Pompomberry House (24 page)

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“You told me there is.”

Was it really that simple? Was Danger really just a sponge,
waiting to absorb whatever was said to him? No wonder he’d agreed to help hide
Biff’s body. No wonder Dawn and Montgomery had found him so easy to persuade.

Mind you, with Annabel, Rafe and Emily now crossed off the
list, Dawn and Montgomery were my prime suspects. Should I really trust
somebody who’d helped them cover up a murder, to help me prevent one?

It felt like Danger was anybody’s. He’d take the side of
whoever asked him. Still, if he was so eager to please, perhaps I could use it
to my advantage.

“What did they do with Biff’s body in the end?”

“I do not want to talk about it.”

“Danger! This is important!”

“I do not want to talk about it.”

“Just tell me one thing — did his body go in the ground with
a foot.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Just wondered.”

Suddenly, a subject change. “Can I have your autograph?”

“What?”

Netta picked that exact moment to get off her bar stool. Was
she on the move again or was she just heading to the ladies? If it was the
latter, should I follow? At this time of night, the toilets were likely to be
empty. Was it safe for the fated charity rep to go to the toilet alone?

Still, if I went in there, it was likely that she would
recognise me, after all a hat and shades are nowhere near as effective as the
movies pretend that they are.

Then, I realised that she wasn’t going to the ladies, or
leaving, she was meeting somebody. A greasy little man entered wearing a crisp
suit. He had a horrible, wiry moustache and a receding chin that gave him an
air of rat. He carried a briefcase in one hand and a trilby in the other. He
looked even more like an assassin than the previous man. What was wrong with
that woman? If you’re expecting to be murdered, the last thing you do is hang
around with men with hand luggage.

The first guy took one look at the second, rapidly drank up
and left.

“Nice to have met you, Netta,” droned Danger.

“What?”

“That is what the first said.”

“You can lip read?”

“Yeah.”

Wow.

“He was not the guy she was here to meet. He was just some
guy who bought her a drink.”

“You can tell all that?”

“She just got his name wrong.”

“How do you know that?”

“Micro-expressions; he frowned when she said it.”

I found myself surprisingly impressed. “And who’s this guy?”

“I do not know. He has not said anything yet.”

We watched as Netta shook hands with the greasy man. She
rolled her shoulders, tilted her head to the side and fluttered her eyelashes.
This told me three things: they hadn’t met before, she’d planned to meet him and
she was keen to impress.

Netta knew that her life was in danger, so why would she
risk spending time with somebody she didn’t know? With only a few hours left
before the voting closed, it was likely that this person was related to her
campaign. But who was he? A real TV producer perhaps? A radio presenter? A
killer?

I surveyed the greasy little man. Could he be the copycat? He
didn’t look large enough to take on a towering inferno like Biff. Mind you, if
he had had a knife ...

“He is the killer,” said Danger.

“What! How do you know?”

“The deathly micro-expression.”

“Really? There’s an expression for that?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it like?”

“I cannot show you, it’s a micro-expression. They are so
fast that you have to be trained to read them.”

“Why have you had so much training? Who do you work for?”

He tapped his nose, implying that if he told me, he’d have
to kill me. Perhaps Danger wasn’t boring after all. Perhaps the monotony, the blank
expression and the insipid clothing were all part of his guise — a guise that
allowed him to complete intense, undercover protection missions.

“What do we do?” I asked.

“Watch them like an eagle. Do not let them out of our sight.”

I nodded enthusiastically, prepared to bow to Danger’s
superior judgment.

“Anyway, about that autograph ...”

“Were you serious?”

“Of course I am serious — I loved
The Red River
,” he
said without a hint of enthusiasm. He began scrambling around in a folder that
was so bland (black, dimpled plastic) that I hadn’t noticed him carrying it.

He pulled out an A4 book and flicked through a few pages
until he reached a blank, plain page. He handed me a pen.

“You wouldn’t rather I signed a postcard or something?”

“No, I am going to put it in a frame.”

Really?
“Oh, um ... right. Shall I sign in
the middle then?”

“Can you sign at the second third? That always looks best.”

“How many autographs have you got?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen?”

“Yeah.”

I scrawled my name on the paper, feeling less special than I
had done a few seconds before.
Seventeen framed autographs
? Where did he
put them all? Did he have a really big house, or was there just one room
cluttered with signatures? “Um ... Whose signatures am I going to be
amongst?”

“All sorts. All the writers from Pompomberry House,
obviously.”

Dammit.

“Stieg Larsson, the Virgin Student ...”

“How did you get the Virgin Student? Nobody knows who she
is.”

“You are forgetting that I am highly trained.”

“Wait … isn’t Stieg Larsson
dead
?”

Danger tapped his nose with his forefinger and raised an
eyebrow.

Hmm ...

Once I’d signed the book, I noticed that Danger was staring
at me. It was rather disconcerting. His lack of expression meant that he could be
feeling anything from anger to lust.
Shudder.
He raised his eyelids.
Then I saw the problem — he was expecting
me
to ask for
his
autograph.

I thought about
Foot.
I thought about its insipid,
boring prose and total lack of plot. I thought about Danger himself and ‘Journey-Gurney’.
Was I a good enough actor to pull this off?

Finally, I took a deep breath. “Danger?” I said. “Can I have
your autograph please?”

“Oh!” he said, with false surprise. “Yes!”

Being unprepared for this occurrence, the best I could offer
Danger was the back of a Tesco receipt to scribble on, but he seemed satisfied.

It wasn’t long before the conversation ran dry once again. I
sat, watching Danger, speculating about his vocal range. Had there ever been a
human with so little variation in pitch?

I drummed my fingers on the table, I twiddled my thumbs. I
took off my glasses, cleaned them and put them back on again,
seven
times. Yawn. Perhaps Danger’s winning body-guarding strategy was to bore
assailants into going away. Maybe I should send him over to talk to the greasy
man, then the man might leave and we could all go home, safe in the knowledge that
whatever was in the briefcase, was not going to murder anybody tonight.

Netta leaned forward and wiped a little foam off the man’s
wiry moustache. She threw her head back and giggled. He gave her a little,
slimy grin.
What are you doing Netta? What
are
you doing?

The flirting intensified over the next hour. It was painful
to watch — not because the intimacy might lead to her death, but because she
was throwing herself at him, and judging by his thigh rubbing action, she
really didn’t need to. Odd though, he seemed genuinely attracted to her — wasn’t
that going to make her harder to kill?

Finally, Netta got down off her bar stool. The greaseball
began putting on his jacket, then when he realised how poorly dressed she was,
he offered it to her. I shuddered as I watched him slide it over her arms,
caressing her as he did so.
He’s twice your age, Netta! And he looks like a
rodent! What are you doing?

I felt sure that the greasy, ratty man was the copycat. He
couldn’t possibly be a hired assassin. Anybody with half a brain would hire an
attractive man for a seduction routine. Mind you, ugly or not, Netta seemed
smitten. She leant forward and kissed him on the nose. I honestly wanted to
throw up. I glanced at Danger, whose eyes were popping out of his head, and
knew that, mentally, he was putting himself in the place of the man.

If this man
was
responsible for all of the strange
happenings, who the heck was he? I’d never seen him before in my life, and I
felt sure I would have recognised that ugly, receding, puckered chin.

Then they started toward the exit. It was time for Danger
and me to move. Quickly, we got up from our seats but then, realising that we
didn’t want to look suspicious, we slowed down and discussed which tourist trap
to visit next.

“Where are they going?” I asked. “I hope she doesn’t get on
her moped again.”

“There is no room for two on that thing.”

“What if he has a car?”

“You want us to follow them and see what happens?” suggested
Danger. His words hinted at irritation but, as usual, his tone said nothing.

We followed them out into the street. By now, the body
language had gotten even more revolting. I wanted to cry out, “No! He’s old
enough to be your father!” but realised, with horror, the extent to which the
expression aged me.
It’s the twenty-first century Dee, anybody can shag
anything.

They turned into a side street. It was going to be harder to
follow them now because the alley was otherwise deserted. We ducked behind bins,
some thirty feet behind, waiting for them to pass a skip so that we’d have
another hiding place. I was amazed by how smoothly and silently Danger moved.
It was as if his whole life had been building up to this moment — Danger Smith,
action hero.

They seemed to have stopped. With the shadow of the streets
around them, it was difficult to see what was going on. I felt my heart beating
in my chest.

Suddenly, the grease-ball pushed Netta against the wall and
I heard her cry out!

I leapt out from behind the bin and darted forward but I feared
it was too late. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but it looked as
though the man was stabbing her — using all his force to pound a knife into her
torso, over and over again.

“No!”

He heard me cry and leapt away from her. I half expected
Netta’s lifeless body to flop to the ground but she stayed vertical. In fact,
she looked exceptionally well for somebody who had been stabbed.

“What the heck?” she demanded.

“Netta? You’re all right?” I removed my shades and hat.

“Dee!”

“I thought this man was trying to kill you!” It was then
that I noticed she was pulling up her knickers. “Oh! Yuck!”

“Who the taff are you?” demanded the ratty man. He had a
sharp, squeaky voice.

“Who the taff are you?” I replied.

“Arnold Miller,” he said, as if I should know.

I was surprised to realise that I
did
know. Arnold
Miller was
the
Miller of Porter and Miller, or at least, one of the
Millers. He was the grandson of the founder of the corporation and heir to a
vast fortune. What’s more, he was responsible for the charity grant contest.

It was all clear. Mr Greasy wasn’t here to kill Netta; he
was here to take what he could get from a foolish, naïve former model, who
would do anything to get ahead in life. And Netta was here to try and milk a
competitive advantage by milking him. They deserved each other really.

“I can’t believe you followed me!” cried Netta. “And who is
this?”

I’d forgotten Danger was with me. He nodded, shyly, at
Netta.

“I thought he was going to kill you!” I explained.

“What?” cried Arnold.

“Ignore her,” said Netta. “Crazed fan.”

“Netta, I’m sorry. I was trying to help.” Was I sorry? Did I
regret stopping the squelchy between Ms Help-Me-Get-Ahead and Mr Help-Me-Get-Some-Head?

“Go home, Dee, and take your shadow with you.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“If I see you again, I’ll call the police,” she told me,
firmly.

I tried to take her hand in mine, but she slapped me away. “Take
care of yourself,” I begged her.

What more could I do? If I continued to follow her, I could
very well end up getting myself into trouble with the police. And I didn’t
think the police would be sympathetic toward me.

I walked back to the street, with Danger following. At least
I could take comfort from the fact that she was with Arnold Miller. The chances
were, he wasn’t going to kill her. I found myself hoping that they would spend
the night together, whatever disgusting, moist activities that might involve.

My phone started to vibrate. Gareth? In all the excitement,
I’d completely forgotten that I was longing to hear from him. How peculiar! My
stomach lurched when I remembered my suspicions about the places he had to be,
and the people he had to see.

My anxiety might be about to end. It
was
Gareth
calling! My index finger moved faster than it had ever moved before. God forbid
I should miss his call and have to call him back.

“Gareth!” I shouted.

“Dee! Thank goodness I’ve got hold of you!”

My heart melted.

“I’ve got some terrible news!”

He’s met someone else.

“Amanda Kenwood is dead.”

Phew.

Hang on.
“What?”

“The police just fished her body out of the Thames.”

It was difficult to take in. I’d spent all week trying to
work out how to protect Netta Lewis, and now Amanda Kenwood was dead. I’d
protected the wrong charity rep.

I felt terribly guilty. I thought about my story. I’d
written Amanda’s death. I’d thrown a character into the Thames and somehow, it
had come true. It was my fault that Amanda was dead.