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

by Nev Fountain

  They piled into a cab, which lurched on to the congested London streets. They were soon stranded in traffic, not moving. Cars and taxis were crammed together like rocks in a dry stone wall.

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed the professor benignly, twinkling at Samantha. ‘We’re going to be late. I’d say that someone up there doesn’t like us, but I’m not supposed to say things like that.’

  Samantha grinned uncertainly at him, and gave a huge, childlike sniff.

  Mervyn’s foot was tapping the floor of the taxi. ‘I’ll try Cheryl’s phone.’

  ‘Mervyn,’ Samantha was pleading again. ‘Let’s not do this. I’m feeling we’re heading into a huge crowd of negative energy. Let’s go back to my little place in Richmond. You can have another foot massage, and some cleansing tea.’

  Mervyn ignored her. He dialled Cheryl’s number.

  ‘Hello?’

  Mervyn had the phone on speaker, so the voice flooded the cab. But it wasn’t Cheryl’s voice. It was Joanna’s.

  ‘Oh my,’ whimpered Samantha.

  ‘Joanna? I thought this was Cheryl’s phone.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m holding it for her, because that’s what I do. I’m the one looking after her. Looks like you’ve chosen whose side you’re on, Mervyn. I’m not surprised.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m rather busy. I have to make some calls myself. I need to organise Cheryl’s removal from her house before Samantha moves in. I presume Samantha’s going to live there, and not use it as a sanctuary for lesser-spotted tree-frogs from the jungles of South America or anything like that?’

  ‘You can ask her yourself. I have Samantha with me.’

  Samantha cringed, curling into a ball.

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘You need to apologise to her.’

  There was a harsh bark of laughter from the phone. ‘Do I, indeed?’

  ‘Yes. Yes you do.’

  ‘She’s got all the money. She can employ someone to say sorry to her on my behalf.’

  ‘Is Cheryl there? Can I speak to her?’

  ‘She’s busy. She’s on stage. They’ve just introduced her to the floor…’

  There was a huge whooshing sound, which consumed Joanna’s voice. Mervyn realised it was a roar of applause, and a stamping of feet.

  Joanna raised her voice over the din. ‘They’re giving her a standing ovation… Which I suppose might be in poor taste given as she’s in a wheelchair… And… Oh… They’re giving her the first of a new award they’ve just dreamed up, “The Marcus Spicer Remembrance Award”. How bloody ironic, considering the sod completely forgot about her in his will.’

  ‘We’re coming over.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘You’re going to apologise to Samantha.’

  ‘God, you really do believe in miracles, don’t you Mervyn?’

  ‘I do. Get ready. We’re not far away.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  ‘Not far away’ was a very elastic concept when it came to London. Their taxi stayed mired in traffic all the way, and the lecture had all but finished by the time they huffed up the stone steps that led to the indifferent Victorian exterior, fighting against the flow of people exiting the building.

  And there were the Godbotherers again; the ever-present angels watching over Mervyn as he went through life. They were held back by a line of grim-faced policemen. He saw Lewis Bream barking into a megaphone but couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t need to.

  They sidled round the crowds; Professor Leman showed his membership card to a policeman in a padded vest, and they were allowed inside. It was a big empty space that sent their footsteps echoing round a neo-Gothic ceiling. Chairs were being folded away. The last members of the audience were dribbling out of the hall.

  ‘Oh bum,’ sighed the professor. He ambled into the hall and stood, looking around him, spinning on his heels, wondering what to do next. He finally chose a direction and wandered into a side office.

  Cheryl was near the stage. Barry and Joanna were with her. Joanna marched up to Mervyn. She folded her arms. ‘Get lost.’

  ‘Apologise to Samantha. She wasn’t the one who did this. She’s just caught up in Marcus’s post-mortem mischief.’

  ‘Tough.’

  Samantha poked her head round Mervyn’s shoulder. ‘I don’t want you to apologise, Joanna.’

  ‘Good, because I’m not going to. Don’t let me detain you.’

  ‘I just want your help.’

  ‘Of course you do. You always need help. That’s just you. Do you want me to take the cash round to the shelter for deaf seals, or the Royal Society for the Prevention of Suicidal Lemmings?’

  ‘Seriously, I really do need your help. I never wanted this.’ She held out her hands imploringly. ‘Help me give it all back. We have to give it back.’

  Joanna’s face creased with suspicion. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I don’t want any of this. I don’t want it. I promise I’ll give Cheryl the money back. I’ll sign any bit of paper you like.’

  Joanna untangled her arms. Her eyebrows unfurled. ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘We need to look after Cheryl. I was thinking about that trust fund thing you were talking about. Perhaps I can give it the money, so we can look after her.’

  Joanna stroked her chin, thinking. ‘Yes, that might work, let’s do that…’

  ‘Oh, thank you…’

  ‘Come to my office tomorrow. I’ll have our lawyers come in, and we can see if we can sort something out.’

  Samantha flew into Joanna’s arms, hugging her. ‘Oh thank you! Thank you! Thank you so much!’ She seemed pitifully grateful at the offer to have her money taken from her.

  Realising that Samantha had a New Best Friend—at least for the moment—Mervyn took the opportunity to dodge past them and talk to Cheryl.

  * * *

  Cheryl was trundling into the side office. Mervyn stepped in front of her, and Cheryl stared at him murderously.

  ‘Out of my way Mervyn.’ She nudged a lever by her hand, and, with a sudden spasm, the chair lurched two inches towards him.

  Mervyn smiled nervously. He felt like the lone student in Tiananmen Square, facing down a tank. ‘What’s going on, Cheryl?’

  ‘It’s our quarterly humanist lecture.’

  Mervyn looked despairingly at her. ‘I didn’t mean that. You know that. About the will.’

  ‘Bad timing, that’s all.’

  ‘Bad timing? Is that all you can say?’

  ‘Don’t have a go at me Mervyn.’ She shrugged. ‘Marcus remade his will a month ago, you heard. Everybody thought I was going to die long before. I had weeks, all the doctors said so. Why would he leave me anything?’

  ‘But Samantha…’

  ‘He had to leave it to someone, Mervyn. It was either that or a diamond-encrusted coffin. Don’t forget; I was supposed to be dead by now. He’d never risk my brother getting his hands on any of his money by default. He hated Barry. Samantha was his latest charity. His hopeless case. His good cause. It was like giving money to retired pit ponies.’

  Mervyn had to agree. Samantha had the knackered, bewildered look of a put-upon animal that had been worked half to death and then released into a field to frolic. She begged to be taken advantage of, and now she wasn’t even worth taking advantage of any more she looked for anyone who could do it in tiny trivial ways; a thieving boyfriend, an internet scam merchant, an unscrupulous convention organiser.

  ‘But all the other stuff. Was that all true? You invited me to your wedding. I bought you a wok,’ he said stupidly. ‘Was that all it was? A big joke?’

  ‘Mervyn, you just don’t understand.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with you, Mervyn. You’ve never believed in anything…not even in the absence of belief. I believed in exactly the same things Marcus believed in. I still do
.’

  Mervyn’s face felt hot; he’d been insulted by experts, but Cheryl’s casual dismissal stung him.

  She continued. ‘Marcus made enquiries about getting married, and yes, before you ask, he told me about Samantha. We were both aware he had to get a divorce first. That wasn’t a problem. But then we looked at our options—two atheists; one of us a potential divorcee. All we could get was one crappy room in a council building; no confetti allowed because they hadn’t got anyone to sweep it up.’ She looked at him, angrily.

  There was a lot of anger there; but how much of it was at the world, and how much of it was at her condition, at Marcus for leaving her with nothing? She’s come a long way from that giggle in the production office, thought Mervyn. She’s had a long, hard journey.

  ‘We thought it was a scandal there wasn’t a decent secular marriage service. When Marcus suggested we just pretend to get married I thought it was a great idea. I thought it was funny. It was either we did a pretend service, or we had a shitty real one; us, the witnesses and a couple of quick photos in front of some post-war monstrosity. So we chose to fake it, and we were right to do so. It was a lot more fun. And if I had my time over again, I’d do it again.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Let me pass, Mervyn, I’ve got things to do.’ She glided into the office, leaving Mervyn alone with his thoughts.

  For all of ten seconds.

  A piercing scream came from the office.

  Mervyn ran into the office. The first thing he saw was Cheryl, eyes wide, fist crammed into her mouth.

  Pointing at the floor.

  Professor Leman was lying there, face frozen in agonised death. There was a bottle of water on the floor, and a puddle of water by his head.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  The police dashed in, but Mervyn sneaked out through a side door. He thought Detective Inspector Preece wouldn’t look charitably on his continuing habit of turning up near dead bodies.

  He grabbed a cab and disappeared into the crush of vans, cars and motorbikes. Once safely hidden in the middle of a traffic jam, he rang Mick and arranged a meeting.

  * * *

  They reconvened in the plastic motorway café.

  ‘This is a huge headfuck,’ said Mick, slurping on something thick, pink and creamy. ‘And I’ve seen some pretty headfucky things in my time.’

  Mervyn believed her.

  ‘This time, the water in the bottle was just that—water. But it looks probable that the old geezer was still poisoned with cyanide.’

  ‘Another miracle.’

  ‘Could be.’

  Mervyn picked up a chip and dipped it something called ‘special sauce’. He ate it. He realised the makers used the term ‘special sauce’ the way education authorities used the term ‘special needs’. This anaemic gloop on his chip was definitely a late developer.

  ‘And we’ve still got work to do on Robert’s body,’ she said. ‘Electrocuted and burnt to a crisp when his pacemaker exploded. Forensics are going mental trying to pick the bones out of that one.’

  ‘Frankly, I have no idea what’s going on,’ said Mervyn. ‘I can see why Robert was killed, he seemed to have made a discovery about Marcus’s murder. But the professor? He was just a nice old man.’

  ‘He was an atheist,’ growled Mick menacingly. ‘God hates atheists and fags.’

  ‘Be serious.’

  ‘Okay, ‘Mick folded her huge arms. ‘Rule one of police deduction: it’s normally the wife that does these sorts of things.’

  ‘Which one? The one who pretended to be his wife, or the one who really was his wife?’

  ‘That’s easy. The one in the wheelchair.’

  ‘Cheryl.’

  ‘Yeah. Stands to reason she did it. All people in wheelchairs are evil. Look at the facts. Davros from Doctor Who: evil. Blofeld from James Bond: evil. Makrol from Vixens from the Void: evil.’

  ‘You’re a policewoman, for God’s sake. You cannot call someone evil just because they’re in a wheelchair.’ He picked at his chips. ‘Besides, Makrol wasn’t in a wheelchair. That was his atmospheric support system.’

  ‘He sat in it. It had wheels. It was a fucking wheelchair.’

  ‘Let’s be serious here. Let’s look at some facts. Robert was absolutely certain that Samantha killed Marcus. He was sure of that just before he died. How could he think that? I couldn’t. There’s no way that she could plan an intricate and fiendish series of murders when she’s so dizzy she can barely work her own phone. But he was pretty convinced.’

  ‘Well, let’s have a look in her file.’ She got out her notes. ‘Samantha Carbury, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Mick rustled through her papers. ‘There’s been background checks done on all those present at Spicer’s death; phone calls, credit checks, bank account records, usual stuff. She’s a bit of a fruit loop.’

  ‘Hmm… More of a dried fruit segment nestling in some fairtrade organic muesli. But you’ll get no argument from me. Yes, she does have her batty elements, does our Sam.’

  ‘She earns less than my brother does on his paper round, and all she doesn’t spend on pot-pourri she gives away to causes. Lots and lots of causes. The Actors’ Benevolent Fund, Mencap, Amnesty, WWF, the RSPCA, the RSPB, the RSPCC…’

  ‘That’s the NSPCC.’

  ‘No—she does give to the NSPCC, but she also gives to the RSPCC, which is “The Rubbery Society for the Prevention of Custard on Clowns”. They’re just on Facebook at the moment.’ The list got longer: Mick showed no signs of stopping. ‘Meditate for Climate Change, Feng Shui for Africa, Adopt a Ghost…’

  ‘Wait a second, “Adopt a Ghost”? What does that one do?’

  ‘Great website. That’s a charity that’s concerned that the number of ghosts in England is declining due to all the renovations of barns and old houses going on, and they want money to buy houses with known poltergeist activity and keep them derelict so the ghosts don’t leave.’ She continued reading. ‘Slug Rescue, The Ley Line Restoration Trust… There’s even one which promises to get psychics to send positive thoughts to dictators in the third world… And hiding in the middle of this list is something called “Hearts of Giveness”, a charity which raises money to buy “faith books” and give them to schools. Guess who they’re connected to?’

  Mervyn was already ahead of her. ‘Don’t tell me. Is Hearts of Giveness a subsidiary of the Godbotherers?’

  ‘You must be psychic, Mervyn Stone. Maybe she’ll donate to you.’

  ‘It could be a coincidence.’

  ‘Could well be. The best thing you can say is she’s a soft touch.’

  ‘Yes…’ Then he realised something. ‘Of course!’

  He scrabbled frantically in his jacket, turning out his pockets on to the table, one after the other. Bits of paper, credit cards, pens and loose change clattered on the moulded plastic, sliding and rolling to the six corners of the table. A tramp, sitting by the window and nursing a coffee, hungrily eyed up a stray pound coin that had rolled on to the floor.

  ‘Mervyn Stone,’ Mick muttered, with slow menace. ‘You are getting crumbs in my coleslaw.’

  ‘Here it is!’ He unfolded the page of Spotlight he’d rescued from Joanna’s bin earlier that day. ‘Look at this.’ He jabbed a finger at the red writing. “‘NOT A VIC!!! RING MARCUS?” This is what I found in Joanna’s office. This proves Joanna knew Marcus and Cheryl’s marriage was a fake…’ He slumped back in his chair, admiration blooming across his face. ‘She manipulated us from the start.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Joanna Paine of course. She’s been doing some investigating of her own. She must have gone through Spotlight, seen this actor’s photo, recognised it, just like me, and made the connection…’ Mervyn grinned. ‘Do you know, I wouldn’t put it past her to find out what was in Marcus’s latest will. Agents have their ways. I bet she knew Samantha was the main beneficiary—that’s why she met up with me! Because she was playing up the concerned citizen, wo
rried about Cheryl… Then she pretends to act really outraged at the reading, slaps Samantha… It’s all emotional blackmail, working towards a huge guilt trip, so Samantha gives up her inheritance to this “trust fund” Joanna’s setting up.’ Mervyn helped himself to another chip. ‘I bet she’s arranging to get control of all that money as we speak.’

  ‘Clever bitch. She lives by the Vixens’ codes. Like me.’

  Mervyn didn’t comment.

  ‘Got you a present,’ said Mick suddenly.

  ‘Oh?’ Mervyn flinched, instinctively. He had visions of Mick producing a photo album of her favourite tattoos.

  ‘I thought this might be useful to Mervyn Stone’s investigation,’ she said, pushing forward a CD box with ‘DVD COMMENTARY’ written on it. ‘They got copies made for the investigation, and I nicked one. I thought if you listened to it again, it might help.’

  Mervyn grinned in what he hoped was a surprised and delighted fashion. He didn’t let on that he’d already listened to the commentary recording, or attempted to get Robert to make a copy for him.

  Well, he thought. Robert’s copy didn’t work… At least this one will…

  Perhaps his luck was changing…

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Mervyn picked up the CD case and slotted it into his pocket.

  ‘Thanks. I hope it will help, because I’m none the wiser now. Joanna’s scheme makes her clever and avaricious, but not a murderer. And Samantha, it turns out, had the most to gain from Marcus’s death, but she doesn’t seem interested in keeping any of the money. Who else? Brian? It can’t be Trevor, surely. There’s just no credible suspect with means and motive.’

  ‘I keep telling you, it’s the one in the wheelchair. She must be evil. Stands to reason.’

  Mervyn gave her a long-suffering look.

  ‘The henchman then,’ said Mick. ‘Henchmen are always evil.’

  ‘Aiden?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But why? Aiden seemed pretty upset when Marcus was killed.’

  ‘Emotions can be faked. Take it from me.’

  ‘But again, where’s the motive? We all knew what Marcus was like. He was no different from the moment he became rich and famous to the day he died. Insufferable—but annoying enough to kill? No. So what was new? What had changed in the past few months to make someone want to kill him?’