By the time they left, I felt as though I’d been flattened by a steamroller. All I wanted was to be held by Gareth, but Gareth was gone and I was all alone, waiting to be eaten.
Chapter 19
As time passed, I found that my predicament spun around my brain like a jigsaw in a blender. Gareth’s theory that the copycat was all five writers made sense. If the killer wasn’t a collaboration of people, then the police would be looking for a particularly specific culprit — somebody tall, who smoked spliffs, owned a dog costume, had access to my wallet, had no alibi for Amanda’s murder and who had something to gain from the whole saga. It seemed unlikely that one person would fit the bill — but multiple people, working together, might just tick all the boxes.
Still, even if the police managed to catch all five of them, it wouldn’t fix my marriage. How was it that Gareth and I could solve a murder together, yet fail to master being married?
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I leapt off the sofa. I had to see him. I couldn’t leave things like this, with him thinking I was a whore, without him knowing how devoted I was to our marriage.
Owing to my fear of imminent ingestion, I had vowed to stay indoors, at least until the police had rounded up the writers. However, that might take hours — days even. I could not wait that long.
Obviously, I tried calling Gareth, but he rejected my calls, sometimes before the first ring had even had a chance to sound. There was no way that he would agree to come back, so I had to go to him.
He was probably at Barry’s. That would be the sensible first place to look. Then, if he wasn’t there, I could consider other places like Green Bar or his mother’s. I wouldn’t stop until I’d got my husband back.
I grabbed the nearest hat I could find and hurried into the garden, letting the door slam behind me without even checking to see whether or not I had my keys. The next time I needed to get through that door, I would have my husband by my side.
It was warm for March, but was March nevertheless. The cold breeze chilled my legs, but I didn’t care. Stopping to find a pair of tights would have meant two more minutes without Gareth. The heartbreak was more painful than leg freeze.
I hurried down the street. I would have to take the tube to get to Barry’s. I hoped I had my wallet, but if not, I would beg until I had enough change to buy a ticket.
I was vaguely aware that a vehicle had pulled up beside me but was too concentrated on my goal to pay it much attention. Suddenly, a tall, masked figure climbed out. My eyes barely had time to focus before the figure grabbed me, and threw me roughly into the back of the vehicle.
I wanted to scream but a leather-gloved hand covered my mouth. It was large, definitely a man’s hand. He threw me violently into the back seat.
I saw one last thing before blacking out — my assailant was wearing something white tucked into his collar — a paper napkin.
Chapter 20
When I awoke, my head was throbbing. It felt as though somebody had put an irate, hyperactive frog in there, one which was leaping around, bashing against my skull. My hands were bound together and I couldn’t see a thing because I was blindfolded, but I could smell a change in the air. Something was different. Something had changed.
It took me a few moments to recognise the smell, but when I did, I was stunned. It was salt. We were near the sea. How long had I been out cold? Then I heard the unmistakable squawk of gulls overhead.
Where were we? Were we at Durdle Door, where the pig incident happened? Or Bournemouth, where the police found the foot? Or Bognor Regis, near the gnome wedding? None of those options sounded great. I wasn’t sure what would be the ideal place to be taken to by a kidnapper, yet I was pretty sure that it wasn’t the coast.
Then I remembered Rafe’s story. The cannibalism took place on the coast. Is that why they were taking me there? I recalled a napkin stuffed into my kidnapper’s collar. Was the killer really planning to eat me?
I was distraught to say the least; it’s bad enough knowing you’re going to die, but knowing that your body will be eaten really twists the knife. Presumably they’d have to cook me before eating me. Yuck! It didn’t bear thinking about. I’d always imagined I’d be cremated, not digested.
Somebody strong dragged me from the car and tried tugging me towards him. I resisted, kicking and screaming, but I fell to the ground. My hand landed in a puddle and I noted that the ground was gritty and coarse. The man picked me up again and began leading me away from the vehicle. I wanted to resist but how could I? Blindfolded, I had no idea in which direction to run.
Then the man guided me down some steps. They were irregular and slippery. The urge to run away was replaced by the desire to comply. Perhaps pleasing my kidnapper might lead him to treat me more kindly.
He stopped. I had a moment to take in my surroundings. The smell of salt was stronger still and I could hear the sounds of the sea — waves and squawking. The man lifted me up over his shoulder. I felt giddy. What did he plan to do with me?
Then he put me down again and I realised I was resting on something unstable, something that rocked under my weight. I was in a boat! Suddenly, I knew exactly where we were — Pompomberry Island.
Even in my state of terror, I could appreciate the poetic symmetry of it. This whole ordeal started with a trip to Pompomberry House and it would end with a trip to Pompomberry House. Suddenly twenty-first century plot-devices didn’t seem so naff after all. If only this had all been in my imagination ... If only I had a killer alter ego ... Alas, it was just a plain old-fashioned plot, with real people and external villains.
A few minutes later, I found myself dragged out of the boat. The strong kidnapper picked me up once again, and dropped me down onto my feet. The blindfold was removed.
The sun was beginning to set and it took a few moments for my eyes to focus. However, even with my vision blurred like a devil’s fog, I could make out the shapes of two people in front of me — one of them like a giant balloon animal and the other like a walking sideboard — Dawn Mann and Montgomery Lowe.
It was no surprise. Of all the writers, Dawn and Montgomery were the two that I trusted the least. They stood on the steps leading up to the house wearing grins that said, ‘We’ve been expecting you.’
And that’s not all they were wearing. Dawn wore a pink gingham cooking apron. Over his moth-eaten suit, Montgomery wore what could only be described as a giant bib. They were ready for dinner!
I wanted to turn and run. Why didn’t I? I’d waded across the causeway before. Granted, the tide had been lower back then than it was now, but I could swim. My wrists wrestled with their bindings.
Pompomberry House towered before me — the large, imposing granite building looking creepier than ever. Seagulls raced around the airspace, swooping with menace. The island was just as we had left it, right down to the gnome and the woodpile in the garden. I saw the axe, resting on the wood and once again felt the urge to start swimming. I fought hard to free my hands. Was it my imagination, or were the shackles loosening?
Then I saw the monstrous figure of an oversized seagull poised impatiently on the rock before me. It looked at me out of one of its beady yellow eyes and cawed rapidly. I could swear it was laughing. I remembered Rafe saying, ‘Nonsense. They’re just birds.’ That thing was not just a bird; it was an incarnation of the devil.
A figure behind me pushed me forward and I remembered my kidnapper. Neither Dawn nor Montgomery could have stolen me from that London street, because they were right in front of me, and I hadn’t heard anyone walk around from behind me. Who was their abduction accomplice?
I spun around.
Before my eyes I saw a tall, upright man with shaggy brown hair. He grinned at me, looking pleased with himself. I could see Pompomberry House reflected in his green eyes. Rafe Maddocks.
Even though the facts had suggested that Rafe must be one of the killers, a part of me had always hoped that he wasn’t. Rafe and I had bonded once. We’d been kindred spirits for a fe
w moments one lunchtime. Granted, it hadn’t been a long friendship, but I’d rather hoped that his few minutes of charm had been the real Rafe. Watching him now, with his shirt sleeves rolled up and elbows slightly bent, as if ready to bash my brains out with his bare fists, I realised that I had been very mistaken.
Two more figures emerged from the dusky shadows. I knew that one of them was Danger, even before his ratty little face came into view. He too, had a napkin tucked into his collar.
My brain told me that the other figure was Annabel, but my heart hoped that I was wrong. Surely, one of the writers was honest. But who else could it be? Not Emily, not Enid. What about Peter Pearson from ‘Red Herring Publications’, or even the ghost of the spooky old woman from Gulls Reach?
As they came closer, dark sequin stockings paired with a plaid office dress confirmed that the other figure was indeed Annabel. I felt betrayed. I mean, sure, I hadn’t liked her, but we’d shared friendly time together. I’d supported her through Rafe’s commitment phobia and indulged her with the silly Macarena game (how had she done that?). Here she was, just like all the others, and a napkin was tucked into her belt.
The five of them crept forward, sandwiching me between the devils and the deep blue sea.
I tugged at my restraints again. This time they loosened enough for me to free a hand. Yes! I decided not to show those with murderous intent that my hands were free, and kept them held behind my back.
Should I swim? I mean, certainly, I can swim. I could make it across the causeway. But could I do it faster than all of them? Surely, among five people, there would be one person who was a stronger swimmer than me?
As the air cooled and the darkness crept in, a mist rose from the sea behind Pompomberry House, like the haze of a bonfire. Then, my nose detected the smell of ... smoke. It was a bonfire. Or perhaps a barbecue ...? I turned and leapt towards the sea. I managed to get up to my knees in water before strong arms caught me from behind, and dragged me back onto the sand.
“You’re not leaving,” said Rafe.
“What have I ever done to you? Any of you?” I cried.
“Nothing,” replied Rafe. “But that’s neither here nor there.”
“Actually,” began Annabel, “you did disagree with my opinion on which short story idea Rafe should develop.”
“She’s got a point,” agreed Montgomery, nodding his rectangular head. “If you had just let him work on the idea about the private detective, we wouldn’t have needed to kill you.”
“And you squandered an apostrophe,” said Dawn. “Everybody knows that you only put an apostrophe in ‘its’ when it’s ‘it is’.”
“I did not squander an apostrophe!” I exclaimed.
“And you put that horrible prediction in your hat!” accused Annabel.
“Actually, I put that there,” admitted Dawn.
So there it was — Gareth was right. All five of the writers were in on the plot, and they planned to enact Rafe’s story by killing me. Why hadn’t I stayed inside my house?
My busy nostrils detected something else — something sweet and familiar. Somebody was smoking weed. I automatically looked at Rafe. It wasn’t him. A few guesses later, my eyes rested on Dawn, who was holding a spliff between her pudgy fingers.
“What?” she demanded. “You think organising this was easy?”
Montgomery, clearly feeling threatened by Dawn professing her role as organiser, grabbed it off her, plopped it between his slug-like lips and inhaled sharply. A second later, he doubled over, coughing and spluttering. Dawn’s yellow eyes shot him a look that said, ‘Owned’. She took the spliff and continued smoking casually.
Finally, Montgomery managed to return to an upright state. He adjusted his blazer, releasing a dust cloud, and then asked me. “So, what do you think? Are we good publicists or what?”
“‘Are we good publicists or not?’” suggested Dawn. “Trying to be young does not suit you.”
“Good publicists?” I asked him. “You’re not even good people.”
“If you can’t be of good character, write a good character!” laughed Dawn.
“Half a million copies!” cried Montgomery.
“Really, half a million?” I asked, surprised and reluctantly impressed.
Montgomery nodded, smugly.
I took a few moments to revel in how many homes must have a copy of my story now, and then cried, “But you’re serial killers!”
“We only killed one person,” said Dawn, most indignant. “Biff wasn’t really dead. I’m surprised that you didn’t know that, Dee, after all the prying you’ve been doing.”
“Um, I did know that!” I pointed out. “And, I know that it was a test!”
“Oh, she has done her homework!” said Annabel, with a sly smile.
“You should be ashamed of yourself!” I told her. “All of you!” Then I looked at Annabel, Rafe and Danger. “Out of four possible accomplices, you three all passed the test. I had no idea that such a high percentage of writers would literally kill to get a bestseller!”
“Oh Dee,” said Dawn, tilting her head to the side and smiling sweetly. “You don’t think we took any chances, do you?”
Montgomery cut in. “We’ve been carefully assessing forum members for months, narrowing down the choices, working out which members were most likely to go for our idea, and inviting only the most aggressive and merciless self-promoters to the retreat.”
“Then why did you pick me?”
“We didn’t. We picked Jan Harper! You should see the death scenes that come out of her mind ... It was most annoying when her mother died and you took her place.”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry.”
“We gave you a chance. We let you stick around for Biff’s murder, just in case you were suitable.”
“You didn’t let me stick around; you deflated my car tyres.”
“That was me, I’m afraid,” said Monty extending his mouth horizontally like a letterbox. “Then I pumped them up again to undermine your story.”
Dawn took over the narration. “After you’d gone, Monty and I discussed Biff’s murder and quickly established that you were the only one not up to our great task.”
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“Well, we’ve got a bestselling book, so ...” she did a big, girlie grin.
“I’m in that book too!” I pointed out.
“True,” admitted Dawn. “Ideally we wanted to publish without yours, but the word count was a little low.”
“But including my story meant murdering an innocent woman! Amanda Kenwood died because your word count was ‘a little low’?”
“I’m not saying it was an easy decision,” Dawn replied, looking indignant.
“It wasn’t ideal, but if you can’t be of good character, you can always write a good character,” added Montgomery, with a belly chuckle, mistaking the parroting of catch phrases for humour.
“You haven’t done either!” I cried.
“What do you mean?” he asked, sounding genuinely hurt.
“Your protagonist is unlikeable and dull. An ageing tax lawyer, really? I prefer your villains, even though they’re one dimensional and flat.”
“Your characters are all flat!” he bellowed, shaking his hairy fist. Clearly, his insults were as derivative as his plots.
“Then why did you steal my memory card?” I shouted.
“Actually, I took it from your wallet,” confessed Dawn. “I had a feeling you would leave.”
“Did you take my credit card too?”
“Yes, and Annabel slipped it back into your bag when you met for a drink.”
So that was why she had been so keen to meet up with me. I knew that she didn’t really want to be my ‘BFF’. Mind you, her interest had continued long after we met for drinks ...
“I really did appreciate your friendship,” squeaked Annabel. Her big brown eyes looked at me with a pleading sincerity. “You know, the ... advice.”
“Save it for s
omebody you’re not planning to kill,” I snapped. “Tell me, how did you get the barman to dance?”
“Easy,” she said, with a self-tanned, self-satisfied face.
“Well?”
“When you went to the bathroom, I bribed the barman.”
“But we hadn’t written the prediction at that point.”
“I know!” she crooned, testing the power of her thick layering of lipstick as her smirk stretched. “But I knew that we would. I told him to wait until we left, then open the envelope and do whatever the paper inside told him to do.”
“You knew that we’d go back!”
“Yes, I left my bag there on purpose.”
The scheming, lying, little ...
Montgomery decided he wanted centre stage and started booming, “We made a pact that afternoon — a pact to promote the book, no matter what it took.”
Dawn stepped in, “Then we hurried off the island as quickly as we could because we knew you’d call the police.”
“You’re so predictable!” sneered Rafe.
Oh dear! What an insult — ‘That Dee Whittaker, well, she always calls the police after discovering a dead body. What a bore!’
“Why did you take my credit card? Buying gnomes on my card only drew attention to the group.”
“Oh, don’t you know?” laughed Rafe. “You did all this.”
“What?”
“It’s all here!” he said, holding up a piece of paper.
I looked closely. It appeared to have several paragraphs of text printed on it, and — what? My signature was scribbled on the bottom.
“How did you ...” Then I noticed Danger, who was scratching his forehead, guiltily. “My ‘autograph’?”
The conniving little smeghead. He had planned to frame me, not my autograph. And to think I’d kept the grotty receipt with his scrawl on it.
“Let me see that ...” I demanded.
Rafe, taking care to hold the paper firmly, held it up to show me.
“But that’s in Comic Sans. Nobody would confess to murder using Comic Sans!”
“We felt it suited you,” said Rafe.
Pompomberry House Page 27