BY THE EDITOR
This is Part 2 of a two-part article that began yesterday. Part 1 can be read here.
The situation escalated when Roger invited Bembers to his birthday party (ten years older than his actual age)—a milestone event that placed him squarely in what Bembers deemed “Bible John age territory.”
For Bembers, this was the missing key. He launched a full-scale investigation, scouring articles and podcasts for every inconsistency in Roger’s stated age.
Why would a man lie about his age unless he had something monstrous to hide?
Our resident Miss Marple was spiralling out of control. The walls of his Chiswick flat undoubtedly blossomed into a complex network of post-it notes and string, a scene straight out of A Beautiful Mind without the beautiful mind. He began talking of involving the police, framing his obsession as a civic duty. The question hung in the air: who would crack first and come clean? Him or Roger?
Poor Bembers was stuck down a Bible John/Roger Watson rabbit hole. He kept going over Roger’s articles, convinced that Roman Catholic Roger was seeking forgiveness during this lifetime.
Intervention was required.
It took a firm intervention from our Associate Editor, Sean Walsh, to pull Bembers back from the brink. Sean had to physically show him Roger’s birth certificate. The suspicious light in James’s eyes finally died, replaced by the dawning horror of a man realising he’d spent months hunting a ghost.
Sean then pointed out the truth: Bembers had been had. His favourite editor had been taking the piss out of him for months. What was needed now was a complete turnaround.
So, Sean (ex-CID) and Bembers crafted a cunning ruse. They introduced ‘Inspector Bowen from the Yard,’ who was primed to call me on a private number. I was expected to confess everything about our resident murderer, Roger Watson, AKA Bible John and apologise profusely for wasting police time now that they were involved.
I confess, I fell for it.
For all of an hour.
I was on holiday in Cornwall when the call came. There are some benefits to poor mobile reception: I saw the missed call. It arrived on a Saturday at an odd hour, and I immediately smelt a rat.
Of course, Bembers caved immediately.
Thanks, Sean.
Has Bembers learnt his lesson?
Yes, I hope so.
Therefore, let this serve as an official memorandum—and a plea:
Bembers, your dedication is never in question. But for the love of all that is holy, and before I ever leave you in charge of this magazine, you must cultivate a healthy scepticism. The next piece you read may not be from a serial killer, but from a man in Islington suggesting we replace all hedgerows with communal compost heaps. And that, in its own way, is a far more insidious threat.