It was then that I noticed that the competition was due to close at the end of the week. Oh no! In the book, the killer’s motivation was to stop the leader winning. If the competition finished, there would be no motive. So a murder would have to happen during the next few days!
I studied the girls, there was a clear leader — Netta Lewis. I remembered her from a YouTube video. She had been a finalist in a pageant and answered the question, ‘What would you do if you were the prime minister?’ with the unforgettable words, ‘I would start by getting a new wife. Michelle Obama don’t know shit about shoes. I mean, say what you like about coloured women — they know how to accessorise ... usually.’ Now, she was the spokeswoman for Heart Africa, a charity that was raising money to build a medical centre in Ethiopia.
In a break from the norm, Netta had bouncy hair rather than the intensively straightened silk curtain that was so fashionable with women who had more time than sense. However, in every other way, she looked like a Baywatch star. She was bottle blonde with full, heavily glossed, red lips. On the website, you could only see her face, but I felt sure that that long, moisturised neck led to a pair of double D boobs, above a waist that left her internal organs worryingly devoid of insulation.
In second place was Amanda Kenwood. I recognised the name. She had released a tragically poor pop single last year. I remembered coming downstairs and finding Gareth mesmerised by her music video. But she wasn’t wearing a red thong-bikini now — she was wearing a cotton blouse, strategically cut to enhance her cleavage. She represented Dogs for Disabled People but was clearly uncomfortable around animals. The website contained a number of photographs of her looking decidedly disconcerted by canine creatures. In one particularly memorable shot, she cowered in fear as a poodle licked a white stripe into her orange face.
If my story came true to the letter, then Amanda would kill Netta. However, I suspected that the killer was more likely to have some connection to our book than the competition, and therefore Amanda was unlikely to actually carry out the murder. Unless the killer found a way to manipulate her ...
‘Who will kill Netta Lewis?’ was exactly the sort of question that I couldn’t answer. My first thought was ‘call Gareth’ but then I reached the less appealing conclusion that I should call the police.
* * *
As I waited for the police to arrive, I tried to get my thoughts straight. It was a very complicated situation, but I felt that I was beginning to get a grip on it.
The doorbell rang. I gulped, hoping that this meeting with the police would go better than the last.
I opened the door. Oh flaming heck! D.I. Taylor (skinny and strained) and D.I. Forrester (curvy and carefree) stood on the doorstep. Weren’t they Cornish officers?
“We meet again, Mrs Whittaker,” said D.I. Taylor, with a frown.
“Why is it you two again?” I asked.
“We’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind,” replied Taylor, clearly not actually asking permission.
I waited for one of them to ask a question but after three silent seconds had past, I blurted out, “I think somebody is going to murder Netta Lewis.”
Taylor sighed. “And who exactly is Netta Lewis?”
I spoke at the same time as Forrester. “She’s a model.” “She’s a charity rep.”
“And what makes you think she’s in danger?”
“Well, a number of things really, beginning with the pig at Durdle Door.”
“What pig?” asked Taylor, looking both baffled and dismissive at the same time.
“A pig fell off a cliff,” explained Forrester, her black eyes gleaming with a youthfulness that Taylor’s probably never had. “There was a big rescue mission.”
“And what’s that got to do with Netta Lewis?” he enquired.
“Nothing, directly. But the thing is, our anthology contains a story about a pig falling off a cliff and also the murder of a charity rep. The stories are coming true!”
“What anthology?”
“The one we wrote at the writers’ weekend. Remember? The murder you didn’t believe.”
Taylor shuffled awkwardly in his seat. “And it says to kill Netta Lewis?”
“No, it doesn’t say to kill anybody.”
“I’m not following you,” he said, gazing rudely into the air, as if he had no desire to take on board any statement I might want to make.
“It’s a story about the leader in a charity grant competition getting murdered.”
“Netta Lewis?”
“Well, it doesn’t mention her by name.”
“Then what makes you think she’s in danger?”
“She’s the obvious victim.”
“Let me get this straight. You think a model is going to be murdered, because a pig fell off a cliff?”
“No! It’s also because of the gnomes.”
“Gnomes?” he asked, not even bothering to hide a bored smirk.
“Do you mean the gnomes at Bognor Regis?” asked Forrester, smiling in a friendly way.
“Yes!”
“What gnomes?” demanded Taylor. He seemed ruffled by his junior’s superior knowledge.
Forrester explained, “A man in a dog costume took a load of gnomes down to the beach, and arranged them ...” she trailed off, realising how ridiculous she sounded.
“Arranged them ...?”
“Like a wedding,” she said, quietly.
Taylor turned to me, “Mrs Whittaker, do you realise that we have jobs to do? London is a busy place.”
“I’m trying to save you a job!” I explained. “If you don’t save Netta Lewis, you will have a murder enquiry on your hands.”
“Is that a threat?” he asked.
“No! Of course it isn’t a threat.”
“And do you have any idea who might want to kill Lewis?”
“Well, it could be Amanda Kenwood.”
“Who?”
“She’s currently coming second in the poll.”
“And why is she a suspect?”
“Because in my story, it’s the runner up who turns to murder!”
“Mrs Whittaker, you do realise that what you’re talking about is absurd. Stories don’t magically come true.”
“Not magically, no. But they are coming true — somehow.”
* * *
The officer’s words irked me for hours. ‘Stories don’t magically come true’ — of course I knew that. I didn’t believe in magic. Hell, I didn’t even believe in fate, love at first sight or karma. However, there was no disputing the fact that the stories were coming true.
Somebody was obviously staging the copycat events. Surely, if I thought hard enough, I could work out who the culprit was. There were only a handful of suspects.
The pig and the gnomes happened before the anthology was published, which meant that only six people knew of its existence.
Dawn Mann was in Spain, and I could rule myself out. That left Montgomery Lowe, Annabel Fleming, Rafe Maddocks, and Danger Smith.
Then, I realised with a shiver, that there was somebody else who might know what to expect from The Book of Most Quality Writers — Biff’s killer. The killer had managed to hide on the island straight after Biff’s death, so could easily have been hiding there beforehand. He could have been there, in the shadows, listening all along. Thinking about it made me tremble.
Mind you, had somebody with murderous tendencies been listening in on the writing exercises, it seemed unlikely that we’d have got through to Saturday without a death. Even I had felt slightly violent, and I was a pacifist. The inspirational exercise alone was massacre bait.
And why would Biff’s killer want to copy our plots? Why would any of the writers want to realise our plots? Sure, the gnomes could have been a cute publicity stunt, but hurting a pig and leaving a severed foot on the beach were not actions that would further anybody’s reputation.
Danger Smith was too principled to allow somebody he’d actually met to review his writing, I hardly saw him endo
rsing the relocation of human body parts. But perhaps, with Biff’s murdered body in front of him, stealing a foot for later use had been too tempting to resist.
It was no good. All this speculation was gaining me nothing but a sore head. I needed to get a second opinion, and I knew just the second opinion that I wanted.
No, Dee! No. You asked him to leave for a good reason. Remember the Scooby-Doo costume! Remember how indolent he is! Yes, but he has a quick brain, he’ll help you narrow down the suspects in no time! Oh, why has the murder plot happened now?
My hand hovered over my phone. I willed myself not to call him. I used areas of will I didn’t even know I had, like the determination in my little toes, the resolve in my hair follicles and the backbone in my ... er ... backbone. And even then, I almost called him.
Just as I was conjuring willpower from the mole on my left inner thigh, my phone bleeped. I jumped! Then realised that it was just an email. It’s amazing how edgy an impending murder can make you.
I opened my inbox — Annabel Fleming, again. But actually, on this occasion, Annabel Fleming might be the very person I needed to speak to. I mean, sure, she was a suspect, but she also knew the other suspects and she got on with at least one of them a lot better than I did.
Yes, she was annoying, superficial, misguided and a little stupid, but after giving it some thought, I decided she was probably one of the best of a bad lot. She would certainly be the most transparent.
If Annabel wasn’t responsible for the copycats, she might know who was, and I felt sure that it wouldn’t take very long to get the truth out of her. After all, she was my ‘BFF’.
I took a deep breath and typed, ‘Okay! Let’s do it! Let’s go for that coffee that you’ve suggested nine times.’
* * *
I smelt Annabel coming — an eclectic blend of celebrity-endorsed perfume, Pantene shampoo and ample lashings of self-confidence. I waited quietly for her to sit opposite me at the round, aluminium table, denying her the satisfaction of seeing me watch her entrance.
Before she sat down, I caught a glimpse of her outfit. She wore seamed stockings; a short, straight skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Her hair was secured with a diamanté clasp.
I’d dressed up for the occasion too — I wore my favourite red beret, combined with a fairly new t-shirt and jeans.
This particular bar would not have been my first choice, but it suited Annabel well. It was expensive and took itself far too seriously. The type of place that had television screens on the beer pumps, which played soulless fashion shows on loop. Insipid pop songs blared from speakers, featuring pop stars famous for their looks rather than their vocal range. I would have preferred somewhere more traditional and, frankly, less fluorescent. Nevertheless, I wanted Annabel to feel comfortable. Gareth had pointed out that she was more likely to be helpful if she were relaxed.
“I’m so glad we’re still friends!” she sang, moving in for a hug about which I was decidedly uncomfortable.
“The storylines in our book are coming true,” I said, arms firmly by my side.
She looked confused, as she hovered mid-air with her smooth, pink arms outstretched. “What?” she asked, softly.
“The pig, the gnomes, the foot, they’re all coming true.”
“What do you mean?” Finally, she gave up attempting to initiate physical contact and stood, watching me.
“Don’t you read the news?” I asked.
She twiddled her hair, answering my question.
“Sit down,” I suggested.
“What’s the matter?”
And so I explained the events of the previous few days, and how closely they mirrored the plots in Dawn’s, Danger’s and her own storylines.
I looked at her, with her false lashes and blend of different lipsticks. Was somebody who used three shades of eye shadow even capable of understanding the gravity of the situation?
Her horrified, almost frightened expression told me that yes, she did understand the gravity of the situation. Her lip trembled several times.
Eventually, she found the gumption to speak. “Oh good golly!” she cried.
I wondered what she’d say next, ‘This has implications of life and death’ perhaps, ‘Have you called the police?’ or maybe ‘Oh heck! A killer is amongst us!’.
Instead, “Biff’s ghost has come back to haunt us!”
What?
“I was worried that this might happen, and now it has!” she stuttered, through a mouth so heavily enhanced that it looked like two chillies mating.
“Just because you covered up his murder, doesn’t mean that he’s come back to haunt you!”
“What?” she asked, looking genuinely perplexed and perhaps a little hurt.
“You did cover up his murder, didn’t you?”
“No, of course not. That was a ridiculous plan! I left as soon as the tide went out.”
“You did?”
“Yes, Rafe too! He left with me,” she added with a moment of glee. She tried to stifle a smile but it was obvious that she still considered Rafe the prize in a particularly tough contest. When would she realise that she had been the only entrant?
“And then what happened? What did the others do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, they must have hidden the body, because the police don’t know about the murder.”
So Annabel, like me, had left the island early? There was actually a reason to respect her. Mind you, you know you’re dealing with a numpty when her saving grace is that she didn’t help to cover up a murder.
And Rafe had left too ... I wondered who decided they were going to leave. Did Annabel follow Rafe, or did Rafe follow Annabel? Remembering how her gaze used to trail around the room after him, like a lost puppy, I suspected that Rafe initiated the decision.
“Annabel, I really don’t think that we’re being haunted. There must be a more earthly explanation for this.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as a living perpetrator.”
“Perpet ...?”
“Perpetrator — it means culprit!”
“You think a living person did this?”
“Yes!”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping that you might be able to help me out there.”
“How?”
“Because you know the suspects. Until the book was published, the only people who knew about the stories were those of us on the island.”
“But why would one of us want to hurt a pig?”
“Or leave a human foot on a beach.”
“Exactly. Why would any of us do that?” she wondered.
“I don’t know, but somebody on that island must have done. It couldn’t possibly be anybody else.”
“What if somebody stole the files?”
“How? And why?” I asked. Why would anybody want to steal those stories?
Then I remembered the theft of my memory card. Perhaps the others’ stories had been stolen too. One way or another, my memory card must have ended up in the other writers’ possession, because my book was in the anthology and the only other copy was at the bottom of the sea — well, the bottom of the causeway. But had somebody else seen it first?
“Did you see a laptop when the tide went out?”
“No, why?”
“Do you know how my story ended up in the collection?”
“No, I thought you must have emailed it to them.”
“To who?”
“The editors: Dawn and Monty.”
“Who made them editors?”
“Self-appointed.”
“Naturally.”
“So you didn’t send them your story?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“In fact, I never even finished it. The version in the anthology was a first draft.”
“Oh, I wondered why you split an infinitive.”
“Split an infinitive? Annabel, the story was riddled with typos, as well as plot h
oles!”
“Was it?”
Jesus! How could she pick up on a split infinitive yet not notice all the rogue punctuation?
Getting back to the more important matter at hand: Dawn and Montgomery looked more guilty with every minute. They had stayed on the island. My story had ended up in their hands. However, with Dawn in Spain for a month, it left only ... “Montgomery!” I muttered.
“You don’t think Montgomery could have done this?” asked Annabel, sounding shocked. “He’s such a harmless old chap!”
“Well somebody did.”
Suddenly, she gasped.
“What is it?”
“He had an affair!” she cried, hands to her mouth. I noticed that her nail varnish matched her lipstick.
“So?”
“Well he’s not a goody then, is he?”
“Annabel, you can’t conclude that somebody would be cruel to an animal, leave a severed foot on a beach and plan a murder, just because he had an affair. Having difficulty keeping it in your pants is hardly a precursor to the violent slaughter of another human being.”
“Well then, it must be a ghost.”
I sighed, rolled my eyes and sank into the table, despairingly.
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“No, that’s God.”
“What?”
“There’s no such thing as God.”
I decided that it was neither the time nor the place for a theological debate. I had to prioritise getting through to Annabel about ghosts. I needed information — real information — and I wasn’t going to get it while she believed that there were supernatural forces at work.
What was she doing now? She appeared to be rooting around in her designer shopping bag for something. Eventually, she found what she was looking for. Oh no! It was a trashy women’s magazine. The kind with a bland name written in white on a red background, with an even more bland looking woman on the front.
“There’s a great article in here about spooks.”
“What?”
“Oh, I don’t usually buy this!” she laughed, blushing. “I picked Go Girl because Danger has a story in it.”
“What?”
“Yeah, he doesn’t call himself ‘Danger’ in here of course.”
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