Geek Tragedy

by Nev Fountain

  ‘He told me you were helping him cover up the evidence. Burning the bits of Styrax.’

  ‘Guilty as charged. Yes I was.’

  ‘Thank you Nicholas. I appreciate your honesty.’

  ‘Well darling, I’m sure you would have done the same. Simon was not a very nice man, and it didn’t seem fair on poor old Bernard.’

  ‘It was very philanthropic of you.’

  ‘As I’ve said to you before, Mervy, Bernard isn’t a bad person. He’s just been dealt a dud set of cards. Also, Bernard is not an ace in the literacy stakes, as you know, so I was helping him retrieve the documents for the Styrax Superior, and having a quick sift through the papers for any incriminating evidence. It saved some time for the poor bugger.’

  ‘Evidence of Simon’s blackmail, and evidence that Bernard sold him a stolen Styrax.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Evidence for anything else?’

  ‘My dear old love. What else could there be?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘My mind’s a blank, Mervy. Enlighten me.’

  ‘Simon’s dead, Nicholas. His death seems awfully convenient.’

  Nicholas put down his glass and stared at Mervyn over his spectacles. ‘Mr Stone… Are you, perchance…sleuthing again?’

  Mervyn didn’t say.

  ‘How super! Am I a suspect?’

  ‘Now why would you say that?’

  ‘Come on, Merv. Share your suspicions.’

  ‘Well, possibly…’

  ‘Well, possibly? That’s not the detective way, Mervyn! You forget, I did produce a few Aggie Christie adaptations for the stage, so I do know the drill. You must stand up now and point a quivering finger at my startled face and shout “J’accuse”!’ Nicholas lunged across the table, pushing cutlery on to the floor. He grabbed Mervyn’s arm and clutched his own chest. ‘Grill me in the Happy Traveller grill, sir!’ he cried, oozing histrionics. ‘Rake me over the coals like the tupenny-ha’penny lowlife I am! Tell me why I should have murdered this fiendish fan!’

  ‘Well…’ croaked Mervyn lamely. The other diners were turning around to look at them. Irritated glares raked Mervyn like searchlights. He was so embarrassed, he felt like joining the pieces of cutlery under the table. Mervyn’s brain scrambled for a reason. ‘Well…well…’

  ‘Come on Inspector! Spit it out!’

  ‘I… I was just thinking back to how cross you were about Bernard selling the Styrax to Simon. I just thought that might have been very irritating… How it ruined that tour of Vixens exhibits you were planning.’

  ‘Me sir?’ squeaked Nicholas, affecting an outrageous cockney urchin accent. ‘Me kill someone fer that? Just cos someone sells somefink that don’t belong to me? I mean, I’d likes to ‘ave it in me exhibition, so help me, squire, but strap me, guv, could you see me doin’ away wiv a bloke cos of one mouldy exhibit in a tour of the ‘ome counties? Bit of a long shot, ain’t it sir? Hardly worth risking a life in clink, ain’t it? So help me! Gor blimey guv, I never heard the—’

  ‘Nick! Please! No more of the accent! I beg you!’

  Nicholas reverted to his normal voice. ‘Unfortunately, what you haven’t factored into your investigations, old love, is that this little event wasn’t even going to go out in my name. I was selling the business. To Simon, would you believe?’

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘Yes, even he.’

  ‘But how could he—’

  ‘Oh, he was able to afford it. The autograph-and-whiskery-anecdote business might be dying on the vine, but his personal fortune from his corporate training stuff was quite handsome. Unlike him. There is no limit to the amount of money businesses are willing to spend on training their staff to say “please” and “thank you”.’ Nicholas swirled the wine in his glass and tapped his nose. ‘So you see, old duck, it was in my best interests to keep him alive. In my mind, Josh meant dosh.’

  ‘So you were going to sell up? What were you going to do? Retire?’

  ‘Lawks no. Back to my first love, love. I’ve got a post as a part-time radio producer, which I start next month.’

  ‘So with Simon gone, your plans to sell have all gone a bit pear-shaped.’

  ‘More aubergine-shaped. The sale has merely been postponed. I’m sure there will be plenty of people with deep pockets willing to buy up the company, it’s a nice little going concern.’

  He went back to studying the dessert menu. ‘Black Forest Gateau… Now will they dig out a fresh one…’ he nodded at the sweet trolley. ‘…or will they liberate the one that’s been slowly dehydrating in its glass prison since the morning? I’ll take a chance…’

  Nicholas smiled at Mervyn with deep and genuine affection, and Mervyn felt profoundly idiotic.

  ‘Can I give you some advice, sweetie?’

  ‘Of course you can. I’ve always respected your opinion.’

  ‘You’ve gone native, dear. You’re thinking like a fan. Do you seriously believe anyone here will commit murder over an old Styrax? Look at me Mervy. Would I? Really? For a tour of props meandering around the home counties? Would Bernard? Really commit cold-blooded murder to prevent Simon calling the police and shopping him for selling stolen goods? Does that make any kind of sense?’

  ‘If you put it like that, then no.’

  ‘Who on earth would kill over a mouldy old prop?’

  ‘No one but an obsessive fan,’ said Mervyn gloomily, ‘and the only one sufficiently obsessive to do that is currently lying on a slab somewhere with a bright purple face.’

  ‘Exactly. There are others with very good motives to kill Simon. Forget about Styrax.’

  ‘All right, what other motives are there, to want Simon dead?’

  ‘Mervyn, you don’t have all the facts.’

  ‘That’s definitely true.’

  ‘What you don’t realise is the extent of Simon’s blackmailing ways.’

  Mervyn looked wide-eyed at Nicholas. ‘You mean…you too?’

  ‘Oh not me. Any skeletons got goosed out of my closet years ago.’

  ‘Then who else?’

  ‘You’ve noticed Roddy Burgess acting oddly, I take it?’

  ‘Oh yes!’

  ‘I’m sure Simon had something on Roddy. But I’m sure old Roddy’s harmless; just like Bernard. But not everyone takes being blackmailed lying down, so to speak…’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Nicholas leaned back and pitched his face to the ceiling. His waistcoat bulged, threatening to decapitate the shiny buttons running down his front. Meshing his fingers together, he rested his hands on his stomach and his cufflinks clinked together as if they were proposing a tiny toast. ‘Did you know that Simon received death threats?’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘I’m probably not the best person to tell you this. You’d better ask Vanity.’

  ‘What! Vanity sent him death threats?’

  ‘I think you’d better talk to her.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Mervyn advanced along the corridor to Vanity’s room, mentally preparing himself.

  Even though he was a detective of the strictly amateur kind, he was still investigating a murder. He was determined not to get sidetracked by any of the patented Mycroft distraction techniques; all that eyelash-fluttering, crotch-tickling and sexual-intercourse-having that managed to exploit his congenital weakness (a congenital weakness in which, ironically, his genitals featured prominently).

  Why did Vanity rush to provide me with an alibi this morning? She jumped very quickly to the conclusion that Simon was murdered, and that I was being arrested for it. Almost too quickly. Did she feel guilty about the idea of me being arrested for a crime that she had committed?

  Knock knockity-knock.

  There was a pause, a scuffling and then a click.

  ‘It’s open!’

  Mervyn pushed open Vanity’s door.

  The first thing that hit him was the mess.

  The second thing that hit him was a bra. It hung arou
nd his neck like a fat black vampire bat.

  The diva of the convention circuit was pulling clothes out of the wardrobe and hurling them around the room. Mervyn realised she was attempting to aim them in the general direction of a furry suitcase made from the skin of some near-extinct animal.

  Something else landed on him. A pair of stockings rested on his face, and gave him a huge drooping moustache.

  ‘You’re in my line of fire, Merv. Unless you want to walk out of here a transvestite I suggest you move from the target area.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Going, darling. On my toes. Upping sticks. Showing a clean pair of heels. Over the hills and far away.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Darling! Does it show?’

  Mervyn stood there, watching bemusedly as the suitcase slowly filled up with frilly things, lacy things, little leather things held together with shoelace and elastic.

  ‘But… You can’t.’

  ‘Just watch me darling. You’ll be surprised how quickly this pert little tush can move. I could leave a Vanity-shaped hole in that wall if I wanted to.’

  ‘But what about your fans?’

  ‘Bollocks to them. It’ll be so much easier on them and me if I retire quietly and become some dowdy little spinster who crochets mittens.’

  ‘But… Don’t you enjoy being here…?

  Vanity pierced him with a stare. ‘I did once, but as the decades start to fly by it begins to lose its lustre.’ She gestured around the anonymous hotel room, at the plastic kettle garlanded with sachets of coffee and milk, the mute television, the desk with the ‘Welcome all Happy Travellers!’ note still on it. ‘Is this my life, darling?’ she said. ‘Cash handed to me in envelopes? Travelling from one shitty hotel room to another? There’s a word for girls who live like that, and I’m tired of realising how much it applies to me.’

  She resumed the hurling of unmentionables about the room. Mervyn decided to jump in with both feet.

  ‘Is this anything to with Simon’s death?’

  Vanity stopped mid-hurl. ‘You think I’m upset about that little ball of snot? Hardly. I’ve stepped over better corpses than him in my line of work. Running away blubbing because an odious little man gasses himself just isn’t me, darling.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  Vanity rested her hand on her hip. It was obvious she was waiting to see what he did mean.

  ‘I know Simon was odious,’ muttered Mervyn. ‘I’ve also heard that Simon was very good at being odious in a…particular way. And he was odious to you. In that…particular way.’

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  Vanity stretched wearily on the bed, breasts straining against her insanely tight sweater, eyes and nipples staring vacantly up at the ceiling. Then she sat up, cross-legged, and plunged her face in her hands. There was an ‘Oh God’, squeezed out from behind her fingers. Finally, she allowed her face to resurface, wiping it with the back of her hand, dragging it across her cheek. He was surprised to see genuine tears glinting in the corners of her eyes. ‘Yes. He was blackmailing me, darling…’

  Vanity stared defiantly at him. She’d smudged her make-up, but had managed to do even that artfully. The lines of lipstick and mascara careered crazily across her cheek, like the tangled skid-marks of tyres feeding into a motorway pile-up.

  ‘…But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking. Oh God, I’ve wanted to wring the little shit’s neck a few times, I don’t mind admitting it.’ She groped for her packet of cigarettes on the bedside table.

  ‘I don’t understand. How can he have any hold over you?’

  Lighter. Drag. Exhale. Smoke.

  ‘You mean I’m not the kind to keep skeletons in the cupboard? That’s true.’ She sighed. ‘It wasn’t me I was worried about. Well, not just me. It was my daughter.’

  ‘Your…?’

  ‘Daughter. Yes. You must have seen her darling. In the autograph hall?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so.’ The thin-faced girl with the cardigan. The one who followed Vanity around. It all made sense now. ‘I don’t think I would have recognised her. You did show me a photo of her a while ago—a cute little toddler with a flower in her hair?’

  ‘She’s 19 now.’

  ‘Gosh. 19…19, eh? 19. You must have had her, well…19? God. Certainly near the time we filmed the show.’

  ‘Oh, Mervyn, you are so naïve. Why do you think I didn’t return for series three?’

  ‘Oh right. Oh. Right. I thought you were worried about typecasting.’

  ‘Darling, that was my cover story! Actors leaving parts because they’re worried about typecasting is a bigger myth than the Loch Ness monster! Surely all the years you’ve done telly you’ve realised that? No one leaves a part for “typecasting worries” unless they’re some crazed bint from Sylvia Young whose daddy owns most of Norfolk.’

  ‘So what about your daughter? What’s the problem?’

  Something appeared on Vanity’s face that he’d never seen before. He realised it was embarrassment. ‘I…never told my daughter from what circumstances she’d popped…’

  ‘What circumstances were those?’

  ‘Um… Have you had a chance to read my autobiography yet?’

  ‘Only a bit of Chapter 13.’

  ‘That’s all you need to read.’

  Mervyn’s mouth opened and closed involuntarily. ‘Ah.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better finish it.’

  There were a good half-dozen copies of Vixen to Fly on the desk. She threw him one. He sat down on the bed, and dutifully read the rest of Chapter 13.

  As soon as they’d gone, I thought I’d be able to escape. Unfortunately, Bernard Viner came into the room.

  I’d never given him much thought before, because he wasn’t much of a blip on the old Mycroft radar (I don’t notice back-room boys unless they are pert and pretty and Bernard—well, Bernard just wasn’t, take it from me). Bernard was the guy who made all those bits and bobs on the set, he designed the monsters (probably got most of his inspiration looking in a mirror—rreow!) He also did the special effects—he was in charge of the on-set bangs and flashes (perhaps we had more in common than I realised!).

  He took all the bits of the little Styrax out, one at a time; he took such a long time to load up his car! Then he came back, keys jangling in his hand. He was going to lock up the big Styrax—with me in it!

  ‘Hoi! Stop!’ I hollered, as I heard the keys turn in the lock.

  He was very suspicious. Of course, he asked me what I was doing in there!

  ‘I’m looking for my contact lens,’ I said sweetly.

  And he believed me. Of course you, dear reader, as my adoring fan, know I’ve got perfect vision, but he didn’t know. He was completely fooled. Not much of a detective, not like my mate Mervyn Stone! (see Chapter 23).

  Poor Bernard!

  So I left the set with my dignity intact, and everyone packed everything away ready for the next season. But I couldn’t stay on for the next season—for a very good reason! It was nine months after that fateful day that I heard the patter of tiny feet—and I don’t mean having Smurf back for a rematch! I mean my darling daughter came into the world.

  I won’t deny it, I was worried in the weeks and months before she arrived—I did a bit of reading, and it turned out there was a 50% chance of my child developing dwarfism, or, as it’s charmingly called in the books, achondroplasia, with all the bone, breathing and heart problems that go with it (I mean for God’s sake, I wonder if these boffins realised how tactless they were being—giving a syndrome that affects short people such a long name?!).

  Anyway, can you imagine what I was going through? The knowledge that your baby might not be ‘normal’? I’m sure it’s the worst ever agony for any woman. Certainly puts the odd leg wax and a few days of tummy ache every month into perspective, I can tell you. Not that I would have done anything about it! Oh dear lord, no. My miserable Catholic upbringing might be long go
ne, reduced to crossing myself before a doing a take and a residual fetish for dog collars, but there was nothing on heaven or earth that would have made me even think about getting rid of my little darling. Even so, the scan that told me everything was normal came as a blessed relief.

  I now have a fantastic daughter, who means everything to me, and it’s to her I dedicate this book.

  End of chapter.

  Mervyn closed the book.

  ‘You see, I didn’t tell her about any of that. When she was a little girl I spun her a romantic yarn about me being raped by a long-dead legend of the theatre during the Edinburgh Fringe.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘This long-dead legend of the theatre being alive at the time, of course. Because you do hear stories about theatrical ghosts…’

  Mervyn ducked as a shoe sailed past his head. ‘Mervyn! It isn’t easy for me to talk about this!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Leaving aside Vanity’s idea of what constituted ‘romantic’, Mervyn pressed on. ‘So you preferred not to tell her the truth? That’s not like you.’

  ‘Well, she was so young and starry-eyed. She reminded me of me when I was young.’

  The mental image of the thin-faced girl in the cardigan swam into Mervyn’s brain. He found it hard to imagine that Vanity could look at her and say ‘Yes, I was once like that’.

  Vanity continued. ‘Anyway I left it at that. There never seemed to be the right time to say “By the way, darling, remember I told you that you were the product of me being ravished by a knight of the theatre when he was Malvolio to my Olivia? Actually I was being mauled by a midget in the back of a Mini Metro.”’ She sighed, and glided to the window.

  It was obvious that being honest was not a condition Vanity was used to. Without a performance to sustain it, her face sagged. Little pouches of skin appeared on the sides of her mouth, and her upper lip puckered like an over-ripe tomato. If anything, the little signs of ageing and imperfections made her more attractive, not less.

  ‘I see your problem. So Simon Josh knew and turned the screws? “Dazzle at my conventions or I spill the beans to little Miss Mycroft”—that kind of thing?’