2. And Taxes #2
“I thought up that name!” I’m on my feet now. No way am I letting this BBC?wannabe station seize possession of my ideas.
Barry simply shrugs, like it’s out of his hands or that he doesn’t understand all the technical implications of transferring IP ownership. Probably the latter.
My salary at Swindon Sounds is pitiful. Not even enough to pay the ever-increasing rent on my basement studio flat, but it’s something.
I make up the rest of my bill money with my zero-hour cleaning contracts at the local police station, but now I guess I’ll have to take on more shifts. Or find a second job.
“Also,” he says, and it takes all my concentrated effort to look at him, keep my mouth shut, and not tell him to go fuck himself with his pointy desk sign. “This came for you.” He passes me what appears to be an envelope in a clear plastic baggy.
It’s a letter accompanied by a note from the mail handler because the original sender had failed to include enough postage to cover the shipping costs, and a fee was owed.
The sender had not only failed to attach a stamp, but they’d also failed to even address it properly. The somewhat aggressively typewritten letters spell out:
GARY RUNCORN
MYSTERY SOLVER EXPERT
UNALIVE ON AIR
SWINDON SOUNDS RADIO STATION
SWINDON (PROBABLY)
WILTSHIRE (DEFINITELY)
No road name, no postcode. I’m surprised it arrived at all. It’s already been sliced open and marked with the date it was received at the station’s PO box. The letter itself has also been typewritten on beautiful heavyweight cream paper.
Dear Gary,
First of all, I hope you are well.
Second of all, we absolutely love your radio programme and listen every week.
It’s rad. We have set up a listening group in the manager’s office on Monday nights/Tuesday mornings, and we never miss it.
The way you single-handedly closed the Missing Minor’s case was mint.
I’m sure Sooty Steve’s spirit can rest at ease now that you’ve solved his mystery.
Third of all, do you take episode requests?
Have you ever heard of the actress Imogen Savona?
She disappeared in 1995, and they have never found her body, nor has anyone been charged with her murder, even though we are 99.
99% sure she was murdered. She was last seen at The Paragon Hotel in Cornwall, so if you would like to investigate, this would be a great place to start.
Fourth of all, can you send us a signed photo of yourself? Actually, five signed photos, if possible. We’re not stalkers or anything. Promise. It’s just that we rarely go out and meet new people, and listening to you feels as though we are chatting to an old friend.
Yours sincerely,
The Youngscares
“Well, here are five people who’ll miss my show,” I say, because apart from “Holy shit, what the heck?!” what else is there to say about this random as fuck fan mail? It’s my first and only piece, but even if it wasn’t, I’d be willing to bet it was the weirdest.
“Stalkers don’t count as real listeners, Gaz.”
“Stalkers are people too, Baz,” I reply.
I realise how it sounds. “Besides, they’re not stalkers.
It specifically says, ‘We’re not stalkers or anything.
Promise.’” Though in the back of my mind, alarm bells are ringing.
This is exactly what a bunch of stalkers would say.
Also, there’s no real sender name, no return address, no identification, and the overzealous key smashing which has pierced through the page in several places is ominous as heck.
And yet . . . I’ve never had a stalker before. Let alone five. Never had someone care so much about me or my work. It’s . . . kind of exciting, and I’m not about to immediately dismiss the notion as being nonsense from a group of crazy folk.
Who’s to say there are actually even five people?
Perhaps those photos are wanted by different personalities of the same person?
I’m not complaining either way. My first item of fan mail counts as a win in my books.
They called my programme “rad,” and they asked me for a request, as though I’m a real DJ.
Imogen Savona. I turn the name over in my mind. Imogen Savona . . . It’s familiar. Something tugs at a distant memory.
“Who is that again?” I say, pointing to the letter.
I have one episode left to record. Maybe my last show could be the best show yet. The finale, if you will.
What if I solve one more murder before I get excommunicated from the station? The murder of a famous actress.
Go out with a bang.
“You know, the fat one from Peggy in the Middle,” Barry clarifies.
I recoil. As I do every time that f-bomb is dropped into casual conversation.
I suspect Barry, as a fat guy himself who’s in the presence of another fat guy, is using the word simply as Imogen’s most recognisable quality.
Especially compared to her co-star who was willowy thin.
But now that I remember her, short would also have sufficed, or brunette, or even “the main one.”
And I guess the word “fat” itself isn’t technically a slur, but after a lifetime of having it wielded against me as a weapon, the impact never fails to miss.
Still, it’s accurate. At least I know who Imogen is now.
Peggy in the Middle was a staple Sunday evening watch in my household growing up.
She was a national treasure, and even though I would have been eight or nine when she went missing, I remember the news coverage well.
In the nineties, it had been a big deal.
Fine, okay, I’ll look into Imogen’s disappearance. This could be exactly the climactic finish I’m looking for. I’ll call the episode “The Case of the Missing Actress.”
I have a week to figure out what happened to her. Perhaps if I can pull that off, if I can finally solve this mystery, maybe even squeak out a conviction or some form of closure for Imogen’s family, the Swindon Sounds execs might think twice about letting me go.
Never know, but it’s the last chance I have.
I flip the fan letter over. It’s blank except for a company logo. A gold embossed outline of a building perched atop jagged and rambling cliffs, and in elegant golden letters it spells out THE PARAGON HOTEL, HELZEPHRON.