by Jon Richter
‘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 sa
id 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.’