“A Scooby-Doo costume?” I cried.
“Fancy dress, innit?”
“Where? At Zizzi?”
“Oh, smeg, sorry Dee, forgot about dinner. We’ll go next weekend.”
“How much did that cost you?”
“What?”
“How much of my money did you spend on a Scooby-Doo costume?”
It was then that I realised I had had enough. I could no longer live with somebody who still behaved like a student, not now that we were in our thirties. It was fine when we were younger and being in debt was a rite of passage, but now our university friends were buying houses, planning families and taking up gardening. Gareth was still going to the pub every Friday and filling the house with stoned trainee teachers every Saturday.
I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment that stealing a traffic cone lost its appeal, but it had been a long time ago. Yet our spare room gained a road sign on a fortnightly basis.
Letting go was excruciating, like waxing a tender bikini line really, really slowly. It was difficult to say goodbye to somebody loyal, kind and funny. But perhaps in time, I would be able to find myself somebody loyal, kind and funny who also had a bit of oomph.
Right now, having just ended the marriage, I was looking forward to some time alone. Just me, a new laptop and a bunch of fictional characters who knew how to use a washing machine.
Nevertheless, as I neared the farmhouse, I found myself idly fantasising about stumbling upon the group of friends with whom Gareth was staying — fate, telling us that we should stay together, telling him to grow up, get a job, and start greeting Saturdays without a hangover.
I frowned. I remembered that it was Saturday, therefore any chance encounters with Gareth would involve him groaning, demanding aspirin and then going back to sleep. He was hardly anybody’s knight in shining armour.
Finally, I reached the gate of the farmhouse. It was made from varnished wood, but the glaze was flaking off like a skin disease. I got bad vibes, but put them down to being in a particularly jumpy mood. Even the nicest of fences look sinister when you’ve just seen a dead body.
Still, it was with trepidation that I ventured up the driveway. Who knew what I might find inside this house?
Anxiously, I rang the doorbell. I didn’t hear it ring, so when nobody answered, I knocked. Then, I panicked that I was being rude, so left it quite some time before knocking again.
There was no answer. In my frustration, I kicked a boulder. “Aghh!” I screamed. Now I was frustrated and had a bruised toe.
The owners couldn’t be out! Did they not know how far I’d walked? Did they not know about the cold that was biting away at my bones? Did they not realise how urgently I needed to use their phone?
I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t begin another long, freezing cold journey towards another uncertain destination. This household had to be at home.
Cautiously, I walked around to the back of the house. Something clucked at me. “You shouldn’t be here!” said the cautionary glare of a chicken. Its left eye was wrinkled, like the eye of a bird with great experience and wisdom.
I considered going back to the road. No! I will not be stopped by a chicken. I continued following the path until I got to a wooden door at the back of the house. I knocked, optimistically.
It was then that I noticed that a window was open. I peered in. It looked to be a window into some sort of utility room.
Was I going to do it? Was I going to climb into somebody else’s home? As I looked around the back garden, at the discerning chickens and a judgemental duck, I realised that I was already trespassing.
I needed to get to a phone. Lives might depend on it. For all I knew, the killer could strike again. I scrambled in through the window, shouting “Hello?” repeatedly, to demonstrate my intention to seek permission, just in case there was somebody at home.
When, after some moments, nobody replied, I made my way over to the doorway leading to the rest of the house, and followed it into a wide hall. To my delight, there on a small table was a telephone. In fact, the telephone had its own easy chair. It was as if I was meant to use it.
I sat down, adrenaline pumping, planning what I would say to the police. However, just as I was about to call 999, a horrible realisation hit me. If I called the police from here, then they would know I’d been in this house, and if they knew I’d been in this house, they might find out that I climbed in through a window, and if they found out I climbed in through a window, they might find out that I was in here without permission.
In my exhausted and overwrought state, I failed to comprehend that discovering a body, wading through treacherous waters and walking for hours might be considered mitigating circumstances.
In my mind, there was only one possible course of action — I would have to call Gareth. His was the only phone number that I knew off by heart. Before I even realised I’d made a decision, I found myself punching my estranged husband’s number into the phone.
“Hello?” he asked, sounding both suspicious and excited. I actually loved his deep, expressive voice and now found its familiarity reassuring. Only Gareth could make answering a call from an unknown number sound like the pivotal moment in a slasher movie.
“Gareth, it’s me.”
“What do you want?”
Ah, he’s obviously still annoyed with me about kicking him out. Probably to be expected. “I need you to come and collect me from a farmhouse.”
“Not enjoying the writers’ retreat then?”
“You could say that.”
“What happened to ‘I want to be independent, Gareth’?” he asked, mimicking my voice, badly.
“Just come and get me.”
“‘I want to take my own car, Gareth!’” he continued.
“Please, just come ...”
“What happened to ‘We have to get used to being apart’?”
“I witnessed a murder, Gareth!”
“Yeah, funny Dee.”
“Gareth ...” A rare sob escaped from my lungs.
“Fark!” remarked Gareth. “You’re not pulling my leg!”
“I wish I was.”
“I’m on my way. What’s the postcode?”
“I ... I don’t know!”
“Well, have you got the instructions they sent you?”
“I’m not at Pompomberry House, I’m at a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.”
“Why? And what’s wrong with your own car?”
“Somebody sabotaged the tyres.”
“Sabotaged?”
“I’ll tell you later, please just come!”
“Okay, turn your phone on, and go to maps.”
“I can’t! My battery got stolen.”
“What?”
“That place is sick, Gareth. Even the seagulls are diseased.”
“Can’t you ask somebody where you are?”
“I’m alone. I climbed in through the window.”
“Jesus, Dee! Well, can you see any post?”
“Post? Yes, actually, there’s a whole stack of post here on the table.”
“Anything tell you where you are?”
“Yes! Gareth, I’m at Gulls Reach Farm!” My triumphant moment was followed by a feeling of terror. Why were there seagulls in the address?
“Okay ... All right, I’ve found it, I think. North coast, right?”
“Yes!”
“I’ll be right there!” I thought he’d hung up the phone when suddenly he asked, “Dee?”
“Yeah?”
“You are safe, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I reassured him.
“Okay, I’m on my way.”
I looked out of the window as a pair of gulls landed on a broken fence, and I shivered. Was I safe? Or was this a game of cat and mouse, where I was the mouse and the cat was large, feathery and very hungry?
* * *
It was raining again. Large drops of pearlescent water sloshed down on the lumpy driveway, clustering in large pools of murky sl
udge. I watched from the safety of the lounge at Gulls Reach, as the wind attacked trees. They danced to its tune, blowing into arches and then bouncing back.
I watched the road, longing to see Gareth’s blue Golf appear. I longed to see Gareth even more. I was cold, battered and frightened. I needed his lanky arms around me.
It was peculiar. Every Saturday I had wanted my husband’s arms around me, and every Saturday he had disappointed me by emerging from slumber at about three in the afternoon, and an hour later, helping himself to a beer. But not today.
When all it took was crossing the room, he’d failed to rise to the challenge, yet when required to drive across Cornwall on a wild, stormy afternoon, he was quick to oblige.
Or was he? I stared out the window, my newly restored faith evaporating. It felt as if I’d been waiting for hours. Where was he? Perhaps he had gone back to sleep, or had started on Saturday night’s booze and forgotten all about me.
I heard a cry.
Fark me backwards!
I spun around and saw a lady! There was a lady sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room! How long had she been there? She was emaciated and pale. Even now that I knew she was there, she blended into the cream chair, partially hidden by the shadows.
Creeping forward, I strained to look at her. She was old — very old. She had long, pure white hair woven into a plait that hung down over her shoulder, like a thick rope. Her eyes, which stared in my direction, were crusty and lined with yellow gunge. A long, flowing white cotton gown enveloped her almost down to the ground. A pair of skeletal ankles dangled down into large, flipper-like slippers.
“I’m terribly sorry,” I began.
She just gawped at me.
“I did knock. And I rang the bell.”
She continued to stare, mouth open.
“I needed to call the police, you see. I mean, I realise that I didn’t call the police, but that’s because I didn’t want them to think that I was trespassing.”
She yawned, loudly. Then sat, opening and closing her mouth but saying nothing. She had a large, aristocratic nose and lacked teeth. I felt the urge to offer her a cup of tea.
“I’m Dee,” I told her.
Still, there was no response. I studied her haggard face, trying to work out whether she was deaf, dumb or suffering from dementia. There was a great sadness about her. I hoped she wasn’t stuck here alone.
Suddenly, I heard a key in the back door. I panicked. I grabbed the clasps on the nearest window frame and tugged it open. Just as I did so, I saw a blue Golf pulling up outside.
Quickly, I climbed up onto the coffee table, and leapt through the window. I landed awkwardly on my ankle. The door of Gareth’s car opened.
“Get back in the car!” I screamed.
“What’s going on?”
“Get back in the car!” I dived into the passenger seat. “Drive, Gareth! Drive!”
Chapter 6
“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” asked Gareth.
He had one of those faces you couldn’t help but like. Even the frustrating uselessness he’d demonstrated over the last few months was not enough to turn me off that face. He was good-looking without being intimidatingly sizzling. The overall face was jolly and kind looking, with a wide nose and big ears. He had large earnest blue eyes and when he laughed, which he did a lot, they twinkled. I had loved his scruffy warm brown hair, which grew in awkward tufts. I used to appreciate his intermittent gruff stubble, though now I saw it as a painful reminder of his sloth.
“Why have we pulled in by the side of the road?”
“Because it doesn’t sound as though the answer is going to be something I’ll want to hear whilst in charge of a vehicle.”
“Can I borrow your phone?”
“What for?”
“To call the police.”
“What is going on?”
So, I began telling him. I told him about the seagull, the prediction in the hat, the deflated tyres and the figure in the dark. Then, the next day, the scream, discovering Biff’s body, looking for the killer, discovering that my phone battery was missing, Dawn and Montgomery’s stupid plan ...
“That’s insane. They’re making themselves accessories to murder!”
“Have you not been listening to what I’ve been saying? These people are insane!”
“But it always seemed like such a lovely forum ...”
“Well not these five. One of them thinks that a pig falling off a cliff is a realistic storyline, another thinks that ‘Gurney’ is an inspired response to ‘Journey’, another thinks that I would be interested in Rafe Maddocks ...”
“Slow down, Dee. Now who’s this Rafe Maddocks again?”
“The one who thinks everybody fancies him.”
“So two people think you fancy Rafe?”
“Gareth! Somebody has been murdered! Now’s not the time to be jealous.”
“All right. Here, use my phone.”
“Thank you.”
As I called 999, I wondered what I was going to say. Although I didn’t really like any of the writers, I felt slightly bad about reporting them to the police. On the other hand, there was a dangerous killer out there who had to be stopped. In addition to which, if I didn’t talk to the police, Biff’s family and friends might never know what happened to him.
“Police!” I demanded. I suddenly realised that I wasn’t tongue-tied after all. “There’s been a murder at Pompomberry House. Pom-pom-berry. It’s in North Cornwall.” And so, I told them all about Biff. Words hurried up my throat, creating a bottleneck in my mouth, as I stumbled to get them out. The sooner the police got to the island, the more chance they had of recovering Biff’s body and determining whatever had happened to him.
* * *
The officers were an odd pair. The older one was male, white and uptight-looking. He had thin grey hair in a side parting and was exceptionally lean for a man of his age. The young one was a curvaceous black woman with masses of hair. Even her police uniform failed to diminish the wild and beautiful aura created by her corkscrew curls, sparkling eyes and insanely full lips.
We’d been at Gareth’s mate Jack’s house for over an hour when the police arrived. Jack courteously left the room, but Gareth didn’t move. He sat beside me, holding my hand in a firm and reassuring manner.
“We believe we might have found the house,” explained the male officer, whose title was D.I. Clive Taylor.
“Might have found the house. What are you talking about?”
“Well, we’ve got no record of a Pompomberry House on our system.”
“What?”
“However, there is a house on an island near Strawberry Meadow. It’s known by a variety of different names.”
Gareth interrupted, “If it was full of insane writers, then it was the right place.”
“Well, that’s the thing — there was nobody there.”
“What?” I demanded.
“We found your car, in the car park.”
“Well then, you must have been at the right place. My car was undriveable. Somebody let the air out of the tyres.”
The officers exchanged concerned expressions. “There was nothing wrong with the tyres,” explained D.I. Taylor, looking down at me.
“When we found it,” added D.I. Samantha Forrester, with kinder eyes.
I looked at Gareth, puzzled. “How can that be?” I asked him.
“Obviously, somebody didn’t want the police to know that your tyres had been sabotaged,” he said, squeezing my hand and reassuring me that I wasn’t going mad.
“The others must have been too afraid to stay,” I thought. “Understandable after what happened to Biff.”
“Do you have any of their names?” asked Taylor.
“Yes, all of them!” I said. At least I could be of some help.
Taylor removed a notepad from his pocket.
“Montgomery Lowe, Danger Smith ...”
He stopped scribbling and looked up.
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“That’s his name, Danger.”
Taylor looked to Forrester and rolled his eyes.
Forrester asked, “Did these people use their real names, or their pen names?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t think of that.”
Taylor rolled his eyes again. I was beginning to take a distinct dislike to the guy.
“You can contact them all through the forum though. They’re on there all the time.”
“Mrs Whittaker,” began Taylor, in the most condescending tone I’d ever had the misfortune to hear, “you say there has been a murder, but we have no suspects, no victim, and no evidence that a crime has even taken place.”
“There is a victim! He’s called Biff.”
“Biff?”
“Yes, that’s right — Biff. And I think he was already in some kind of trouble because he apologised to me last night, and then when I queried it, he said it didn’t matter.”
“Biff what?” asked Taylor, getting out his pen once again.
“I ... I don’t know.”
“If you’re wasting police time ...” he began, looking angry.
Forrester interrupted, “The ashes were still warm in the fireplace. We know that someone had been there.”
“Did you check the kitchen?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Taylor. “But we didn’t find anything.”
“But there was blood everywhere! Did you use your special lights for picking up blood?”
“I know how to do my job Mrs Whittaker!”
“You have to go back! Send a forensic team to the kitchen! I’m telling you — they’ll find blood! You need to act fast — one of the key witnesses has tickets to Spain!”
“Mrs Whittaker, all we have is your word that a crime even took place. You’ve come to us with names such as ‘Biff’ and ‘Danger’, and no real information to identify the people you say you saw on the island.”
“I’m not saying I saw these people. I did see these people. They’re real writers. I’ve got their books on my Kindle.”
“Well, perhaps you should spend a little less time reading books, Mrs Whittaker.”
* * *
I was livid. Since when did reading books lessen one’s credibility as a witness? Surely being a bookworm shows intellect! Certainly being a writer demonstrates attention to detail!
Pompomberry House Page 9