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

by Nev Fountain

  And there was something else. Something about the actor too, something about him tickled the back of Mervyn’s mind. He was sure that face was familiar; no—it was more than that, he was certain the actor had swum into his head in the last few weeks for some reason, he’d actually seen his picture recently, but he was damned if he could remember where. He tried to place the face—he was certain it wasn’t an actor who had worked on Vixens. At least, reasonably certain—it was usually the actresses’ faces that found their way into his memory.

  No, it wasn’t Vixens, or any other shows he’d worked on, it was something different. No, he couldn’t recall the name—Duncan Somerville—but the face…

  ‘Having fun?’ Joanna loomed over him.

  Mervyn couldn’t find any words for a few seconds, then he flapped the book and grinned like a cheeky schoolboy. ‘Just, you know…’

  ‘Flicking through Spotlight, laughing at the out-of-work actors?’ She folded her arms with mock-severity. ‘I don’t know… How cruel. How many times did I find you two naughty boys gloating over the sad, the mad, the desperate and the unemployable? I remember you and Marcus sitting in that corner waiting for me, him picking up a volume and shouting to you, “Look Mervyn, they’ve turned Dante’s Inferno into a flip-book.”’

  It was actually Mervyn’s joke, and it was Mervyn who shouted it to Marcus, but Mervyn didn’t say anything. He was used to stoically standing by and letting Marcus take the credit. It didn’t look like he was going to be allowed to stop any time soon.

  ‘How are you Mervyn?’ Joanna air-kissed him, brushing his cheek with her pillow-soft skin.

  ‘I’m fine. Apart from witnessing a dead body undergoing spontaneous combustion and getting interrogated by the police afterwards.’

  ‘Oh, how did that go?’

  ‘Great fun. I got coffee and everything. Thanks for mentioning my argument with Marcus to the police.’

  Joanna shrugged. ‘They asked me what I witnessed that day. I couldn’t very well leave it out. You understand.’

  Mervyn didn’t answer.

  ‘Okay, I’ll make amends. How about lunch at the Ivy?’

  Mervyn nodded his head vigorously. ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘Just wait there. I’ve got a few Post-it notes to write and stick on keyboards, and then we’ll be out of this hell-hole.’ Joanna disappeared into another glass-fronted office, and talked to a young man with horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Bryn, I’m taking lunch. If Max calls, they’ve upped the money to ninety grand, but they’ve made it very clear that he shouldn’t make himself available to the BBC for any work.’

  Mervyn stared at the picture. Damn. He wasn’t going to rest until he’d worked out why that actor had found his way into his head. (It was just like all those times he couldn’t quite recall the name of that actor in the Hitchcock film. Why could he never remember the name ‘Ray Milland’ for more than 20 minutes?)

  Mervyn sighed. Look, it’s only an old copy of Spotlight. Sod it. Coming to a sudden decision, he tore the page out and dumped the book back in the bin.

  ‘Right, I’m ready. Let’s go,’ Joanna said.

  She shrugged on a cashmere coat, and strode out the door without waiting for him. Mervyn moved alongside her, trotting to keep up with her brisk, lengthy stride.

  It was just a short walk down Charing Cross Road to the Ivy. It hadn’t occurred to Mervyn before, but as they came through the doors he noticed the restaurant was very like a church. They entered a kind of vestry affair and were greeted by a smiling man who was very happy to see everyone and very solicitous in asking how you were doing today—the epitome of a Church of England vicar. Then you passed into a large wood-panelled room, with long tables, bathed in the light cast by stained-glass windows. And there was the most important similarity of all. Once seated, people were there to be spotted by other people.

  Mervyn raised the point to Joanna. ‘This is very like a church, isn’t it?’

  Joanna peered around her and shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m a Scientologist.’

  ‘You’re a what? Triangle power, lie detectors and souls from space? With aliens? You believe in all that?’

  ‘Mervyn, I’d devoutly believe the human race was created by Jim Henson and the Children’s Television Workshop and brought to you by the letter “B” if it meant me getting anywhere near Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Anyway—you can talk. You’ve based your whole life and career pretending aliens exist.’

  ‘I’ve never pretended aliens exist.’

  ‘Some of your followers do.’

  ‘I don’t have followers! I’m not a prophet! I do concede that some of the loonier fans of Vixens seem to behave as if it were real…’ His mind leapt back to Mick, and her spangly bra, and her Vixens’ codes. ‘As for them… Whether some people appropriate what I’ve written and take it literally is nothing to do with me.’

  Joanna grinned. ‘Spoken like a true prophet.’

  Joanna Paine was class. Mervyn always thought so. Underneath the trouser suit, the frown and the severe hair cut, there was a very attractive woman. Her silhouette reminded him of a cut-glass champagne flute. She was long-limbed with toned, almost manly shoulders tapering down to an achingly thin waist and exquisite legs that seemed about fifteen feet long from thigh to delicately shaped ankle. Her fingers were long and slender, very womanly, even though she kept her fingernails short. All the better to dance across her laptop.

  She took off her jacket and draped it on the back of her chair. This meant that Mervyn could inspect her body, encased in a crisp white shirt. Even with Mervyn’s obsession with (he would call it an appreciation of) the fleshier female form, he still thought her a fascinating creature; and even though her chest was shallow he still had to train himself not to peer into the spaces gaping between the buttons.

  ‘A nice Merlot?’ she said loudly, craning around to catch the eye of the waiter.

  Mervyn jumped; he realised that, unbidden, his mind had wandered off to have a gossip with his libido. ‘Sounds great.’

  He also realised that they hadn’t actually talked about Marcus’s death; Marcus had been represented by Joanna for many years, and there had been a long and not completely unhappy professional relationship. And of course, the much shorter and more unprofessional relationship… Had anyone bothered to commiserate with Joanna about the loss of her client and ex-lover? Probably not.

  ‘I’m sorry about Marcus,’ Mervyn muttered, dutifully.

  Joanna tapped her fork idly on the table. She looked almost embarrassed; Joanna was always a bit of a cold fish. Or perhaps she wasn’t, and she just didn’t like him very much. ‘So am I. I’m gutted. The man made more for me in a day than most clients bring in for the year.’ Typical Joanna.

  She tapped her wine glass with her finger. If she had had longer fingernails it would have surely made a ringing sound, but her short nails only managed a dull ‘clonk’.

  ‘Okay, cards on the table. You probably heard Marcus and I had a…thing. It wasn’t a wise thing, or a very long-lived thing—just a couple of pokes in Paris, and a handful of long weekends at Hambley Hall, but it was a thing, and it happened.’

  Mervyn stayed silent; raising his eyebrows with polite interest.

  ‘But that’s not important. The important thing is that he confided in me more than you would your average agent. He talked to me a lot.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  Joanna suddenly broke off and waved at the door. Mervyn turned and followed her gaze.

  Oh no…

  Such a pity he was in a nice restaurant; because he had suddenly lost his appetite. No, that was an understatement. His stomach had just shrunk to the size of a marble. Samantha Carbury was in the doorway.

  ‘Hiya!’

  Her bracelets clattered in the hush as she waved frantically. She scurried to join them, pushing past the waiters, her big canvas bag clonking against the back of heads of the great and the good. One diner, pois
ed with a fork, got butternut squash risotto implanted in his left nostril. Samantha descended on them, sitting by Mervyn and pecking him on the cheek. Beneath the table, her hand scuttled along his leg, resting on his knee.

  ‘Hi Joanna, hi darling. This is lovely here, isn’t it? I haven’t been here before…’

  ‘Hello Samantha, glad you could make it.’

  ‘Well no problem, I was just over the way, at the top of Carnaby Street. I was in Lush buying up soaps, and I got your message.’

  She hefted her bag, to prove her story. Mervyn wondered whether the diners would feel better if they knew they’d just been dealt concussion by ethical products. Probably not.

  ‘Are you all right Mervyn, my darling?’

  ‘Hello Samantha. Yes I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure? The police looked like they were taking you away to be arrested yesterday.’

  ‘It was just a misunderstanding, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh, good. I hoped that’s what it was. Have you both seen the newspapers today?’

  Joanna and Mervyn nodded.

  ‘It’s just staggering, they’re all talking about black magic, or the vengeance of some God. It’s just ridiculous.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Joanna. ‘Exactly what I think. Ridiculous.’

  ‘Any sane person would tell them it’s just the spiritual hole made by Marcus’s death. Any creation of death through violence creates a link to a negative energy plane, which is basically a hole through which positive energy flows. Like a whirlpool, positive energy flows through the hole instead of flowing through us, denying those downstream the positivity to ward off negativity.’

  ‘Right,’ said Joanna, elegant eyebrows raised to the skies.

  Samantha rested her head on Mervyn’s shoulder. The muscles in his neck tightened with embarrassment, injecting a mild headache into his skull. ‘Oh gosh, Mervyn, the karmic energy was so bad in there I could barely breathe.’

  A handsome waiter, dark and stubbled, came up and took their order. Samantha took an age to decide, examining the small print of the menu. She hummed and hawed, asking about the origin and provenance of every vegetable on the menu, trying to guess whether they’d had a happy life before been uprooted, diced, chopped and steamed.

  Mervyn let out a sigh through his nostrils, as Samantha hovered between the goat’s curd salad and the fried courgettes. Joanna didn’t seem to mind; her eyes were flicking up and down the waiter appreciatively.

  The waiter finally left them and Samantha leaned forward, confidentially. ‘Gosh, what a brilliant menu. And the waiter knew so much about the produce, didn’t he? If he was right, and the courgettes were brought into Folkestone from Calais—that’s the “wealth corners” of both countries. In Feng Shui terms, I’m inviting prosperity by eating them.’

  ‘Anyway…’ Joanna wasn’t interested in Samantha’s twitterings. ‘As I was saying, I was pretty close to Marcus as an agent and as a friend. He talked to me a lot.’

  ‘Talking is so important,’ said Samantha.

  ‘And there was one thing that was most uppermost in his mind in his final days. He was worried about Cheryl.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He was very flip about it. He always was about things that were important to him. He called her his own “endangered species.”’

  ‘Awww,’ Samantha made a gooey noise. ‘That’s so lovely, and sad, and cute, and sad.’

  ‘But you could read between the jokes. He thought she was getting weaker. He was expecting something…final to happen quite soon.’

  ‘Oh no…’ Samantha clapped her hand to her mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mervyn. ‘I like Cheryl a great deal, and I’d be very sad if she loses the fight… But she doesn’t seem that bad.’

  ‘Her spirit is sustaining her,’ said Samantha, sagely.

  Joanna ignored her. ‘Cancer’s a funny bastard. It lets you look like a trained marathon runner one week, the next…’

  ‘It makes you look like an untrained marathon runner.’

  ‘Nicely put. Now that he’s gone, I worry about her. I’m wondering if we should help.’

  Samantha tapped her chin with a long fingernail. ‘I could talk to Megan and Raging Water. They could prepare the Way for her…’

  Joanna sipped her Merlot. ‘I was talking more about her welfare.’

  Mervyn frowned. ‘She’s hardly living in a council flat, warming herself by a one-bar electric fire.’

  ‘Things can change, Mervyn, someone should be there to watch out for her. Particularly when you’ve got these Godbotherers gunning for her. They’re in danger of getting out of hand.’

  ‘Oh gosh!’ Samantha’s voice had become a tense whisper. ‘Has she had more threats? Hate mail?’

  ‘Twice as many letters as usual. The publicity’s really bringing them out of the woodwork. I’m not sure she can cope with it all.’

  Their meals arrived, and they ate in silence. When they’d finished, Joanna dabbed her lips with a napkin and asked for the bill.

  ‘Anyway. Thanks for talking.’

  Mervyn was puzzled. Is this all she brought them here for? To talk about Cheryl’s health? It didn’t seem important enough for a power lunch. It was certainly not like Joanna to waste a dinner on a ‘chat’. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure what we’ve actually talked about.’

  ‘I thought I’d made myself clear. I’m going to open a trust for her, which I’ll manage. I was just wondering if you’d both like to be a director…’

  ‘Oh, definitely.’ Samantha nodded her head vigorously. ‘Happy to help. I’m not good with budgets and things, but I can design your office for you.’

  Mervyn stood up. ‘I’d be happy to help Cheryl in any way I can, but as I said, she has enough money to buy my house a thousand times over. And I think Samantha has even less money than me.’

  Samantha gave a helpless grin, confirming Mervyn’s assumption with her silence.

  ‘…So I really don’t think Cheryl will need our help.’

  Joanna smiled again. ‘Just in case, eh? Good to prepare in case of emergencies. Acts of God, and all that.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Joanna rushed back to the office to check her emails, leaving Mervyn and Samantha standing awkwardly on the street in St Martin’s Lane.

  Samantha spoke first. ‘I…just wondered if you were going to the solicitors for the reading of Marcus’s will?’

  ‘I was planning to…’

  ‘Because if you were, perhaps we could find a café, share a soy latte and a carrot cake?’

  ‘I have a prior engagement. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’

  Samantha sounded slightly crumpled at this obvious lie. Mervyn felt like the biggest shit in the U-bend.

  ‘See you at the solicitors, then,’ she said, feebly.

  ‘See you at the solicitors. Watch out for the negative energy.’

  * * *

  Mervyn loitered around the bookshops. It didn’t seem long before it was time to go to the reading of the will.

  The offices of Stoneleigh, Parsons and Williams were tucked away in a corner of Leadenhall. It was small, but tasteful. Paintings of men in whiskers and waistcoats glared down from the walls. The antique smell of money was everywhere.

  Mervyn glanced around the well-padded waiting room. It was quite crowded. There was him, Samantha, Joanna, Cheryl, Cheryl’s brother Barry who’d driven her there, Aiden the minder, a whiskery old man in a bow-tie who had introduced himself as Professor Alec Leman (Mervyn learned later he was a prominent humanist and director of the Spicer Institute), Marcus’s American agent Dana Snow, Mark Langella (a director friend of Marcus who’d adapted his books for television), Andrew Jamieson (a writer friend of both Marcus and Mervyn), Siobhan and Carlene the personal assistants, George Jackson (an old school chum of Marcus) and a man Mervyn didn’t know.

  But, weirdly, he had a picture of the man in his p
ocket.

  He unfolded the page of Spotlight, and sure enough, it was a photo of the actor standing in front of him. Duncan Somerville.

  That was a strange coincidence.

  Mervyn experienced a tidal wave of weariness as Samantha immediately moved seats and fastened herself to him. She slapped his knee and smiled at him. Mervyn flashed a tight, embarrassed grin back. Andrew Jamieson caught his eye and gave a playful wink.

  ‘All right, Mervyn?’ he grinned.

  Mervyn just scowled at him.

  Barry, Cheryl’s brother, was pacing backwards and forwards, displaying the suppressed energy of a naturally aggressive man. ‘I hope this don’t take long. I was meant to be on the site at ten.’

  ‘Sit down Barry,’ said Cheryl. ‘You’re making the place look untidy.’

  Barry owned his own building company, a business that had overstretched itself in the good times and was now groaning with debt.

  ‘You don’t have to wait,’ Cheryl said.

  ‘I do,’ Barry grunted. ‘I want to make sure he’s dead.’

  Mervyn remembered there was no love lost between Barry and Marcus. Barry took all the rumours of Marcus’s affairs personally on behalf of his sister. He always seemed more upset than Cheryl ever was.

  They were greeted by a young man swaddled in an expensive suit. ‘Hello everyone, I’m Tim. Would you like to join me upstairs?’

  ‘See you in a minute Barry,’ said Cheryl. ‘You’ll be okay?’

  They left Barry fuming and Tim led them upstairs. Joanna pushed Cheryl into the disabled lift and they all met up in a bare room filled with rows of chairs. Tim took a seat at the desk at the front and faced them nervously, like a student teacher.

  ‘I am Tim Parsons, I represent Mr Spicer’s estate, and I have been given authority to read his will which dispenses with that estate. Or rather, Mr Spicer will do that for me.’ He opened a box file and produced a DVD. ‘Mr Spicer recorded this one month ago, and this recording supersedes all previous wills he made.’

  Mervyn heard a gasp, and a tiny ‘Oh my god’ from Samantha behind him. He didn’t know about the negative energy implications, but by her response he could guess that they were serious. The whole situation was proving a bit ghoulish for him, too.