Pompomberry House (33 page)

“But Annabel and Rafe didn’t agree with ... Oh,
hang on, I only have
their
word for that.”

“Well it’s obvious what’s going on, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he said. Then he folded his arms and closed his
mouth. He sat there, saying nothing, deriving a smug satisfaction from keeping
the solution from me.

“What’s obvious?”

“Duh!”

“Gareth!”

He smirked to himself.

“Gareth, two more people could die. What’s obvious?”

“All right, keep your harlot hair on.”

“Gareth!”

“All right, I’ll explain very slowly ...”

“Why? I’m not stupid. He didn’t
literally
shag my
brains out!”

I knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as I’d said it.
I didn’t even know why I had. Gareth’s lips pressed together in anger. He
glared at me.

“Sorry.”

“Once I’ve explained the blindingly obvious, I’m done with
you. Agreed?”

Ouch!
He didn’t mean that, surely? I said nothing.
How could I? I wasn’t going to agree to let him walk away, but I needed to know
what he’d worked out.

“All right?” he demanded.

“Just tell me! Don’t you want to stop the killer?”

“Okay, fine. Biff’s death was a test. They wanted to see who
had the mentality to cover up a murder.”

“Oh my God!”

“Copying the stories was Dawn and Montgomery’s plan all
along. But they couldn’t do it alone. Clearly they couldn’t just ask people to
take part — far too risky. And so, they devised a plan to determine which
people would be prepared to do anything, even pervert the course of justice,
for their own ends.”

“My God!”

“The more people they could get on board, the easier it
would be to get away with it. I mean, neither of us considered the possibility
that there were
five
copycats. This way, they all have alibis coming out
of their ears, for most of the acts.”

“So even Annabel was in on it?”

“Yes!”

“But Dawn wrote about a pig falling off a cliff, and Montgomery
wrote a murder. Surely they wouldn’t have written about such heinous things if
they knew they were going to act them out?”

“The more heinous the crimes, the more media exposure ...”

“And the more book sales!”

“Exactly!”

“Oh my God! You’re right!”

Gareth’s explanation made perfect sense. Dawn and Montgomery
were seasoned indies. They knew how hard it is to get ahead in self-publishing.
They knew that without drastic action, the anthology would never sell more than
a few dozen copies, if even that. So they must have identified the most suitable
accomplices for their plot, and then started grooming them. At first they got
their minions to commit relatively small acts of criminality and then slowly
built up to murder.

While Dawn and Montgomery had been sunning themselves in
Spain, their cronies had been lugging gnomes, stealing pigs and placing a foot.
I had to wonder where they got the foot from now that I could be categorically
sure that it wasn’t Biff’s.

Then, the leaders came back to Britain in time for the kill.
Actually — that didn’t fit. Gareth’s theory could not be right. Dawn and
Montgomery had been engaged in Rafe’s Skype chat at the time of Amanda Kenwood’s
murder. Many Kindle fans would be able to confirm it.

“It can’t be the writers. They all have alibis for Amanda’s
murder.”

“They can’t have.”

“They do! Danger was with me. You saw Annabel at that bar.
The rest were in a Skype chat.”

“Did you take part in the Skype chat?”

“You know I didn’t.”

“Then how can you be sure?”

“I’m not, but we can check! It was recorded! We can watch it
on the forum.”

“Well, let’s do that!” he cried.

We hurried over to my computer desk and both tried to perch
our butts on the stool at the same time. For a second, I balanced on his lap.
Perhaps we would share a brief moment of intimacy — reunited by our shared need
for furniture. Instead he shifted, sending me crashing to the floor.

“Was that absolutely necessary?”

“I thought you liked to be on your back.”

“It was
one
night. Not even a night — I left before
sunrise.”

“Oh classy, Dee, really classy.”

“So, what? Would you have preferred it if I had stayed the
night? Worked a double shift? Would you have liked that, huh?”

“Let’s just watch the video.”

We located a thread called ‘The Rafe Corner’, which was both
alarming and hideous in equal measure. It was full of photos of Rafe Maddocks
draped over expensive cars, leaning against bookcases and, in one case, reading
Disgracebook
in the bath.

“You should have slept with Rafe; look what you’re missing!”
said Gareth. He made a joke! Were we at the stage where we could laugh about
this already?

“Perhaps I’ll do him next,” I quipped back.

Daggers shot from Gareth’s blue eyes.

“That would be a ‘no’ then?”

The video opened in a little window on the screen. Rafe
appeared, dressed in a dark green velvet suit and taupe scarf. He grinned into
a webcam. I wondered if he’d had his teeth whitened for the occasion. The
camera contorted his face, giving him a cumbersome nose and a receding chin.
The comical distortion outweighed any slight benefits the dental work might
otherwise have achieved.

“Good evening!” said a self-important, middle-class voice,
evoking the smell of overpowering cologne.

“Yes! Yes!” said the same voice. “
I’m
glad I’m here
too!”

Then he laughed.

“I was waiting for somebody to ask that!” he said.

Then he groomed his hair.

“Well, it all began when ...”

Gareth hit pause.

“Where are the people asking the questions?” I asked.

“It looks as though it’s just a capture from Rafe’s webcam
and mic.”

“Why didn’t they record everybody’s feed?”

“Perhaps they did. Perhaps Rafe was the only one on camera.”

“Oh! Of course! The others type. That’s how it works. One
person comes on camera, and everybody else types questions for them!”

“So Dawn and Montgomery might not have been using Skype at
all? It could have been anybody logged in using their accounts!”

“We’ve cracked it, Gareth! We’ve cracked it!”

I saw him contemplate a high five. His hand jiggled mid-air,
then he quickly retracted it.

“I’ve got to call the police!” I said.

“Yes, you do.”

“I still can’t believe that I’m the only one who left the
island.”

“I can.”

“Really?”

“Those people are arrogant, single-minded idiots who will do
anything to sell their books, and you, well you’re ...” he trailed off.

“I’m what?” I asked, looking into his blue eyes and smiling
hopefully.

“A whore.”

I groaned. He’d been close to paying me a compliment, I know
he had. His voice had taken that tender tone, the one he used so many years
before, when he confessed that he wanted to be more than ‘fark-buddies’, and
again when he admitted that the ring I mistook for a birthday present, had
actually been intended as a marriage proposal.

It was time to make some cups of tea. The problem solving
properties of hot beverages are well known, but the breathing space whilst the kettle
boils can be just as effective.

As I plopped teabags into the mugs, I reflected on my fellow
writers. Montgomery was a snob. Dawn was overbearing. Rafe was obnoxious.
Annabel was vain. Danger was bland. However, were snobbery, dominance,
obnoxiousness, vanity and blandness really precursors of murder?

Annabel had messaged me so many times, wanting to be my ‘BFF’.
Had that all been an act to keep me close? Had she been assigned the role of
checking what I was up to? Well, if she was in on it, that started to explain
the Macarena (how exactly did she do it though?).

I’d had a pleasant lunch with Rafe, eventually. On some
level, he had seemed like a reasonable person. I had begun to think that his awfulness
was only skin deep — but perhaps not. Maybe wickedness pulsed through his
veins, with tiny capillaries delivering little bits of evil to every corner of
his body.

Why had Danger helped me protect Netta Lewis if all along he’d
known they were planning to kill Amanda Kenwood? Was he keeping me out of the
way so that others could carry out the murder?

Five
bad guys? It all seemed pretty unlikely. Five
out of six candidates on the island, all rotten. Apparently, I was the odd one
out for not wanting to kill innocent people.

Flaming carrots!

I remembered, with horror, something Rafe had said: ‘The
weakest, in a cannibal situation, is the one who is of least help in aiding the
survival of the group as a whole.’

It suddenly struck me that they might perceive me as the weakest
of the group. Five killers, intent on copying every act in the book, still had
Rafe’s story to follow — a story in which a group of six people determine the
weakest and ... 
Oh holy fracking jackbag!

“Gareth! They’re going to eat me!” I cried.

I zoomed into the living room, where he was sitting on the
sofa, fiddling with the TV remote. Surely he wasn’t going to channel surf at a
time like this?

“Do
not
turn the television on.”

“I wasn’t going to. Chill, Dee.”

“
They’re going to eat me!
”

“They’re what?”

“The writers! It’s just like in Rafe’s story. Six people ... they
meet on an island ... all desperate to get their own way ... an
assessment process ...”

“I’ve read the book, remember!”

“I’m the weak one! The one that they’re going to kill and
eat
.”

He was quiet for a few moments.

“Well?” I screamed, hoping — praying — that he would
disagree.

He stood up and faced me, with a grim expression. “I think
you might be right.”

“Heck!”

“The situation does seem to fit.”

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

He looked at me with unexpected warmth and held me firmly by
the shoulders. Then he said something that proved that he still cared. “Of
course I’m not loving this! I mean yes, you’re a slapper, but no matter how
many dead handymen you’ve slept with — you don’t deserve to be
eaten
.”

Chapter 18

The house felt huge that afternoon — big and empty. Was it
the end for Gareth and me? I mean, certainly he sounded concerned about my
imminent devourment. However, loving somebody for years can make you resistant
to the idea of their being eaten, regardless of how sour things have become. It
didn’t necessarily mean that he wanted me back.

If he loved me, then where was he right now? Why had he left
and gone back to Barry’s, knowing that five people planned to kill me? I never
thought I would say it, but I wished he would secretly follow me again. At
least, when he’d skulked around in the shadows, it had showed that he cared.

The police would be here soon, to take my statement. I began
to look forward to their visit — I felt
that
lonely.

My phone rang and I leapt off the sofa. It wasn’t Gareth’s
personalised ring tone, but perhaps he was calling from a payphone or Barry’s
mobile, or Penny’s or
anybody’s
!

Dammit!
It was just one of the newspaper editors that
I worked for, and not my favourite one either. Doris Glob should never have
been put in charge of a paper aimed at hip graduates.

“Dee! How are you?”

She wanted a favour. She only bothered with pleasantries
when she wanted something. “Okay,” I lied.

“I read about your book!
Well done
!”

“What?”

“The sales! Amazing.”

“Haven’t you heard? A woman was murdered!”

“Yeah, and look what it’s done for you!”

Charming woman
.

“The thing is, Dee, we want a feature!”

“On the murder?”

“On the book!”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard my ideas yet.”

“The answer is ‘no’. More exposure is exactly what the
killers want.”

“It might help you sell copies.”

“I said ‘no’!”

I wanted to slam the phone down, but since it has a
touchscreen, instead I gently poked a red area of the screen. It wasn’t quite
as satisfying but at least it got rid of that dreadful woman.

The house didn’t feel just big, but quiet too. Gareth hadn’t
lived here for weeks, yet today the silence was unbearable. Without really
thinking, I turned on the television.

An over-made-up TV presenter was harping on about ‘Inspiration’,
which was presumably another fragrance from some laboratory in Europe. I was
just about to change the channel when I saw
them
. I felt my blood boil.
Dawn and Montgomery were on daytime TV. Dawn took up most of the guest couch.
She was wearing a sparkling sequin cocktail frock and her legs splurged out
like giant sausages. Montgomery was wearing one of his usual dated suits. They
looked more like comedy puppets than serious guests.

“My inspiration was a house we stayed at in Cornwall,”
explained Dawn. “What was it called again, Monty?”

“Pompomberry.”

“Yes, that’s it — Pompomberry.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Just a few weeks.”

“So things move quickly in the eBook business?”

“Very quickly. Back then, we had no idea that our book would
become a number one bestseller.”

“And how much of your success do you attribute to the
controversy about the content?”

“Don’t listen to everything you hear,” said Montgomery. “There
is no evidence whatsoever that there is any conspiracy to copy our plotlines.”

Oh please! I couldn’t listen to any more of this. I wanted
to kick the television in, but it was a wall-mounted flat-screen and it seemed
likely that I would come off worse than it would. Why did new technology make
it so much harder to express rage?