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

by Nev Fountain

  ‘It would be easier on you if you talked to us. You’re in a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I’ve not hurt anyone. So don’t even think of hurting me.’ He nodded to Mick. ‘What that cow’s done is already technically assault. If you’re very lucky, I won’t press charges.’

  ‘I’ll call the police,’ said Graham.

  ‘Call the police,’ sneered Aiden. ‘Let them take me away.’

  ‘Then I won’t,’ said Graham stubbornly.

  Aiden gave a lazy smile. ‘You can’t keep me here. Just let me go. Give me the statuette and we’ll say no more about it.’

  Graham hugged the figurine close to his ample bosom. ‘Absolutely not!’

  ‘It’s stolen property. It doesn’t belong to you. I’ll just come back with the police myself and take it back in the name of Mr Spicer’s estate.’

  ‘Mr Spicer’s estate?’ said Mervyn sharply. ‘Who sent you. Was it Cheryl?’

  Aiden kept silent.

  ‘Was it Cheryl?’ Mervyn said, slightly angry now.

  ‘He said “estate”,’ said Mick. ‘She doesn’t own the Spicer estate anymore.’

  ‘Oh no. So she doesn’t. Did Samantha tell you to find this statuette? Was it Samantha?’

  ‘I answer to no one. Just my boss, Mr Spicer.’

  ‘You take orders from your dead boss?’ said Mervyn, perplexed. ‘That’s a bit mystical for an atheist, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m saying nothing.’

  Graham was tiptoeing over the debris of his collection, his hands rubbing his huge egg-shaped head. ‘I’ll tell the police what you did to my beautiful collection! Not to mention my wall!’

  ‘I’ll tell the cops that I’m very sorry and I’m willing to pay for the damage… But you… I’ll just tell them I was after stolen property, nicked from my boss. You’ll have questions to answer too…’ He strained around to look at the glass boxes. ‘How much of this crap here is actually legit?’

  Graham fell silent.

  Aiden looked triumphantly at Mervyn. ‘You can’t keep the statuette and you can’t keep me, so just let us both go, there’s a good boy.’

  ‘He’s right. We can’t. And he’s not going to talk,’ said Mervyn angrily. ‘Give him the statuette, Graham.’

  ‘No.’

  Aiden grinned. ‘Do you want to go to prison for receiving stolen goods?’

  Mick stepped forward and wrenched the statuette out of Graham’s arms. She held it out to Aiden. ‘Okay beautiful, you win. You can have it.’

  ‘At last, someone’s got some sense round here. If you untie, me I’ll say no more about it.’

  ‘Only joking,’ said Mick. She dropped the statuette on the floor. It smashed into a thousand pieces.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  ‘NOOOOOO!’ screamed Aiden and Graham. Graham’s booming wail was a complete octave below Aiden’s shriek; a perfect harmony of anguish.

  The fragments skittered across the floor, sliding into corners and under tables. Graham fell to his knees amid the debris, staring at the pieces helplessly like a monkey trying to complete a thousand-piece jigsaw.

  ‘Dat was irreplaceable,’ sobbed Graham, his Irish brogue thickening with grief. ‘Unique! The last ever cheap copy of an original statuette of its kind ever made.’

  Something slid along the floor and rested against Mick’s booted foot.

  ‘Look,’ said Mervyn, pointing.

  Mick reached down amongst the fragments and picked it up. It was an ordinary piece of statuette but glued to it was a thick rubber bracelet. And attached to the bracelet…

  ‘It’s a key,’ she said, holding it up so everyone could see. ‘It was stuck inside. The hollow base was bunged up with white plasticine so it looked solid.’

  ‘So it is,’ breathed Graham, fascinated. He scrambled to his feet, the shattered statuette completely forgotten.

  ‘Give me that key!’ Aiden was struggling against his bonds furiously. The chair was dancing across the floor. ‘That’s mine! Give me that key!’

  ‘It’s small and fiddly,’ said Mick, disappointed. Mervyn could imagine her saying something like that after a heavy-drinking Friday night, crushing the ego of many an amorous suitor.

  ‘It’s about the right size to open a safety deposit box,’ said Graham.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Mervyn.

  ‘It’s got a bracelet,’ said Graham. ‘Safety deposit boxes have bracelets.’

  ‘Not rubber ones, they don’t,’ growled Mick.

  ‘Leave it alone!’ Aiden wobbled impotently on his chair.

  Mervyn turned it over. It had ‘212’ written on it in bold marker pen. ‘There’s a number. I wonder if it’s from a luggage locker, like at a station?’

  Mick placed something in Mervyn’s line of vision. It was the membership card she’d fished from Aiden’s pocket.

  ‘Or a locker at a squash club?’

  ‘Mick that’s brilliant! I could hug you!’

  ‘Wait until I’ve finished scabbing over. I’m still a bit tender.’

  ‘Give me that key!’ Aiden shouted. ‘You’ll be sorry! You’ll be in a world of pain!’

  Mick advanced towards Aiden, pulling something out of her pocket. Aiden grew alarmed. ‘Stay away from me you bitch! I know you’re police! I’ll have your badge!’

  She pulled out a thick roll of masking tape, unfurled it, pulled off the backing and stuck one end over his mouth. Aiden twitched this way and that, trying to avoid her, but she held his head firm in her huge hands, wrapping the roll round and round his head until the only evidence there was a human being inside was the tip of a nose poking out. Now he looked like the invisible man once more.

  ‘Can you do that?’ said Mervyn.

  ‘Yes I can. You just saw me. Lucky I had the masking tape with me. Lucky I was planning to see my Jimbo tonight, or as he likes to be called, “Victim number seven”.’

  Mervyn didn’t pursue the matter. ‘I’ll go to the squash club tomorrow and find out what he’s looking for.’

  Mick flashed the card. ‘We can go now. It’s open 24 hours.’

  ‘Great. No time to waste.’

  Graham scooted to the door, his slippers flapping on the wooden floor. He interposed himself in the doorway. ‘You’re not going anywhere. Not with that key.’

  ‘Graham…’

  ‘That key’s mine.’

  Mick placed her hands on her hips. ‘Don’t talk to Mervyn Stone like that, lardy, or I’ll staple your stomach for you.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me. It’s mine.’

  ‘Look Graham, you should at least give the key to Mick. It’s important evidence, and, would you believe, she’s a policewoman.’

  ‘I don’t care. Neither of you are taking that key anywhere.’

  ‘Graham…’

  ‘It’s mine. I bought it.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  ‘It’s mine!’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Graham pushed a button on the wall. An alarm honked twice, and heavy metal doors slammed into place around them. ‘I’ve switched the security walls back on, as you can see.’

  ‘You can’t keep us here.’

  ‘I don’t intend to keep you here. I intend to phone the police and get them to arrest you both for trespass, vandalism and attempted theft.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Graham.’

  ‘I’m well within my rights. You’re in my house, you’ve damaged my lawful property. And you’re removing something that belongs to me.’

  ‘It doesn’t belong to you.’

  ‘I bought the statuette, and what was inside it.’

  Mervyn sighed. He knew Graham was going to wear him down. Graham wore everyone down, eventually.

  Mick stepped forward, and stood a little too close to Graham. Graham looked nervous, but he held his ground. Eventually, she tossed the key at him.

  ‘Okay doughboy. You can keep the key…’ She produced the squash club card and held it in front of his face, carefull
y covering the details on the card with her thumb. ‘But I’ve got this. Finders, keepers. So we know where that key belongs. You don’t. Can’t see you going round every squash club in London. You wouldn’t know where they were, unless they were next door to a pie shop.’

  Graham stared at her, eyes glaring mutinously. As the only Englishman in the room, Mervyn thought it his duty to calm things down. He stepped between them, hand upraised.

  ‘Let’s all go together,’ he said. ‘We can do that, can’t we?’

  Graham looked at the key in his hand, then he looked at the card in Mick’s. ‘Okay, he said. ‘We go together.’

  Mick picked up her helmet. ‘Good. Can you ride pillion?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Graham.

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you, Pavarotti. You can get there under your own steam. I was talking to Mervyn Stone.’

  ‘A long time ago,’ said Mervyn. ‘But yes, I have ridden once or twice.’

  ‘Good. Suit up, Mervyn Stone…’

  Suddenly the heavy metal version of the Vixens theme sounded again, somewhere near Mick’s left breast. She unzipped a pocket, pulled out a mobile phone, and flipped it open. ‘Yeah?’

  She listened.

  ‘Oh fuck. You’re fucking kidding me. Thanks Terry.’ She folded the phone. ‘That was Terry in CAD.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘What did she say. Terry is short for Theresa. She thought her name was shit too.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mervyn wearily. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I rang her just before I got here, told her where I was. She’s just sent a squad car over to this place. We didn’t respond to the first alarm because someone answered the phone and told them it was set off accidentally…’

  They all looked at Aiden’s struggling form.

  ‘But Pavarotti here’s just set off the alarm again, and this time no one answered the phone. They’ll be here any minute.’

  They looked around at the debris. The broken cabinets. The shattered statuette. The struggling bodyguard.

  ‘It don’t look good,’ said Mick. ‘You and Porky Pig go and look in that locker. I’ll stay here. I can tell them I was passing, heard the alarm and made an arrest. Which, luckily, happens to be true.’

  Mervyn hovered in the doorway, looking warily at Aiden. ‘But he’ll talk. He’ll say something.’

  ‘He’s not going to say anything. Even if he does, copper’s word trumps burglar’s word every time. Now piss off, and find what’s in that locker. Catch.’

  She threw the card at him. Mervyn was still hovering, but Mick was already on the phone, calling in a possible break-in and an apprehended suspect. Getting her story straight.

  He finally turned, and ran after Graham, who was waiting by the front door, hopping from foot to foot with impatience.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  The gym was on a quiet street in Kensington. It wasn’t your average battered council building with graffiti on the walls and chipped paint, it was a beautifully polished building. Glass and steel. The reception smelled of lavender, and contained more marble than a mausoleum. This was where rich people got sweaty.

  ‘Hello, we’d like to book a session on the squash court.’

  The girl at the reception looked up. Looked at Mervyn. She looked at Mervyn’s just-on-the-wrong-side-of-stout waistline. Then she looked at Graham. She looked at Graham’s mountainous form slowly, eyes dancing up and down his body. Her gum-chewing, which until that point had been vigorous, slowed to a dull chomp and then stopped all together. ‘Are you members?’

  ‘I am,’ said Mervyn quickly. He produced the card and gave it to her. Thankfully the card didn’t have a photo on it.

  ‘Okay…’ Her fingers clattered on the keyboard, and she looked at her database. ‘So you are,’ she said, with a trace of incredulity. ‘One of our platinum members. Okay Mr Spicer. When do you want your session for?’

  ‘Right now,’ said Graham, in a stentorian voice. He was already out of breath from the climb up the tube station steps and the short walk to the squash club door.

  She looked at them both again, for slightly too long. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  She picked up the reception desk phone and dialled a single number. ‘Sean, are you going to be in the building for the next hour? Yeah. Can you see them?’

  Mervyn glanced up at a CCTV camera, which was winking at them all with a little red light.

  ‘Okay. Cheers. Thanks.’ She put the phone down. ‘Okay, that’s fine. Sean says it’s okay.’

  ‘Good old Sean.’

  ‘He’s our senior qualified first-aid person. I just thought I’d check he was on hand…’

  Graham was still breathing heavily, clutching the reception desk for support.

  ‘Probably very wise,’ agreed Mervyn.

  * * *

  They hurried through the white-tiled corridors of the squash club. MOR rock music was piped through tiny speakers, and mini fountains gushed feebly on every corner. It was certainly a better class of fitness centre; the doughy smell of sweat and wet towels was refined with the odour of expensive aftershave.

  They found the changing room. Thankfully it was empty. The walls were carpeted, with tiny, bright red doors. Lockers as far as the eye could see.

  ‘212…212… Where’s 212?’

  ‘19, 20…48… Low numbers at this end.’

  ‘The 200s are over there…’

  ‘240…232…222…’

  ‘212,’ they said together.

  They dashed over to the locker, jostling like boys in a dinner queue.

  ‘Okay, here goes…’ said Mervyn, more excited than he’d care to admit.

  Graham pushed the key in the lock and turned it.

  The door swung open.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  ‘Oh,’ said Mervyn, confused and disappointed.

  Inside were documents, notebooks. Tiny tapes. A dictaphone to play them on. A shiny red briefcase with heavy gold locks.

  Graham was impatient. He yanked out one of the notebooks. ‘What’s all this? What’s it mean?’ He flicked through it. ‘It’s notes for a story. Handwritten notes…’ He pulled out another one. ‘This is the same. I can read “Arkadia”, and “Medula”. It’s notes about a Vixens from the Void story.’ Graham peered ferociously at the scribbles. ‘This handwriting’s familiar.’

  Mervyn plucked it out of Graham’s protesting fingers. He looked at it long and hard. ‘There’s a reason why this handwriting’s familiar,’ he said finally.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s my handwriting,’ said Mervyn.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Graham grabbed for the dictaphone, but Mervyn was too fast for him; he snatched it and pressed play.

  Mervyn’s tinny voice droned from the speaker.

  ‘Okay, here’s a thought;’ he heard himself say. ‘Big nuclear war, wipes out everything on Earth. What’s left? Just statues. Statues of Christianity. Statues of women holding babies, and men being tortured on crosses. Perhaps that’s why the Vixens’ civilisation is what it is? I mean, what would any survivors think? That women are the stronger species, and they rule over men with an iron fist. Hmm. Could be controversial. Note to self: Don’t go too heavy on the Biblical references…’

  He clicked the dictaphone off.

  ‘This is my stuff,’ said Mervyn, mystified. ‘It got taken from my house years ago… I remember now. There was a burglary. I was more cross about the telly getting nicked than a box of old notes…’

  Graham was staring at him.

  ‘That’s the story of “The Burning Time”,’ he gaped. ‘That’s your voice. You wrote it.’

  ‘Well yes, I did.’

  ‘You wrote “The Burning Time”.’

  ‘I know.’

  Graham was still staring at him. The information had been lodged in Mervyn’s brain for so many years he sometimes forgot how big a deal it would be for fans if they ever discovered he was the
author.

  ‘Hello?’

  The voice was shockingly loud. Raised voices were rare in changing rooms, and Mervyn’s heart gave a frightened flinch.

  ‘That’s him.’

  The girl at the reception desk was pointing at Mervyn. Behind her were two men. They were obviously plainclothes policemen.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said one. ‘Can you come over here, please?’

  Mervyn peered round the corner and reluctantly walked over to them with a sickly grin on his face, trying to look calm and normal, just an ordinary overweight man trying to get fit in the middle of the night.

  ‘Can I have a look at your membership card, sir?’

  Mervyn’s stomach poured into his Chelsea boots. ‘Of course.’ He produced the card. The senior policeman, a man with a severe parting and shiny face, turned it over and over in his hands, not really reading it. He already knew what it said. He was just pausing for effect.

  ‘So…you’re Mr Spicer, sir?’

  ‘Um… Yes…’

  ‘I don’t think you are, sir.’

  ‘Well not exactly, you see… Mr Spicer is my friend, and he let me borrow his card because my own gym has been closed for renovation.’

  ‘I believe Mr Spicer passed away some weeks ago. You might have read it in the papers.’

  Mervyn’s mouth moved, but no words were forthcoming. His brain finally caught up with his face, and he started to make noises.

  ‘Well yes, and this is funny, but he actually was my friend…’

  ‘I think you’d better come along with us, sir…’

  ‘But…no. I can’t. I’ve discovered something very important.’

  ‘You can tell us about that at the station, sir…’

  ‘I have vital evidence about Marcus Spicer’s death, and it’s right in that locker over there! Please let me show you! You’re going to look very foolish if you don’t let me show you locker 212!’

  The senior policeman sighed. ‘Fine, if it makes you happy.’

  Mervyn guided them over to locker 212, which was ajar, the key still dangling from the lock. He pulled the door open.

  It was empty.

  It was only at that moment he realised that Graham had completely disappeared.