‘In here?’

  ‘No. There’s a friend of mine…’

  ‘Marcus Spicer.’

  ‘Yes, Marcus Spicer. You’d know that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Can’t keep anything from us fans, Mr—Mervyn. You know that.’

  ‘Well, anyway. The papers say he’s been murdered. They’re calling it a “perfect crime”, but they’re a bit short on facts. I wondered if you still had any contacts in the police who might be able to help get me the details? You know, keep me informed about the investigation.’

  Stuart’s eyes glowed. ‘Oh. Wow. Gosh. Mervyn Stone on a case! I’d be honoured to help you again. Let me think… Oh. There is someone who might help you. Someone on the force. Another fan. Mick. We nearly went to a convention together.’

  ‘Okay, do you have his number?’

  ‘Wow this is so great. Just wait till H-wing hears about this. You’re on a murder case, and the only person who can help you is the criminal you helped to put in prison. What a scenario! Gosh. Very Silence of the Lambs, isn’t it? Am I Hannibal Lecter to your Clarice Starling?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Can you hear them, Mr Stone? Can you hear the screaming of the fans?’

  ‘Okay Stuart. I’m threading my shoelaces back in my shoes, and I’m going now.’

  ‘Hey, sorry, I’ll help you. I’ll give you my contact. Mick’s going to be thrilled. Mick’s such a fan.’ He closed his mouth and tapped his chin with a finger. ‘Hmm… I have to warn you though—’ said the cross-dressing triple murderer.

  ‘What?’

  ‘About Mick. Well… She’s a little weird.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘All this cloak and dagger stuff is very exciting,’ Mervyn said. They were in a motorway café that was made entirely of moulded green plastic.

  But Mervyn was nervous. He pulled sugar sachets out of the pot on the table and started absent-mindedly tearing them open, pouring the contents into a little pile on the table. ‘So is this the place where you coppers meet all your “narks” and “grasses” and “stool-pigeons”?’ he asked, sipping the scalding cup of brown water that for some reason was given to him when he asked for coffee.

  Mick gave him a dispassionate glare. ‘No. This is the place where we coppers can afford to eat.’

  Mick was not what Mervyn expected. For a start, she was a woman. Secondly, she was an incredibly tall woman; Mervyn just about came up to her shoulder. Everything about her was big; hands, arms, shoulders—her head was enormous and her huge slab-like features jutted out of it in all directions. She looked like a woman wearing a Disneyland costume of herself.

  She was looking at him with a cold appraising gaze; Easter Island statues looked jollier. Her mouth was a thin line, hiding under a large nose, and one of her eyes was a bit off-beam, which made her look slightly crazed—or was just the fact she was slightly crazed that made her look slightly crazed? She had scrappy bottle-blonde hair that sprouted out of her head like charred crop stubble. If Glenn Close had ever been accidentally subjected to gamma radiation and was able to turn into her own version of the Incredible Hulk, she would become Mick.

  He wondered fleetingly if she used to be a man, but no. There wouldn’t have been enough anaesthetic in the world to put her to sleep for an operation like that.

  ‘So… Mick. Is it Mick?’

  ‘Short for Michaela. Michaela is a shit name, so I’m Mick. I won’t change my name because my mum gave it me, and she’s dead now. She fell out of a van. So in her memory I keep it, even though it’s shit.’

  ‘Well Mick, I’m sorry for bothering you. Stuart gave me your number.’

  ‘Stuart’s a pussy,’ she said. Her voice was deeper than Mervyn’s. ‘He wasn’t even a proper copper, just a “Plastic Policeman”. I should never have given him my number.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I sort of gathered that you were his friend.’

  ‘Fuck no. I just saw him at one convention. The mincing little queer parades around in girl’s clothes. I kept telling him; “Just cos I like Vixens from the Void, it don’t mean we should like each other. Cos I don’t. Like you. At all.” But he never listened. I wouldn’t dream of consorting with a wet little girlie like him. No spine. No backbone. No balls.’

  ‘But he did murder three people in cold blood.’

  ‘A fanboy, a midget and a fat retard. Was I supposed to be impressed?’

  Mervyn felt that the meeting with this odd woman had reached the end of its natural life, and stood up. ‘Well, nice to meet you “Mick”, I’m sorry to have wasted your time, so I’ll bid you good day. I’ll go and put our trays away…’

  ‘Sit down.’

  Mervyn sat.

  She leaned forward, covering the table.

  ‘Do you know I live my life by the codes of the Vixens?’

  ‘I didn’t know there were any codes.’

  ‘Oh yes. There are codes. There are always codes. Treat men like shit, use the power of your body to get your own way and keep the empire intact.’ She pulled open her police-regulation blouse to reveal a sparkly bra. ‘I made it myself. Obviously it’s not much use under my blouse, but I wear my whole costume whenever I’m off duty. And you know why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I am a Vixen.’

  Oh hell…

  ‘I am a Vixen, and
you… You are my God. You created me. Formed me with your brain. I have sworn allegiance to you in my mind every day since I was 15. I am now 38, and my loyalty to you remains intact. My body is yours to command. And there’s not many old, overweight geezers like you can say that.’ She plonked a file on the table. ‘Strictly speaking, we’re not allowed to discuss ongoing cases with members of the public. Let alone with potential suspects who were in the room when the victim karked it. So giving them a look at the files is a definite no-no.’

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry to have put you in a difficult position.’

  ‘But fuck that. This is Mervyn fucking Stone here, and his wish is my command.’

  Uncomfortable with the naked hero worship radiating from Mick, Mervyn ripped open a sachet of pepper and added it to his pile.

  ‘So, are what the newspapers saying correct? Marcus was definitely poisoned?’

  Before Mick could tell him, a waitress in a grotesquely unflattering uniform appeared at Mervyn’s elbow. ‘Please don’t do that,’ she snapped, indicating the growing pile of sugar, pepper and salt. ‘I have to clear that up after you’ve finished.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ said Mervyn helplessly. ‘I have to fiddle. It’s a nervous trait. I have to do something with my hands.’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  Mick rose to her feet, like a cowboy in a saloon bar. The waitress looked the policewoman up and down, as if judging the effort required to throw her through the window. Mervyn could feel the phrase ‘Awkward Scene’ encroaching.

  ‘I’ll be willing to take any suggestion that stops me seasoning your table,’ gabbled Mervyn. ‘Believe me.’

  The waitress held Mick’s glare for a second longer, said ‘Hang on,’ and set off in the direction of the till. She came back with a sheet of paper and a box of crayons.

  ‘That’s perfect,’ said Mervyn.

  Mick watched impassively as Mervyn scribbled intently on the Kidz Klub fun page the waitress had brought him. Mick waited until Mervyn finished a particularly difficult bit (the flower on a clown’s hat) before saying: ‘Yeah. He was poisoned.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘No doubt about it.’

  ‘It wasn’t a heart attack or anything like that? I was hoping for a heart attack.’

  ‘Definitely poisoned. The bottle was filled with cyanide solution.’

  A sudden thought thrust its icy hand up Mervyn’s shirt. He froze, the fat red crayon in his hand poised a centimetre above the clown’s nose.

  ‘The other water bottles?’

  ‘Only his had poison in it.’

  Mervyn relaxed. ‘I see,’ he said, taking a green crayon from his box. ‘The next obvious question is, how did the poison get in the bottle… Were there any puncture marks on the top?’

  Mick flapped through the file. ‘No puncture marks. Someone must have slipped the cyanide into his water beforehand.’

  ‘No.’ Mervyn rubbed his forehead wearily, leaving green streaks across his eyebrows and down his cheek. The effect was already more elaborate than the make-up of most of the Vixens aliens. ‘Absolutely not. Impossible. It couldn’t have been planned.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There were at least a dozen other water bottles on that table.’

  Mick folded her massive arms. ‘Fifteen, including his. Fifteen bottles found in the studio and the next room, twelve of them unopened, two half-drunk. One of them was a different brand.’

  Mervyn’s ears pricked up. ‘Marcus’s?’

  ‘No.’

  Mervyn slumped, disappointed.

  ‘They all had ordinary water in—apart from the dead bloke’s of course.’

  ‘Right… And they were just left on the table for anyone to take, and we all just picked one at random.’

  ‘Could be the caterers. I found a pubic hair in a meringue at my sister’s wedding.’

  ‘Is that really the same as finding poison in a bottle?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Mervyn finished off the clown’s bow-tie in a cheery mix of yellow and purple. ‘Perhaps someone in the room handed him the bottle?’

  Mick pulled some A4 pages from the file, attached at the corner by a paperclip. ‘We’ve got a statement from Robert Mulberry, the producer. He said he was right beside him when Marcus picked a bottle up.’

  ‘He could be lying. He could have given Marcus the bottle himself.’

  ‘Yeah, but there were other people in the room. His story got backed up by some guy called Trevor.’

  ‘They could both be lying. It could be a conspiracy.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘Can I have a look at that file?’

  ‘Anything for my God.’

  ‘Erm… Yes. Thanks.’

  She slid the file over to Mervyn’s side of the table. Mervyn picked it up, and flipped it open.

  ‘Let’s see. Here we are, Robert said: “All the bottles were placed in two clusters on both ends of the table. Marcus took one from the cluster nearest the recording booth, from in the middle somewhere, when we broke for ten minutes.” When asked if anyone broke the seal on the lid for the victim, he said: “No, Marcus definitely opened it himself, I even heard him break the seal on the bottle.”’ He looked up from the file. ‘Yes I heard that too. Everyone did. We had to stop recording it was so loud.’

  Mervyn stretched out two fingers and thumb. ‘Okay, let’s say Robert’s telling the truth. That leaves us with three possibilities. One: it was a mix-up in the bottling plant. Pretty unlikely, I would think.’ He curled his thumb into his palm, leaving two fingers outstretched. ‘Two: it was placed in the bottle, sealed, and placed in the whole batch of water bottles before or after it got delivered to the BBC, and in that case it must be some crank with a grudge out to get any one of us in the studio, or anyone in the BBC for that matter, or just anyone in the country who drinks bottled water. Anyway, that’s also pretty unlikely because that kind of mischief comes with blackmail notes and threats and phone calls to national newspapers… I assume there’s been none of that.’

  ‘No. Not that I’ve heard.’

  He held up one finger. ‘So that leaves us with the last possibility. Someone specifically wanted to kill Marcus. And did it in a very, very clever way.’

  ‘Yep.’

  They finished their foul drinks and levered themselves out of the tiny plastic chairs.

  After they left the café, the waitress noted sniffily that Mervyn had coloured over the edges and had crayoned on the table.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Well,’ sighed Mervyn, as they stood in the car park. ‘As Arthur Conan Doyle wrote, if you eliminate the impossible then whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the case.’ He sat heavily on a low wall. ‘It’s obvious Arthur had a premonition about what it was going to be like to script-edit Vixens from the Void.’

  Mick unlocked her police car. ‘Want a lift anywhere?’

  ‘No, it’s all right. There’s a bus stop just down the road that takes me near the Metropolitan…’ He dribbled to a halt, perplexed, as a heavy rock version of the Vixens from the Void theme tune ripped through the air. ‘Where’s that coming from?’

  Mick took out her mobile, and the sound of the theme suddenly rose to deafening proportions. The phone was juddering alarmingly in her hand.

  She took the call. ‘Yeah? This is Vixen One to Spaceport Central. Well fuck you too, Terry. What do you want? What? Yeah?’

  Mervyn was about to wave goodbye and back away, but something in Mick’s tone stopped him. An expression finally found its way on to her face. Total surprise.

  ‘You are joking? You’re not serious. You are serious. Fuck. Okay, I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  Mervyn was frantic with curiosity. ‘What? What’s happened?’

  ‘We’ve just had a call. Claiming responsibility for the murder. It’s the Godbotherers.’

  Mervyn exploded with incredulity. ‘The Godbotherers have claimed responsibility for murdering Marcus?
’

  ‘No. They’re claiming responsibility on behalf of God. They claim God killed him.’

  * * *

  Mervyn took his leave of Mick, and headed for the bus stop. Suddenly, there was a bellow behind him.

  ‘Mervyn Stone!’

  Mervyn turned; Mick was waving her file, flapping it in the wind as if she were training an angry falcon. ‘You’ve coloured in all the “o”s on the confidential file!’

  Mervyn waved, pretending not to hear, and started to run.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘I’m so sorry Cheryl.’

  Cheryl’s face trembled for a second, as if she were about to sneeze, then it gave up the fight and collapsed into tears.

  Mervyn knelt down in front of the wheelchair. She leant forward and fell in his arms, burying herself into his armpit. They stayed there awkwardly like that, on the porch of ‘Earthly Delights’, Marcus and Cheryl’s ivy-smothered country retreat, for several minutes; Cheryl trying to regain her composure and Mervyn trying to lose his spontaneous erection.

  Cheryl’s muffled sobs eventually lost their intensity, slowing and quietening to such an extent that Mervyn wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t gone to sleep. Finally, she disengaged herself, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked with a raw croak, her voice scraped clean of emotion.

  ‘Yes thanks. That would be lovely.’

  Dutifully, he followed her in and sat on the settee, listening to the reassuring tea-making noises coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Help yourself to food.’

  There were plates of sandwiches on the table, bowls of crisps and nuts, and a tin decorated with flowers. Mervyn levered the lid off the tin, found shortbread, absent-mindedly helped himself to a piece and paced the room, inspecting the décor, for want of something more positive to do.

  ‘I appreciate you coming all this way,’ she called out. ‘I know you don’t drive. I wouldn’t wish the train journey on my worst enemy.’

  ‘It was the least I could do,’ muttered Mervyn, lamely.

  ‘I’ve had all sorts of calls from Joanna, from Aiden, publishers, producers offering their sympathies and sorrow. You’re the first person I’ve seen that I can honestly call a friend.’