Deadly Burial

by Jon Richter

  Sigurdsson nodded agreement. ‘Who’s next up?’

  Mason glanced again at the notepad. ‘Great,’ she said. ‘Another nutcase.’

  Michael Morgan, aka ‘The Maniac’ – wrestler

  Michael Morgan couldn’t have been further from their expectations. He smiled at them as he shuffled into the room, closing the door politely behind him. He hovered until Mason asked him to take a seat, and thanked her as he lowered his large frame into the chair. He had a healthy paunch and had combed his thinning hair neatly, and although Sigurdsson hadn’t expected him to be strapped into his trademark straitjacket, he certainly hadn’t anticipated a combination as mundane as the sensible shirt, polo-neck and chinos that Morgan was wearing. ‘The Maniac’ looked like a thoroughly respectable middle-aged man.

  ‘Please, call me Mick,’ he insisted when they greeted him.

  ‘Okay, Mick; thank you for coming in today, and we’re sorry to drag you in in this weather.’ Sigurdsson could see the storm broiling outside the window, the rain hammering a renewed blitzkrieg against the glass.

  ‘It’s no problem. What happened to Vic was terrible. I’m happy to help.’

  They established that the mild-mannered Morgan was a veterinary nurse by trade, and that he lived on the mainland with his wife and three children. As Watson had already told them, the pair were good friends, and socialised regularly, but they didn’t mix much with the other wrestlers and certainly didn’t spend every free hour lifting weights. Morgan claimed he did not use steroids and didn’t know if anyone else did, and that he never asked as it was none of his business. But he confirmed that Dixon, Blake and Vorhees were a ‘clique’ and had seemingly inducted Valiant into their ranks after his arrival in the summer.

  Like Sigurdsson, he fondly remembered World of Sport in the 1980s, but unlike his interviewer he had never ‘grown out’ of his interest in wrestling. He described The Maniac as his alter ego, ‘just a bit of fun really’. He had been with All Action Wrestling for years, ever since he first heard about it and got talking to Howard Penman after a show. Although he acknowledged that the promoter ‘wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea’, he was unwilling to criticise him.

  He apologised profusely as he left, wishing that he could have been of more assistance, and assuring them that he would contact them if anything occurred to him.

  ‘Not much of a maniac, was he?’ Sigurdsson mused after the wrestler had departed.

  ‘Couldn’t have been more different from the last one… he seemed like a nice family man. I just don’t get the wrestling thing at all,’ Mason replied.

  ‘I suppose everyone has to have a hobby.’

  ‘Yeah, but this is a really, really stupid one.’

  ‘Depends how you look at it. You’ve got to think of it more as performance art. Loads of fans cheering you on… I can see why there might be some appeal.’

  She grinned at him. ‘Are you thinking of signing up?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I am. I’m going to talk to Horan about me coming out to the theme tune from The Bill.’

  She laughed, and he found himself reflecting once again on how pretty she was, her smile like a brief shaft of sunlight cutting through the endless storm. He realised how much he was enjoying working with her, and wondered what she thought of him now, after her initial scepticism.

  ‘Mason,’ he began, suddenly gripped by an urge to tell her about Wells’ machinations, and that he was on her side. That he wouldn’t betray her.

  ‘What’s up? You have a theory?’

  He looked into her hazel eyes and felt a knot of fear squeeze his larynx. Fear that she would react angrily, that he would lose her trust.

  Rabbits darting into the undergrowth, trembling in their hiding places

  He could confide in her later. Right now they had to focus on the task in hand.

  ‘Nothing – don’t worry,’ he replied lamely, as Bill Wheeler stepped through the door.

  Bill Wheeler – wrestling promoter

  ‘Hello again, Bill. Do you mind if I call you Bill? Thanks for coming in,’ Sigurdsson returned Wheeler’s usual friendly smile.

  ‘No problem on both counts,’ Wheeler replied. ‘Have you made any progress?’

  ‘Yes, some. We visited David Zheng yesterday, and he seems very affected by what happened. We think he needs quite a bit of time off.’

  Wheeler paused.

  ‘I think Mr Penman is quite keen to have him back. Technically he won his match, so he’s in the semi-finals of the tournament, you know?’

  ‘Does Penman push all the performers hard?’ Mason cut in.

  Wheeler smiled, shrugging. ‘He can be demanding sometimes, but he just wants the show to be as good as it can be.’

  ‘Would that extend to encouraging the wrestlers to use steroids?’ she persisted.

  Wheeler’s expression soured. ‘I thought I told you on Sunday that they’re strictly forbidden.’

  ‘Zheng didn’t think so,’ came Sigurdsson’s retort. ‘He said that people injecting was quite a common sight backstage.’

  Wheeler looked flustered at this sudden double-team. ‘Well, I just can’t understand that at all. I’ve always been very clear with the lads –’

  ‘Is it possible that the steroid abuse is happening without your knowledge?’ Mason pushed.

  Wheeler paused again, struggling for words.

  ‘I… well, I suppose it’s possible. Like I said, I can’t vouch for what they choose to do in their private lives. But I won’t have them bringing any drugs to the shows. Look, we have a good group of lads there, detectives, and I don’t like to hear them badmouthed –’

  ‘It’s Zheng who made the comment, Mr Wheeler, not us,’ said Mason.

  Wheeler didn’t reply, so Sigurdsson continued.

  ‘We know that Valiant was using steroids, Bill. We want to find out where he got them from, because we believe that whoever is selling the drugs is probably the same person that poisoned him.’

  ‘Look, I understand. That’s a real shame, that he was back on them. I honestly thought he’d straightened himself out since he came here.’ Wheeler fell silent again, as though reflecting on the facts with which he was being presented. He seemed to reach a decision. ‘I’m really sorry I can’t help you any more – I truly believe the rest of the lads aren’t using anything.’

  Sigurdsson tried to change his approach. ‘We understand that Valiant socialised with Vorhees, Dixon and Blake – they’re all quite serious about their sport, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes. Ethan wants to get a contract with a big promotion in the States. Andrew too, and if I’m honest he has more chance, but you never know. And Vorhees is trying to get back in shape for his UFC fight.’

  Sigurdsson noticed that he referred to the younger wrestlers by their first names, like a father figure.

  ‘What about Dixon?’ Mason asked. ‘He must be a bodybuilding fanatic to look like he does.’

  Wheeler shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And you really don’t think the three of them are buying steroids from someone?’

  Wheeler met her gaze. ‘I couldn’t tell you, Inspector. All I know is they don’t bring them to the show.’

  Wheeler left, and Mason hammered her fist against the desk.

  ‘We’re getting nowhere here,’ she muttered.

  ‘We just need to be patient,’ Sigurdsson replied. ‘We’re building up a picture. There’s an in-group of Vorhees, Blake and Dixon – the cool kids. We have an eyewitness telling us that Valiant was injecting. He’s new to the company, to the area, a complete outsider. It would make sense for him to latch on to them, especially if they can help him get his supply. I think the only options are that he’s buying steroids directly from one of the three, or else they’re all getting them directly from the same source. Either way, our goal is to find Valiant’s supplier, and those three are the key to it.’

  ‘Unless Zheng was lying to us.’
>
  ‘But then we still have Leithauser’s comments, from the autopsy. Valiant was definitely still injecting.’

  ‘There’s a third possibility,’ Mason mused.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That they’re all getting them from the same source. That there’s no in-group illicitly using steroids, because they’re all taking them – in widespread use, like Zheng insinuated. That they’re all lying to us. Maybe this is some sort of weird murder by committee. Maybe Penman’s running a fucking cult here.’

  ‘Is that what you really think?’

  She sighed and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘No, I think that sounds insane. I think Valiant is getting steroids from somewhere, and the most obvious person to help him is Paul Dixon – he’s the big dog around here, in every sense of the word. Plus he doesn’t seem to have any other legitimate source of income, and he can’t be making much money play-acting as Howard Penman’s bodyguard. He must have a side line. We should go after him.’

  Sigurdsson thought about the man, his monstrous size and strength, his menacing demeanour in the gym, and shuddered.

  ‘How many more have we got lined up today?’ he asked.

  ‘Three more. Booth, Wilshere, and Penman himself.’

  ‘Did you deliberately save the hardest one for last?’

  ‘What makes you think it will be hard? I’m going to enjoy giving that fat bastard a good grilling.’

  He smiled at her, wondering about the hidden pain that her ‘tough cookie’ exterior was there to hide.

  ‘Who’s Booth, by the way?’

  ‘He’s the other American; you know, “The Strongman”? Turns out Kevin Samson isn’t his real name… who’d have thought?’

  ‘I don’t know what name I’d go for if I was a wrestler. Cutthroat Chris, or something.’

  ‘I suppose I’d have to be “Flaming Red” or something like that?’

  ‘Flaming Mad, maybe,’ he muttered under his breath, and she whacked his arm, laughing.

  Mark Booth, aka ‘The Strongman’ Kevin Samson – wrestler

  Kevin Samson, whose real name they now knew was the less Herculean-sounding Mark Booth, plodded confidently across to their corner office. Sigurdsson gestured for him to sit down, momentarily worried as the big American lowered himself into the chair that the inexpensive furniture wouldn’t support his weight. Thankfully the seat did not collapse beneath him as he leaned backwards and splayed his tree-like legs.

  ‘How can I help you, officers?’ His folded arms and neutral expression did not suggest a strong desire to assist them, so Sigurdsson opened with his nice-guy routine once again, being careful to address the wrestler by his in-ring moniker.

  ‘Thanks for coming in today, Mr Samson. We’re sorry to drag you here during the storm.’ He didn’t ask how the weather was, because he could see through the window that the gale was blowing with increasing vigour, the wind whipping up tornadoes of leaves and litter with each vicious gust. ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened last Friday.’

  Booth shrugged his shoulders in a ‘be my guest’ gesture.

  Sigurdsson consulted his notebook. ‘I believe you’ve only been in the country since Thursday?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Booth replied in a thick Texan drawl that reminded Sigurdsson of his compatriot Arn Adams, and the fact that they still didn’t have an update on the talent scout’s whereabouts. ‘I guess I must be a curse or something.’

  ‘Were you close to Vic Valiant?’

  ‘Can’t say that I was,’ Booth replied, working a piece of chewing gum around his mouth. ‘We were together at the SWA, even tag-teamed a few times, but he was already going off the rails by then. He thought the booking was screwed up, just because he wasn’t the goddamn champion.’

  ‘Booking?’

  ‘The results,’ Booth explained. ‘The storylines. We had a guy writing for us back then, and he just wasn’t sold on Valiant at all. He had him drop the title’ (he pronounced it tahtle) ‘and before long he was doing jobs…’ Here he paused, realising that he had once again slipped into wrestling lingo, ‘… was losing every night. He was taking a lot of painkillers too, not to mention the booze and the coke. Then there was the thing with Terry, and the thing with Arn on the plane, and then…’

  ‘Hang on,’ interrupted Sigurdsson. ‘What thing on the plane?’

  ‘Oh, just more of his usual stupid shit. It wasn’t nothin’ major in the grand scheme of things.’

  ‘Can you explain exactly what happened?’

  Booth shifted uncomfortably, looking like he regretted mentioning the incident.

  ‘Now look, you gotta understand that this shit is all in the past. Arn was here to scout him for god’s sake, give him a second chance…’

  ‘Look, Mr Samson, we’re not going to jump to any conclusions here – we’re just trying to gather all the facts. If you think Adams had a grudge against Valiant then we need to know.’

  Booth sighed, uncrossing his arms and steepling his fingers subconsciously. Sigurdsson thought immediately of the chapel, brooding menacingly on top of the hill.

  ‘They had a fight,’ the big man continued eventually. ‘On a flight back from a show in Boston. Arn was cut up because Valiant had slept with his girlfriend a few weeks before. Everyone’d had a few drinks, but Arn was really wasted, and he started on Valiant, giving him loads of shit. Valiant was fucked up as usual, popping pills with his beer, and he just got up and punched Arn right in the face, and they ended up having a big old brawl right there in the aisle. They nearly had to pull an emergency landing. I had to help separate the two of ‘em.’

  Sigurdsson glanced at Mason, who was scribbling furiously in her notepad. ‘And yet Adams was here to scout him? Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’

  Booth shrugged. ‘Man, it was over ten years ago. And Arn is a professional. He ain’t the type to bear a grudge. Stuff happened backstage all the time: politics, argument, fights. Loads of big egos in a confined space, you know? Anyways, the girl married Arn in the end, so I guess he had the last laugh.’

  Mason cut in. ‘When we spoke to Mr Adams, he described Valiant as “a piece of shit”. That doesn’t sound like he’d just let bygones be bygones, does it?’

  Booth switched his gaze between the two of them, raising and lowering his arms in an exasperated gesture.

  ‘Look, Arn and I go way back. Sure, he’s a hothead sometimes, but there’s nothing in this – I’m just trying to explain why Valiant didn’t make it in the SWA. Word was he’d settled down anyways, found a woman here, quit the drugs and the booze – that’s part of the reason I was prepared to come out and work with him. He wasn’t exactly my favourite guy either – you gonna say I’m a murderer too?’

  Mason’s face remained impassive. ‘We don’t believe Valiant had quit the drugs, unfortunately. He was using steroids right up until he died, and some of the other wrestlers have told us that they are in widespread use at the promotion. Do you have any thoughts on that?’

  Booth laughed patronisingly. ‘Ma’am, you find a group of wrestlers, you’re bound to find some that’s using the juice. It don’t surprise me one bit if Valiant was one of ‘em. Me, I wouldn’t know who to buy ‘em from out here even if I wanted to.’

  ‘Is that true? Wouldn’t it be pretty obvious to ask the big guys, like Paul Dixon?’

  Booth chuckled again. ‘Tall Paul? That kid sure is humongous – makes me feel like a fraud calling myself “The Strongman”. I ain’t really spoken to him much, except to plan our little altercation at the show on Sunday.’

  ‘How has Dixon reacted to Valiant’s death?’ Sigurdsson interjected.

  Booth shrugged again. ‘Same as everyone else, I guess. He didn’t really know him too well, but it’s still a shock for all of ‘em. But I suppose the show must go on.’ He glanced out of the window, a wistful expression on his face as he rolled the gum behind his teeth. ‘It’s a pretty fucked up b
usiness we’re in, if you don’t mind me saying. All that time on the road… taking bumps every night… it does things to you. Vic Valiant hadn’t been right in the head for years. If he took something strange, whether he was looking for a rush, or whether he just wanted to go out with a bang… I think the older guys, like me, even Arn Adams… we can kind of understand it.’

  ‘You think he committed suicide?’ Mason asked.

  Once again, Booth made the same ambiguous shrugging gesture. ‘I think everything happens for a reason. I think Vic Valiant’s time had come.’

  After the big man had heaved himself up and out of the chair to leave the office, Mason turned to Sigurdsson with a quizzical expression.

  ‘Why haven’t we got Adams in here later?’

  Sigurdsson realised he hadn’t briefed her on his conversation with Mitchell yesterday. He updated her on the currently unknown whereabouts of the talent scout.

  ‘Well, it’s hardly a big place,’ she responded. ‘I’ll make sure Mitchell’s number one job is to track him down. Do you really think he knows something more than he’s told us already?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t mention that Valiant slept with his girlfriend.’

  ‘Wife,’ Mason corrected.

  ‘But it was nearly ten years ago – and he’s out here on scouting duty, right? Surely it’s just a coincidence that they have a bit of history together.’

  ‘There must be an official record of the incident; we should check it out.’

  Sigurdsson nodded. ‘I still think the drugs angle is the right way to push this, but that’s Roberts and now Adams who have other reasons to dislike Valiant.’

  ‘And don’t forget Wainwright herself – if she thought he was sleeping around behind her back, maybe she wanted him dead? Whichever way you look at it, it sounds like he was a real piece of work.’

  Sigurdsson found himself nodding again. He thought about the body on the table, those anguished eyes staring up from beneath the smeared makeup. Victor Schultz’s past had certainly caught up with him. But exactly which part?

  ‘Amazing’ Andrew Wilshere – wrestler