As the two performers exchanged throws and arm locks, Mason began to quiz Wheeler more thoroughly.
‘So how does it work here? The wrestlers get paid a flat fee per show, or a cut of the takings?’
‘Depends who they are to be honest, miss – er, Inspector. The bigger names like Samson out there get paid a lot more, and they take a bigger cut of their merchandise sales as well.’
‘So was Victor Schultz a big name?’
‘Please, Inspector, call him Valiant – he hated it when anyone used his real name. Most of the lads here didn’t even know it.’
‘Okay, okay, have it your way – was Valiant a big name?’
Wheeler looked pained.
‘He… used to be. These days he is – was – a bit of a mess to be honest. Drink, drugs, the lot. He was virtually a down-and-out when Mr Penman found him. He’d been with us for three months, and we were almost like a rehab clinic for him; he’d made such an improvement, lost so much weight. It’s just a shame his body couldn’t get over that lifetime of abuse, I suppose.’
‘Don’t all the wrestlers do drugs? I thought they all took steroids.’
Wheeler smiled proudly. ‘If you’ll forgive me Inspector, that’s a bit of an outdated stereotype. We run things a bit differently here. I can’t vouch for what the lads do in their own time of course, but they certainly get a hounding from me if I think they’re into any of that rubbish, and I won’t tolerate it on the premises at any of our shows or training sessions. Most of them have full-time jobs to hold down anyway, so they can’t be dosing themselves up on painkillers or snorting coke after every show!’
‘But Valiant was a drug user, you say?’
Abruptly, the big man in the cowboy hat leaned across from his nearby table to interrupt.
‘I’ll tell y’all about Vic Valiant. The guy was a fucking piece of shit.’ His voice was a thick Texan drawl, perfectly complementing his headgear. He was wearing a garish cream suit and seemed to be about middle-aged, maybe in his fifties, with a bulbous head that bulged from his shirt collar like an overfilled water balloon. His round, red face, whose centrepiece was an impressive horseshoe moustache, turned a deeper crimson with each angry word he spat. ‘Time was he was a great wrestler,’ – he pronounced it ‘wrassler’ – ‘before the drink and drugs caught up with him. But don’t let those act as excuses – Vic Valiant was no good before he even touched any of that stuff. Anyways, I’m sorry to intrude on y’all’s conversation… I just speak my mind, know what I mean?’
Mason effortlessly switched her attention to the newcomer.
‘Sir, are you aware that Mr Valiant passed away on Friday night?’
‘Of course I’m aware. I was here to scout his ass!’
Mason looked confused.
‘But I thought –’
‘Look, personal feelings don’t mean shit in this business – my boss tells me I gotta go watch Vic Valiant, then I gotta go do it. Real reason I’m here is to watch The Strongman, mind you.’ He gestured towards the ring, where Samson was shouting in simulated pain as The Necromancer tightened a nerve hold on his shoulder.
‘Well sir, we’re police officers investigating his death, so if you think anyone had a reason to hold a grudge against him –’
Wheeler cut in. ‘What? Are you saying he was murdered?’
He looked shocked, but the American just smiled and answered before Mason could. ‘Seems that way, kid – doesn’t take three cops to investigate a heart attack.’
Sigurdsson decided that this was his opportunity to step in; Mason had dug herself a hole and he wanted her to know that he was here to help her, not to tip dirt onto her head. He addressed Wheeler.
‘We’re just here to explore every possibility. We’ll give everyone a full update when we meet after the show.’ He turned to face the Texan. ‘What’s your name, sir?’
‘Arn Adams, talent scout with the SWA,’ he replied.
‘Well Mr Adams, we’d appreciate it if you could come along to the debrief too.’
The red-faced man grimaced before responding. ‘Okay, but it best not go on too late, ah’ve got a plane to catch early tomorrow.’
He retreated sulkily to his seat and Sigurdsson again addressed Wheeler.
‘What’s the SWA?’\
‘Southern Wrestling Alliance. Both Valiant and Samson were on their books quite a few years back. I’m told Samson left when he got a lucrative contract in Japan… it obviously didn’t work out too well for him.’ He smiled wryly, glancing around at their squalid surroundings as the thud of a huge powerslam from The Strongman seemed to shake the entire nightclub.
Sigurdsson carried on quizzing Wheeler, aware that Mason was scowling at him from across the table. Mitchell still hadn’t spoken a single word.
The match ended comically when the referee was ‘knocked unconscious’ after Samson accidentally hurled his opponent right into him. Tall Paul seized the opportunity and snaked into the ring, carrying the ring bell and preparing to clobber Samson with it from behind, only for the big man to see it coming and sidestep neatly, the dazed Necromancer stumbling straight into the blow. As the audience roared once again, the giant stood distraught in the centre of the ring, hands clasped to his head as he realised his blunder, before Samson unceremoniously tossed him out through the ropes. The referee awoke just in time to make the three-count as the crowd favourite pinned his prone opponent, sending the audience into raptures.
The show ended with Samson celebrating, Penman admonishing his bodyguard as they exited together, and The Necromancer rather creepily sitting bolt upright and simply staring at the man who had vanquished him before stalking out of the venue.
It was all rather more polished and entertaining than Sigurdsson had expected.
‘So, what did you think?’ Wheeler asked, but doubts seemed to have clouded his thoughts, and he no longer smiled at them.
Mason made no reply, so Sigurdsson said something complimentary, before asking whether they could now head down to the backstage area.
‘Yes, of course. Some of the lads will be posing for photos with the fans afterwards, and Mr Penman will want me to take care of that, so if you don’t mind, I’ll hand you over to the boss?’
Wheeler led them, along with the overbearing figure of Arn Adams, through a side door from the VIP area and down more stairs, past a set of toilets. The smell of sweat became increasingly pungent as they descended – not merely the nightclub’s odour of a warm room full of people, but the concentrated stink of strenuous physical exertion. Eventually they reached a door leading to some sort of office. A corridor led off to their right and at its end they could see a number of wrestlers milling about in a staff room of some sort, presumably acting as a makeshift dressing room. Wheeler gestured for them to enter the office, and made his excuses before hurrying away along the corridor towards the performers.
Inside the small room, presumably designed for occupation by the nightclub manager, they found Howard Penman waiting for them.
His corpulent frame was squeezed uncomfortably into an office chair on the other side of a messy desk, and he welcomed them with a wide smile as though they were long-lost relatives. He still seemed to be breathing heavily, and repeatedly dabbed at the perspiration sheening his brow.
‘Hello,