by Nev Fountain
Mervyn paused for dramatic effect. ‘Randall,’ he said at last, ‘I don’t think you should beat yourself up about Ken.’
‘How can I not? I should have sacked him. I didn’t, and he killed Nick.’
‘I don’t think he did kill Nick.’
‘What?’
‘And I don’t think Ken committed suicide either. I think Ken was murdered.’
Randall froze, a cup of coffee an inch from his lips. ‘Murdered? You can’t be serious.’
‘I’m very serious.’
‘But you heard the CD.’
‘I did.’
‘Ken killed himself. He was completely nuts, Merv. He tried to kill you, he killed Nick…’ Randall started to crumble again. Mervyn continued. ‘I think someone else killed Nick. I didn’t tell you this, but on the first day, after the first meeting, I heard Nick and Glyn in the toilets.’
Randall managed a weak smile. ‘Hey, what they got up to in their private lives is no concern of ours…’
‘No—I overheard a conversation between them. Glyn talked about Nick saving him from “jail”. About being a “con”. I thought it was odd, saying “jail” and not “prison”, “con” and not “inmate”…’ He pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. ‘I’ve done a bit of research on Nick. He had a car accident in LA ten years ago. He was working with Glyn on some kids TV show and it was after a wrap party. They were up in the mountains going home when Nick’s car collided with another on a quiet country road in the hills. A woman got badly injured.’
Randall scanned the papers. ‘I didn’t know about this.’
Mervyn continued. ‘The woman claimed Nick was driving erratically, but it was just her word against his. They eventually recorded it as a simple accident, one of those things. I just wondered… What if Glyn had been driving instead of Nick? If he’d been drinking. What would have happened then?’
Randall frowned. ‘Glyn would have certainly gone to jail. His career would have been over.’
‘Exactly. Nick was nothing without Glyn, he was using Glyn’s coat-tails to go places, and so his career would have been over too.’ Mervyn went to the door. ‘That would explain what I heard in the toilet. I think Glyn needed Nick’s silence. That’s why he took Nick around with him. Wherever he went, Nick appeared one pace behind him. Every job Glyn’s done he’s there as producer, no matter how dreadfully out of his depth Nick was. Perhaps Glyn just decided that Nick couldn’t be trusted any more, or perhaps he just got sick of Nick dragging him down. You have to admit, Glyn is the ruthless type.’
‘Yes, you could call him that. Sonovabitch…’
‘I think he killed Nick, and framed Ken. I think he impersonated Ken’s voice on the CD. Glyn is an excellent mimic, isn’t he? We’ve all heard his impressions. He probably impersonated you, so he could get that runner to lure me into the supermarket freezer.’
‘Can you prove any of this?’
‘No.’
‘So it’s just a theory. It sounds a bit far-fetched. But all your other instincts have been right so far. What the hell. I’ll look into it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No Merv, thank you.’ Randall gave out a huge sigh. ‘If it’s not one damn thing, it’s another.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
It was the last day of the shoot, and Louise had organised a wrap party in Falmouth in a cosy little pub called the Chainlocker that overlooked the quay.
Mervyn expected it to be more like a wake after everything that had happened, but when he arrived he was surprised to see the crew laughing, joking and giving each other presents, just like any other wrap party. He guessed everyone was just relieved to be going home. Happy to escape the madness. Louise put money behind the bar and the younger members of the production team were eagerly knocking back bottled lagers. Roger was hovering around them, trying to interest the make-up girls with stories of the times he’d worked with Benny Hill. The catering was done by the ‘Oo-ar Bar’, with little breaded bits of fish, and (of course) tiny spicy pasties. How Mervyn was sick of those pasties. Louise was chatting up one of the bar staff, a hairy young man who looked like he had plenty of true Cornish blood pulsing inside him.
Amazingly, the Wagz had also all turned up. Mervyn was glad. Mervyn liked them the more he got to know them; they turned out to be really nice, hard-working girls, grappling semi-successfully with the pressures of fame. He watched them as they shrieked with laughter and knocked back beers. He smiled indulgently, like a proud father at his daughter’s 16th birthday. He must be getting old. He only slightly wanted to go to bed with any of them. They looked like too much hard work.
They’d come dressed down in jeans and T-shirts; the only evidence of their superstar status was the large silent guy sitting at the corner of the pub, not drinking, just watching. He watched silently as Roger staggered across the pub and engaged the blonde one in conversation. He watched as Roger laughed heartily, patted her shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. Then the large silent guy silently got up, silently took Roger by the collar of his jacket, and silently steered him back to the Ordinary People. To his credit, Roger didn’t miss a beat, and carried on chatting to the make-up girls waiting for an opportunity to try again. Randall and Mervyn watched the dance of Roger and the bodyguard with quiet amusement.
Glyn was acting very oddly. He was being even more jovial than usual, throwing out ‘lovelies’ with much greater frequency. He practically fell on Mervyn and clinked their bottles together.
‘You and me, my lovely, you and me!’ he guffawed wildly.
The danger signs were really apparent when he took to the dancefloor, gyrating insanely and swinging his arms like a gibbon—and there was no music to dance to.
Soon the party ended, faltering and waddling to a halt like an old dog staggering to its basket. Hugs were exchanged, as were insincere promises to keep in touch. There was no farewell speech from Louise and Randall even forgot to auction his tie. Cars revved out of the car park. But Mervyn was following Glyn.
Glyn wandered up the high street. He was being deeply obnoxious, laughing and pointing at the teenage girls out on the town, singing Wurzels songs and making ‘Oo-ar’ noises. He blundered down a back street and along the quay, sitting on a bollard and throwing his empty bottle into the water. It landed with a distant ker-plop sound. He was now mumbling to himself, singing an old Coldplay song about being a superhero.
Time passed. The night was dark and cold.
Mervyn wondered how long he would have to wait. He was just about to walk into the light and talk to Glyn when someone beat him to it.
‘Glyn Trelawney.’ Someone had stepped out of the darkness.
‘What?’
‘Glyn Trelawney. I’d like to talk to you.’ The voice was unmistakable. It was American. Randall had decided to play the hero.
‘Leave me alone, Yankee boy.’ Glyn was now American too. Mocking Randall’s voice.
‘I’m afraid I can’t Glyn. Certain facts have come to light that compel me, as executive producer, to act. Mervyn’s told me a little theory of his. About how you hurt someone in an automobile accident…’
‘What the hell are you talking about? Have you been following me?’
‘Back in LA, ten years ago. He thinks Nick covered up for you.’
‘Fuck you. I quit. If we get a series, you can get someone else to write your space bollocks.’
‘You see, it seems like I made a mistake, and it’s your fault. It’s a bit embarrassing really. Here’s the thing; I killed Nick, because I thought he crippled my girlfriend, but I guess it’s you I should have killed.’
Glyn tried to stumble to his feet, failed, and fell to his knees.
‘It’s your fault, Glyn. To think—I’ve been keeping an eye on Nick all this time, watching him. After all this time, I finally manage to kill him, and it looks like I got the wrong guy. Ironic, right? And you guys think we Americans don’t do irony…’ He pointed a shaking finger at Glyn. ‘I always thought it wa
s Nick who smashed my girl’s spine into little bits on that road. After all, he went to court over it. Why would he go to court if he hadn’t done it?’
Glyn wasn’t really listening. He was sagging, sinking on to the floor, grabbing a bollard for support. No one gets that drunk so quickly, thought Mervyn. He’s been drugged. He didn’t listen to me. He didn’t listen to my warning about Randall.
‘Here’s the maddest thing,’ hissed Randall. ‘All this. Vixens from the goddamn Void. This whole TV project, all it ever was, was a way to kill Nick and make it look like someone else did it. And I was after the wrong person all the time. I should have been after you.’
Randall pulled something out of his pocket. Mervyn thought it might be a gun, but it was smaller, something that he held in between the thumb and first finger of his hand. Lights flashed in the corner of the car park. Mervyn realised that Randall’s 4x4 was there and he’d just unlocked it.
‘Come on Glyn, time to go for a little car ride.’
He grabbed Glyn’s flaccid form and dragged him towards the car, his tie swinging from side to side with the effort. He stuffed him into the driver’s side, then he walked back to the quay, scouring the ground with a torch to clear up any evidence that Glyn had ever been there.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
The 4x4 sped into the night.
Mervyn peered through the gap between the seats. He’d slipped into the back of the 4X4 while Randall was struggling with Glyn’s body. He was just starting to realise that it was the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life. The trees ran towards them like crazed crones in the headlights, talons wagging, warning them to slow down. Glyn was slumped in the passenger seat, face flattened against the window, dribble oozing out of his mouth towards his left shoulder.
‘Hey Glyn,’ said Randall. ‘Wanna see a movie?’
Glyn went ‘Hrrr.’
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”.’ Randall pressed a button and a television screen whirred out of the dashboard. ‘This is the best show I’ve ever seen, and I didn’t even produce it.’ He pressed another button and Ken Roche appeared on the screen.
‘Oh God,’ said Ken, with sepulchral weariness. ‘I’m still here. I’m still in Cornwall. Oh God. I thought it was a terrible dream. Oh God.’
And Mervyn’s suspicions were confirmed. The Ken on the screen was younger, with a square moustache. His square hair was dark and his square glasses were large and chunky rather than small and wiry. He was slumped in a chair, in what looked like a hotel room. He stared hopelessly out of the screen. After the last ‘Oh God’, he leaned forward and turned the camera off. There was a jump cut, and there was Ken again, same features, same glasses, same room, different shirt.
‘I’m almost glad I got the wrong man, Glyn,’ said Randall conversationally, glancing at the screen. ‘At least now I get the chance to explain how I did it all.’
Glyn didn’t appear in any condition to listen, so Randall gave him a rabbit punch in the cheek. ‘Wake-up Glyn, I’m talking to you! I’m explaining stuff to you, don’t fall asleep!’ Glyn opened his eyes, groggy, blinking. ‘Let me spin on a bit,’ said Randall.
The DVD lurched to another track. There was the younger Ken again, but wearier, more strung out, unshaven. The words were familiar to Mervyn but they were slightly changed. There were more of them, and the conspicuous sighing had vanished.
‘Oh my God. I’ve killed him. I’ve killed Nicholas. Shit. What was I thinking? What have I shitting well done? I didn’t mean to do this. I know he swanned about, telling me what to do, trying to direct my shots for me, but I didn’t mean him any harm. Why should I? He gave me my first break in television, back in ‘86. I hate Mervyn and I hate Vixens and I hate the Styrax and bloody Vanity Mycroft, but I didn’t hate him…’ Younger Ken thumped his hand on the arm of the chair in frustration. ‘I saw him sitting there, and I just pushed him. He was just sitting on the side of the boat all alone, fag in his mouth. I was so frustrated about not killing Mervyn. It was an impulse. Over he went. Splash. And when he hit the cold water, it was like I’d had cold water thrown into my face. Vanity Mycroft screamed, Samantha threw out a life-belt, Roger and Mervyn pulled him out—and I just stood there, and I finally came to my senses. I realised. I’ve been trying to kill someone! And I was so annoyed about not killing them I went and killed somebody else!’
Younger Ken took his huge 80s-style glasses off, rubbed them on his chunky 80s-style jersey and put them back on his 80s-style head. ‘He’s lying there in the hospital now and the doctors say he’s really weak. He’s going to die. I know it.’ He slumped down further in his chair. ‘I have a problem. Okaay… I know it’s the coke. It’s the coke that did this. I’m sick. I’ve got to sort this problem out, I’ve got to end this right now. I’ve got to get help, break the habit, wean myself off this shit, and get my life back. Lay off the booze, too. Start afresh. God, Mervyn. How did he get away with it? Mervyn will never know how lucky he was. Maybe one day I’ll tell him.’
The screen went back to the menu. Randall flashed a grin at the unconscious Glyn. ‘Poor Ken, sending out those tapes, desperate for someone to give him work. More irony, Glyn “my lovely”. Ironic that he sent the wrong one out to me and guess what? It still got him work. Even though I planned it to be his last job on this Earth, it still got him a job!’
The car glided to a halt. All Mervyn could hear was the roar of the sea all around them.
‘Sorry to hear about Nick, Glyn,’ Randall quipped. ‘You look really cut up about it.’ Glyn stayed stubbornly unconscious. ‘He must have meant a lot to you,’ Randall continued. ‘I know you’re upset, but don’t do anything stupid, like stealing your boss’s car and driving yourself off a cliff or anything…’
Mervyn felt terror grip his brain with icy fingers.
‘I can tell you’re not listening to me Glyn. Well hey, I did warn you… You know what this stretch of coastline is called? “The Lizard.” Kind of apt, you being a cold-blooded sonovabitch and all.’ Randall opened his door and got out. Mervyn tried to embed himself in the upholstery as Randall walked round to the passenger side. Glyn’s door opened and Randall grabbed the snoozing writer, struggling to drag him out. The passenger door closed and Mervyn watched Randall drag Glyn’s lifeless body around the front of the car.
Mervyn saw his chance. He struggled into the front seat and frantically pressed the ‘lock’ button on the dashboard.
Randall dragged Glyn to the driver’s side where Mervyn was sitting. He did a double-take when he saw Mervyn sitting inside the car. ‘Mervyn? Is that you?’ He peered into the driver’s window.
‘Hi Randall,’ said Mervyn. ‘Thanks for the lift.’
‘Were you in my car all this time?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Cool. What did you think of my explanation?’
‘Very impressive. Certainly held my attention. I liked the visual aids. You should have done some PowerPoint.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Now, please… Come out of there Merv.’
‘Now why would I do that?’
‘Don’t be tiresome, Merv.’
‘I’m not tired. I can sit here all night.’
‘I do have a spare set,’ he grinned. He pointed another key at the car and the doors unlocked.
Mervyn gasped, dived for the button and pressed ‘lock’ again. Randall pressed his keys and unlocked the car. Mervyn pressed the button. Randall pressed his keys. Mervyn pressed the button. There was a frantic game of keys–button–keys, until they both gave up.
‘This is getting us nowhere, Merv.’ Randall was starting to get exasperated. ‘Come on, help me out here. Surely you can see this little shit has to die? He crippled my Sarah, put her in a wheelchair.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘Yes we do. I know it in my gut. You know it in your head.’
‘I’m not having this conversation.’
‘I need a break.’ Randall lea
ned against the car. He lit a cigarette. The end glowed furiously in the wind, which whipped away the smoke.
Mervyn looked around. The car was only a few feet away from a sheer cliff edge. The waves crashed far below them.
‘So,’ Randall said calmly, his tie fluttering against his shoulder. ‘It was you who took the CD out of Ken’s room.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘What made you suspect?’
‘Nothing, at first…’
‘Come on Merv, you heard my little explanation. Least you can do is give me yours.’
‘Okay. It just crept up on me. I knew there was something wrong with Ken’s message on the CD, but I couldn’t work it out. It was just Ken, as usual, moaning about the Styrax, like he did before, moaning about Cornwall, like he did before, moaning about me and Graham Goldingay and Roger Barker, like he did before… Then I realised, he was doing everything like he did before.’ Randall smiled and smoked and said nothing. ‘And once I noticed that,’ Mervyn said, ‘I realised everyone he talked about on the CD were people from the original location shoot, such as me and Roger and Graham… He didn’t refer to you or Louise or Glyn, or anyone from the current shoot… All except one person.’
Randall supplied the name. ‘Nick.’
‘Yes. But he wasn’t talking about “Nick” Dodd, was he? He was talking about “Nicholas” Everett. You edited it down to say “Nick”.’
‘Sure did. Didn’t take me long. Took me an hour to edit the whole thing down, another hour to transfer it from video to CD, so no one could see how young Ken looked and how 80s his hair was…’
‘And hey presto! You had a recorded confession about a man who’d murdered someone called “Nick”.’
‘And someone who sounded like they were ending it all as a result. A ready-made murderer, who’d recorded his own suicide note. Very neat, I thought.’
‘You weren’t running for the door. You deliberately threw yourself between Ken and the gun. You saved him from getting shot. Ken wasn’t supposed to die then. Not yet.’