How dangerous was Enid? If she was the killer, how likely was it that she would harm me in a Marks and Spencer coffee shop? The risk seemed negligible. Even so, as I sat in the coffee shop, waiting for her to arrive, my finger drifted over Danger’s name in my phone address book. I’m embarrassed to admit that the reason I stopped myself from calling him was not that I felt strong enough to fend off Enid, but that I just couldn’t face having him around. Investigating Enid was going to take wit, skill and careful management. Having Danger’s dull contributions droning away, would only slow things down.
I thought about calling Gareth. He had wit and skill. However, I was still angry. The twenty-four hours since our ‘mediation’ session had done nothing to calm me down. How dare he be so rude to me? He had talked to me with the tone of an obnoxious teenager, which pretty much summed up the problem. And why tell me that he’d only taken the DVDs because he needed something to watch — how stupid did he think I was?
Presumably, with a name like Enid, my dinner companion would be at least seventy. I arrived five minutes late and hoped that she hadn’t come and gone. It seemed unlikely, but then again, she was a pedantic witch.
I looked around, wondering if she could be at one of the other tables, but it was difficult to be sure, because so many people were obscured by their tall newspapers.
Finally, a redhead smiled at me from the doorway. I blinked a few times. It was certainly bottle-red — that vibrant shade typical of somebody with a punky edge, or a postbox. Perhaps not a pensioner after all.
However, when she got nearer, I saw that her face had more crags than Craggy Island. It was like a mud flat on a hot summer’s day — shrivelled and wrinkled. Enid wasn’t a young woman, she was an old woman with young hair. She seemed to have shaved off her eyebrows and drawn some red ones on. She had a long nose and the wart on her chin added to her witch-like appearance. Her clothes were peculiar too. She wore tie-dyed fabrics, tailored into a neat skirt and blouse, but her body had no shape to it. She certainly had no waist. Woolly purple tights covered her emaciated legs, which led to bony ankles poked into brown canvas shoes. Despite the apparent reluctance to blend in with other people of similar wrinkle-level, she wore little makeup. Then I remembered that this was the bookworm who hated books — she was no doubt full of anomalies.
I stood up and offered her my hand.
“What’s this all about?” she asked, ignoring my offering.
“Books.”
“Oh good! I was hoping it would be. What’s that on your head?”
“It’s a beret.”
“It looked better on Frank Spencer. Have you tried a bandana? Might compensate for your nose.”
I tapped my nose, worried.
“It’s a little flat isn’t it? For a woman of your age.”
“Well, it’s the only one I’ve got.”
“Yes,” she said, in a pitying tone.
“I haven’t got myself anything to eat yet, because I was waiting for you.”
“Well, best not to snack with those hips,” she said. I glanced down at my slim figure, confused.
“Shall we walk and talk?” I suggested.
I followed Enid to the canteen line, wondering what I should have to eat. I was concerned that my choice in food might be judged in the same way as my choice in hats. Enid was clearly going to go for the baked potato with butter, so perhaps I should stay safe and have the same thing. I was still trying to recover from the nose and hips jibes.
“Follow me off a cliff, would you?” she asked.
Clearly, I couldn’t win. I grabbed a large orange juice.
“Good choice,” she remarked. “Excellent dietary fibre.”
She really did have an opinion on everything.
As soon as we sat down, she started telling me how to restructure the opening to ‘Busty and Giving’. “It’s not that I don’t like you launching straight in there with the murder, it’s just that the hook-prologue is so overused. Why don’t you try opening with something more gentle and then building up to the murder?”
“Well, I think given what’s happened to Amanda, it might have been a better idea to cut the murder altogether.”
“Hmm ...” she said, giving it a moment’s thought. How could whether or not to prevent murder require contemplation? The woman was clearly deranged. But was she a killer?
Suddenly, I saw a familiar face in the entrance — or at least, an orange version of a familiar face — Dawn Mann. She was back! At first, I was thrown. What was she doing in a Marks and Spencer in Victoria? Was she here to kill me?
Then I realised that a Marks and Spencer in Victoria was exactly the sort of place that I should expect to see Dawn Mann. It suited her mumsy, secretly-middle-class persona. If I remembered rightly, she lived in South London. She probably ate here every day.
“Is that Dee Whittaker I see before me?” came a ringing voice. Instantly, my hair stood on end. Was that my instincts telling me that she was a killer? Then I remembered that she was highly irritating and that this was just a natural reaction. I also remembered her saying that she was going to Spain for an extended holiday, and, judging by her leathery tan, she certainly had done. I didn’t fear her nearly as much as I feared Montgomery. Besides which, Gareth had pointed out it was very unlikely that one of the writers had done it. Murder would be a very misguided advertising strategy, even for these crazy people.
“It is Dee Whittaker I see before me!” Then she turned to Enid and put on her best welcoming grin. “And who is this?”
Was it a good idea to reveal Enid’s identity to Dawn? After all, Dawn had been on the receiving end of many ‘Enids’.
“Dawn Mann!” said Enid, with glee.
“Yes?”
“It’s Enid! Enid Kibbler. I recognise your face from the anthology,” she said, with some distaste. “Thank goodness it’s a Kindle book — your portrait certainly benefits from being displayed in black and white.”
I tried to make reassuring eye contact with Dawn. Enid was getting crueller by the minute. You know a woman is truly foul when your instincts lead you to sympathise with a giant numpty such as Dawn Mann.
“Enid,” snarled Dawn.
“Don’t get me wrong — I was impressed by the portrait. It was very brave, for a woman of your proportions.”
Dawn glared, her yellow eyes on fire. Then, with a false breeziness she added, “Mind if I join you both for lunch?”
Actually, I did mind. I minded a lot. I needed to use this time to ascertain whether Enid Kibbler was a psychopath or just a crotchety reviewer — two camps that can easily be blurred. With Dawn present, we’d no doubt spend the whole time talking about her and her books.
“I wonder if you know, Enid, that I have three children,” bragged Dawn, taking a seat.
Oh no, it had already begun.
“Children?” asked Enid, looking Dawn up and down with surprise. “You mean offspring — adult children.”
“No, I mean children. The oldest one is seventeen. I have three children, yet ... I’ve still managed to write three novels and contribute to five anthologies. What have you achieved?”
I wanted to head butt the table, but my baked potato was in the way. Even so, a buttery forehead would be a small price to pay for a little relief right now.
“What have you achieved?” repeated Dawn.
“Well, I have an Olympic medal.”
Wow. Owned.
“For what?”
“The two hundred metres. It was a long time ago ...”
“I bet.”
“... But they let me keep the medal,” continued Enid. I noticed that she had a little twinkle in her eye. I wondered if she was telling the truth or just trying to rattle Dawn. Either way, it was terribly amusing. Dawn rocked in her chair, like a distressed, inflatable child.
Then, I saw another familiar face — the craggy, ruddy face of Montgomery Lowe. What was he doing here? He was wearing a dusty charcoal suit with an ill-fitting mustard waistcoat. W
hen he got closer, I saw that the dark tinge to his skin was not his usual reddish glow, but a suntan, and a heavy one at that. Had he been on holiday too?
I looked at Dawn, then I looked at Montgomery, and then back at Dawn again. They didn’t ...? Oh God, no! I found myself starting to shudder all over. It was even more horrific to imagine than cannibalism — Dawn Mann and Montgomery Lowe were having an affair!
Montgomery saw me. There was a flicker of concern for a second, while he no doubt recalled our last encounter — me wading across the causeway, fleeing the island and rejecting the writers’ stupid plan. Then, he smiled, opened his sturdy arms and plodded towards me.
He saw Dawn and feigned shock. “Goodness! Dawn! What the devil are you doing here?” That was the point at which I knew that they had planned to meet each other.
“This is Enid,” said Dawn, with a grimace.
“Enid Kibbler?” he said, sounding truly stunned. “Enid Kibbler as I live and breathe! Golly, I thought that you only existed in legends and ...” he inhaled ferociously “... reviews.”
“Montgomery Lowe,” observed Enid.
“‘The greatest assault on crime writing since Basic Instinct 2,’” he quoted, with fake amusement. “A film reference? Getting sloppy there, Enid?” I could see hatred boiling beneath his friendly chestnut corneas.
“Not as sloppy as the purple prose at the beginning of chapter two!” she retorted.
How did she remember this stuff?
Montgomery grunted and took a seat next to me. I inhaled frustrated, filling my lungs with dust. Great! How was I supposed to interrogate Enid now? Still, at least now my three strongest suspects were all together. The chances were, somebody at this table killed Amanda. Smeg! Somebody at this table killed Amanda!
“When did you get back from Spain?” I asked.
“Thursday,” they said simultaneously.
“I mean Dawn got back on Thursday,” added Montgomery quickly. Who was the orange buffoon trying to kid?
Interesting though — if they got back on Thursday, then they were here on Friday night when Amanda was killed.
“I’m just so glad that I was back in time for Rafe’s Skype chat!” cried Dawn.
“Me too!” said Montgomery. “I mean, I’m glad that Dawn was back.”
That was interesting — if they were involved in the live Skype chat, then they had alibis. The police had asked where I was at nine o’clock — that meant that nine o’clock was the crucial time. Nine o’clock had also been the time of Rafe’s Skype chat, giving many people perfect alibis.
I was just about to probe further when I spotted somebody else familiar — Danger Smith. He was sitting on the table next to us. How long had he been there? More to the point, what was he doing here?
He saw me look at him and quickly hid behind his Kindle, which was particularly ineffective as he had the six-inch lightweight version. The feature guide never warns you that Kindles make poor shields.
“Right, what’s going on?” I demanded.
Dawn and Montgomery exchanged puzzled glances.
“Three of you turn up here and I’m supposed to believe it’s a coincidence.”
“Three?” asked Dawn. “Oh goodness! It’s Danger Smith. Look, Monty, it’s Danger Smith.”
“Don’t play games with me!” I ordered.
“Well, he’s here to meet us, isn’t he Dawn?” lied Montgomery, stiffening and causing the veins in his neck to protrude like liquorice laces.
“If that’s the case, why was he sitting over there pretending to read his Kindle, instead of coming over to say hello?”
“I did not see you!” sniffled Danger.
“You must think I’m completely stupid.”
Enid, who had been surprisingly quiet so far, suddenly piped up. “Is there any chance that you three read the public thread where Dee and I discussed meeting?”
That was a public thread? Oh yes, it was! I’d originally planned to write a private message, but then I had got distracted chatting to Enid in a thread about next month’s book club choice and ... Bugger.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I demanded. “Because you wanted to meet Enid?”
“Um ...” began Danger, raising a hand, “actually, I just wanted to overhear what she had to say about me.”
“Me too,” admitted Dawn, “but then you saw me come in, so what could I do?”
“Yeah, we had no idea that you’d be facing the door!” explained Montgomery, using an accusatory tone and eyebrows that were even more biting. Brows as thick as Montgomery’s were capable of levels of reproach that even Enid’s sharply pencilled arches would never muster.
“Oh, I am so terribly sorry!” I snapped.
“Don’t get ratty with us!” scolded Dawn, as a teacher might. “She’s the one who’s been leaving spiteful comments in the forum!”
“And horrid reviews!” added Montgomery.
“I’m a critic,” said Enid, calmly.
“That doesn’t mean you have to be critical you stupid woman, you can say positive things too,” snapped Dawn.
“Well, why don’t you write something worth saying something positive about?”
“What exactly is it that you dislike about the prose at the beginning of chapter two?” demanded Montgomery.
“And how can you say my characters are two dimensional?” challenged Dawn.
“And what is bland about me?” asked Danger, from behind a ham sandwich.
“Shut up the lot of you!” I shouted. “You’re all behaving appallingly. Somebody has died, in case you’ve forgotten. Two people in fact, and you ...”
“Two?” asked Enid, sounding excited.
“And you, Enid! You’re no better than these three. There are too many egos at this table. I doubt it’s even possible for a person to feel more suffocated by arrogance than I do right now.”
With that, Annabel Fleming walked in.
She saw me and looked like a naughty schoolgirl caught with chewing gum in class. She stopped walking and, at first, I thought she was going to turn around and walk straight out again, but she decided to be brave. She trotted in, looking shyly at the floor. She appeared to be wearing some sort of tailored shorts over dotty sheer tights. Her hair was held in place with chopsticks that had pairs of plastic red lips on the ends — classy.
“You as well?” I sneered. “I thought you of all people, were better than this.”
“Oh, thank you,” she smiled.
“That’s not a compliment. I came here today for a quiet baked potato with Enid and instead I get four attention-seeking, needy children.” Then I noticed a broadsheet newspaper, held high above the face of the diner on the table to the left. I knew exactly whom I would find behind it — the one member of the troupe who hadn’t showed his face yet — Rafe Maddocks. “Oh for crying out loud! I wonder who could possibly be behind here ...”
Gareth! What?
“Gareth?”
What was he doing here? He didn’t even write! I had been sure Rafe would be behind the paper. I certainly hadn’t expected my husband to be there, sheepishly blinking at me through his unruly, auburn eyebrows.
“Hi Dee,” he said, waving his fingers awkwardly.
“What the crusty smeg are you doing here?”
“I heard they did excellent baked potatoes,” he fibbed, blushing.
“Is this him?” asked Annabel, elbowing me in the ribs.
“You told her about me?” asked Gareth, brightening.
“No,” I lied.
“Yes!” grinned Annabel.
I needed to change the subject and I needed to change it fast. So, I decided to throw a particularly ferocious cat among a particularly highly-strung bunch of pigeons. “Enid, what did you think of The Book of Most Quality Writers?”
The top flipped off the gigantic can of juicy, jittery worms, and the writers began shouting from every direction.
“Why did you say ‘The Pig and the Cliff’ was just the same as all my o
ther work? The protagonist was a pig!”
“You obviously didn’t understand ‘Foot’; it’s supposed to be a mood piece.”
“How can you say ‘I Shot Five Men’ is formulaic? My style has been tried and tested. Are you aware that one of my books is being made into a film? Besides, in the next book, the police catch up with the lawyer and shoot him dead! Then, he comes back as a crime-fighting ghost. Now, that’s not formulaic, is it?”
“Why did you say that ‘Gnome-man Art More Lovely Than Thou’ is shallow? It’s about biracial dating! It’s progressive!”
“And ‘Hungry’ is not distasteful. It’s called ‘black comedy’. Heard of that?”
Hang on — ‘Hungry’? When had Rafe Maddocks got here? I looked at him, stretched out between our table and Gareth’s, with his feet up. He’d obviously been here long enough to make himself comfortable.
Finally, Enid responded, “You have more talent than judgement, Mr Maddocks.”
“Yes!” he cried, leaping into the air and almost knocking over his chair.
“That’s not to say that you have great quantities of either,” she added.
“That reminds me, Dawn,” began Rafe, getting into his sarcastic stride, “thank you so much for bringing up Enid’s review of Disgracebook in the Skype interview. Just what I didn’t need.”
Dawn opened her pudgy mouth to object.
Rafe continued, “At least Montgomery had the presence of mind to change the subject.”
“Rafe?” asked Danger. “Do you have that fiver you owe me?”
“While we’re all here,” began Dawn, ominously, “I could do with a little help with a writing conundrum.”
I was just about to point out that this was neither the time nor the place, when I realised that everybody else seemed to like the idea. Even Enid looked reasonably satisfied.
“Why are you smiling?” I asked Gareth.
“This is great! It’s like being in one of your anecdotes!”
I rolled my eyes.
“As most of you will know, Annabel has inspired me to write a romance novel,” explained Dawn. Her yellow eyes quickly flitted towards Montgomery and back again.
Annabel clapped her perfectly manicured hands together with glee, wafting perfumed hand cream around the table.
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