Deadly Burial

by Jon Richter

  Wilshere appeared at the other end of the room, Mitchell looming behind him as he had with all of the others. The young man hobbled towards Mason’s office with a painful-looking limp. Sigurdsson could see an expression of almost childlike awe on his face as he gazed around at the inside of the station.

  When he entered their room he swiped his long brown hair out of his eyes and smiled meekly at them, hovering in the doorway.

  ‘Hello, Andrew,’ Sigurdsson began. ‘Take a seat.’

  He lowered himself into the same chair that Mark Booth had just vacated, grimacing slightly.

  ‘What’s happened to your leg?’

  The wrestler looked momentarily baffled as to how Sigurdsson knew about his injury, glancing down at his right leg as he realised that his halting gait made it obvious.

  ‘Oh, I just tweaked my knee wrestling Mick the other night.’

  ‘It certainly looks painful.’

  ‘I hope it’s better by tomorrow though – it’s the first time we’ve put on a midweek show, and we’re having a rematch,’ he grinned proudly.

  Sigurdsson frowned, wondering how on earth the youngster could possibly be in a fit state to perform in a day’s time.

  ‘So how did you get involved with the show, Andrew?’ he asked instead.

  ‘Well, my uncle was a wrestler, and we all used to go and watch his fights, so it’s just always been my ambition really. When Mr Penman offered me a job I couldn’t believe it, it was like… a dream come true.’

  ‘Do you live with your parents?’

  ‘Just my mum. My dad died a few years ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What does your mum think about what you’re doing?’

  He sighed. ‘She thinks it’s stupid. I think she wanted me to go to university or whatever – she’s always on at me to get a proper job and make something of myself. But Mr Wheeler says I’m a real prospect, and we’ve had that scout here…’

  ‘Where do you work, Andrew?’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘Just at a bowling alley, in the cafeteria. I’ve taken time off to do the shows this week.’

  ‘Well, everyone’s got to start somewhere,’ Sigurdsson said supportively. ‘I saw your match the other night and I thought you were really good.’

  The young man beamed, and Sigurdsson felt himself warming to him. But once again, it was time to ask some harder questions.

  ‘We’re trying to figure out what happened to Vic Valiant, as you know.’ Wilshere nodded, his face immediately solemn and downcast. ‘We’d like to know what happened on Friday.’

  Wilshere swallowed, and began to explain. He had been in the backstage area, and Valiant had already gone up through the VIP area so he could enter through the main doors and through the crowd. Zheng was nervous about the match, so Wilshere had said some encouraging words to him. Then he’d just been relaxing, chatting to Morgan and Watson – it wasn’t possible to watch the other matches so the first he’d heard that something had gone wrong was when Wheeler burst into the room and told them. Some of the wrestlers went back out to the ring to keep the fans away from Valiant while the ambulance was on its way. They hadn’t found out that Valiant had died until the next day, when Penman had phoned them all individually, and cancelled that evening’s show.

  ‘Did you go back out to the ring, Andrew?’ Sigurdsson asked when the wrestler fell silent.

  Wilshere looked sheepish, his eyes turned down to the floor.

  ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I was… too scared. Then when Dave came back and I saw his face…’

  ‘It’s okay, Andrew. It was a horrible thing, what happened. Were you close to Valiant?’

  Wilshere shook his head. ‘No… I wanted to impress him, you know, because he’s such a big star? But I don’t think he really noticed me.’

  ‘Who did he tend to talk to backstage?’

  ‘He was with Mr Dixon and Mr Vorhees, mostly.’ Sigurdsson caught Mason’s glance. ‘Ethan used to hang around them as well, but he wasn’t…’

  ‘Wasn’t what, Andrew?’ Sigurdsson noticed that most older men were still ‘mister’ to Wilshere, as though he were respectfully addressing his teachers at school. The young man’s eyes flicked left and right as if he suspected that the men he had mentioned were hiding somewhere in the police station, watching him.

  ‘… he wasn’t the same as them. But I think he wanted to be, you know? They were like “the big men”. I suppose they could be quite arrogant. If we ever all went out for a drink they’d tend to get a bit… out of control. Ethan and me used to be friends. But then he came up with this whole “Egotist” thing, and he’s started to act… differently, lately.’

  ‘How do you mean, “differently”?’

  ‘Just, you know, this whole being in character all the time thing. Not phoning me and going to the gym with them instead. Just not really talking to me so much. I sound silly don’t I?’

  Sigurdsson regarded the young wrestler. A muscular man’s body, but still just a boy at heart, a boy riddled with youthful self-doubt and ambition and loneliness.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said kindly. ‘Andrew, I need to ask you a difficult question about your friends, and the others. David Zheng told us that some of the wrestlers use steroids. We know that Valiant was using them, from his autopsy. We think maybe they all get them from the same person, and that person is who killed him, by putting strychnine in the syringe. It might have been an accident,’ he added, as Wilshere’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

  Wilshere’s gaze flicked between Sigurdsson and Mason. He nervously licked his lips and swallowed again as if his mouth had gone dry.

  ‘I… yeah, I think Mr Vorhees and Mr Dixon use them. They talk about it sometimes, and I saw Mr Dixon injecting himself with something in the locker room at the gym, once.’

  Mason met Sigurdsson’s gaze. This could be the lead they were looking for.

  ‘What about before the matches?’ Mason pressed.

  ‘I… I never saw…’

  ‘Do you know where they get them from?’ she persisted.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know. But I know Ethan wouldn’t touch them,’ he said with certainty, as if realising that he had dishonoured his friend.

  Mason nodded slowly. ‘I’m going to give you a card with our numbers on, Andrew. If you think of anything, anything at all that might help us – anything strange that happened on Friday – you call us, okay?’

  The youngster nodded resolutely. They thanked him and watched as he limped back the way he had come, a strangely forlorn figure.

  ‘He’s supposed to be wrestling tomorrow?’ Mason muttered incredulously. ‘He can hardly walk! He shouldn’t be doing that shit at eighteen years old.’

  ‘Another statement about Vorhees, Dixon, Valiant and Blake being in a “clique” together,’ mused Sigurdsson. ‘And now we have witnesses to say both Valiant and Dixon were injecting. Maybe the others did only use the steroids away from the shows? Maybe Valiant was the only one taking the stuff right before his fights; some sort of special stimulant? That would explain his little “routine” where he wanders off alone before his matches.’

  Mason grunted her agreement. ‘But we still need to find where their stuff is coming from. Looks like it’s time to ask their boss.’

  Howard Penman – wrestling promoter and owner, All Action Wrestling

  Howard Penman barged into the room in a whirlwind of outrage, soaked to the bone and keen to express his irritation at being hauled in for questioning.

  ‘I’m a businessman, miss,’ he addressed Mason patronisingly. ‘I know it’s an over-used expression, but to me time really is money. I’d have much preferred it if you’d got all your questions off your chest when we met on Sunday.’

  ‘I’m afraid, Mr Penman, that’s how these things work,’ Mason responded icily. ‘And I’d much prefer it if you’d address me as “Inspector”. I know you have
tickets to sell, or whatever your other business ventures are, but we can’t just forget about Vic Valiant’s death and move on quite so easily, I’m afraid.’

  The chubby promoter looked momentarily lost for words, before quickly recovering with a barbed retort.

  ‘I assure you, Inspector, that I haven’t forgotten about it. I had the utmost respect for Vic Valiant. Perhaps you could show him the same respect by conducting your investigation with a tad more efficiency.’ He sagged into the chair, and once again Sigurdsson worried about its durability. ‘Now, how can I be of service this time?’

  ‘Valiant was using steroids,’ Sigurdsson said, leaning across the desk towards Penman. ‘After our interviews today, we think Vorhees and Dixon are using them too, and maybe Blake. We know they all socialise together, and we know that at least one of them has been seen injecting himself at the gym. David Zheng said when we visited him yesterday that injecting steroids is a common practice amongst the roster. We want to know where they get them from, because we think that’s who is responsible for tampering with whatever Valiant was using on Friday night.’

  Penman snorted. ‘I don’t know where to begin. Is it really standard police procedure to listen to mud-slinging accusations?’

  ‘Zheng’s statement has been supported by others.’

  ‘Let me guess… Andrew Wilshere by any chance?’

  Sigurdsson frowned, momentarily taken aback.

  ‘Why would you think –’

  ‘Oh please, Detective. The two golden boys don’t surprise me one bit. They’re very talented young men, and they’ve helped us sell tickets, but we’re moving on to bigger things now. I think they can see that their time in the limelight is coming to an end, that we’re attracting bigger stars. It’s just a shame to see them resorting to badmouthing their colleagues – not to mention the dead.’

  Sigurdsson could see that Mason had been smouldering throughout the exchange, and couldn’t help rising from her seat to interrupt.

  ‘Look, maybe we need to spell it out in terms you’ll understand. You won’t be attracting many more big stars from the States if they keep getting killed by dodgy drug deals. So if you know where they get the stuff from, it’s very much in your interests to tell us!’

  But Penman would not be intimidated. He too rose from his seat, resting his hands on the desk as he turned to face Mason directly.

  ‘If what we’re looking at is a murder, then I am as keen as you to apprehend the killer before they can do any more harm. But you haven’t even been able to confirm yet whether this is in fact a murder investigation!’ He stared indignantly at Mason, a bead of sweat trickling past the throbbing vein at his temple and down his quivering neck. ‘Well… is it?’

  Mason glowered back at him, grinding her teeth.

  ‘We… can’t yet rule out suicide,’ she conceded eventually.

  Penman lifted his hands from the table, scoffing once again as he turned slightly towards Sigurdsson.

  ‘Well I’m afraid, officers, it doesn’t sound to me as though you’ve made much progress whatsoever. Other than making some accusations against my wrestlers, who are already upset and shaken by what has happened, I really am struggling –’

  ‘David Zheng was certainly “shaken up”,’ interrupted Sigurdsson. ‘I got the impression you were pressuring him to come back. Is he wrestling tomorrow?’

  Penman scowled. ‘He’s booked in a match, yes.’

  ‘Well, you might want to think about giving him some more time to recover.’

  Penman’s expression changed to a humourless smile. ‘I will leave that up to him, of course. And I’d ask that you afford me and my wrestlers the same consideration when you’re deciding when next to drag us all in here. I’ll remind you that after this weekend’s shows are over, everyone has day jobs to return to, in different towns, some on different continents. You might find your little investigation suddenly a lot more logistically challenging, if you don’t speed things up. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  He heaved his bulk out of the chair. Mason’s teeth remained gritted as she thanked him for his assistance and handed him the contact card, and they watched as he flounced gracelessly out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Once again, they looked at each other. Penman was right; they were running out of time.

  *

  ‘So what’s your big theory then?’ Mason slurred slightly as she poked him in the chest.

  They were in a bar, dissecting their day over a couple of drinks, which had quickly escalated to four or five. Sigurdsson was feeling a little light-headed too.

  ‘I don’t know yet. But I think there’s something else here – something in his past. It’s too much of a coincidence that Booth and Adams turn up, and two days later he’s dead.’

  Their day had ended with Mitchell’s non-update regarding the whereabouts of Arn Adams. Texas was six hours behind them, but after the SWA failed to call him back by late afternoon, the sergeant had phoned them again only to be told that the Talent Management team were on an ‘away day’ and would only be able to get back to him tomorrow. They were quite literally off in a log cabin somewhere with no phone signal, and no other way of contacting them. Sigurdsson thought about his own remote location, how far away he was from home; then he looked at Mason’s face staring back at him, and thought that maybe it wasn’t too bad after all.

  ‘Well I still think it’s Dixon,’ she was saying, ‘or at least he’s the link with the drugs. I think he picks up the steroids for the others, and they meet in the gym to buy them from him. We should bring him in tomorrow. And maybe interview the gym staff.’

  Sigurdsson nodded. ‘And Vorhees and Blake again too. Maybe even try to get a warrant to search their homes. But even if your theory is correct, it could still be someone else that switched the needle.’ An idea struck him. ‘Does the club have CCTV?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask. There’s a camera in the main club area, the same one they use to show the footage in the bar as you walk in, so all you can see is the action in the ring. And there’s another camera in the bar. But I’ve already watched the stuff from Friday – there’s nothing we don’t already know.’

  ‘We should watch it back again tomorrow anyway, see if anything sticks out, now we’ve spoken with everyone.’

  She nodded, taking another gulp from her bottle of lager.

  ‘So… are you enjoying your time in Salvation?’ She made a sweeping gesture with her hand, taking in the entirety of the dingy and virtually empty bar. ‘It’s a glamourous place isn’t it? Fascinating wildlife, not to mention the terrific weather.’

  Sigurdsson grinned. ‘It’s… an interesting place. Some of the locals can be a little hostile.’

  She smiled sarcastically, swigging again from the bottle. Sigurdsson found himself guiltily admiring the curves of her athletic figure, realising that this was the first time he had seen her out of uniform.

  ‘And the island has a really interesting history,’ he continued, trying to distract himself. ‘It’s a shame the tourists aren’t coming any more.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she agreed. ‘These days I don’t think a magic statue and some mangy bunnies are really enough for people. I think that’s where all the rumours come from, the nonsense about poison gas testing and whatnot. I think it’s just the locals trying to drum up interest again. It sounds terrible, but I think the Leonard Spitt murders probably helped the tourism for a while.’

  ‘What happened exactly?’

  ‘He was just a disgusting rapist and murderer,’ she spat contemptuously. ‘He killed six women, tortured and battered them and mutilated them afterwards. One of them was only fifteen. He used to drive the ferry, so every few weeks he was taking an extracurricular jaunt to the mainland and abducting women using chloroform, and bringing them back here on his boat to his fucking house of horrors. All the bodies were buried in his garden.’

  ‘Jesus. How did they catch him?’


  ‘They didn’t. He just handed himself in one day, spouting all sorts of rubbish about being possessed by the island’s spirits, or whatever.’

  ‘I presume it isn’t built on an Indian burial ground?’ Sigurdsson said, immediately wincing at his inappropriate joke.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ she replied. ‘And that’s not quite right anyway; it wasn’t spirits, it was… what did he say…’ She gazed upwards at the peculiar light fitting hanging from the ceiling, trawling her memory. ‘This place is a nexus, a convergence of realities. I am a vehicle for the will of other worlds.’

  ‘Jesus,’ was all Sigurdsson could manage once again.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, returning her gaze to his. ‘It just stuck in my head. Donald – that was my predecessor – told me about it, because he was the one who interviewed him afterwards. Spitt was transferred to the mainland and then killed himself in his cell, would you believe. Anyway, whether he genuinely believed in all of that crackpot nonsense doesn’t matter – in my mind it’s no excuse for what he did. Ghosts and spirits don’t do bad things; people do.’

  Sigurdsson saw something in her face then, a twinge of pain, an uncomfortable fragment of memory. He thought about her daughter, whose father they had fled from, but didn’t press it. He thought about his own problems.

  About his brother.

  ‘You know, I went for a walk up to the statue last night.’

  ‘Did you?’ she laughed. ‘In this rain?’

  He smiled foolishly. ‘I suppose I’m just interested in Drogo’s story. He’s a martyr, someone who suffered for a specific purpose. I can never really understand that in people.’

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘What do you mean? Don’t you have a purpose of your own? Children, a family?’

  He shook his head. ‘No kids. No wife. Parents are both dead. I guess I’m a loner, like the Necromancer.’

  ‘But there must be something that gives you some meaning? Otherwise why do you get out of bed in the morning?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain. I believe that life is an illusion…’ He gestured at something imaginary in the air in front of him, searching for the words to explain himself. ‘We’re all really just atoms, whizzing about in space, briefly constructed into this thing that we can somehow perceive and call “life”. And it’s beautiful, it’s amazing. It’s all we’ve got. But then it’s gone. Just snatched away, like Valiant’s was. By murder, or disease, or…’