by Nev Fountain
‘I’m glad. I like you Mervyn.’
‘I’m glad you do.’
She barked a laugh. ‘Sorry for scaring you. As I said, I like freaking people out.’
‘So I see.’
‘I give them a bit of a scare. Most of them start scared, because at least they know I’m Vanity Mycroft’s daughter. Unlike you…’
‘Yes. Sorry about that.’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s nice to be hit on without thinking the other person’s doing it to get a trophy.’
‘Likewise.’
‘Hey, we’re very alike, you and me.’
Mervyn didn’t think so.
‘Anyway, I just wind them up further. Right up to eleven.’
‘Was…was…’ Mervyn struggled to get his breath back. ‘Was that why you threatened Simon? And Smurf? To freak them out?’
‘Yeah, and to freak out Mum as well. She deserved it, after all.’
‘Well, perhaps she did—keeping the truth from you, about who your real father was. That must have been upsetting.’
She pulled a face. ‘Not that. I’ve had four dads. I know how Mum can lie to everyone. I always guessed that bollocks about me being the daughter of Sir Bafta of Wotchamacallit was just that; bollocks.’
‘Oh.’
‘No, what really pissed me off was when she showed me my birth certificate.’
‘Right.’
‘Finding out my middle name was “Metro”. I mean, fuck. Can you believe it?’
‘Minnie Metro Mycroft?’
‘Minnie Metro Mycroft,’ she rolled her eyes. ‘You see, our family have this stupid tradition of naming our kids after—’
‘Where they were conceived.’
‘Oh, you’ve read mum’s book.’
‘She told me.’
‘So. I was named in honour of a desperate five-minute shag in a crap English car about the size of a wheelbarrow. Ha fucking ha.’ She stepped back and folded her arms, one leg bent. It was a classic Vixens pose. Mervyn could almost have imagined it was a younger Vanity Mycroft, preparing for a publicity shoot. ‘So I didn’t kill Simon or Smurf, if that’s what you’re thinking. Though I’m flattered you thought I did.’
‘Flattered? That’s a crazy thing to say. Your own father’s been killed…’
‘He wasn’t my father. As I said. I’ve had four dads. I didn’t need any more, especially one that won’t even admit it. He was no loss. Neither was Simon.’ She frowned. ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Sorry, I got carried away. I might have done too much of a number on you. I would have left it at waiting in your hotel room last night, and the big hug this morning; made you think I was some nutty stalker for the whole weekend. That was funny. But when you told me you thought I was a mad murderer, I couldn’t resist, sorry.’
‘But… You did threaten Simon Josh?’
‘Hell, yeah.’
‘But he let you work at the convention!’
She looked at him pityingly. ‘He didn’t “let” anyone work at the convention. We had no loyalty to Simon. He was a twat. We work for Morris. Tell you the truth, I think Morris used me as a steward to wind him up. Morris likes stirring things up, from time to time.’
They walked out of the corridor.
‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Mr Stone Ranger.’ She grinned at him admiringly. ‘How rampant and self-obsessed do you have to be to sleep with the wrong person and not even notice?’
Mervyn shrugged, and gave a weak smile.
‘You’re an interesting man, Mervyn.’ She looked over the foyer, where pin boards and props were being taken out to waiting vans. ‘Anyway, fun’s over. Got to pack up. Maybe I’ll see you before I go, yeah?’
‘That will be nice.’ Mervyn heard himself saying. He was his own worst enemy, and considering the enemies he had at that very moment that was saying quite a lot.
‘I’ll try not to scare you again.’
‘Great.’
She suddenly growled and swiped a hand near his face. Mervyn flinched. She laughed and left.
He watched her retreating bottom with a mixture of awe, pity, lust and fear.
Then he started thinking about what she’d just said: How rampant and self-obsessed do you have to be to sleep with the wrong person and not even notice?
Then everything clicked. The story was complete, all in place.
He’d finished it.
He had to have another look at Vanity’s autobiography. And catch the murderer, somehow.
Before the murderer struck again.
Someone tapped on his shoulder, making him yelp. It was Stuart. He was dressed in his Vixen costume. ‘Why did you run away from me?’ he said, hurt.
‘Sorry. I thought you were someone else.’
‘You have to come with me.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s been another murder.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
John the Stalker’s room wasn’t pleasant, even allowing for the dead body lying in the middle of it. A suitcase lay open on the bed. The T-shirt with the huge-bosomed warrior-queen was marinating sadly in the sink. The stench of body odour floated in the air like John’s recently departed spirit, hanging over both of them.
John himself was lying on the floor behind the bed, his head caved in. Stuart and Mervyn stood over him. The blood had oozed out over the carpet and stained his beloved collage of photos, which was lying curled near his feet.
This was the second body Mervyn had come across this weekend (or the second and a half if he counted the bits of Smurf as a fraction) and he was surprised how quickly he’d got used to them. He wasn’t shaking and his heart wasn’t jumping in his chest. It was fast becoming business as usual.
He picked up the ruined collection of photos and placed it almost reverently on the desk. ‘Goodnight, sweet prints,’ he said sadly, to himself.
‘Why would anyone want to kill him?’ said Stuart, helplessly.
Mervyn looked around the room. ‘The reason he died is probably long gone, by now…’ Then he noticed what John was holding. ‘My God. It’s still here. That’s why.’
He leaned across and pulled a battered piece of papier-mâché from under John’s arm. ‘Oh God, he’s still warm. The blood’s not dried either. He’s not been dead long. Just minutes.’
That definitely took Minnie off the suspect list. She had been too busy chasing him round the hotel.
But he already knew she wasn’t the killer.
Because he knew who the killer was.
Mervyn showed Stuart the piece of papier-mâché. ‘He died for this. He was given this as compensation for Vanity not turning up to the celebrity breakfast. Morris got Vanity to sign it with a kiss for him.’ Mervyn looked at the piece. ‘I didn’t expect it to still be here. He must have put up a hell of a fight for it.’
‘Well it’s “signed”,’ said Stuart, automatically, seeing Vanity’s lipstick on one side. He realised what he said and blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.’
‘No Stuart. You’re exactly right. It is signed. With a special autograph. And that’s what makes this cruddy old bit of Styrax worth killing for.’ He turned the piece of papier-mâché round. ‘There, you see? As we suspected.’
Stuart looked at the other side of the lump with something approaching awe. ‘Gosh, yes.’
‘I need to go to my room, and check Vanity’s book,’ said Mervyn. ‘Then when I’ve confirmed my suspicions, we need to set a trap for the killer.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Back in his room, Mervyn divested himself of his Groolian ensemble, unrolled his trouser legs and tried to get the purple make-up off his face. The anecdotes had been right; it was bloody hard to shift. He finally scrubbed it away, but he was left with a pink complexion that made him look like he’d caught the sun.
Then looked through Vanity’s book. He reread Chapter 13.
‘Okay. I’m satisfied. There’s only one perso
n who can be the murderer.’
‘Really?’ asked Stuart.
‘Oh yes. You see, I think Simon tried to blackmail two people last night. Me and someone else. I, of course, didn’t know I was being blackmailed. The other person did know, and did something about it.’ He waved the book. ‘And from this chapter, there’s only one other person it could be.’ He sat on the bed. Stuart looked at him.
‘So what now?’ the young man asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’
They sat there for a while, not saying anything.
‘Well, in this situation…’ Stuart said slowly, ‘you’d normally find a quiet place, confront the murderer, throw your deductions and your evidence in their face, and watch them crumble and admit everything.’
‘I do know the drill, Stuart. But this is a new thing for me, confronting a murderer. Perhaps it won’t work out like that.’
‘Oh, you’ll be brilliant!’
Mervyn wasn’t so sure. ‘But what happens if things get nasty?’
‘Hey, why don’t I hide in the wardrobe and film it with my digital camera? If anything violent happens, I’ll leap out and save you.’
‘That sounds like a plan.’
Mervyn rang another room in the hotel. ‘Hello. I’m ringing to let you know I’ve come across some information… Let’s just say I’ve got a piece of Styrax here in my room. I think you know what I’m saying… Don’t come the innocent… Fine… Then I’ll just have to go to plan B, and hand what I have over to the police, tell them what I know… I think we should talk about it.’
There was a longer pause as he listened to the response.
‘What do you mean “Why?” I’ve got no career. The only money I can rely on is dwindling royalties and convention appearance fees. This is the first one I’ve done in seven years and I didn’t like it very much. I was hoping you’d help me so I never have to go to another one, if you catch my drift.’
He put the phone down and looked at Stuart. ‘Five minutes,’ he said.
Stuart gave a thumbs-up and climbed into the wardrobe.
Mervyn felt queasy. The knock knockity-knock at the door sent his stomach into cartwheels and it was all he could do not to run into the bathroom to vomit.
He opened the door.
‘Come in.’
CONVIX 15 / EARTH ORBIT THREE / 6.00pm
EVENT: THE MAJOR’S LAST SALUTE—RODERICK BURGESS, Goodbyes and farewells.
LOCATION: Vixos Central Nerve Centre (main stage, ballroom)
See you next year!
CHAPTER FIFTY
ConVix had a tradition. In the final minutes of every convention, before all the guests waved goodbye from the stage, there was a final interview with the elder statesman of Vixens from the Void, Roddy Burgess, asking him whether he’d enjoyed the convention and inviting him to ‘dismiss the troops’ for another year.
The ballroom was full, packed with attendees holding their coats and suitcases, ready to go home or—which was more likely—on to another convention in another dingy part of the country.
Roddy himself sat in a comfy armchair on stage, facing the one where Simon had usually sat. This time, Simon’s chair was occupied by Morris. The wedge-shaped Styrax Sentinel and the penile Maaganoid were still there, flanking them like silent sentries.
‘So, Major,’ rumbled Morris. ‘Have you enjoyed your convention?’
What usually came forth at this point was a jumble of bluff military nonsense, about how the rations were splendid, his billet was comfy, his batmen were well drilled…
But not this time.
Roddy just sat there and grinned.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The person Mervyn had deduced to be the murderer came into the room.
‘What’s this nonsense about?’
Mervyn showed them the lump of Styrax. It was getting very tatty now, falling apart in his hand. ‘Stop pretending. I can’t believe you did it. I can’t believe you killed Sheldon.’
‘I beg your pardon? I did no such thing.’
‘I know what happened back in 1987. Back on the last day of filming.’
There was a dismissive sniff. ‘You only think you know, Merv, darling…’
‘Oh I know. The evidence all started coming out the day before yesterday, thanks to me. When I fell on that Styrax and smashed it to bits. This was written on the inside.’
He flipped it round, displaying the numbers ‘376—229—22’ and the words ‘HANDS OFF—GINGER!’ and ‘SAFE’ on the other side, scrawled on a crumpled article about Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson squished into the papier-mâché.
‘The minute Simon Josh saw this, he knew what it meant. Because Simon was a fan, and of course, fans know everything.’ He pointed to the ‘SAFE’. ‘This doesn’t say “safe” at all. What it is is an autograph.’ He looked at it and grinned wearily. ‘Obvious, really… The one thing that Simon would know better than anyone is how to recognise the autographs of stars from Vixens from the Void.’ He pointed at it again. ‘And “SAFE” is actually the autograph of our long-dead Styrax operator, Sheldon Algernon Forbes-Ellis.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Roddy just grinned. He smiled out to the waiting crowd, who were now looking a little nervous.
‘Major? Roddy?’ prompted Morris.
Roddy cleared his throat. ‘Well it’s been a tough campaign…’ he said.
There was a relieved ripple of laughter.
‘We’ve dug in hard, and taken casualties, but I think the end’s in sight.’
More laughter.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
‘But inspector!’ Nicholas spread his hands and engaged his most winning grin. ‘Lawks a-mercy! Midgets wrote on the inside of their Styrax every single day. They got very bored sitting inside their little cocoons for hours on end. It’s a fact of life, dear heart. I’m sure their opinions about me were also luridly documented on the inside, and many tasteless limericks about Vanity. Stripe me pink, I’ve no notion where you’re going with this, and I ain’t got a clue how this makes me a murderer, cor blimey, me old guv’nor.’
‘Please Nicholas, no more cod cockney. This is serious.’
Nicholas fell silent.
‘You’re right, Nicholas. Midgets wrote on the insides of their Styrax every day when we were filming. It was like prison; they used to mark off the hours and write rude graffiti about each other. But this graffiti was special; it was written on the day after the 1987 general election—three months after Sheldon got sacked. I presume “HANDS OFF—GINGER!” was a reference to our red-haired leader of the opposition, Neil Kinnock. Sheldon was a ferocious Tory, I’m sure he was delighted that the Labour Party had failed to get in yet again.’
He pointed to the numbers. ‘I thought at first these numbers were a combination to a safe—after all, they’d been written right under the word “SAFE”. But of course, they’re not are they? It’s the result…376 seats for the Tories, 229 for Labour and 22 for the SDP-Liberal Alliance. A result which, unless Sheldon was clairvoyant, could only have been known to him on the 12th of June; the last day of filming. And he shouldn’t have been there… Firstly, he’d been sacked three months ago, and secondly, he was meant to be “accidentally” dying in a fire at his house several miles away.’
Nicholas was silent, listening to Mervyn with polite interest.
‘You were the only one who could have got Sheldon on that set. Only the producer could have done that. Why was he there, Nicholas? Did you lure him on set and kill him? Why kill him at all?’
At last Nicholas became animated. ‘I didn’t want to kill the little sweetie! What do you take me for? I’m not a murderer! Why would I want to do that?’
‘I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.’
‘I’m afraid the answer is much more mundane, and sadly tragic, dear heart. I didn’t lure him. I begged him. You remember what it was like on that final day, Mervy. Everyone was pulling a sickie. No one was turning up fo
r work—including Smurf. The Styrax were only built to be operated by dwarves. I was desperate to find someone to work the damn things.’ Nicholas pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘I rang him up and paid him out of my own pocket. If he kept quiet, just did the work, stayed inside the Styrax, then no one would be any the wiser.’ He sighed, wearily. He looked almost glad at the chance to unburden himself. ‘I came back at the end of the day, and he’d just…died. Inside the Styrax. So I did kill him. You’re right. It was all my fault.’
Mervyn was shocked. ‘So it was an accident.’
‘No, you were right the first time. I killed him, old love.’
Nicholas looked distraught. Mervyn was in the odd position of persuading the murderer that he shouldn’t feel bad about it. ‘Nicholas, don’t get upset. You weren’t to know he’d die in there.’
‘But I did. The reason why Sheldon was let go was because he had a bad heart. You ever hear of achondroplasia?’
‘Yes, I think I read it somewhere.’
‘It’s the condition that dwarves suffer from. Not that they’d say ‘suffer’, of course. Positivity and proud to be wee and all that, but the inescapable fact is, achondroplasia doesn’t just make you small; it brings all sorts of health problems too. Heart problems in particular.’
‘So that’s why Sheldon got Smurf to take his medical for him.’
‘Exactly, old love. Sheldon wanted to carry on working, but he knew the results would send him into early retirement. Unfortunately for Sheldon, he and Smurf started squabbling again; two little boys with two little toys and all that. Smurf told me he’d taken the medical on Sheldon’s behalf, and landed Sheldon right in the poo, so I had no choice. I had to let Sheldon go.’
‘So, you smuggled him on set, hid him in the Styrax, and he just…?’
‘Indeed. Maybe it was a heart attack, perhaps it was heat exhaustion. But the fact remained, I had an uninsured unauthorised dead midget on my set, whom I had smuggled in and used illegally on the show, knowing full well about his dodgy little ticker…’ Nicholas actually started to weep. ‘I was looking at the end of my career, old love; not to mention the end of the show. We were only two years in and we were a success. The Late, Late Breakfast Show incident was only six months old; do you think we would have been allowed to continue, no matter what the ratings were? I couldn’t let the plug get pulled on Vixens all for my own silly mistake. So I bundled him into the boot of my car, propped him up inside his house and set fire to it. Then I returned to the BBC and checked for any evidence of Sheldon’s presence on the set. I was most meticulous, and I didn’t find anything incriminating.’
