25. Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road? #2
“No. I mean, maybe, but he wasn’t that type of guy. He knew what he was getting into when we got together. I explained I might have to do kissing or more explicit scenes, and he’d just say, ‘Okay, let’s do some run-through practices.’”
Josh looks up from his device. “TMI.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say, and hold my hand out for Josh’s phone. He hands it over with a roll of his eyes.
“What are you looking up now?” he asks, leaning over the screen.
“Two things . . .” I reply, and I type Peggy on the Left into the search bar of a well?known film and TV database. I scroll down to the cast. There’s a very glamourous photo of Jeanie, and under that . . .
“Thought so.”
“Thought what?” Josh asks.
I don’t bother answering him. “And the next thing I need to do is send an email.” I type as quickly as I can, then I hand the phone to Josh. “Read that back to me, please.”
“Dear Police Constable Zhou,” he begins.
“My name is Gary Runcorn, and I run a little podcast called Unalive on Air. You may have listened to an episode or two. Three weeks ago, I was murdered at The Paragon Hotel, Helzephron. You probably still have my blood on the bottom of your boots. I know it seems implausible, impossible even, but I am typing this email through a spectral iPhone eight, and I’m hoping against all odds we can set up a meeting between you and me to talk about not only my murder, but the murders of Pixie Maynard, Trystan Retallack, Josh Little, Stove MacLeod, Camille Ceil, and of course, Jean Johnson.
“Please let me know if there’s a possibility of this, and when would be the best time for you. You may already have guessed, but my schedule is wide open. Best wishes, Gary. PS, bring a Ouija board. How’s that?”
“Good,” I say. “You can press send.”
He does.
“Thank you. Let me know when she responds.”
“Okay,” he says, and then he simply floats off.
“I’ve just got one more thing I must do before we meet with Jazmin,” I say to Jeanie.
She raises a curious eyebrow.
“I need to go out to Enys Marow and speak with Magnus.”
The journey through the water to reach the tiny island takes only ten minutes, and it’s not until I clamber-float up the rock face that I see him. As though he hadn’t been there all along. As though he’d arrived precisely when I did.
A naked man stands at the peak of the summit. He’s tall. I would guess at least six?eight or six-nine. He has silky black hair that reaches just past his shoulder blades, like some hunk from a dark ’80s fantasy movie. His olive skin is oiled, or wet, and his arse is very, very pert.
He’s facing away from me for some reason, and I’m kinda thankful for it.
“Gary Runcorn of flat five D, two Heather Mews, Swindon. Ex-employee of Swindon Sounds radio station. Exed-employee of ExorSquad ghost extraction services. Son of Barbara and Colin Runcorn. Grandson of Sacha Runcorn and some dude she met on a train one night, and yes, it was fully consensual, and yes, a rollicking good time was had by all.”
“Um . . .” I reply.
“Why have you come to see me? A foolish mistake. Don’t you know that Enys Marow means . . . dun dun dun . . . dead island?”
I can’t work out his accent. New Zealand?
“Yeah, I already knew that,” I say. “I wanted to—”
“Oh, so you know everything, do you? Tell me then, Mr Genius, if you’re so clever. Why do you look like the ocean?”
“Uh . . .” Is he for real? “Because . . . you’re facing the wrong way?”
Magnus spins around, and my eyes are immediately drawn downwards. “Ah, yes. That’s much better, actually. How can I help?”
“Well, I . . . um, I . . . what I . . .” But he’s so naked, and things are flapping in the sea breeze. It’s very difficult to remember why I even came out here.
“Can you stop staring at my willy?”
“I’m so sorry.” I place my palm in front of my face, but it seems that whichever way I hold it, the flapping is still visible.
“Would it help if I put some clothes on?” he finally says with a huff.
“Yes, please. If you can.”
“What century would you like?” he asks. “For my attire . . .”
“Whatever you feel most comfortable in,” I reply.
“Thank you for asking. Nobody ever asks. I’m rather fond of the Jacobean period myself.
” A moment later Magnus is standing in front of me in some kind of floral fitted shirt, balloon-type pantaloons, tights, buckled heels, a one-shouldered cape, and a thin, whippy walking stick.
Soooooo much more distracting than the tallywhacker being out on display.
“Thanks? I like your shirt thing. Doublet.” Wow, that word just popped into my head from nowhere, almost as though it was placed there.
Magnus swishes left and right, showing his clothes off from different angles. “So?”
“So?”
“What have you come here to ask me? You only have a certain number of questions.”
“Oh, right.” I want to ask how many questions I have, but I don’t want to waste any by asking that.
“One thousand!” he announces.
“One thousand questions?” Damn, I didn’t mean to do that.
“Nine hundred and ninety-nine now.”
Okay, I can see why Trystan and the gang don’t like him hanging around with them too often.
“What’s your second question?” he asks.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Magnus Enys Marow. I’m a Sagittarius. I enjoy taking long walks on the beach, blackberry picking, and pumpkin spice lattes. My hobbies include astrology and tropical cyclones.”
Inwardly, I puff out a very lengthy sigh.
“What do you know about the murders that have been happening in The Paragon over the past forty years? Who’s doing them?”
“Two questions. Bold. I know everything about anything.”
“So, who’s the killer? Is it you?”
Magnus puts a hand to his chest. “Fucking ouch. That’s not very nice. No, it’s not me, but I know who it is.”
“Who, then?”