Page 21 of Unalive On Air

Hell, that’s a buttload worse than “fat.”

I feel violated.

“But they weren’t related, just very close friends.” Helga places a hand on my fat shoulder. “Perhaps even childhood friends.”

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.