Pompomberry House

by Trevithick, Rosen

  “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  “No, you’re all right. I have to get going.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got places to be ...”

  “... People to see. Yeah, I remember.”

  “Don’t be like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “All moody.”

  “I’m not being moody.”

  “Yeah you are.”

  “Gareth, two people have died! And one of them probably wouldn’t be dead if I hadn’t written a murder story.”

  “So should we cancel?”

  “Cancel what?”

  “You really don’t remember, do you?”

  “Remember what?”

  “Mediation!”

  “What? Oh spoon!” It had completely slipped my mind. This was the day that Gareth and I were supposed to go to a mediation session — a preliminary step to see if we could agree on separation terms without the expense of a full-on legal battle. I’d even programmed an alarm into Gareth’s phone, to make sure that he didn’t forget.

  “We can cancel it if you like,” he said.

  I frowned.

  “Or postpone. I meant postpone,” he added.

  I thought about it. The last thing I felt like doing was sitting in a solicitor’s office dividing our assets. Mind you, if I agreed to postpone, what sort of message would that send to Gareth? It was important not to blow hot and cold.

  Imagining discussion of the ‘D’ word felt like having my insides whisked with an electric blender. Did it hurt because ending a marriage always leaves you feeling mixed-up, or did it hurt because I didn’t really want to end the marriage?

  “Have you been looking up Amanda online?” he asked, looking at the computer screen.

  “Yeah. I wanted to see if it’s been in the news yet.”

  “And has it?”

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Why would I know?”

  “Well, how did you know she was dead?”

  He paused for a moment. “Twitter”.

  Without really thinking about it, I loaded Twitter and began typing in Amanda’s name.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just taking a look.”

  “Oh my God! You’re checking!”

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Yes, you are! You don’t believe me!”

  “I do!”

  “Then why did you check?”

  “I ... um ... wondered if there had been any new developments.”

  “No, you didn’t!”

  Damn! Why did he have to know me so well? “Well, the police thought it was a bit odd — you knowing that she was dead before it had been on the news.”

  “That’s how the media works these days! Death rumours spread around Facebook and Twitter, then, a few hours later, the press let you know whether or not they were true.”

  “Well, you seemed a bit sure, considering they were just rumours.”

  “Because of your story, Dee. Because I believed you when you said that a charity worker would die! I didn’t realise that trust only worked in one direction.”

  “I do trust you!”

  “Yeah right.” Hurt frown furrows stretched across his forehead. “See you at mediation, Dee.”

  Before I could stop him, he stormed out the door, slamming it behind him.

  I tried to make sense of what had just happened. I didn’t distrust Gareth, did I? Throughout this entire, hideous ordeal, he was the one who had been there for me. He was the one person that I did trust.

  Why had I wavered, even for a second? Now, thanks to that momentary lapse of faith, we would have to go to mediation. In just a few hours’ time, we might be making decisions that would forever separate our belongings and, more importantly, our hearts.

  Why didn’t I run after him and shout, “Stop!” Why didn’t I tell him that I’d changed my mind, that I didn’t want to break up after all? Why didn’t I tell him that these last few weeks had shown me that he was dependable, that he was responsible and that he had overcome his chronic inertia?

  I remembered him slamming the door. ‘See you at mediation.’ I remembered yesterday when he had picked up his dressing gown and left without a kiss. Perhaps he didn’t want to get back together. Perhaps, if I ran after him and told him how I felt, I’d only make a fool of myself.

  Was I really that stupid? Would I really let my marriage end over a matter of pride? What would be worse, being rejected or knowing that I hadn’t even tried to tell the love of my life how I felt. I was going to go after him!

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that something wasn’t quite right — something was out of place. I moved closer to the offending item of furniture — the DVD rack. There were some DVDs missing, no, not just some — many! Gareth had already helped himself to half the DVD collection! When had he done that?

  I glanced through. At first it didn’t seem too bad. He’d taken films that he knew I didn’t really want to watch again, like Sixth Sense, The Hours and Identity. He’d left quite a lot of sitcoms, knowing that I’d rather watch a good British comedy series than a Hollywood film. He’d even left Green Wing, despite it being one of his personal favourites. He’d also left Coupling and The Office. However, where were the live Tim Minchin gigs? Where were Peep Show and Brass Eye? He’d never even heard of Chris Morris until I introduced him to that show!

  It was annoying that he’d taken all seven seasons of Peep Show, but I could understand him not wanting to break up a set. However, how could he possibly have thought it was acceptable to take both Tim Minchin DVDs? They didn’t even match!

  Then the true effrontery of the situation struck me — it wasn’t what he’d taken that was the problem, it was the complete lack of consultation! It was as if he thought he was better equipped to know my opinion than I was. Was this what life was really like? Gareth taking whatever he liked, whenever he liked to take it?

  Well, at least he’d helped me make a decision — we were going to go to mediation.

  My phone rang — a welcome interruption to the indignation that I felt, until I saw who it was. I felt I might as well face the music. After all, I’d been frustrated when she had avoided me.

  “Netta, hello!” I sang into the phone.

  “Amanda’s only bloody winning the competition.”

  “Netta, Amanda’s dead,” I said softly. Obviously she hadn’t been on Twitter.

  “Yes! I know — dead and winning. The bitch!”

  I wouldn’t say that I had ever had a high opinion of Netta, but at that moment, it plummeted, drilling a deep well for itself to hurtle into, as it dropped into oblivion.

  “It was just like you said — dying is a brilliant publicity stunt.”

  “Stunt? She’s dead.”

  “I was miles ahead last night, and now she’s got sixty-seven percent of the vote — sixty-seven! You said I was going to win.”

  “No, I said you were going to die.”

  “And then win!”

  “Look, what is it that you want from me, Netta?”

  “I want you to help me get my lead back. Use your psychic powers or whatever it is that you have. Write a story where I win! The voting closes in one hour!”

  “I can’t help you, Netta.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I just don’t want to.”

  “But what about my charity? Do it for Africa!”

  “What about Dogs for Disabled People? Isn’t that a worthwhile charity too?”

  “Pity Pups?” she cried. “I’m more important than a few mongrels!”

  “Goodbye Netta.”

  “Wait ...”

  I hung up the phone. A hysterical Netta was the last thing I wanted to deal with right now or, indeed, ever. Why couldn’t the woman just be happy to be alive? Had she no idea how close she’d come to a watery death?

  * * *

  Neither the spider plant, the water feature nor the seascape painting could give this
place spirit. It was, without a doubt, the most soulless building I’d ever visited. Leaflets such as, ‘Cheating spouse, huh?’ and ‘From VD to Divorcee’ didn’t help.

  Where was Gareth? Perhaps if he joined me in the waiting room, I’d have a chance to stop things. I’d find a way to tell him that actually, mediation wasn’t for us — at least not now, not yet.

  We didn’t need a legal expert to help us communicate. We communicated just fine. In fact, only hours before, I’d managed to communicate perfectly ‘Touch me there’ and Gareth had managed to communicate perfectly ‘I’d love to.’

  Where was Gareth?

  Finally, a faceless man in a pinstriped suit came to get me. He was called Richard or Robert or David or Matthew.

  I was already sitting down when Gareth came in. He strolled in with his hands in his jeans pockets, still wearing the t-shirt he’d had on last night, still scented with my perfumed deodorant. I glanced down at my straight, corduroy skirt. Was I overdressed? Was my adherence to a smart dress code a sign that I was taking the divorce more seriously than Gareth was?

  I smiled at him. He looked at the floor.

  The mediator started explaining how the process worked. Words; just words; and more words.

  There was one question in my mind, and one question only. I knew I had to wait for the words to finish before I could ask, so I did. Words, words, words. When, finally, the mediator finished speaking, I blurted, “Why didn’t you check with me before dividing up the DVDs?”

  “Mrs Whittaker ...”

  “I haven’t divided up the DVDs.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  “No, I’ve just taken a few to watch at Barry’s. I didn’t realise I needed permission.”

  “Half! You’ve taken half.”

  “Well, there’s not a lot to do during the daytime!”

  “What about looking for a job?”

  “No point,” he said, with a little smile.

  “No point? No point?”

  The legal expert interrupted again, “Mrs Whittaker ...”

  “Gareth! I supported you for eighteen months. Our marriage has broken down as a direct consequence of you not getting a job, yet apparently you seem to find this amusing!”

  “Mrs Whittaker!”

  “When are you going to grow up? People are supposed to have jobs. That’s how the economy works. If we were meant to sit in front of a games console all day, we would have evolved to have controllers attached to our hands. You’re not a student now, Gareth. I mean, seriously, you’re the only person I know who still watches Neighbours!”

  “Mrs Whittaker!”

  “As a result of your unemployment I’ve learnt what a lazy, selfish, greedy prick you really are!” Finally, I paused for breath.

  Gareth responded, “I was going to say, there’s no point in looking for a job, because I’ve just got one.”

  Oh.

  I felt deflated. It was the news I’d been yearning to hear for many months, but under the circumstances, it didn’t feel like a triumph. Or did it? Was this the start of a better future for my husband and me?

  “What job?” I asked, sheepishly.

  “Teaching assistant. It’s not quite what I’m looking for, but it’s an income, and it’s at a school that’s really big on sports so it might lead to an awesome teaching job.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me this this morning?”

  The mediator tried to cut in. “You saw each other this morning?”

  Gareth continued, “I only found the letter when I got back to Barry’s.”

  “You’re getting your post delivered to Barry’s now?” I asked, hurt.

  “Yes! You kicked me out.”

  “Because you wouldn’t get a job.”

  “Well, I’ve got one now.”

  “Yes,” I said, brightly. Was he coming home?

  “But since I’m a lazy, selfish, greedy prick, I guess we’ve got nothing else to say to each other.”

  No! Please come home. “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Mr and Mrs Whittaker, perhaps I could say something?”

  In all honesty, I hoped the mediator would keep his trap shut. The last thing we needed was to put any more break up wheels in motion. I wasn’t in the mood for discussing the separation, if there’s ever a mood for that sort of thing. Even if it weren’t for my general state of romantic confusion, a woman had just been killed and we still had two more murders to expect.

  I wanted to ask Gareth about my conclusion that Montgomery was the killer. He was the best sounding-board I knew. An estranged husband is not the typical choice for a sidekick, but in this case, he was easily the best person for the job. However, looking at him now, huffing and puffing, I wasn’t sure that he’d want to help me, even if he could.

  He was so annoying. Why didn’t he stop sulking and help me solve crime, instead of getting bogged down with petty linguistic niggles. Then I remembered what he’d said about Annabel, ‘that fit one from your forum’.

  “You haven’t been on the forum for months!” I cried.

  “What?”

  “You said you recognised Annabel in Green Bar, but you haven’t been on the forum for months.”

  “Yeah, but I still remember her, don’t I?”

  “How?”

  “She’s ... distinctive.”

  “You mean ‘fit’.”

  He shrugged, making me more annoyed than ever.

  “I went to lunch with Rafe Maddocks.”

  “Oh, whoopee-doo!”

  “Mr and Mrs Whittaker, we’re not getting anywhere.”

  The legal man was right. We weren’t getting anywhere and I needed to move things forward. I needed to find a way of stopping the other murders and I had no time to lose. I had to stop my husband from being obstructive.

  “Gareth!” I shouted, still so angry that he jumped.

  “Yeah.”

  “What do I need to do next? I mean, to stop the killer?”

  “Mrs Whittaker!”

  “Do you think it could be Montgomery?” I yelled, being careful not to drop the furious tones.

  Gareth screwed up his face and scoffed. “Duh!”

  “Right! Of course. I was just checking.” I cried. “Hang on ... ‘Duh, it’s obvious’, or ‘Duh, it’s not him’?”

  “A killer’s got to have a motive, right?” he said, scornfully.

  “Oh, and Montgomery hasn’t?” I demanded, sarcastically.

  “Not really, no!” Gareth laughed rudely.

  “But you said publicity could be a motive ...”

  “Yeah, well then I used my brain, didn’t I?”

  “Oh great. Like that’d be helpful!” I scoffed. Then I shouted, “So why did you change your mind about publicity?”

  “It’s just too obvious. If one of the writers did this, they would have known the authors would be the prime suspects. No matter what the proverbs say, killing one of the most renowned charitable women in the country is bad publicity and won’t help anybody’s career.”

  “You think this will damage our careers?” I cried, fearing for my own work.

  “If you want a motive,” barked Gareth, “you need to consider the people who don’t like you.” Then in a snide aside, “Not that that narrows it down.”

  But who would want to hurt a group of writers? We were just writers. Then I remembered that there was somebody who hated writers, at least, our sort of writers. “Enid Kibbler!” I cried.

  I saw Gareth lean forward with excitement but then he tried to cover it up and appear uninterested. He slouched back in his chair and tried to put his long legs on the wastepaper basket, but ended up kicking it over.

  Enid Kibbler — why hadn’t I thought about her before? She felt that indie writers were ruining literature! She hated us with a passion. Even the comments she’d made about me (her favourite), were sarcastic and cruel.

  “You’re right Mr ... er ... We’re getting nowhere,” I said. Then, I grabbed my coat and darted
for the door.

  “Mrs Whittaker! Sit down!”

  As I put my hand on the handle, I felt a burning desire to go back for Gareth, to grab him and bring him with me. An adventure wasn’t really an adventure without my infuriating ex. But then I remembered the DVDs, the way he’d just spoken to me and the snide remark about nobody liking me. I opted instead for a head toss. Then I left.

  Chapter 14

  I remembered the writers saying that Enid Kibbler used the forum. I couldn’t personally remember her, but it didn’t surprise me that she was a member. Anybody who would read books she knew she was going to hate must be a masochist. And such a person would therefore love to participate in a forum surrounded by people for whom she had nothing but contempt.

  Of course, I told the police about Enid as soon as I had the idea, but were they interested? No, apparently they’d spent the following day following up my other leads to no avail. It would seem that I was the only writer at Pompomberry House not to use a pen name. Still, the police knew where the forum was. It wasn’t as if these were people who’d disappeared off the face of the earth. Every indie knows how important a strong online presence is when you’re selling a book.

  Enid wanted to meet in Café Revive, which sounded exotic and exciting until I discovered it was a Marks and Spencer coffee shop. Apparently, they had an irresistible offer on baked potatoes with butter. She didn’t mind which Marks and Spencer we went to, as long as it was a Marks and Spencer and ‘not any of that tack like Littlewoods’. I could already tell that she was going to be a character. Eventually, we decided upon the one at Victoria. I picked out my squishy purple beret.

  I really didn’t know when the copycat would strike again. This wasn’t like the charity competition, which had a clear deadline. (Amanda won by the way, sorry Africa). In ‘I Shot Five Men’, the victim was a white male in his thirties, average build, average height, who had raped a woman but been found not guilty. Unfortunately, such cases were likely to be relatively frequent compared with the Porter and Miller contest, and could occur at any time. As for Rafe’s story, the group of cannibals were tourists who became stranded on an island due to a dangerous shark that had drifted into UK waters. In the absence of a likely shark, it seemed virtually impossible to work out who the victims might be.