by Jon Richter
Sigurdsson frowned as he followed her down through the VIP entrance. He would need to talk to her about her growing vendetta against the promoter. It could cloud her judgement, especially regarding the significance of the diary.
But as they passed the toilets, another thought occurred to him, and he stopped.
‘You know, this is probably where Schultz was injecting himself. Think about it – he leaves the main dressing room to head up to the bar so he can make his entrance through the crowd, but takes a stop-off in a cubicle on the way.’
‘We searched it already – there was nothing there.’
Sigurdsson nodded thoughtfully as they continued, reaching the small office where they had first met Howard Penman. They could see activity at the other end of the long corridor, Mick Morgan pulling on his straitjacket costume as the song Maniac from Flashdance signalled his entrance, making Sigurdsson smile in spite of the situation. They decided to loiter outside the room and catch Penman’s eye as he returned to the backstage area, but instead they were spotted by Bill Wheeler, who hurried over immediately.
‘Hello, Inspector Mason, Detective Sigurdsson,’ he smiled, evidently pleased with himself for remembering their correct titles. ‘What are you both doing here?’
‘Hello Bill,’ replied Sigurdsson. ‘We’re here to speak with Mr Penman. I believe he’s out on stage at the moment?’
‘Yes, the first match is just starting so he shouldn’t be long. I should warn you, he’s in a foul mood – we had to change the card at the last minute ‘cos Tall Paul didn’t turn up.’
Sigurdsson and Mason exchanged glances.
‘Could you let him know we’re here? We’ll just wait in the office, if that’s okay…?’
‘No problem at all.’ The small man bustled away down the corridor as Amazing by Kanye West began to play. As he entered Penman’s room, Sigurdsson caught a glimpse of Wilshere heading out towards the ring, still visibly limping.
AAW’s founder joined them several minutes later, looking sweaty and hassled as usual.
‘Yes?’ he said irritably, staring across the desk at them with malice in his eyes.
‘Mr Penman, we’re sorry to interrupt the performance, but we have some questions to ask you,’ Sigurdsson said evenly.
‘Couldn’t it have bloody waited till after?’ the promoter snarled.
‘I’m afraid not. We also have some urgent, and very sad news. Paul Dixon died early this morning.’
Penman blinked, gaping blankly at Sigurdsson as though he had just spoken to him in a foreign language.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ Sigurdsson gestured towards the chair on Penman’s side of the desk.
Penman shook his head slowly, his eyes shifting to a point on the wall somewhere. He extracted a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing mechanically at his forehead.
‘What happened?’ he asked eventually.
‘He attacked me, in my hotel room. Unfortunately he was killed in the encounter.’
Penman’s gaze flicked back to Sigurdsson.
‘You killed him?’
‘It was self-defence, Mr Penman. He was armed with a samurai sword.’
Penman’s face seemed to move rapidly through a series of different expressions, as though he were struggling to process this information. ‘He was… supposed to wrestle tonight,’ he murmured. Then he scowled suddenly as another thought entered his brain. ‘This happened last night and you’re only telling me now?’
Sigurdsson maintained his level tone.
‘We tried to call you. We’ve had a number of things to attend to today. I myself have been in hospital being treated for my own injuries.’
Penman ran a hand across his bald head and through his lank ponytail.
‘I just can’t believe… he had a sword?’
‘We found a collection of them in his apartment. Did you know about them?’
Penman shook his head.
‘We’d like you to come to the station with us and answer some questions,’ said Mason. ‘We also need you to formally identify the body.’
Penman glanced across at her.
‘As you may have noticed, Inspector, I am a little busy this evening trying to put together a live wrestling show, despite the acts dropping around me like fucking flies.’
‘I’m afraid you’re just going to have to leave it to Wheeler. We need to talk to you now.’ She tossed the journal onto the desk in front of him. ‘That’s Dixon’s diary. He mentions you in it a number of times. Why were you meeting?’
Penman looked incredulous.
‘Because he works for me! Why shouldn’t I meet with one of my star performers?’
‘I’m sick of your shit, Penman,’ Mason retorted, planting her hands on the table and leaning close to his face. ‘I know you’re hiding something. I know you know how Valiant died. Now are you going to tell me, or do I have to arrest you?’
Her voice had risen to a shout, and Penman seemed visibly shaken as he backed towards the door. Sigurdsson tried to calm the situation.
‘Look, Howard,’ he began. ‘We don’t want to arrest you in the middle of a show. I’m sure you’re very shocked by this news. But Inspector Mason is right – the diary suggests that you and Dixon met frequently. So we just need to know why.’
Penman opened his arms in exasperation.
‘I don’t know what you want from me! Dixon has worked for me on and off for years… I don’t know anything about Valiant’s death!’
‘Then just come along with us, and answer some questions.’ Sigurdsson glanced at Mason, who was still leaning across the desk, seeming to seethe with rage. ‘I nearly died last night, Mr Penman. I want to know why. If you can help me then hopefully we can solve this thing once and for all.’
Penman’s eyes seemed to rotate wildly in their sockets. Eventually, his body just slumped in resignation.
‘Look, I’m due to announce the next match. Let me at least do that, and I’ll tell Wheeler he’ll need to cover the rest of the show.’
Sigurdsson nodded.
‘We’ll wait in the bar upstairs.’ Mason snapped, retrieving the diary from the desktop and storming out of the room.
Sigurdsson hastened after her, calling her name twice before she stopped close to the toilet doors.
‘Look, I know what you’re going to say –’ she began as she turned.
‘But I’m going to say it anyway,’ he snapped. ‘You let your emotions get the better of you in there. I know Penman is a slimeball, but we don’t have any concrete reason to suspect him yet. And as far as a jury would see it, he’s just learned that one of his employees, possibly a close friend, has died, and within minutes you were accusing him of murder!’
‘Sigurdsson, we’re doing it your way, okay? I’d have just arrested him by now. If you don’t like my methods, then fine, just give me a bad report when Wells asks you later.’
With that she turned and continued up the stairs. He stayed where he was, leaning against the wall, hand curled into a fist. Did she somehow know about Wells calling him? How could she? No, it wasn’t possible. And why did he feel so guilty? He was just trying to do the right thing. Why did that never seem to be enough?
When he emerged into the bar, the screens depicted a scene of carnage in the club below. Metal chairs, broken tables and even a stepladder were strewn around the ring. Wilshere and Morgan stood in the centre, trading tired-looking blows while the audience alternately cheered and booed. Eventually Morgan managed to get the better of the exchange, slamming Wilshere to the mat, then producing a small cloth pouch from within his flapping straitjacket which drew another roar of excitement from the crowd. Their clamour grew in volume as he hauled upright one of the tables that was still intact, and tipped the contents of the pouch across it. Hundreds of silver drawing pins gleamed beneath the spotlights, spilling across the surface of the table and onto the canvas.
Mason and Sigurdsson were transfixed as Morgan hoisted Wilshere
above his head, seemingly intending to hurl him straight onto the scattered tacks. At the last moment Wilshere was able to reverse the hold, tossing Morgan against the ropes. As his opponent rebounded towards him, the youngster executed a vicious hip-toss, sending the older man crashing through the table.
Morgan writhed and yelled in feigned agony – but how much feigning could there be? Dozens of drawing pins were quite clearly embedded in the back of the man’s torso, arms and legs. Sigurdsson watched, appalled, as Wilshere sank to his knees to pin his opponent. Moments later, the youngster’s arm was once again held aloft in victory, but Sigurdsson couldn’t stop staring at his fallen adversary, the arms of his straitjacket flailing as he rolled around in pain, seemingly deliberately impaling himself on more of the tacks for the benefit of the audience. He had seemed so mild-mannered and pleasant when they had interviewed him yesterday. Surely he could find a more… wholesome pastime than this? And Wilshere… did he really intend to spend the rest of his adult life engaging in this scripted brutality?
‘Fucking hell,’ Mason muttered, once again echoing Sigurdsson’s thoughts succinctly.
Wilshere’s music, blaring once again in celebration of his victory, abruptly stopped as Penman climbed back into the ring. As the younger man clambered out between the ropes, Sigurdsson noticed that he too had several pins protruding from his reddened flesh, and his limp was even more pronounced as he headed to the back. Penman joined the crowd in applauding the competitors, Morgan rolling out underneath the bottom rope and exiting to a huge ovation, looking like a human pincushion.
‘Wow,’ Penman said as he raised the microphone to his lips. ‘What a fantastic match once again between these two! Maybe we should just let them wrestle every week?’ The crowd responded with yet another holler of approval. ‘But seriously folks, before I introduce our next competitors, I have something to share with you. I am about to be arrested.’
Sigurdsson and Mason turned to each other immediately.
‘What the…’ she was mouthing. She made as if to head through the doors, but Sigurdsson reached out to grab her arm.
‘Wait – it’ll just make it worse.’
On the screen, Penman continued his tirade.
‘Five days later and the police are apparently no closer to resolving what happened to our beloved Vic Valiant. And now they want to interrupt tonight’s show to take me in for questioning! What do you say to that, folks?’
The drunken and excited crowd gave an enormous jeer. Sigurdsson’s brain worked feverishly, desperately trying to figure out the best course of action. They couldn’t just march out and arrest him right in front of the baying mob.
‘And to make matters worse, I can exclusively reveal for those that are wondering about Tall Paul’s absence tonight, that there is a very good reason for it.’
Oh shit, thought Sigurdsson.
‘It turns out that just last night, my associate was involved in a fracas with the very same police officers. And, it is with a heavy heart that I –’
He never finished his sentence, because at that moment a figure slid into the ring and grabbed him roughly, twisting the microphone from his hand.
Mitchell, in full uniform.
At the sight of Penman being manhandled by a policeman, the fans started to boo and shout even more aggressively. Some of them were laughing, maybe assuming it was part of the show, but others began to throw coins and plastic bottles into the ring. As they watched, a group of fans clambered over the barricades to intercept the sergeant and his struggling prisoner.
‘Shit,’ Mason cursed. ‘This is going to turn into a fucking riot. And the only backup I’ve got is Giggs.’
‘Go and call him. I’ll try to get Mitchell out of there, even if we have to let Penman go.’
And before she could protest, he disappeared through the doors into the frenzied crowd. At least he wasn’t wearing a uniform.
He managed to push past a throng of fans before he saw Mitchell, still holding Penman in one hand, trying to hold off a large fan that had grabbed him by the collar and was screaming abuse into his face. Behind them, some of the other wrestlers had gathered at the top of the entrance ramp, trying to see what was going on. Just what they didn’t need.
‘Everyone, please, just calm down!’ a voice boomed around the venue suddenly.
Sigurdsson looked towards the ring and saw that Andrew Wilshere had returned, and picked up the dropped microphone.
‘We don’t want anyone to get hurt,’ the youngster continued. ‘I don’t know what’s happened, but if the police want to talk to Mr Penman, then we just need to let him go… we won’t be helping Mr Valiant by fighting with them!’
Perhaps it was the regard in which he was held by the crowd, or simply the guileless charm in his words, but the fans seemed to respond to him. The man grappling with Mitchell spat a swear word at him, but released his grip around the sergeant’s throat. For a few seconds, every eye in the room focused on Wilshere. This was just enough time for Bill Wheeler to scramble into the ring and take the microphone.
‘Thanks Andrew. Yes, please settle down, everyone – tonight’s show is about to continue! Next up, we’ve got The Strongman himself in action… Kevin Samson!’
And with that, the crowd’s attention seemed to shift back to the scheduled entertainment. Mitchell and Sigurdsson were able to bundle Penman up the stairs and out without too much more fuss from the promoter, who looked ashen-faced and frightened. By the time they were back in the bar, Kevin Samson’s music was already playing.
When they reached the squad car, Mason already had the engine running. Mitchell bundled Penman roughly into the back and slid alongside him. Sigurdsson leaned towards her window as she wound it down.
‘I’ll stay here to make sure everything stays calm,’ he told her. ‘Is Giggs on the way?’
She nodded. ‘He’s bringing riot gear.’
‘Tell him to change out of it. In fact, he shouldn’t wear a uniform at all, and just meet me in the bar. I think everything will be all right if we don’t antagonise them any further. I’ll get a lift back with him later.’
She nodded again, saying nothing. They shared the unspoken knowledge that between them they had contrived to botch the evening completely. But to what extent she blamed him, he couldn’t tell.
*
The gear wasn’t needed, in the end. Sigurdsson and Giggs had waited in the bar and watched the screens for any sign of trouble, but the crowd had watched Kevin Samson dispatch Vortex in an entertaining match, followed by an exciting main event in which the enigmatic Necromancer had defeated Daniel Zheng’s ‘Miki Yakuza’ character without any further unrest. As they filed out, many of them were chattering excitedly about Penman’s arrest, most of them now convinced that it was simply a part of the show that had gone awry. Sigurdsson sat in the back of Giggs’ squad car, talking to Mason on his mobile as they returned to the station.
Penman had at first been co-operative, accompanying her and Mitchell to the hospital to positively identify the deceased Dixon. When they arrived back at the station, however, he had started ranting and screaming once again; perhaps the shock of seeing his deceased associate, or simply the reality of his impending night in custody, had reignited his sense of outrage. When he finally calmed down he had refused to answer any further questions without legal representation. He was now in a cell, alternating between pacing around the tiny space and shouting occasional abuse at the police force in general.
‘I presume he won’t see the duty solicitor?’ Sigurdsson asked.
‘Nope – he wants his own lawyer. Surprise surprise, we haven’t been able to get hold of him yet.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘Well I doubt we’ll get Penman’s solicitor here until tomorrow morning now. I need to get home to Holly, and you must be exhausted after last night. Why don’t you just get Giggs to drop you at the hotel and I’ll pick you up in the morning?’
He knew she was right. He wanted to do something useful, to erase some of the damage that had been caused by the evening’s blunders, but he was fighting a losing battle against fatigue. The most productive use of his time would be to gather his strength for the following day. He acquiesced, and Giggs had no problem with the small detour.
As he wearily climbed the stairs towards his new bedroom – a larger suite on the hotel’s first floor – Sigurdsson couldn’t help thinking that their mistakes that day would have further consequences.
And he couldn’t help thinking about what had happened the last time he had spent a night in the Grand Hotel.
But, strangely, there was no chill crawling across his flesh. No growing terror, no rising panic that threatened to overwhelm him. Just the swift onset of an exhausted and dreamless sleep.
Excerpt V: The Gravy Train
All good things are like a drug, I suppose. That’s really all anything is, isn’t it? Chemicals in your brain, telling you you’re happy, or that you’ve got a buzz on, or that you need something, or that you’ll finally feel better if this, if that, if whatever. So I suppose, by that logic, anything can become addictive. So yeah, I was addicted to alcohol, and to the pills, and for a while I was addicted to coke too (funny, the one thing I never did was smoking. Marijuana, yeah, from time to time, but never cigarettes. Buddy always told me they were bad for my health, as though sinking a bottle of Jack every night on tour wasn’t doing us any harm at all). But the main thing I was addicted to was the whole lifestyle. It was like this crazy rollercoaster, and I don’t just mean that it was impossible to get off. I mean that sure, there were huge highs, but there were also some huge lows too.
There’s one night in particular I want to tell you about, but to be honest, it could have been any of a thousand nights, except for the end part. My memory of that time is a little hazy, but I know it happened in Minneapolis, so I think it was 1993, during my first run as SWA champion. Buddy had left the promotion by then, and our relationship was pretty strained. I honestly thought he was jealous of me, that he thought I was stealing his limelight, that he was getting old and bitter while I was just hitting my prime. Now I know he was just looking out for me, trying to keep my feet on the ground. The last time I spoke to him was pretty much around then, and I remember saying ‘why can’t you just be happy for me?’ and he just sighed, and said ‘enjoy it while it lasts, kid’, and hung up.