by Jon Richter
The susurrus of the raindrops and the thudding beat of the wipers continued as if they would never stop.
‘What did Wells do about it?’ Mason asked eventually.
‘My colleague was suspended for two weeks. But since then my career has… stagnated somewhat. And the other lads in the station don’t trust me any more.’
Silence once again. He looked down at his hands, saw the lines etched across them. Thought about age and decay.
Another burst of static interrupted his reverie, this time as Mason initiated a transmission.
‘This is Mason,’ she spoke into the receiver. ‘Change of plan: we’ll be in the station a little later. First we’re going to pay Dr Leithauser a visit.’
*
The mortuary was housed within the island’s only hospital, the Salvation Island Infirmary. Mason hadn’t spoken again after their sort-of-truce, and Sigurdsson didn’t want to push it any further, so they remained silent as she led him through to the reception area of the small, antiquated building. They showed their ID to the young man behind the desk, who made a quick call before telling them to head straight down. They walked along a few corridors painted the colour of weak tea before a sign guided them down a flight of stairs to their destination. Mortuary: an innocuous word for such terrible finality. Sigurdsson felt his heart shake as he descended.
The pathologist met them at the entrance, wearing scrubs and a mask pulled down to reveal an ageing, kindly face.
‘Hello, Inspector; good to see you again. Is this a new colleague? Forgive me for not shaking your hands.’ He held up his gloved extremities and then offered them a box containing similar coverings, as well as their own face masks. Mason had radioed ahead to let him know they were coming, and that they were going to take a look at the body. Sigurdsson introduced himself and Leithauser did likewise – his first name was Hamish.
‘Good to see they’ve sent reinforcements,’ the doctor commented. ‘There’s clearly something amiss here, in my opinion.’
They entered a tiled room where three gurneys were arranged in a neat line. The harsh lighting glinted off their polished surfaces, except for the one covered by a plastic sheet.
‘I gather he’s something of a celebrity?’ the doctor asked as he removed the covering without ceremony. The body beneath had of course been in cold storage, so decomposition had barely progressed. Long, dark hair framed features identical to those that Sigurdsson had seen in pictures on the internet – except that they were a little older, and contorted into an agonised grimace. Blotches of silver face paint still clung to the flesh of his face, as well as two black chevron shapes, one beneath each eye, with what appeared to be a stylised teardrop snaking its way from the bottom of one of them. VV, for Vic Valiant. The teeth, visible between rabidly snarling lips, were clamped solidly together, and Schultz’s eyes were widened into frenzied discs.
Sigurdsson stared down at the corpse, momentarily transfixed, only registering the pathologist’s question when Mason answered it.
‘Yes doc, he used to be a big deal in the wrestling business. You’re a fan, aren’t you Sigurdsson?’
He wondered if her jibe was a kind of apology for her earlier treatment of him, and managed a smile.
‘Yep, I’ve still got posters of them all on my wall at home. And I know it’s tragically common for them to die of heart attacks when they get to his age. Steroids, or the lifestyle, or whatever. What makes you think this isn’t just the same thing?’
The wrestler’s face, a frozen mask of torment, seemed to scream denial at this version of events.
In answer, the doctor pulled the sheet back further. Sigurdsson felt a pang of intense discomfort; perhaps it was the visible stitching down Schultz’s torso, or perhaps it was just the nonchalance with which the man’s genitals were being displayed to a pair of strangers. Maybe it was the wrestler’s hands, which were bent into claws as if he had tried to gouge survival out of thin air. Sigurdsson gritted his teeth and followed Leithauser’s pointing finger towards the man’s left thigh.
‘See here?’ Mason and Sigurdsson leaned closer to observe an odd pattern of dots, like an abrasion. ‘There are other patches like this – repeated use of a syringe to self-administer something, presumably steroids as you say, Oxandrin or Dianabol perhaps. His liver certainly shows the signs – and judging by the number of scars, I’d say he’s been using them for years. Many of them appear to be fresh.’
‘Okay, so maybe this was just… a bad batch?’
The doctor shook his head.
‘The blood tests clearly showed the presence of strychnine in his system, more than enough to kill a middle-aged man. And strychnine poisoning is further indicated by the seizures he underwent as he died.’
‘Could he have done it himself? Like a weird suicide?’ Mason probed.
‘He could, yes, but it doesn’t really stack up… he decides to kill himself, but still goes along to the show, sits backstage for the entire thing and then injects himself just before heading out to wrestle?’
‘What if he wanted an audience?’
The doctor shrugged. ‘I’m just the pathologist… I’ll leave it to you to figure that part out.’
Sigurdsson cut in. ‘Let’s say it was a suicide. Where could he have even gotten hold of strychnine?’
Mason answered. ‘There’s only one specialist chemist on the island, but they don’t sell it – we’ve checked.’
‘What if they sold it to him illegally?’
‘There’s no need,’ cut in Leithauser. ‘It’s still used industrially for pest control. He could have bought it on the mainland, or even online.’
‘Okay… and what about the steroids? Are there any conclusions we can draw from those?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘Other than the liver damage, nothing specific. We don’t even know that was definitely what he has been injecting. We can rule out heroin or other narcotics, though, as his blood didn’t test positive for any of those.’
Sigurdsson pursed his lips in frustration.
‘Okay, thanks doctor. Have any family members been in touch about taking the body back to the States yet?’
Leithauser’s expression saddened.
‘No, I’ve heard nothing from any family – just the poor woman he lived with, who came in to identify him.’
‘Is that his girlfriend? The “April” that Penman was talking about yesterday?’
Mason answered again. ‘That’s right. Her name’s Stacey Wainwright, but she wrestles as April Summers – she wasn’t at the show on Friday though. She actually lives right here on the island.’
‘We should pay her a visit today, I think. Right after David Zheng. Don’t you need to get to the station first though?’
‘I suppose we’re working okay as a team so far. I can leave Mitchell in charge for a while longer.’
She flashed him a wry smile, and thanked the pathologist as they left. They retraced their steps through the featureless beige corridors, past one or two busy-looking staff members and a couple of shuffling patients. Sigurdsson found the inverted walk somehow less depressing, and realised it was the lingering memory of Mason’s half-smile – what was he, a teenager? Pull yourself together Chris! He deliberately avoided looking at the back of her slender and shapely figure as she led the way out of the hospital.
Outside, the rain lashed at them as they hurried to the squad car. Once inside, Mason began to drive towards Zheng’s hotel, which she told him was on the north side of the island.
‘Is that far away?’ he asked.
‘Nothing’s far away, here.’
They arrived at an unremarkable brown cuboid a few minutes later. There were very few vehicles in the car park outside, so Mason pulled up right outside the entrance. An automatic door scraped open to admit them, and they found an unmanned reception desk inside. After a few seconds of waiting, Mason rang the bell irritably.
A sleepy-looking girl emerged from
the office room, offering them an unenthusiastic smile.
‘Can I help you?’ she said in a voice that implied ‘but only if it’s really straightforward’ as an unspoken addendum.
‘Is David Zheng staying here?’ asked Mason, allowing her uniform to explain that she was a policewoman.
The girl clicked on an ancient-looking computer and squinted into the screen.
‘Yeah, he’s been here since Friday.’
‘May we speak with him, please?’
The girl worked a piece of chewing gum around her mouth as she dialled Zheng’s room. When he answered, she simply handed Mason the phone.
‘Hello?’ Sigurdsson heard him say on the other end of the line.
‘Is that David Zheng?’ Mason asked brusquely.
‘Yeah – why?’
‘This is Inspector Mason from the Salvation Island Police. My colleague and I would like to speak with you about what happened on Friday night.’
‘Oh, err… yeah, okay.’
Silence fell.
‘In your room, I mean,’ Mason added.
‘Oh, right, yeah. Come up. I’m not doing anything.’ Mason returned the phone to the receptionist, who replaced the handset and explained in a tone of crushing boredom that room 104 was on the first floor, and that the lift was through the door to their right.
Mason took the lead, choosing to take the stairs instead, and they ascended to find Zheng waiting for them when they got there, holding his room door open. He was young and mixed-race and probably in his mid-twenties, tall and well-built with a thick ‘indie’ haircut that looked as though it had been painstakingly straightened. He was dressed in tracksuit pants and a hoodie as if he had been about to go to, or had just returned from, the gym.
Mason introduced Sigurdsson, and they followed the young wrestler into the bland anonymity of the room. The curtains were drawn and the place was dark and stuffy. Zheng seemed momentarily confused about whether to sit or stand, and eventually sat down on the bed while Mason and Sigurdsson remained standing, facing him from a few feet away. His natural expression seemed to be for his mouth to hang open slightly, making his face appear vacant and somewhat gormless as he looked up at them.
‘Okay, David – do you mind if I call you David?’
He stared at Mason as if she were from an alien species, eventually making an affirmative grunt.
‘We know you’re very upset about what happened last week,’ she continued, unperturbed, ‘but we’d like to ask you a few questions about it. We’re trying to understand exactly how your friend died.’
Zheng continued to regard them blankly. Sigurdsson spoke next.
‘How long have you been wrestling with AAW, David?’
‘About four years,’ came the reply.
‘What do you do when you aren’t wrestling?’
‘Security guard.’
‘Where at?’
‘Londis in Exeter.’
‘Do you like it there?’
He seemed puzzled by the question.
‘No, it’s shit. I want to get a contract so I can give it up.’
‘You mean a pro wrestling contract?’
‘Yeah, with GWE or WCA. I’d love to move to America and tour around.’ His face showed the first signs of engagement as he spoke about his passion. ‘There was a scout there on Friday, you know… just my luck that it all went wrong. Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘David,’ Mason cut back in, following Sigurdsson’s lead in adopting a gentler tone. ‘Can you tell us exactly what happened on Friday, in your own words?’
The wrestler switched his gaze back to Mason, his vacuous expression replaced by an anguished wince as he recalled the experience.
‘It was… horrible,’ he began. ‘The crowd were all going mental from the moment Jump kicked in – that’s Valiant’s music, you know, the Van Halen song – and the match was going well too. And then about ten minutes in, it was like all his body just tensed up. He’d just got out of the yubizume; that’s my submission move, you see, ‘cos I’m supposed to be “Miki Yakuza, the Tokyo Psycho”.’ Here he laughed and looked embarrassed. ‘I’ve never even been to Japan. My dad’s from Exeter and my mum’s Chinese.’
‘And then what happened, David?’
‘Valiant just bent over double, all of a sudden. I was annoyed with him at first…’ Zheng frowned guiltily, the blank canvas of his face making his expressions easy to read. ‘But then I realised something was wrong. I got up and went over to him. I remember the crowd were booing ‘cos they thought we’d messed up the match. Then he suddenly just bent right backwards, like he’d been electrocuted or something. And his face… his face was…’ He pushed himself up from the bed, shaking his head and pacing across to the window, suddenly animated. ‘I just can’t stop thinking about it. I think Mr Penman wanted me back for the show last night, but I just… I couldn’t…’
Sigurdsson offered him a compassionate smile. ‘You don’t need to rush back, David. People take weeks, months, to get over something like this.’ He paused for a while as the young man composed himself, then asked, ‘Were you close friends with Valiant?’
Zheng’s eyes had taken on a haunted expression, and Sigurdsson found himself wishing they would return to their previous glassy stare.
‘No, not really… I haven’t really been happy with the Yanks coming in, I suppose.’ He toyed with the curtain as though frightened of the storm outside. ‘I just keep expecting Mr Penman to say “thanks for your hard work Dave but we’ve got some proper wrestlers now, so we won’t be needing you any more”… then it’s back to being David Zheng the loser who works in a supermarket.’
Sigurdsson found himself filled with pity for the young man – obviously not the brightest, a supermarket security guard, whose only real passion was make-believe fighting, where he could pretend to be a big tough gangster.
‘David, we think Valiant was using steroids,’ Mason continued, ‘and that somehow on Friday he injected himself with the wrong thing. Did you see him backstage before your fight?’
‘No… he was doing a special entrance through the fans so he wasn’t in the back with the rest of us.’
‘Did you ever see him using drugs on other nights?’
Zheng answered without looking at her, still fiddling nervously with the curtain.
‘Yeah, I saw him injecting a few times… it’s not a big deal in our line of work.’
He turned suddenly, eyes widening as if he realised he had said too much.
‘What do you mean, David? Do the other performers use steroids too?’
‘Errr… ahh shit… yeah, some of the lads are taking stuff I think, but I don’t really know…’
‘And what about you?’
‘No.’ His mouth tightened with resolution. ‘Never. GWE won’t touch you with a bargepole these days if you’re on the juice.’
He was referring again to one of the big sports entertainment companies. Everyone had a right to dream, thought Sigurdsson, but this tiny rundown hotel on a forgotten island seemed about as far from big-time American glamour as you could get.
‘Do you know where they get the steroids from, David?’ he asked.
‘Honestly, I don’t know. And Mr Penman has banned it anyway, so they’re not supposed to…’ He seemed to be becoming agitated as he backtracked helplessly.
‘David, if you know something that could help us you need to tell us.’ Mason’s eyes had lit up, benign tone abandoned.
‘No, look, I don’t, I mean, I didn’t really see anyone else using the stuff, maybe just talking about it…’
‘But you saw Valiant using it?’ she persisted.
His eyes fixed on the window as if he wanted to leap through the glass.
‘… Yeah,’ he said eventually.
‘How many times was this?’
‘I don’t know… two or three… look, I don’t want to get anyone in trouble…’
&nb
sp; ‘But you don’t know who he was getting the drugs from?’
‘No, I swear, I have no idea.’ His words were firm, but his expression lacked the same conviction he had shown when asserting his own abstinence.
There were a few moments of silence while Mason and Sigurdsson exchanged glances. Eventually Mason spoke, and her words echoed Sigurdsson’s thoughts on how they should proceed.
‘Okay, well, thanks for your time David. Remember, if you think of anything at all that might be relevant, then get in touch with us immediately.’ She handed him a card and pointed out the relevant contact numbers. ‘And if you think anyone else might be getting their stuff from the same place, remember… their supplier might be responsible for Valiant’s death. There are tough jail sentences for people that are accessories to drug-dealing murderers, David… but you know that, obviously.’
The colour had drained completely from his face. He was silent and ashen as they left him standing in the dark hotel room, the door clicking shut behind them.
Mason seemed full of energy as they descended the stairs.
‘Well that was clearly fucking bullshit – I knew they were all into the ‘roids. I bet Penman gives the needles out like sweets. No wonder his bodyguard is so fucking massive…’
‘So you’re thinking we get some of the others in and let slip that Zheng squealed about it?’ Sigurdsson thought out loud. ‘See if anyone gets angry and lets something else out of the bag?’
‘Yeah… and get Penman in as well, make him sweat even more than he already does.’
Sigurdsson scratched at the stubble on his chin.
‘Wheeler seemed adamant that no one used drugs on the premises, though. And I did believe Zheng, about him not using them himself. He was easy to read… even if the others don’t give us much, once we’ve got a few more titbits it shouldn’t be too hard to get him to spill the beans.’