6. Dead Men Tell No Tales
six
Dead Men Tell No Tales
One Hundred and Forty-Two Minutes Before I Die (Approximately)
“Good evening detectives and sleuthers. Gary Runcorn here, recording live from my temporary studio at the somewhat stormy seaside location of The Paragon Hotel in Cornwall with what might just be the final episode of Unalive on Air. You see, the producers have frankly had enough of yours truly, and have given me the old heave ho. However, I’m hoping tonight’s programme might change all of that.
“I have what I think is a killer—pun intended—new case for you. A case that I’m titling ‘The Missing Actress.’
“Those of you over a certain age will no doubt remember the wildly popular and hilarious TV show Peggy in the Middle, and we all remember about thirty years ago when its lead actress, Imogen Savona, mysteriously vanished off the face of the planet. It’s been widely reported that on one of her nightly walks, Imogen slipped and fell from the cliff top into Helzephron Bay below the hotel, and that her body had been washed out on the tide and lost to the Atlantic Ocean.
“Well, I’ve been investigating this disappearance, and I believe we are looking at something a lot more sinister than an accidental midnight stumble. We could be looking at kidnapping. Possibly manslaughter. Maybe even murder.
“Over the next two hours, I’m going to walk you through what I’ve uncovered so far. Without mentioning names, I’ll detail who I believe are the key players and suspects, and pave the way for what I hope will be the continuation of Unalive on Air.
“But I have a plea for you. If you like this episode and want me to carry on looking into this case and others, please, by all means write in to the station and . . . I won’t say beg, but I also won’t not say it .
. . beg my bosses to keep me on. This gig means the world to me.
I don’t entirely know how to express that in words, but I’d love to keep doing it for the foreseeable.
“Right, now, let me get to it. Jean Johnson, or as we’ve all come to know and love her, Imogen Savona’s last days were spent at the this very hotel. In fact, I’m sitting in the exact room she was last seen alive in.
Here’s what I know so far . . .”
We’re seven days into September, barely out of summer, but from the storm brewing just beyond my grand windows, one would be forgiven for thinking we were in the murkiest, bleakest depths of mid-winter.
Wind howls through every crack and cranny of the one-hundred-and-twenty?six-year-old hotel, rending the air with a torrent of ear-splitting whistles. It sounds like a gang of toddlers that have discovered an unguarded cupboard of recorders.
Leaves and branches of the ancient trees planted below my room whip the panes, the sounds indistinguishable from the rain lashing against the glass.
And beyond the deluge of typical English summertime, there’s only darkness.
The midnight—well, two a.m.—pitch blackness made even blacker by the storm.
Occasionally, every thirty seconds or thereabouts, flashes of sheet lightning illuminate the bay of Helzephron, rewarding me with fractional glimpses into the world beyond The Paragon.
It looks like an oil painting, but one where someone has taken a mutinous finger to wet paint and swirled the charcoal of the sea into the charcoal of the sky, adding curves and destroying any order.
Thankfully, the thunder had waited until the end of my recording before making its presence known. Though, not gonna lie, it definitely would’ve added some theatrics to tonight’s episode.
The hotel’s Wi-Fi has since died a death, so I can’t check my emails, but I’m willing to bet my first ExorSquad pay cheque there’s a message waiting in my inbox from Barry asking me, “What the fuck was that?”
I also wonder how long it’ll take Helzephron police station and Sergeant Davies to contact me. I didn’t name any names, but with a little digging, it would be easy for anyone to identify him as one of my potential perps.
Now he can either choose to work with me and help figure out what really happened to Imogen—thirty years too late—or maybe I’ll end up taking him down. If not for murder, then for not doing his damn job properly.
And perhaps I should feel a little worried about the other suspects I unnamed. All of whom are still living, and at least one of them is capable of killing.
But really . . . what have I got left to lose?
No career, shitty flat, no romantic partner, no real hobbies except poking my nose into other people’s business and listening to the sound of my own voice.
In all fairness, I should just get a life. But where do I begin with that? I can’t even be fucked to have a shower.
I’ll do it tomorrow. Even better, I’ll have a luxury bath in that clawfoot tub. I’ll shave my beard off, trim my moustache, book myself in for a haircut, and get my life back in order. Sort my shit out. If Swindon Sounds doesn’t renew my contract, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .
I’ll start my own podcast. Or perhaps I’ll apply for something at another station. I could move to a bigger city. Liverpool, Manchester, Glasgow, anywhere. It’s not as though I have any sentimental ties to Wiltshire. It’s only my childhood home. Nowhere special.
I really, really would like to figure out what happened to Imogen, even if I no longer have a platform to air those findings. A few more days here at The Paragon, couple of weeks tops, and I’m sure I’ll crack it.
And then, a national hero. A medal of . . . doing something really awesome for the country. An O- or CBE, a knighthood maybe. I’ll have my pick of presenting jobs. Folk’ll beg me to appear on their stations.
The honeymoon suite’s mattress is sumptuously soft, and the sheets crisp and fresh. And any second now I’m going to hop off the bed and change into my PJs. Any . . . second . . . now . . .
Helga mentioned that Franny Driscoll, a.k.a.
suspect number two, starts her shift at six in the morning, so my alarm’s set for five.
My plan is to wake up refreshed and chipper, cleanse my filthy body, have a quick chat with the housekeeper, and then grab some breakfast when the dining hall opens at seven.
If I can confidently place her at the scene when Imogen disappeared, she’ll bump right up to my number one suspect spot.
Right, I’m going to change into my pyjamas. I’m gonna do it.
Any time now would be good . . .
Get up, Gary, you lazy sack of biscuits. Get changed.
“Gaaarry.” The voice is a whisper, and it definitely didn’t come from me. I don’t think.
No. Wind whipping through the cracks in the building’s century?old mortar, probably.
I open my eyes. When had I closed them? I haven’t even taken my glasses off yet.
Maybe it had been me. Maybe I talked in my sleep? I sit up. The lamps are still on, my laptop still blinking its standby light at me, and I’m still alone.
Definitely wind, then.
Instead of hauling myself up and getting ready for bed like I should, I unzip my ExorSquad coveralls and slide down on top of the sheets once more, but the millisecond my head hits the pillow I hear it again.
“Gaaaarrrryy.”
Okay, now I’m awake.
I can’t quite pinpoint where the sound originated from, and I’m well versed in cases of voice reverberation. I’m also very aware that fatigue and stress can often trigger auditory hallucinations, and there’s an extremely likely possibility that’s what’s happening right now.
I’m probably the most stressed I’ve ever been. In fact, just the other day I found an entire chunk of grey hairs sprouting from my temple.
That has to be it. I’m a loser. Or I’m losing my mind.
Can’t wait to find out which.
The lamp beside me switches itself off, plunging the suite into abject darkness.
Power cut?
But the LED on my laptop continues blinking, so if it is a power cut, it’s isolated to this part of the room.
I flick the lamp switch on and off, and nothing happens.
Maybe an electrical surge blew the bulb.
I try the other side, and for a split second, I think it worked.
The room is illuminated, but a moment later, I’m pitched back into darkness.
Lightning blinks a few more times, throwing lanky, disfigured shadows across the antique furniture.
Yet by the time my eyes adapt to the brightness, I’m once more swimming in endless nighttime.
Something creaks nearby. A floorboard? Is someone in here with me?
“Hello?” I say. My voice comes out squeakier than I intended. “Helga?” Fuck, is it . . . “Franny?”
No answer.
A clap of thunder directly overhead rumbles through the building, shaking the bed, shaking the bedside tables, and my equipment on the dressing table.
I blink hard, hold my eyes closed for a few seconds, and will them to adjust to the lack of light.
My microphone falls onto its side, and a jingling noise rings through the darkness.
It sounds like someone’s carrying a tray of drinks into the room, like glasses knocking against glasses, or like wind chimes, or like . . .
Above me the humongous antique chandelier rattles, the crystal charms clunking together.
“An earthquake?” Is that what this is? Should I crouch under the desk?
I hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but I’m less in control of my thoughts and actions than I realised.
What was sheet lightning fifteen minutes ago, has turned into fork. Outside the window, electric whip cracks cleave the sky in two. It’s on the horizon, out at sea, swatting fishing boats and lighthouses, until it’s not.
Until it’s right outside my room, dangerously close to zapping the trees below.
If one of those goes, it’ll take out the entire west wing of the hotel. And yet, my self?preservation skills seem to be somewhat lacking, and by that I mean entirely non?existent, as I climb off the mattress, stroll over to the closest window, and press my face against the glass.
An earthquake in Britain. What are the chances?