Deadly Burial

by Jon Richter

  ‘Yeah… I believed him as well,’ she murmured. ‘Poor daft lad.’

  ‘And I just don’t get why the dealer would do it,’ he mused. ‘Why would you kill off your best customers?’

  ‘Maybe Valiant was a bad customer. Maybe he didn’t pay.’

  ‘Still seems an odd way to go about collecting the debt.’

  She didn’t reply as they climbed once again into the squad car and radioed a quick update to Mitchell, who had nothing to report. She asked him for Stacey Wainwright’s address and scribbled it in her notebook.

  ‘Okay, I say we head to the bereaved’s house and see what she makes of it all,’ Mason proposed. ‘Then we’ll set up a load of interviews for tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Sigurdsson replied, then winced. ‘Sorry, that was supposed to be funny, not sarcastic.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘Look, I don’t like it that Wells has sent someone to keep an eye on me, but I’ve decided to give you a chance. So don’t feel as though you’re walking on eggshells around me.’ She smiled matter-of-factly and started the car. ‘Just don’t fuck me over!’ she added, brightly, as they set off.

  The rain continued to teem down around them. The rabbits had disappeared from view, driven into their burrows and hiding places by the downpour. Several minutes of weaving through more sodden streets brought them to a row of weary-looking terraced houses, sagging against each other as though for support.

  They parked on the pavement and hurried from the car to the doorway, their clothes soaked through within seconds. Mason knocked impatiently on the door of number twenty-five.

  ‘Coming!’ came a call from inside. Mason rolled her eyes irritably, and Sigurdsson felt the water begin to crawl down his back beneath his shirt. He thought about cold, dead fingers tickling his shoulders, and shivered.

  After perhaps a full minute, the door cracked open, held on a chain. Suspicious eyes peered out at them from a good foot below Sigurdsson’s eye level – he was just under six feet tall, so Stacey Wainwright was evidently a petite woman.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked in a broad Bristolian accent.

  ‘It would be nice if we could come in out of the rain?’ Sigurdsson asked before Mason could commence her usual terse formalities.

  Wainwright’s gaze lingered distrustfully on Mason’s uniform. She sighed, and pushed the door closed. Sigurdsson heard the chain slide off, and then the door opened to admit them, and they hustled gratefully inside.

  The cramped and oppressive appearance of Wainwright’s house was not helped by its uncleanliness. A narrow staircase took up half of the hallway, with the rest of the carpet covered in scattered toys, as well as the remnants of a few meals and cups of tea. A door on the right presumably led into the living room, while in front of them the hallway opened into a tiny kitchen, where more toys were scattered on the floor, as well as a cat litter tray and a messy food bowl. Pots and plates were piled in the sink at the far end, where a window gazed forlornly out into the downpour.

  Stacey Wainwright seemed in no mood to tackle the mess; although it was past midday, she was still wearing a thick pink dressing gown and pyjamas.

  ‘We’re very sorry for your loss, Miss Wainwright,’ Sigurdsson began.

  The woman shrugged, wearing a resigned expression as though her life had taught her that she was a person to whom bad things just naturally happened.

  ‘Just call me Stacey,’ she said eventually. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  Sigurdsson nodded appreciatively. ‘Yes please; milk, no sugar for me.’

  ‘What about you, love?’ she addressed Mason tiredly.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  Wainwright shuffled into the kitchen, feet sliding across the cheap linoleum.

  Sigurdsson glanced at the haphazard scattering of pictures on the wall. Most of them depicted a young girl with very light blonde hair, unlike Wainwright’s brownish bob.

  ‘Is your daughter at school today, Stacey?’

  ‘Should be,’ came the jaded reply. ‘She stayed at her friend’s last night.’

  They waited patiently in the hallway, still dripping water onto the grubby carpet, until she eventually returned carrying Sigurdsson’s tea and a mug of her own. She didn’t say anything but headed straight into the living room, which they took as their cue to follow her.

  The room looked as though it had been recently ransacked. Toys were everywhere, just a heap that spilled out from one corner like a spreading fungus, teddy bears and dolls and board games whose pieces had not been put back in the box. Sigurdsson’s innate sense of order screamed inside his head, and he looked away from the pile into the back room; it was no better. Here a dining table was covered with more toys, as well as a few ornaments and other knick-knacks, while on a desk in the corner an ancient PC monitor was buried under a clutter of papers and stationery. Above the desk, another window looked out into the drizzle, and through this one he could make out a small back yard where weeds thrust tenaciously upwards between the flagstones.

  Wainwright had placed the steaming mugs onto a small coffee table and slumped onto the couch, staring at the TV even though it was switched off. Once again their host did not offer them anywhere to sit. Sigurdsson was about to speak when she broke the silence herself.

  ‘He only called me April,’ she said with a wry laugh. ‘He said it would help me get into character. He was really into that stuff, underneath all the macho exterior. Like a big kid. He used to talk about how important it was to stay in character whenever anyone was watching. I’m supposed to be this cheerleader from California you see…’ She laughed, bitterly. ‘He was going to take me and Kayleigh there with him.’

  Sigurdsson surveyed the room’s photo gallery once again. There were even more pictures in here, and he could see others amongst the chaos in the back room – clearly it was a medium Wainwright was fond of. On the mantelpiece above the electric fire several snaps were displayed, again mainly depicting her daughter, or her daughter and her together. The father was nowhere to be seen, but one photo clearly showed Schultz with his arm round Wainwright, both of them smiling broadly.

  ‘How long had he been living here?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Nearly two months,’ she replied flatly. ‘I was worried he was just moving in because it was… cheaper for him. You couldn’t tell with him. Sometimes he seemed like he didn’t give a shit… but other times he was sweet. And he was brilliant with Kayleigh. I think she thought a superhero had moved in with us. When he showed her a DVD of him wrestling on TV, and gave her one of his old action figures, I thought her eyes were going to pop out.’ She smiled sadly, staring down into the swirling bubbles in her tea.

  Sigurdsson paused before continuing, willing Mason to keep her mouth shut.

  ‘Stacey, we need to ask you some questions that might seem a little… insensitive. But we’re just trying to work out what happened to Victor.’

  ‘Was he murdered then?’ she snapped suddenly, turning to face him.

  ‘We don’t know,’ Sigurdsson replied evenly. ‘He took something – an injection. We think he was using steroids, and something went wrong.’

  She shook her head violently.

  ‘No, no, he wouldn’t use that stuff. He gave it all up. He was really serious about it – he was trying to reinvent himself. “No drink, no drugs, I’m straightedge now” he used to say.’

  Sigurdsson was sombre. ‘Stacey, I’m sorry if this is painful for you, but he hadn’t given it up. Well, maybe the drink, but he was still injecting himself, probably right before his matches.’

  She stared at him with determination. Then something within her seemed to break, and she sagged back into the chair in renewed dejection.

  ‘Oh, who cares anyway, he’s dead now. So what if he was lying to me about that stuff? Does that make him a bad person?’

  Slowly, Sigurdsson sat down next to her, carefully moving a stuffed toy rabbit onto
the arm of the chair.

  ‘No, it doesn’t make him a bad person. And that’s not what we’re trying to find out. We’re just trying to understand what happened to him. Just because he was using steroids doesn’t mean he wasn’t trying to get his life together. It doesn’t mean he didn’t care about you and Kayleigh.’

  She said nothing, sipping her tea as tears formed in her eyes.

  ‘What about the others, Stacey? Did you ever see anyone else using drugs?’

  She shook her head. ‘Some of them would talk about things, but it was all cryptic, you know? Like they didn’t want to talk about it in front of me because I was a woman, an outsider. Even though I’ve known most of them for years, been in this promotion since it started, here on Salvation…’ She sniffed noisily and wiped her sleeve across her eyes. ‘Do you… think he killed himself?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Sigurdsson answered honestly. ‘I think someone interfered with what he was injecting. Maybe they didn’t even mean for him to die. Can you think of anything, Stacey? Anything at all, anyone who might have had a grudge against him?’

  The guy was a fuckin’ piece of shit

  ‘Midnight Sky,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘She’s the only other woman there apart from me. He says he wasn’t but I think they were… sleeping with each other, before we got together. She started being really funny with me when people found out about us, especially after he moved in.’ She frowned as she thought through her hypothesis, nodding slowly as though her theory made more sense to her the more she considered it. ‘Her real name is Ciara,’ she added scornfully, as if even the woman’s name somehow offended her. ‘Ciara Roberts.’

  Sigurdsson fumbled for his notebook, then noticed that Mason’s was already in her hand, pen scribbling frantically.

  ‘And you think she was jealous of your relationship?’ Mason asked, looking up from the pad.

  Wainwright nodded firmly.

  ‘Jealous enough to kill him?’ she pressed, drawing another wince from Sigurdsson. Wainwright looked a little flustered.

  ‘Well, I’m not trying to accuse anyone, it’s just you asked me if I knew anyone who might have a grudge…’

  ‘That’s okay, we’re intending to interview everyone who was present on Friday, so I’m sure we’ll get a chance to speak with Ms Roberts,’ Sigurdsson said. ‘Thank you for mentioning it.’ He paused, looking round at Mason who raised her eyebrows as if to say ‘interesting lead’, then turned back to Wainwright with a solemn expression once again.

  ‘Stacey, I know you weren’t there yourself on Friday, and I’m sure you don’t want to think too much about that day –’

  ‘I saw his face,’ she interrupted. Her eyes were once again staring into the black mirror of the television set, as if ghosts writhed inside it. ‘I had to identify him. I don’t… it was horrible.’ She started to cry then, a tear rolling down her cheek as though in mimicry of her lover’s face paint.

  Sigurdsson waited respectfully before continuing.

  ‘I know this is hard, Stacey, and you’re doing really well. I just want to understand why you weren’t there at the show?’

  Anger seemed to flicker across her face briefly, quickly replaced by sadness once again. She didn’t shift her gaze from the blank screen as she answered.

  ‘I wasn’t booked to perform on Friday. I had to stay at home with Kayleigh… I didn’t see his last ever match.’

  She leaned back in the sofa, placing her cup on the windowsill to her right. A collection of other cups and glasses had already accumulated there, and Sigurdsson wondered how long it would be before this latest mug was cleared away.

  They thanked her, and Mason left her with the same contact details she’d given to Zheng, and then once again they were dashing through sheets of freezing rain towards the car.

  ‘What do you think?’ Sigurdsson asked as they set off towards the station.

  ‘I think she’s a mess. And I think we need to talk to Roberts. I assume with that nickname she was the black woman from the show last night? They aren’t exactly forward-thinking with their monikers, are they?’

  He frowned. ‘A jealous ex-lover… sounds a bit unlikely, doesn’t it? But it’s the only motive we’ve got so far.’

  ‘We’ll bring her in tomorrow with the others.’

  They arrived at the police station a few minutes later. Little more than a glorified end terrace, it sat close to the foot of the tall hill at Salvation’s centre. Leafless trees covered the slopes, like skeletal remains risen from the earth to guard the statue at its summit.

  Mason parked in the car park at the rear, alongside a couple of other police cars and an unmarked Mondeo. They entered via the back entrance, and she led Sigurdsson through a corridor, past a staircase and into a room with a few desks and a walled-off area in one corner that seemed to be her office. The windows were large and the place was light and spacious enough, although there surely couldn’t be much room for more than three or four people to work here.

  ‘Just use that desk in the corner for now,’ she said, so he hung his jacket on the back of the chair and began to set up his laptop. Then the door through which they had entered opened again, and Mason raised her eyebrows quizzically at the uniformed officer who poked his head in.

  ‘Mrs Daniels is in again,’ the young man said simply, his freckled face pale and boyish beneath sand-coloured hair.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘Brick through her neighbour’s window. I think he wants to press charges this time. She’s going loopy in the holding cell.’

  Mason sighed.

  ‘I’ll be through in a minute.’

  The young policeman nodded, turning to Sigurdsson and extending a hand.

  ‘I’m Giggs. Nicky.’ Sigurdsson shook it, introducing himself. The officer smiled politely before darting back into the rear of the station.

  ‘Poor lady is losing her marbles,’ Mason explained. ‘We’ve had to have her committed before now, but I thought she was getting better… and we can’t get her off the island right now of course. Look, I’ll be back soon. Giggs is a bit raw to be dealing with stuff like this, and you can probably guess it isn’t Mitchell’s strong point either.’

  ‘Is it just the three of you here, then?’

  ‘Yep. And Clive, who works the night shift. That desk you’ve got was for another constable, but she got transferred and Wells wouldn’t let me replace her.’

  ‘So you have to deal with everything around here.’

  ‘Pretty much. For a boring little island, there’s always something happening.’

  ‘You should recruit some of the rabbits. I’ve heard they’re good at digging for clues,’ he said, screwing up his face at the bad joke. But she laughed.

  ‘Half of the calls we get are usually to do with those bloody creatures. “There’s one of them in my house and I can’t get rid of it”, “they’ve chewed through my garden fence and now I’m worried about burglars”, “one of them attacked my cat”… as you can see, it’s a glamorous job I’ve got here.’

  ‘I heard the conspiracy theories about them too, from some kids on the ferry.’

  She laughed again. ‘Oh, you mean the secret poison gas testing? Yeah, that’s a popular one – I’ll tell you some more about that later.’

  She slipped out of the room and left him alone with his thoughts, which began to wander uncomfortably as always. Diseased rabbits staring up at him, poisoned flesh hanging from their emaciated bodies; gas drifting through the streets as villagers collapsed, choking and clawing at their throats; a wrestler gazing up at him with a horrifying rictus grin, secrets writhing behind his dead eyes.

  He shook himself forcibly, busying himself with the laptop as a distraction, managing to find a cable with which he could connect to the internet and check his emails. Abruptly, his mobile phone rang, the shrill ringtone unnerving him.

 
‘This is Sigurdsson,’ he answered.

  ‘Wells here. How are you doing out there? Storm still going?’

  Sigurdsson frowned. After his earlier conversation with Mason, he trusted his senior officer even less than he had previously.

  ‘Yes sir, blowing a gale and raining heavily. We can’t get any boats off the island, which in some ways is helpful.’

  ‘Any progress?’ Wells’ voice was an authoritative baritone, reflecting his military background.

  ‘It’s a complex case, sir. All the signs are that the deceased unintentionally self-administered the poison. We have a couple of leads that we’re pursuing and have conducted several interviews already, with more to come tomorrow.’

  Wells grunted down the phone, Sigurdsson unclear if he was signalling approval or the opposite. Eventually the DCI spoke again.

  ‘What do you think of Mason?’

  Sigurdsson was slightly taken aback. ‘Errr… she’s been very professional so far, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but is she up to the job?’

  Sigurdsson paused while he chose his words carefully, feeling as if he were talking to an unscrupulous journalist who would twist any careless turn of phrase to his own ends.

  ‘I think she’s a very competent policewoman, sir.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Wells growled. ‘I didn’t think she’d take too kindly to me sending you out there. I haven’t told her you’re my best man for grassing on other officers, otherwise she might get really upset.’

  Sigurdsson felt his face redden with anger, but remained silent.

  ‘Just keep tabs on her, and let me know if you have any… cause for concern,’ Wells continued. ‘We can’t have any of her hysterics on a case like this – if you don’t crack it soon the media is bound to get involved. Apparently there’s still quite a bit of interest in these costumed freaks.’

  Sigurdsson didn’t like the way Wells seemed to be easing him into his inner circle. His superior’s comments were underscored with sexism and prejudice, but Sigurdsson wondered if Wells actually felt that way, or was just testing to see how he would react. In the end, he simply said ‘yes sir’ through gritted teeth.