4. A Matter of Life and Death
four
A Matter of Life and Death
Approximately Seventeen Hours Before I Die
I change into my freshly laundered overalls on the train from Swindon to Penzance.
This uniform and my ExorSquad lanyard, which I stash in my pocket for later when I need it, are my backstage passes to the hotel and my entire investigation.
If I sling my holdall over my right shoulder, the strap fully covers the stupid ghost logo.
I’d rather not have anyone think I subscribe to such nonsense, or that I’m a scam artist out to grab an easy buck.
The journey is almost five hours, but the seat in the first?class carriage is comfortable and it’s fairly quiet, save for one guy who obviously feels as though everybody could benefit from listening in to his inordinately important business call.
I wouldn’t normally travel first class—don’t have that kind of spare cash lying around—but Gerald had told me ExorSquad would reimburse me for all expenses.
“All of them?” I’d asked.
“Yup, all of them,” he’d said. “Travel, food, accommodation . . . entertainment, you name it. Just keep all your receipts, and when you get back to London, we’ll repatriate you. Whew, did I say repatriate? I meant make reparations to you . . .”
It was weird, to say the least. I’d read over and over that contract just to be sure I hadn’t misread or misunderstood anything, and it specifically said, “Employees will receive ZERO compensation or allowance for expenses. I don’t care how desperate or hungry you are, there is no budget for extras.
Just get in there and get the job done.” The entire paragraph had been underlined seven times.
Also weird, because I didn’t know seven layers of underlining was a feature on any word processing program, but I wasn’t about to argue.
Not when free first?class travel and fancy pants lunch and dinner were on offer.
My coronation chicken sandwich and posh paprika crisps taste so much better when I’m not paying for them.
I use this time to flip through police reports from 1995 until now, eyewitness testimonies, bank statements, CCTV footage, and fan speculations, as well as the exorcism contract and ExorSquad’s employee handbook.
The latter of which is so utterly fucking useless I regret giving over the valuable real estate in my holdall for the monstrosity.
It’s full of the most absurd advice, like “Rule 613: Never let a ghost give you a piggyback.”
Peggy in the Middle plays in the background on my laptop while I take notes from my findings.
I vaguely recall this episode. In a moment the character on screen now, smoking his antique pipe, is going to get walloped on the noggin with it.
I can’t remember if he dies from that, but since this is a whodunnit-adjacent series, I’m willing to bet he doesn’t make it to episode two.
There has to be something here, not with Peggy in the Middle, but with everything else.
Some piece of evidence has to have been overlooked.
Helzephron police station is microscopic—a team of only five officers—there’s no way a force with such limited resources has combed through everything and exhausted all leads.
I know I’ll find the missing clues. It’s what I always do.
My studio kit from my podcast days sits in my bag on the empty seat next to me. It’s Monday, and my last episode of Unalive on Air goes out tonight at two a.m.
I’m almost certain I won’t solve the case and figure out what happened to Imogen Savona by tonight’s show, but I’m hopeful I can at least uncover enough new information to keep my listeners thirsting for more.
All five of them. And if I can end on some kind of cliffhanger, maybe, just maybe, I can get them petitioning the station to rehire me.
So tonight, I’ll be broadcasting from The Paragon Hotel.
I just have to check in first.
The parish of Helzephron is nestled within an idyllic though somewhat tempestuous cove on the western coast of Cornwall.
Cradled by the bay and sheltered from the worst of the Atlantic’s furore, it’s a twenty-five-minute taxi ride across the county from Penzance railway station.
There’s a beautiful beach with—I’m told—excellent surf, a town hall, a church and accompanying graveyard, a primary school, a GP’s surgery, a police station, two pubs, a selection of shops selling only the absolute necessities like pasties, postcards, hand?thrown pottery, and bronze sculptures.
There are a couple of hundred houses, and beyond the permanent residential dwellings, lie campsite after campsite, until eventually even those morph into verdant agricultural gulfs.
It’s the kind of windswept holiday destination people come to write poetry about, or songs, or paint enormous, sweeping landscapes. It’s overcast when I arrive at the bay of Helzephron, and the vibes are moody.
The air is pregnant with unwritten stories. Mysteries, horror, tragedies, and no doubt, tales of epic unrequited love.
Imogen Savona—once Jean Johnson—has a tale untold here.
Pages unturned. Maybe one day somebody with enough artistic flair will come along and pen her biography, life and death, for the world to read, but that won’t be me.
I don’t have a creative bone in my body.
All I can hope to do is uncover the facts and pave the way for someone with more linguistic inclination and imagination.
I feel like hers is a story steeped in nostalgia.
I picture a young girl travelling from London, holidaying here with her family, dreaming of a future on stage and screen, putting on performances for her parents on the sandbanks.
This place must have meant enough to her, held enough memories, to warrant buying The Paragon Hotel.
The largest, grandest building for miles and miles around.
The hotel sits atop the neighbouring cliff on the site of an ancient Cornish settlement.
Constructed from local grey stone in the Victorian gothic revival style, it boasts over two hundred bedrooms and suites, and has an indoor and outdoor pool, a spa, an auditorium, and apparently some of the finest dining this side of the Tamar Bridge.
Building work was finally completed in 1899, and the doors were opened to guests in 1900.
Since then, it has been and is currently the town’s biggest employer.
Almost everyone who works at the hotel or spa has some connection with the village itself, and over the past century and a bit, most Helzephron families have remained loyal to their Paragon roots.
Which is great news for me and my investigation.
“We really are one big family here,” Helga Roskelly, the hotel’s general manager, explains to me. “On a clear day, I can see my house at the bottom of the hill. It’s the bright blue one if you’re ever looking out of The Paragon’s restaurant windows.”
Helga doesn’t sound Cornish. In fact, there’s a European lilt to her accent, and her given name, vealy skin tone, broad shoulders, and six foot plus of height hint at a Scandinavian heritage. She has short blonde hair with a stripe of grey at the roots, blue eyes, and appears to be in her sixties.
My train-time research into prominent Helzephron figures tells me that Helga married into the locale. Her husband, Peter Roskelly, was a Cornishman born and bred, and yet another statistic of the hotel’s unprecedented death toll.
Peter, or as he was also known, The Remarkable Roskelly, was a children’s and adults’ holiday entertainer.
The magician, comedian, clown, balloon animal expert, and escapologist died during a packed Paragon auditorium performance when a sword?box illusion went awry.
Since then, and according to police records, several people have attempted to sue the hotel for compensation towards therapy bills.
“I’m so glad you’re here. So thankful Gerald changed his mind about The Paragon Phantom,” she says.
I have two choices: pretend I know what the hell she’s talking about, go with the flow, and make out that I’ve been kept in the loop this entire time, or ask her to clarify, but I get the nagging sense to keep mum.
A feeling that if I push for info, she’ll clam up, and previous investigations have taught me that following my instinct is usually the fastest way to solve shit.
I need to find out as much about Imogen Savona as I can within the next eight hours before I record my last ever episode of Unalive on Air.
The case file explains that ExorSquad was hired by The Paragon—signed off by Helga—to investigate the cause of the sudden deaths and disappearances.
According to the original email Helga sent Gerald Pickett, the local police department is quote unquote “fucking useless” and “couldn’t find their own assholes in a mirror maze.
” Despite this, she has somehow convinced herself, her staff, and perhaps the entire parish, that the foul play can only be attributed to paranormal hijinks.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” I say with an air I hope is competent adjacent.
Who knows, maybe the disappearance of Imogen Savona is linked to Peter’s and the countless others Helga claims belong to The Paragon Phantom.
“This is where most of the activity seems to take place,” she says. “And where you’ll be sleeping for the duration of your stay.”
We’re standing in what’s essentially the honeymoon suite.
There’s an enormous carved mahogany four-poster bed in the centre of the room, and above it, the most elaborate chandelier I’ve seen outside of a National Trust property.
A collection of French cabriole?style settees is arranged beside that.
An intricate gilt-framed mirror hangs on the wall, and a huge dressing table and matching chair, which will double as my studio desk tonight, rests opposite that.