DVD Extras Include: Murder (The Mervyn Stone Mysteries, #2)

by Nev Fountain

  ‘I’m honoured you think of me like that.’

  Mervyn’s eyes roved around the walls. They were festooned with Marcus’s triumphs. Certificates, cabinets filled with gold and silver trophies the shape of inkwells, pens and typewriters, framed cuttings and photos that archived the life that had ended five days ago, on the floor of Recording Suite 4.

  Marcus’s face was everywhere. There were pictures of him pumping the hands of the great and the good; side-by-side grins with Tony Blair, a respectful nod in the direction of a smiling Prince Charles, a matey hug with Mick Jagger on the stage of some fund-raiser. Ironically—and in typical Marcus fashion—the arch-atheist had turned the room into a place of worship; a shrine devoted to himself.

  There was one item in the room that didn’t pay homage to the many successes of Marcus’s career. It was perched on a bookcase by the kitchen door, almost invisible, a small picture in a simple silver frame.

  Marcus and Cheryl on their wedding day.

  There was a simple sunny smile on Cheryl’s lips, a beaming grin on Marcus’s. Mervyn looked at the tiny figures in too-bright colours; he was decked out in tails and a blue flowery waistcoat, she in a scarlet dress. They were both unmarked by time, scrubbed clean until their innocence shone, and he felt weak with misery as he looked at them. His eyes prickled, and a lump of sadness sat in his throat. They looked beautiful.

  Shame about the grinning vicar behind them, who was doing rabbit ears behind Marcus’s head and a cheery thumbs-up in front of Cheryl’s décolletage. He was a very odd vicar, Mervyn thought.

  Cheryl’s wheelchair whirred and glided into the room with agonising slowness, the tray perched on the armrests. Mervyn was torn between watching her wrestle the tea things to the table, and taking it off her completely. Would that violate her independence?

  ‘Don’t just stand there gawping. Take the bloody tea things off me.’

  He carried the tray and placed it on a low table in front of them. Cheryl hauled herself out of the wheelchair and lowered herself limply on to the sofa. She reached down and perched her cup on her lap, making no effort to drink from it.

  ‘You were there.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘Yes. Yes I was.’

  ‘Did he suffer?’

  ‘When you say “suffer”, do you mean how much of the episode did he have to watch before he…ahm…’

  As inappropriate jokes go, it certainly went. It ran screaming from the room with its hair on fire. Mervyn wished he could follow it.

  ‘It was very quick,’ he added hastily. ‘One minute he was standing up, the next minute he…wasn’t.’

  ‘What do you believe? Do you believe these “people”…’ She faltered. It was obvious that she was controlling herself with enormous effort, and ‘people’ was the most neutral word she could muster without screaming and raging and cursing their existence. She scratched her ear vigorously, causing her wig to edge across her forehead. ‘Do you believe these “people” killed him using some kind of voodoo?’

  ‘Voodoo? I don’t think they’d thank you for calling it that.’

  ‘Sod what they think!’ she barked with anger. With sudden energy, she put the cup down, pulled herself back into her wheelchair and scooted across the room. She pulled open a bureau and slammed a ragged pile of letters and packages on the table. Mervyn didn’t need to inspect them; he instantly knew what they were. In his time in the Vixens from the Void production office, he’d seen crank correspondence on many occasions; the crabbed handwriting, the green ink, the long, rambling letters composed in capitals, the ominous Tupperware containers containing human and animal excrement. It was all too familiar.

  ‘Marcus used to keep them all. For publicity,’ she said with distaste. ‘He liked to bring them out when journalists came to call for interviews. There’s a cutting hanging in the toilet, from The Observer, that has a large photo of him by this very table, piled high with these things.’

  She picked up one and sniffed it.

  ‘Sometimes we got 20 to 30 a day, particularly after he’d been on some television show, showing off. They’re all of a type. Quoting Bible chapters, usually from the Old Testament, telling him how he’s going to be judged, he’s going to burn in hell, he’s going to be struck down by His wrath…’ She gestured to the empty mantelpiece. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they were the ones who broke in and stole his precious statuette of the Virgin Mary, liberating it like it was some battery chicken.’ She held up the flowery biscuit tin. ‘Just look at these,’ she said, levering off the lid. ‘I got these this morning. Every month this stupid old Catholic bat sends us biscuits, and she hasn’t even stopped now he’s dead!’

  ‘Those biscuits are from one of your…religious nutcases?’ Mervyn’s stomach plummeted into his boots.

  ‘Yes, every month we got them, always with letters going on about sin and salvation and forgiveness and confession, mostly about transubstantiation. “This is my body,” and all that. She makes the biscuits herself and mixes in her own dandruff. The crazy old bird thought if Marcus consumed enough of the body of good God-fearing Christians, he would begin to see the light.’

  Mervyn looked at the hand at where the stick of shortbread had been. His mind was just starting to catch up with his body. His mouth seemed to want to turn itself inside-out. ‘Oh God…’ he said in a tiny voice.

  ‘Yes, exactly. It’s God this, God that…The very last crank letter he got was from one of that lot, telling him after what he said about God on some discussion programme he should have someone wash his mouth out.’ She swivelled round and looked into his eyes searchingly. ‘Do you believe it?’ she asked again. ‘Do you believe they had something to do with it?’

  ‘That’s a good question. Hold that thought. I’ll think about it while I use your toilet.’

  * * *

  In the toilet, Mervyn sluiced his mouth out vigorously, seeking out bottles of mouthwash to consume.

  The Observer article was indeed hanging above the toilet. The cutting was headed ‘The Faith of Hate’, and the photo was of Marcus, posing in the sitting room. Marcus had a cheery ‘Wot, me guv?’ grin, and was leaning irreverently on the mantelpiece. The piles of hate mail lay before him, surging towards the camera like the Biblical flood.

  By Marcus’s elbow was a statuette of the Virgin Mary and Child, a cheap gaudy thing made of plaster and daubed with primary colours.

  Mervyn stared at the statuette in the photo for a good few seconds. Something was starting to click in his head.

  * * *

  Mervyn returned, after much gargling and spitting.

  ‘I saw the article in the toilet,’ said Mervyn. ‘Good photo of Marcus.’

  ‘He was very pleased with it. It took them two hours to arrange the hate mail. He wanted to lean on his statuette of Virgin Mary, just to be cocky.’

  ‘Did you say that that statuette got stolen?’

  ‘Yes. We had a burglary a couple of months ago and it was among the things that got taken. It was a prop from “The Burning Time”. A fan gave it to him at a literary festival, years ago, and it amused him to put it in pride of place on the mantelpiece. He said he was being ironic.’

  Mervyn snapped his fingers. ‘Of course! He mentioned it on the commentary. He was talking about it being stolen just before he—well, just before…’

  ‘Do you believe it?’

  ‘Of course I do. I hardly think you’re hiding it for the insurance money.’

  ‘I’m not talking about who nicked the bloody statue. I’m talking about my husband’s death.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mervyn sat down, exhaling minty freshness. ‘Oh,’ he said again.

  ‘About God striking him down.’

  ‘That’s a curious thing to ask. You’re a devout atheist. You don’t—’

  ‘I’m asking you what you think, Mervyn.’

  ‘Oh. I’m not a believer either, as a rule. Give me a convincing argument and I’ll go along with it. Until the next convincing argum
ent comes along.’ He knew he was sounding flippant. ‘Probably. Possibly. But they didn’t do it through the power of prayer, I’m sure of that. As sure as I ever get.’

  She smiled humourlessly. ‘Looks like God was short of thunderbolts that day. Had to make do with Estuary English sparkling mineral water.’

  Her eyes flipped around the room, focussing on everything and nothing. Then she looked down at the tea cup on her lap. ‘Andrew Jamieson came by a few months ago for a cup of tea.’

  ‘A cup of tea?’

  ‘There’s only tea in this house now. Marcus and Andrew always kept in touch. They got on well, even after all these years.’

  ‘Well he would. Marcus was the only writer in the world lazier than him…’ He realised he was being tactless. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No. No. You’re right. I know it and you know it. Marcus wasn’t the best at deadlines and drafts. He was always a stinker at avoiding the writing bit. He hated writing. He loved everything that went with being a writer… Just hated the writing part of being a writer.’

  ‘Most of us do.’

  ‘Not like Marcus, believe me. Oh, he liked all the other things that went with it, the book tours, the autographs, the talks at the literary festivals…’ She brought out a grim smile. ‘Oh, definitely those. Oh, how he thrived on parachuting into a tweedy English village, dazzling the Mrs Tiggywinkles and the Mr Toads…’

  She moved his picture, carefully angled so she couldn’t see him. Then she changed her mind, and picked it up. ‘Truth to tell, even with all the ups and downs, our marriage was stronger than it had been in those early days back in the 80s. Marcus had even given up drinking, would you believe.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Oh yes, I was very proud of him. Hence the tea.’ She stopped fiddling with the picture, and slapped the arms of her wheelchair in a ‘Let’s to business’ kind of way. ‘Anyway, when Andrew came round he was raving about you and your detective skills.’

  ‘Well he would. He got a best-selling book out of it.’

  ‘Yes, he gave us a signed copy. I think he only did it to annoy Marcus.’

  ‘That sounds like Andrew.’

  ‘I read it. Is it right you solved all those murders at that science fiction convention last year?’

  ‘“Solved” is a bit strong. More like I bumped into the solution.’

  ‘Don’t dazzle me with false modesty, Mervy, I was married to Marcus, remember.’

  ‘All right, it’s true. Took me three murders before I did, but yes, I sort of worked it out in the end.’

  ‘Good. I hoped it was true.’ She leaned forward so their noses were almost touching. Her hand clamped itself to his knee. Mervyn didn’t look down, but concentrated on looking directly into her eyes, hoping that his erection wouldn’t make an indiscreet return.

  ‘Find out how they did it, Mervy,’ she hissed. ‘Find out how they did it and get the bastards.’

  * * *

  ‘Okay,’ gulped Mervyn. ‘I’ll have a crack. Is there anything you can tell me about Marcus’s final days? Anything that might give me any clues?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Um… Any threatening phone calls, letters, stuff like that?’

  Cheryl considered this. ‘Nothing unusual. Just the same three nutters with their daily deliveries of first-class poo. Phone calls? None to speak of. Well, there was one call he got, and he walked out of the house and into the garden when I came in. That was odd. We didn’t have a lot of secrets from each other. He seemed to be talking about the statue. He was desperately trying to find it.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The hooded man watched Mervyn as he left the house. He had been watching Mervyn ever since he’d gone inside. He had been sitting in a car across the street from Earthly Delights for two days now, watching, waiting for someone to turn up. And up popped Mervyn.

  Interesting.

  Perhaps Mervyn was the man.

  The hooded man had been doing a lot of thinking since Marcus’s death. He wondered about his orders. Were they still relevant? Marcus was gone. But his legacy lived on.

  He had to do something about that.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mervyn left Earthly Delights with grim resolve. He was determined to find out what had happened to Marcus. For Cheryl.

  And, to be brutally honest, for himself as well.

  In truth, he was propelled by one-third loyalty (to a woman he’d always admired and shamelessly lusted after) and two-thirds guilt. There was no denying it. There were a few brief times he’d nurtured ungenerous thoughts toward Marcus. Sometimes he’d wished him dead.

  They’d been friends ever since their radio days, when they’d both been regular contributors to Radio 4’s Afternoon Play. They’d once had a friendly competition as to who could put the word ‘wistful’ the most times in a single play (Mervyn won, with the simple and ingenious solution of calling one of his characters Inspector Wistful).

  Many was the time they’d bump into each other in Broadcasting House and saunter down to the Yorkshire Grey pub in Langham Street—a regular haunt for radio types—to bitch about how thick producers were. When Mervyn got Vixens from the Void off the ground, he wanted to help his friend, and he asked if Marcus would like to write an episode.

  Mervyn had just read The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, and gave Marcus a vague idea of a plot where the Vixens uncover a dark secret that questioned the whole basis of their (up until that point) vague religious orthodoxy. He left it up to Marcus to fill in the blanks and work it up into a 50-minute script.

  Unfortunately, Marcus’s life chose that particular moment to fall apart. His drinking got out of control, and his attention span crumbled. Two months later and all Mervyn had squeezed out of him were a few rushed scenes and anguished promises left on the production office’s answering machine. When a draft finally came in bare weeks before shooting, it was barely coherent.

  Mervyn did what every script editor had to do at some point; he gritted his teeth, put another filter in the coffee machine and did a ‘page one rewrite’—a technical term describing a process where the only evidence left of the original writer’s presence is the title and the lingering desire to kill him. Mervyn didn’t know that this particular rewrite would prove so controversial.

  He realised later that, as he was in such a caffeine-addled hurry to finish the episode, he’d taken the brakes off a bit, and put in a lot of stuff he wouldn’t normally have done while in a sane state of mind.

  When the story aired there were enough letters and phone calls to plonk Mervyn on Biteback, the BBC’s pat-on-the-head-and-go-away programme for angry viewers. Mervyn toed the usual BBC party line, defending free speech and apologising for using it all at the same time and making a stout defence of the ‘writer’ of the episode.

  Mervyn knew that journalists might seek out Marcus and he warned him about that possibility. What Mervyn didn’t expect was for Marcus to step into the controversy, defending ‘his’ script with such flair and gusto, browbeating reporters who came to his door and accusing the accusers of wasting everybody’s time.

  His lively quotes in the newspapers led to knockabout interviews on the Today programme and TV-am. With every performance, he warmed to the theme of anti-religion, becoming so impassioned that Mervyn was sure he’d forgotten it wasn’t him who caused the controversy in the first place.

  It wasn’t long before Marcus had become a reliably controversial talking head on Newsnight and After Dark. He inhabited the role of crusading atheist with gusto, and his newly-found anti-religious attitudes crystallised themselves in his best-selling novels, the first of which was The Serpent on the Mount a spoof retelling of Jesus’s life in which the Messiah was portrayed as a cynical confidence trickster. Marcus became, in quick succession, a celebrity, a celebrity author, a best-selling celebrity author and a best-selling millionaire celebrity author.

  Mervyn knew that life was a random series of events designed to baffle the unwary; that the
idea of destiny was a crutch for the desperate, the poor and the weak-minded. He knew that, by and large, it was people who created their own opportunities. He knew that if it had been his name as writer on the credits of ‘The Burning Time’, he wouldn’t have capitalised on the sudden notoriety with the skill that Marcus achieved. He probably would have run and hid.

  He knew all that. All the same, he never quite shook the feeling that Marcus had stolen a life from him.

  And of course, there was Cheryl too.

  Dear sweet Cheryl, a former production assistant who’d joined a BBC scriptwriter’s course, and had been attached to Vixens from the Void to see how the words got thrown together. She was barely 20, and so fresh-faced and shiny she almost squeaked when she smiled; and she smiled often.

  Mervyn instantly took a shine to her, and (he hoped and believed) she to him.

  During the end-of-series wrap party back in ‘89, he’d licked her neck in the production office and made her giggle. Then he pushed her against the photocopier and somehow managed to slam her hand in it, fetching up a very nasty mark.

  Mervyn was full of apologies and hunted for a plaster, ice, or a shovel to dig a hole and bury himself, but to his surprise, when she finally finished sucking her fingers and hopping around the room, she was still giggling. She wiped the tears of pain from her eyes and replaced them with tears of laughter at the silliness of it all.

  She kissed his nose, still giggling. And then he kissed her giggling mouth, and the giggling stopped.

  They were together for a few blissful months. She wore lots of tight tops which were quite unsuitable for the autumnal weather. Perhaps that was why he walked across Shepherd’s Bush Green to record the DVD commentary that morning? Perhaps he was seeking out the sight of cold-hardened nipples, because on some subconscious level he wanted to remember her too, not just another old episode of Vixens? There was no ‘perhaps’. He was sure of it.

  And then the year ended, Cheryl went inter-railing and the series started up again, and then, somehow, she never came back. The Vixens treadmill began, she slipped out of his memory, and the 80s became the 90s. Then a year or so later he saw her name by chance—on a writing credit for an episode of Brookside.