Deadly Burial. Jon Richter
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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