Deadly Burial Read online

  ‘And you’ll have to go and visit the statue too.’

  ‘The statue?’

  ‘Man, you need to do your research! Saint Drogo? He’s on top of that big hill you can see. He’s like the patron saint of the island, or whatever. He has a golden foot, and if you rub it your wish comes true.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said the boy with the dark hair.

  ‘It’s true! We used to go all the time when I was a kid.’

  ‘In that case I’m going to go and wish for your mum to stop phoning me for sex.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Sigurdsson left them to their childish scuffles and looked again through the window as they neared their landing point. The jetty seemed like an outstretched finger, jabbing accusations at him. A shiver danced through his body as he thought about nerve gas drifting across war-torn battlefields, men choking and gasping as their blood oozed into the soil. He forced his brain onto the present, heard pleasantries forming on his lips as if spoken by someone else, someone not riddled with fear and neurosis.

  ‘Well, here we are then… it was nice talking to you all.’

  They wished him a nice trip and dashed away as soon as they disembarked, keen not to miss too much of their show. Outside, the sky was rapidly darkening and the air seemed to hum with the threat of the lurking storm. Standing on the jetty, he watched the ferry’s small crew mooring the vessel, their movements hurried as if they too were afraid of the impending squall. As he watched, he saw a woman emerge from the gloom behind them, dressed in full police uniform. She strode confidently towards him, and as she approached he discerned a youthful face hardened by the strictures of formality and responsibility, this severity softened by a pixie-like crop of red hair cut short above her ears, the colour of peeled sweet potatoes.

  ‘Are you Sigurdsson?’ she asked, extending her hand as she neared him.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. Good to meet you,’ he replied, returning her firm handshake. ‘You must be Inspector Mason?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, snatching her hand away as though she couldn’t bear to be in contact with him for longer than was absolutely necessary. ‘All right, let’s get moving, we can exchange niceties in the car. If we hurry we might catch the show.’

  ‘You’re going to go to the All Action Wrestling event?’ he asked, following her along the pier with his travel bag slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Yep, and so are you, if you’re supposed to be helping out. It’s the last one of a weekend run tonight.’ Her voice was deep, in contrast to her slender frame and elfin looks. ‘Schultz was meant to be performing in all three. A bloke called Howard Penman runs the promotion – creepy little bastard to be honest – and I’ve arranged with him to keep the performers behind at the end so we can address them all together.’

  Sigurdsson nodded, gazing at the faded signs and facades of buildings along the seafront, all of them seeming somehow sad and maudlin. There appeared to be no one out enjoying an evening stroll along the promenade, although that was probably because of the stinging gale that tore at them as they stepped off the jetty and onto Salvation Island itself. He could see groups of rabbits here and there, huddling for shelter underneath benches and litter bins.

  ‘Is everyone going to be present that was there on Friday night?’ he asked.

  ‘The only one missing is the bloke who was in the ring with Schultz when he collapsed. David Zheng is his name. Apparently he’s feeling too shaken up by what happened. I don’t blame him.’

  ‘We’ll need to interview him separately then,’ Sigurdsson murmured, mainly to himself.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ came the reply, as frosty as the wind. ‘We already know which hotels they’re all staying in. There are only a few still running these days.’

  Mason’s car was waiting for them on the road close by, along with a stout middle-aged deputy who introduced himself as Mitchell. They clambered into the vehicle, and the burly sergeant began to thread expertly through Salvation’s narrow streets. Sigurdsson sat in the back seat like an unwelcome passenger.

  ‘So tell me about All Action Wrestling,’ he said eventually, not just because he needed to quickly familiarise himself with the case, but also to break the tense silence that had descended.

  ‘I don’t know much about them myself, to be honest,’ Mason replied. ‘I think we once picked up one of their wrestlers for headbutting someone in a kebab shop the last time they performed here. We aren’t exactly talking Hulk Hogan – they all have day jobs and just do this for fun. Not that I understand what’s fun about it… don’t the crowd know it’s all fake?’

  Sigurdsson had been keen on professional wrestling as a child in the eighties, watching the aforementioned ‘Hulkster’ battling other stars like The Ultimate Warrior and The Macho Man Randy Savage. He even remembered the British wrestling popularised by World of Sport, with weekly bouts between the likes of Kendo Nagasaki and Giant Haystacks. He remembered being devastated when he found out that they all shared a drink and a laugh backstage after the show.

  ‘I think that isn’t really the point,’ he replied. ‘It’s like… theatre. Or a soap opera. And it really does hurt the participants, you know. The outcomes may be scripted, but they still take a lot of risks.’

  She said nothing, but he imagined she might have sneered. Mitchell also remained taciturn, manoeuvring the police car through a baffling network of seemingly deserted streets, slowing every now and then as a rabbit scurried out of their way.

  ‘Where are the shows taking place?’ Sigurdsson asked.

  ‘Underground in a nightclub, of all places.’

  As if on cue, Mitchell pulled up outside the garish pink sign of a seedy-looking bar called Rumours. He and Mason immediately left the car, and Sigurdsson followed them inside, flashing ID at the bouncer collecting tickets on the door. The grubby interior funnelled them through a narrow corridor into a small bar lined with TVs, in which a few punters were lounging and chatting, the monitors depicting poor-quality live footage of the show downstairs. Sigurdsson could make out a wrestling ring, in which a flabby man dressed in what looked like a flapping straitjacket grappled with a boy half his age. As he watched, the virtually naked and muscular youngster tore himself free from the older man’s grip, bounced off the nearby ring ropes and launched himself in a flying tackle that sent his opponent crashing to the mat; he could hear the crowd’s roar of approval through the pair of double doors at the other end of the bar. But Mason didn’t proceed through the doorway; instead, she glanced around the bar as though looking for someone.

  ‘Penman said someone would meet us here,’ she grumbled, by way of explanation.

  At that moment the doors opened, the baying of the crowd inside increasing in volume as the room beyond disgorged a short, stocky man into the bar. He beamed widely at them.

  ‘Detectives?’

  ‘He’s the detective,’ Mason replied, nodding towards Sigurdsson without looking at him. ‘We’re pleased to have DI Sigurdsson assisting us with our enquiries. I’m Inspector Mason and this is Sergeant Mitchell.’

  ‘Bill Wheeler,’ the man introduced himself in a broad scouse accent as they exchanged handshakes, Sigurdsson wondering as they did so whether he had imagined the resentment behind Mason’s words. Detectives were not superior to other officers of equivalent rank, despite their portrayal in the mainstream media; they simply had a different specialism. He and Mason were peers, but even so her pride must have been injured when Wells told her he was sending in someone else to help her with her case.

  ‘Well, why don’t you follow me?’ Wheeler offered them another of his broad smiles. ‘I’ll take you to the VIP area.’ He escorted them through a side door, leading them down a narrow flight of stairs to another corridor, through another doorway and out into the club.

  The crowd was not large, maybe only three hundred people at most, but they were making a lot of noise. The young wrestler seemed to have been victorious against his opponent,
who was lying apparently unconsciousness in the middle of the ring while the referee held the younger man’s hand aloft. The audience were cheering and applauding loudly, whooping and chanting as though they’d just witnessed a major sporting triumph.

  ‘That’s Andrew Wilshere,’ Wheeler leaned in to inform Sigurdsson as they moved through a throng of cheering fans. ‘He’s the best UK talent we’ve ever had. Seriously, I think he could go places.’

  They were in a raised area within the nightclub, with its own bar and seating for the thirty or so people that Rumours deemed to be Very Important. It was occupied by people who might have been the performers’ friends or spouses, although one man sitting alone at a table caught Sigurdsson’s eye due to his size and the cowboy hat he was wearing. He was hunched over and watching the action intently, ignoring them as they passed. Steps leading down to the main area were guarded by another bouncer to prevent the rest of the fans from accessing the VIP section, although the crowd seemed far too engrossed in the in-ring action to care.

  The ring itself was erected right in the middle of the dancefloor, beneath a ridiculous plastic chandelier that dangled from the ceiling and surely obstructed some of the high-flying moves. Metal barriers created space around the edge of the ring, with a scattering of plastic seats containing those that had presumably paid extra for a ringside view. The main bar was opposite them at the other side of the club and seemed to be doing a decent trade for a Sunday night, as was the nearby merchandise stall where T-shirts and DVDs bore indecipherable names, slogans and symbols. A strange, insular, self-referencing little world.

  ‘Who’s the other wrestler?’ Sigurdsson asked their guide as he ushered them onto a pair of sofas either side of a small table. The beaten wrestler had rolled out of the ring and was exaggeratedly nursing his injured back as he staggered backstage.

  ‘That’s Mick Morgan. He’s been doing the indie circuit for years.’

  ‘The indie circuit?’

  ‘Independent wrestling promotions. As opposed to the big American giants.’

  ‘Why the straitjacket?’

  Wheeler smiled.

  ‘He’s “The Maniac” Mick Morgan… sells a lot of T-shirts.’

  ‘When does the show finish?’ Mason asked impatiently.

  ‘There’s just the main event left. Mr Penman would have greeted you himself, but he’ll be out in a second to introduce the match. Then I’ll take you backstage to meet the fellas. It’ll be a good match you know – you might actually enjoy it!’ Wheeler grinned at Mason, whose eyes narrowed icily. Sigurdsson battled to suppress a smile. He watched Wilshere leave the performance area, still celebrating as though the win really meant something. Maybe it did. As the noise from the fans subsided, Mason asked another question.

  ‘So what do you do here, Mr Wheeler?’

  The Liverpudlian shrugged. ‘I suppose I’m just Mr Penman’s bag man… I used to wrestle but I had to give it up years ago when I got injured.’ He patted his right knee to illustrate his point. ‘He’s been very good to me, keeping me around to manage the shows, help with the training and the booking. I even help Tommy out with the sound and lighting, sometimes.’

  Mason’s response was drowned out by the deafening guitar chord that abruptly kicked in, sending the crowd into new paroxysms of adulation. A short, fat man with a bald head and a ridiculous ponytail scurried into view, hands aloft as the crowd cheered him. He continued to pump his arms enthusiastically as he scuttled towards the ring, followed ponderously by an absolutely enormous man in a dark suit. This second man had long, bleached blond hair, and wore sunglasses despite the darkness of the club’s interior, as though he were some sort of gangland hitman. He looked intensely intimidating, mainly due to his sheer bulk; he must have been nearly seven feet tall. His arms looked like someone had stuffed a jacket with bowling balls.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Sigurdsson asked Wheeler.

  ‘That’s Mr Penman. He’s getting a hero’s welcome, isn’t he?’

  ‘No, I mean who’s that giant following him?’

  The blond man had assumed a position outside the ring, standing with his arms folded and facing back down the entryway as if to deter any threats against the ring’s occupant, who was still milking the crowd, strutting around and smirking as the generic rock music built to a crescendo.

  ‘Tall Paul is Mr Penman’s bodyguard. Not in real life, of course – we’re not quite famous enough to need round-the-clock protection,’ Wheeler chuckled as he explained. ‘It’s just part of the show. He’s a bit of a specimen though isn’t he?’

  Sigurdsson watched as Penman was handed a microphone by someone at ringside, and made a show of waiting for the crowd to die down before he spoke. When he did, his voice was a grating high-pitched squawk, with a West Country accent that he was clearly trying to suppress.

  ‘Wow, what a match that was, am I right?’ Cue another huge cheer from the crowd. ‘I know it doesn’t seem possible, but the action just keeps getting better! And remember, Amazing Andrew Wilshere and “The Maniac” Mick Morgan are signed exclusively to All Action Wrestling, where you can see them perform live every single week! Forget the rest, ‘cos we’re…’ The crowd completed the rhyming catchphrase with a deafening cry, while Sigurdsson found himself watching Mason’s bored reaction. He couldn’t help thinking that she was very pretty, beneath the cold exterior. But he was a professional, and they had a suspicious death to investigate, and she clearly resented his presence here. He turned to watch Penman’s continuing spiel.

  ‘And don’t forget, as always, my lovely associate Monica,’ here he gestured towards the merchandise stall, ‘will be happy to help you choose your favourite T-shirts and DVDs of tonight’s stars. And I think I’m right in saying we’ve even got exclusive limited edition Mick Morgan straitjackets??’

  Monica held one aloft and the crowd applauded again. It seemed as though they would cheer anything that came out of his mouth.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough of me trying to persuade you to give me your hard-earned cash…’ Penman grinned. ‘Let’s get on with the show… because it’s time for the main event!!!’ The most raucous cry yet exploded from the crowd. ‘And have we got an incredible match lined up for you tonight. After Friday’s tragedy, when a true legend sadly passed away in this very ring…’ here he paused, his expression suddenly a picture of sombre gravitas, ‘… his old buddy Kevin Samson will be dedicating his match to the honour of Vic Valiant’s memory.’ The crowd didn’t seem quite sure whether they were supposed to whoop and cheer again or just nod respectfully, so Penman hurried on. ‘And of course, this is the last of the quarter-final matches of our Salvation Slam Tournament! So, without further ado, it’s time to introduce the combatants!’

  Another cheer erupted. Mason shouted above the din.

  ‘Bit low that, isn’t it? Playing on a dead man’s memory to drum up excitement?’

  Again, Wheeler shrugged. ‘It’s just how it’s always been in this industry, miss. I’m sure it’s what Vic would have wanted.’

  Her lip curled upwards in distaste as she retorted, ‘I’m sure. And please call me Inspector.’

  Wheeler held his hands up apologetically, and Sigurdsson couldn’t help warming to the man. He agreed with Mason though – Penman’s delivery had been straight out of a P.T. Barnum showreel.

  Again, the promoter’s crowing voice boomed through the makeshift amphitheatre.

  ‘Introducing first… weighing in at two hundred and ten pounds… hailing from the depths of Hell itself… The Necromancer!!!’

  The lights abruptly went out, the fans once again whipped into a frenzy. Sigurdsson thought about their primal behaviour, suddenly aware of the acrid tang of their sweat in the crowded space. He imagined being set upon by the baying mob, lynched and trussed up or literally torn into pieces to satisfy their bloodlust. Hot spears of panic lanced through him from inside, like something trying to escape from his chest. God, please don’t let him have an att
ack now, not here…

  Mercifully, as eerie cello music began to resonate, the lights began to rise again. After a long, melancholic refrain, choral voices joined in the haunting melody, and a man in a brown smock emerged from the back, proceeding gracefully down the aisle like a druid on his way to perform a sacred rite. The fans became hushed, almost reverent; even Tall Paul looked unsettled as he stepped aside to allow the curious competitor to slide into the ring. The man rose with slow deliberation to his feet, reaching upwards to remove the hood from his face… expertly timed to coincide with the music morphing suddenly into another rock track, laden with drums and discordant piano sounds. Beneath the cowl he wore a grotesque and devilish smile, and the fans booed and hissed at him, although a large contingent seemed to be cheering wildly. His bald head was decorated with strange insignia that suited the character perfectly.

  Once again, Wheeler offered a running commentary of what was taking place.

  ‘The Necromancer was probably our most popular act before we got Samson and…’ his voice trailed off as he remembered that they no longer ‘had’ Vic Valiant. ‘He’s quite a big name on the UK circuit, so we’re lucky to have him performing for us. He’s been with us for five months, a real pro, big into his character too… to be honest I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper conversation with him.’

  ‘How old is he?’ Sigurdsson asked. ‘He looks in great shape.’ The Necromancer had removed his robe to reveal a lean, muscular physique that seemed to have not an ounce of fat on it. He wore black trunks and boots, but no knee or elbow pads, a tattooed pair of knives clearly visible on his forearms.

  ‘Late forties, maybe even early fifties, I think. I’ve just realised I don’t even know his real name – we all just call him “Mance” for short.’