Deadly Burial

by Jon Richter

  If beer was his vice, then scotch was Barbara’s, but of course I didn’t know this at the time, because kids don’t really understand anything. You don’t look at the liquor cabinet and go ‘oh, the stuff they keep in there is called booze, and it makes people act differently, and my parents would be better off if they didn’t touch it, so maybe I should sit them down and talk to them about it’. You just assume it’s the way of things. You have no frame of reference for right or wrong. You don’t even connect the stuff they drink with the way they treat you. So when my reality was a stepmother who used to climb into my bed most nights, and tell me I was the evil spawn of the devil and it was all my fault she was touching me intimately, that was my reality. I believed what she said was true, that I was bad inside, that God hated me and that I’d be punished in Hell forever.

  I was fucking terrified of that place. She used to describe it very graphically during those late night interludes – and not just broad brushstrokes about fire and brimstone and Satan’s wrath, but very specific tortures, minute fucking detail about exactly what they did to people who committed each different type of crime. You were a rapist, you got your cock and balls chopped off with a rusty cleaver every day for eternity (‘manhood’ she insisted on calling it, as though she needed to be euphemistic when she was pawing at mine every night). You were a thief, your fingers were chewed off by rats. You were greedy, you would eat and eat and eat and always be hungry, like your belly was a bottomless pit. I’m pretty sure she was doing a shit-ton of pills as well as the scotch, so evidently heightened sadistic creativity is one of Prozac’s lesser-known side effects.

  Anyways, so it went on, for about maybe six years, until I suddenly got big enough to fend her off. I learned how to fight at school, simply by doing to the other kids what they’d been doing to me for years, and realising that when I did it to them it seemed to hurt them more, because I was bigger. It took me a while to realise I could do the same thing at home too. I still remember the look in her eyes the first time I clocked her in the jaw. Like there was so much rage, so many horrible words and threats and curses she wanted to rain down on me, that she didn’t even know where to begin. Like she wanted to just dig her nails into my face and tear my skin off my bones. But I just looked back at her like ‘there’s more where that came from, bitch, because you’re not my mother, and I don’t give a shit about you, and I’d love for you to make me have to kill you’, and she just skulked away, like a ghoul, and never touched me again.

  As far as I know she never did anything to the others, her own kids, so at least she wasn’t a complete fuck-up. Of course Billy, Martha and Rachel didn’t believe me when I spoke to them about it, when we were all grown up. They said I was just blaming someone else for my problems as usual, and fuck you Victor, and don’t call me again.

  I didn’t stay long in the house after that. My dad told me that if I kept skipping school I wasn’t welcome under his roof, and by this point I was fifteen years old and I was already hanging around the local gym, and I thought I could get a job working there, so I just upped and left. The gym is where I met Buddy Briscoe, who became my best friend and mentor. Before I knew it I was on tour with him, basically running his errands and carrying his bags and fetching his beers and helping him dye his hair. He taught me everything about the business, got me my first big break in wrestling, introduced me to Hal Reynolds down in the Texas territories, and the rest is history. I idolised Buddy, and I still owe him everything. All of the things I’ve ever achieved in my life are thanks to him.

  I never spoke to my dad again. I didn’t even go to his funeral, because I knew she would be there, and I thought I might end up grabbing her and snapping some of her fucking evil old bones.

  When I found out she’d died too, about three years later, I cried. It was like a weight had been lifted from me, or like a terrible lifelong disease had been healed. I remember talking to Buddy about it over the phone. I said it was like I’d finally been born.

  For the record, I’ve never done anything like that to my kids. Yeah, sure, I ended up drinking and popping pills just like her, but that’s where the similarity ends. Don’t believe all the shit you read on the internet.

  Sadly for old Vic, my kids still ended up hating my guts, just the same.

  Tuesday

  Sigurdsson was pleased to see red and white plastic tape stretched across the lift doors, and a sign that read ‘Out Of Order – Engineer Called’. He hastened down the stairs, wanting to be ready in reception when Mason arrived to collect him, eager to give her the report on his bizarre encounter with Dixon the previous evening. He would keep to himself the details of his subsequent, and even more bizarre, encounter with Drogo; that part of his night’s work still seemed more like a surreal dream. But the sodden clothes and mud-crusted trainers he had left in a neat pile in the corner of his room attested to the reality of his sightseeing detour.

  The downpour’s ferocity had subsided somewhat as he hurried out to the car, but the sheer volume of rainfall over the last couple of days was surely beginning to cause problems; he wondered if any parts of the island were susceptible to flooding. He recounted the events of his visit to the gym while Mason navigated the short distance to the police station, and when he’d finished she summarised his thoughts on the confrontation perfectly.

  ‘What a fucking prick. Even if no one implicates him today we’ll find some pretence to drag him in here anyway, just to piss him off.’

  Sigurdsson smiled his agreement, and they made their way to Mason’s office to prepare for the forthcoming interviews.

  They would adopt a simple formula, sticking to the good cop/bad cop roles to which they both naturally gravitated. Sigurdsson would open by apologising for dragging them in during the storm, offer them a cup of tea, ask them about themselves. Then he would appeal to their better nature, pointing out that Stacey Wainwright was devastated by her loss, that even if Schultz had a dark past he didn’t deserve to die in the way he had, poisoned like vermin. If they didn’t loosen up and start to offer useful information, Mason would cut in and go for the jugular, saying that they knew most of the roster were using steroids, that they didn’t have all day, that they needed to know who was supplying them, and that they would run blood tests if they had to.

  Their minimum goal was to end the day with some firm leads on who was using the drugs, and where they were coming from.

  Colin Vorhees, aka ‘Vortex’ – wrestler

  First up was a wrestler who Sigurdsson recognised from Sunday’s after-show meeting. In the ring he used the same pseudonym he’d worked under in his previous role as one of TV’s ‘Gladiators’. He’d been a power-lifter before joining the ranks of the television show whose popularity peaked in the early nineties, so he was considerably shorter than his fellow performers, his thick frame gone somewhat to flab but still giving him the appearance of a walking fridge-freezer.

  He was fractious and uncooperative, radiating bitterness about his fall from grace, commenting often on the fact that he and several others had been replaced on television by ‘pretty boys’, and that ‘posers like Valiant’ were exactly what was wrong with the perception of professional wrestling. He referred frequently to an upcoming UFC fight that he seemed to believe would catapult him back into the limelight.

  When challenged on the drugs angle he gave nothing away, claiming that the entire roster was clean and that he’d never seen Schultz inject himself with anything. He did, however, confirm Zheng’s statement that on the night in question, and indeed during other shows, Schultz’s entrance involved him leaving the main dressing room a short while before he was due to appear in the ring.

  ‘Well, he didn’t give us much,’ Mason muttered as Vorhees loped out of the station.

  ‘Don’t worry. There are plenty more to talk to.’

  ‘What if the whole bloody lot of them are taking the stuff? They’ll all keep schtum and we’ll get nowhere.’

  ‘Well if that’s
the case, we’ll think of another angle. Wainwright was living with Schultz for two months. He must have left something in her house. We could search their bedroom.’

  Mason nodded as their next interviewee entered, smiling broadly.

  James Watson, aka ‘Jimmy Riddle’ – wrestler

  Watson was in his late thirties, a balding man who surprised them by having neither the height nor the bulk to match his fellow performers. He was a friendly and chatty character who told them he had always been a huge wrestling fan and was thrilled to be involved in the show, not minding one bit that he played a comedy character who took a beating at every performance. His character wore tiny trunks with a question mark on them (‘It’s a gag innit?’ he explained breezily. ‘I’m like the Riddler, but also, you know, Jimmy Riddle’s rhyming slang for… well, you get the joke. I know, I know, it’s not exactly highbrow stuff, this’) and would often challenge the other wrestlers to arm wrestles and other ill-advised contests of strength. At the Sunday evening show he had been Ciara Roberts’ opponent, and the fact that she was a woman had not stopped her from beating him resoundingly.

  ‘What were you doing last Friday?’ Mason asked as the interview progressed.

  ‘I was first on the bill,’ he replied, ‘wrestling Tall Paul in the first quarter final. Basically he just chucked me around for five minutes and then pinned me with one foot. The crowd loved it. Nearly killed me, like.’

  ‘He’s certainly a big bloke,’ Sigurdsson agreed. ‘Does he… use anything? You know, steroids?’

  Watson considered the question for a moment. His answer was cagey, but gave no impression of dishonesty. ‘It’s not really my scene, that stuff. He is pretty into his bodybuilding, so, you know, I suppose it’s possible…’

  ‘Don’t you all go to the gym together?’ Mason asked. ‘Or socialise after the shows? Surely it must come up in conversation.’

  Watson looked hurt. ‘I knock about with Morgan mainly, we’re just having a laugh… it’s not like we’re taking it too seriously. The other lads are more keen perhaps, especially the younger ones who want to make a career out of it like Andrew and Dave… but I’ve never seen them using anything.’

  The rest of their time with Watson yielded little of interest, despite Mason’s increasingly pointed questioning. Sigurdsson could see the mounting frustration in her face.

  Ciara Roberts, aka ‘Midnight Sky’ – wrestler

  As Mason suspected, Roberts was the same young black woman they had seen at the show the night before last. She was escorted into the office by the imposing figure of Sergeant Mitchell, and wore a churlish expression like a scolded schoolgirl trudging into the headmaster’s office.

  ‘Hello, Ciara,’ Sigurdsson greeted her with a smile. ‘Thank you for coming in to talk to us today. We’re sorry to have dragged you here in this weath–’

  ‘Oh, spare me,’ she interrupted, sitting unprompted in one of the chairs opposite them. ‘I know why I’m here. That silly bitch has told you I shagged Victor, hasn’t she?’

  Sigurdsson didn’t have a chance to respond before she continued.

  ‘Well I fucking didn’t, all right? That girl is mental. I knew she would do this. Do you know she hit me, for real, in the middle of a match? I bet she didn’t tell you that, did she?’

  Again, Sigurdsson found his response drowned out by Roberts’ ongoing tirade.

  ‘I had a fucking black eye and everything. That’s why she wasn’t there on Friday – because Mr Penman suspended her. And now she’s trying to make out like I killed him, or something? And you believe her? For fuck’s sake, she’s a total –’

  ‘Ciara,’ Sigurdsson interrupted firmly, silencing her. ‘We’re interviewing a lot of people today, so please be quiet and just answer our questions. We are investigating all aspects of the case, and need to talk to as many people as possible. Yes, we have spoken with Ms Wainwright, and yes she did mention that she suspected you and Valiant had a relationship prior to theirs. Are you saying that’s not true?’

  The young woman’s lips were pressed into a sullen pout, her arms folded across her chest. When her response came, it dripped with sarcastic emphasis.

  ‘Yes, that is what I’m saying.’

  ‘Okay. Can you tell me what the nature of your relationship with Valiant actually was?’

  She shrugged. ‘He fancied me, I suppose. He kept talking to me and telling me about his past, like I was supposed to be impressed. I just thought he was another loser to be honest – his career can’t have been that good if he ended up with us, can it?’

  ‘Did you ever socialise with Valiant away from the shows?’

  ‘Yeah. He took me for a drink a couple of times, but nothing happened. He was paying,’ she added, as if that would somehow excuse her decision to accompany him.

  Sigurdsson battled to hide his distaste.

  ‘Did he ever mention anything about taking steroids?’

  ‘Dunno, to tell you the truth. I wasn’t really listening to him.’

  He couldn’t contain himself. ‘Ciara, a man has died. Possibly murdered. And considering you’re this close to being a suspect in the investigation, I’m surprised at how unhelpful you’re being!’

  A petulant sneer crossed Roberts’ face.

  ‘Am I under arrest, constable?’

  Mason rose from her chair, and Sigurdsson braced himself for a verbal barrage that would likely cause Roberts to clam up completely. But instead, Mason surprised him.

  ‘Ciara, do you have children?’ she asked gently.

  The young woman looked confused for a moment, before answering, ‘No.’

  ‘I have a little girl. She’s only six.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Roberts replied sarcastically.

  ‘I don’t live with her father any more. It can be hard sometimes, being a single mum – you’ve got this person that is completely dependent upon you, and you’re trying desperately to juggle your work and your childcare arrangements, and just no time whatsoever to get out there and try to meet somebody.’

  ‘Err… what’s this got to do with me?’

  ‘I think Stacey Wainwright is just… a little insecure. Jealous of you. You’re clearly a very beautiful woman, young and confident… is it really such a surprise that she feels threatened by you?’

  Roberts said nothing, looking a little taken aback by the compliments. Mason continued.

  ‘She was really keen on Valiant. He might have been just a loser – we know he used to drink and do drugs, and lost his job in America – but we still owe it to him, and her, and all of you, to find out what happened. If someone is selling bad drugs to your friends, don’t you want to help us catch them?’

  Roberts seemed to mull this over, glancing resentfully at Sigurdsson. Eventually she made a decision.

  ‘Tell him to fuck off, and I’ll talk to you.’

  Mason looked at Sigurdsson, winking.

  ‘Sigurdsson, fuck off.’

  He made a show of protesting before he stormed out of the office, slamming the door for good measure. Suppressing a smile at their little charade, he headed through the interior door that Mitchell had emerged from earlier, wanting to take the opportunity to look around the rest of the station. There really wasn’t much else to it. A tiny reception area, unmanned, with a door leading outside and another door leading into what seemed to be an archive room. The cells were presumably upstairs.

  He sat behind the reception desk while he waited for Mason to finish the interview, wondering if she would glean any useful information from the querulous Roberts. While he waited, his eyes scoured the walls, drawn inexorably to every crack or spot of dirt. He tried to focus instead on the raindrops that spattered forlornly against the main door, as though they wanted to get inside.

  Ten minutes later, Roberts emerged, shooting him an ice-cold glance as she strutted past and out into the rain. As soon as she was out of sight, Sigurdsson hurried back into Mason’s office.

>   ‘Flattery will get you anywhere,’ Mason said, grinning.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be the bad cop?’ he retorted.

  ‘Well, maybe I’m not just a one-trick pony after all.’

  ‘You did really well,’ he said. She waved a hand modestly as if to dispel the compliment from the air. ‘Did you find anything out?’

  ‘She said Valiant was a sleazeball who was only after one thing, and that he got angry when she turned him down.’

  ‘Do you believe her?’

  ‘Don’t know. She’s an arrogant cow. And she seems to be really fixated on this rivalry with Wainwright. But I’m not sure what she’d gain by lying about it.’

  ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘She said that she’s sure some of the men use steroids, but she doesn’t know where they get them from. She says that Dixon, Blake and Vorhees go to the gym together a lot, and that Valiant joined their little meatheads’ brigade when he joined AAW. So maybe we need to turn up the heat on those three.’

  He nodded, noticing her use of the name ‘Valiant’ to describe the deceased. It was difficult to keep the two separate – the larger-than-life wrestling persona, and the complicated life of the man whose murder they were here to solve.

  ‘Who’s Blake?’

  ‘Ethan Blake is their “champion”,’ she replied, the sarcastic quotation marks very audible. ‘And he’s up next.’

  Sigurdsson glanced out of the office to see Mitchell leading the wrestler towards them.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered. ‘He’s got his championship belt with him.’

  ‘After the nutters we’ve met so far, you’re surprised by that?’ retorted Mason, as Blake sauntered into the office.

  ‘The Egotist’ Ethan Blake – wrestler and All Action Wrestling Heavyweight Champion

  Like Roberts, Blake sat down unbidden in the chair opposite them. He was a well-built man, with a similar squat, wide frame to Vorhees, but much younger than the former Gladiator, maybe in his late twenties. He was implausibly tanned, and looked like he was constructed entirely from movie references: his moustache borrowed from Ron Burgundy, his swept-back hair styled after Patrick Bateman, his silver satin jacket reminiscent of Kurt Russell in Death Proof. He sneered arrogantly at them from beneath aviator shades lifted straight from Top Gun, twirling a toothpick in his mouth. The huge fake gold belt remained slung over his shoulder, and he held it in place protectively as though worried they might try to steal it.