The Pen is Mightier Than the Nerd (Part two)

Find enclosed part two of ‘The Pen is Mightier Than the Nerd’.

In this bit I’m working out why my amateur detective Mervyn Stone should NOT get arrested while I’m actually tweeting.  I’m hoping that during that process I don’t actually convince myself that there’s no way he’s innocent and keep him in a cell for the rest of the story.  That would have been awkward.

I also realised, as I was writing, that the bedroom of the house/flat (I never quite decided what it was, and ended up surrendering and making it a maisonette)  should have been ransacked, and Mervyn didn’t notice.  I smoothed this over by throwing in an assumption that Alistair Guffin looks like the kind of person who leaves rooms looking like they’ve been ransacked.

Lengthy, tedious police interrogations were, I found, a great way for me to stop tweeting for several hours and go and have lunch/a sleep/a life.


Well I’m out.

They had my pee back from the pee experts, and they’ve discovered I’d been drugged.

So that explains my thick head and my spontaneous snooze in the middle of a crime scene.

In reply to @mikegbell: @mervynstone you think you were drugged? Could be why you nodded off again

@mikegbell Good call there, Mike. Spot on.

DI Wells obviously didn’t like me very much. He kept calling the furnishings in the interrogation room ‘space’ this and ‘space’ that.

I know when someone was being sarcastic.

He wasn’t best pleased when I asked if he could extinguish his space cigarette in his space ashtray, because I didn’t want to breath his second-hand space smoke.

Anyway, they really wanted to believe that I’d caved in Alistair’s head. They so wanted the evidence to add up. But it didn’t.

They didn’t believe my story, but they had so many unanswered questions.

They don’t know why I would kill Alistair, go through the drawers upstairs, steal money and valuables, take them away and then return and drug myself.

They don’t know how I would burgle a house so very carefully, leaving no finger prints on the drawers yet bludgeon Alistair to death in such a graphic way, not even bothering to use gloves.

They had a theory that I was a surprised burglar, returning for my second haul, and that Alistair’s death was a moment of blind panic…

Which sounded plausible enough, if it wasn’t for the drugs.

So they theorised that I’d drunk something in Alistair’s flat to calm down after the murder, which just happened to have sleeping pills in.

Bloody far-fetched, but just about believable…

I asked what had been taken. It was about two hundred quid’s worth of cash, jewellery, a watch, a phone…

I said that turned the story from far-fetched to preposterous in the extreme. This pissed of Inspector Wells a tad.

He didn’t like me at all.

He frowned, his eyebrows advancing threateningly on his moustache, like two policemen kettling a hippy.

And he asked me why it was preposterous.

I told them. I’m Mervyn Stone, I said. I spend my sad little life rubbing shoulders with these fans.

I’m besieged by collectors for bits of old tat I’ve got in my attic. I’m practically forced at gunpoint to conduct charity auctions where old fragments of prop are sold for stupid amounts of money.

I KNOW in that room you found me in was memorabilia worth at least ten thousand pounds…The Klingon head alone was worth three hundred…

And I broke into his house to nick two hundred quid, an old Nokia and a fake rolex?

They had to concede I had a point!

Our next session in the interrogation room proved far more productive.

I’ve been asked how I knew Alistair, and the circumstances of our last meeting. That’s easy.

It was last week, at the ‘Buy the Gods!!!’ comic and retromobilia stuff ship, that Alistair owned. He’d asked me to do a signing.

So I went to his shop and signed stuff.

It was very interesting to talk about. As I recounted it, I remembered all sorts of stuff that seemed very suspicious at the time but just passed me by, because it was a very horrid shop, and I was having a miserable time.

So I’ll tell you what happened there.

But I’m tired. I’ve been drugged, locked up, and I’ve watched a twenty stone dead man being dusted for fingerprints. Not a pretty sight.

So I’ll tell you tomorrow. I’m off home to bed. ‘Night all.


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