Pompomberry House (12 page)

“Jesus, Dee! Well, can you see any post?”

“Post? Yes, actually, there’s a whole stack of post here on
the table.”

“Anything tell you where you are?”

“Yes! Gareth, I’m at Gulls Reach Farm!” My triumphant moment
was followed by a feeling of terror. Why were there seagulls in the address?

“Okay ... All right, I’ve found it, I think. North
coast, right?”

“Yes!”

“I’ll be right there!” I thought he’d hung up the phone when
suddenly he asked, “Dee?”

“Yeah?”

“You are safe, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I reassured him.

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

I looked out of the window as a pair of gulls landed on a broken
fence, and I shivered.
Was
I safe? Or was this a game of cat and mouse,
where I was the mouse and the cat was large, feathery and very hungry?

* * *

It was raining again. Large drops of pearlescent water
sloshed down on the lumpy driveway, clustering in large pools of murky sludge.
I watched from the safety of the lounge at Gulls Reach, as the wind attacked
trees. They danced to its tune, blowing into arches and then bouncing back.

I watched the road, longing to see Gareth’s blue Golf
appear. I longed to see Gareth even more. I was cold, battered and frightened.
I needed his lanky arms around me.

It was peculiar. Every Saturday I had wanted my husband’s
arms around me, and every Saturday he had disappointed me by emerging from
slumber at about three in the afternoon, and an hour later, helping himself to
a beer. But not today.

When all it took was crossing the room, he’d failed to rise to
the challenge, yet when required to drive across Cornwall on a wild, stormy
afternoon, he was quick to oblige.

Or was he? I stared out the window, my newly restored faith
evaporating. It felt as if I’d been waiting for hours. Where was he? Perhaps he
had gone back to sleep, or had started on Saturday night’s booze and forgotten
all about me.

I heard a cry.

Fark me backwards!

I spun around and saw a lady! There was a lady sitting in
the armchair in the corner of the room! How long had she been there? She was
emaciated and pale. Even now that I knew she was there, she blended into the
cream chair, partially hidden by the shadows.

Creeping forward, I strained to look at her. She was old —
very old. She had long, pure white hair woven into a plait that hung down over
her shoulder, like a thick rope. Her eyes, which stared in my direction, were
crusty and lined with yellow gunge. A long, flowing white cotton gown enveloped
her almost down to the ground. A pair of skeletal ankles dangled down into
large, flipper-like slippers.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I began.

She just gawped at me.

 “I did knock. And I rang the bell.”

She continued to stare, mouth open.

“I needed to call the police, you see. I mean, I realise
that I didn’t call the police, but that’s because I didn’t want them to think
that I was trespassing.”

She yawned, loudly. Then sat, opening and closing her mouth
but saying nothing. She had a large, aristocratic nose and lacked teeth. I felt
the urge to offer her a cup of tea.

“I’m Dee,” I told her.

Still, there was no response. I studied her haggard face,
trying to work out whether she was deaf, dumb or suffering from dementia. There
was a great sadness about her. I hoped she wasn’t stuck here alone.

Suddenly, I heard a key in the back door. I panicked. I
grabbed the clasps on the nearest window frame and tugged it open. Just as I
did so, I saw a blue Golf pulling up outside.

Quickly, I climbed up onto the coffee table, and leapt
through the window. I landed awkwardly on my ankle. The door of Gareth’s car opened.

“Get back in the car!” I screamed.

“What’s going on?”

“Get back in the car!” I dived into the passenger seat. “Drive,
Gareth! Drive!”

Chapter 6

“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” asked
Gareth.

He had one of those faces you couldn’t help but like. Even
the frustrating uselessness he’d demonstrated over the last few months was not
enough to turn me off that face. He was good-looking without being
intimidatingly sizzling. The overall face was jolly and kind looking, with a
wide nose and big ears. He had large earnest blue eyes and when he laughed,
which he did a lot, they twinkled. I had loved his scruffy warm brown hair,
which grew in awkward tufts. I used to appreciate his intermittent gruff
stubble, though now I saw it as a painful reminder of his sloth.

“Why have we pulled in by the side of the road?”

“Because it doesn’t sound as though the answer is going to
be something I’ll want to hear whilst in charge of a vehicle.”

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“What for?”

“To call the police.”

“What
is
going on?”

So, I began telling him. I told him about the seagull, the
prediction in the hat, the deflated tyres and the figure in the dark. Then, the
next day, the scream, discovering Biff’s body, looking for the killer,
discovering that my phone battery was missing, Dawn and Montgomery’s stupid
plan ...

“That’s insane. They’re making themselves accessories to
murder!”

“Have you not been listening to what I’ve been saying? These
people
are
insane!”

“But it always seemed like such a lovely forum ...”

“Well not these five. One of them thinks that a pig falling
off a cliff is a realistic storyline, another thinks that ‘Gurney’ is an
inspired response to ‘Journey’, another thinks that
I
would be
interested in Rafe Maddocks ...”

“Slow down, Dee. Now who’s this Rafe Maddocks again?”

“The one who thinks everybody fancies him.”

“So two people think you fancy Rafe?”

“Gareth! Somebody has been murdered! Now’s not the time to
be jealous.”

“All right. Here, use my phone.”

“Thank you.”

As I called 999, I wondered what I was going to say. Although
I didn’t really like any of the writers, I felt slightly bad about reporting
them to the police. On the other hand, there was a dangerous killer out there
who had to be stopped. In addition to which, if I didn’t talk to the police,
Biff’s family and friends might never know what happened to him.

“Police!” I demanded. I suddenly realised that I wasn’t
tongue-tied after all. “There’s been a murder at Pompomberry House.
Pom-pom-berry. It’s in North Cornwall.” And so, I told them all about Biff.
Words hurried up my throat, creating a bottleneck in my mouth, as I stumbled to
get them out. The sooner the police got to the island, the more chance they had
of recovering Biff’s body and determining whatever had happened to him.

* * *

The officers were an odd pair. The older one was male, white
and uptight-looking. He had thin grey hair in a side parting and was
exceptionally lean for a man of his age. The young one was a curvaceous black woman
with masses of hair. Even her police uniform failed to diminish the wild and
beautiful aura created by her corkscrew curls, sparkling eyes and insanely full
lips.

We’d been at Gareth’s mate Jack’s house for over an hour
when the police arrived. Jack courteously left the room, but Gareth didn’t move.
He sat beside me, holding my hand in a firm and reassuring manner.

“We believe we might have found the house,” explained the
male officer, whose title was D.I. Clive Taylor.

“
Might
have found the house. What are you talking
about?”

“Well, we’ve got no record of a Pompomberry House on our
system.”

“What?”

“However, there is a house on an island near Strawberry
Meadow. It’s known by a variety of different names.”

Gareth interrupted, “If it was full of insane writers, then
it was the right place.”

“Well, that’s the thing — there was nobody there.”

“What?” I demanded.

“We found your car, in the car park.”

“Well then, you must have been at the right place. My car
was undriveable. Somebody let the air out of the tyres.”

The officers exchanged concerned expressions. “There was
nothing wrong with the tyres,” explained D.I. Taylor, looking down at me.

“When we found it,” added D.I. Samantha Forrester, with kinder
eyes.

I looked at Gareth, puzzled. “How can that be?” I asked him.

“Obviously, somebody didn’t want the police to know that
your tyres had been sabotaged,” he said, squeezing my hand and reassuring me
that I wasn’t going mad.

“The others must have been too afraid to stay,” I thought. “Understandable
after what happened to Biff.”

“Do you have any of their names?” asked Taylor.

“Yes, all of them!” I said. At least I could be of
some
help.

Taylor removed a notepad from his pocket.

“Montgomery Lowe, Danger Smith ...”

He stopped scribbling and looked up.

“That’s his name, Danger.”

Taylor looked to Forrester and rolled his eyes.

Forrester asked, “Did these people use their real names, or
their pen names?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t think of that.”

Taylor rolled his eyes again. I was beginning to take a
distinct dislike to the guy.

“You can contact them all through the forum though. They’re
on there all the time.”

“Mrs Whittaker,” began Taylor, in the most condescending
tone I’d ever had the misfortune to hear, “you say there has been a murder, but
we have no suspects, no victim, and no evidence that a crime has even taken
place.”

“There is a victim! He’s called Biff.”

“Biff?”

“Yes, that’s right — Biff. And I think he was already in
some kind of trouble because he apologised to me last night, and then when I
queried it, he said it didn’t matter.”

“Biff what?” asked Taylor, getting out his pen once again.

“I ... I don’t know.”

“If you’re wasting police time ...” he began, looking
angry.

Forrester interrupted, “The ashes were still warm in the
fireplace. We know that someone had been there.”

“Did you check the kitchen?” I asked.

“Yes,” replied Taylor. “But we didn’t find anything.”

“But there was blood everywhere! Did you use your special
lights for picking up blood?”

“I know how to do my job Mrs Whittaker!”

“You have to go back! Send a forensic team to the kitchen! I’m
telling you — they’ll find blood! You need to act fast — one of the key
witnesses has tickets to Spain!”

“Mrs Whittaker, all we have is your word that a crime even
took place. You’ve come to us with names such as ‘Biff’ and ‘Danger’, and no real
information to identify the people you say you saw on the island.”

“I’m not
saying
I saw these people. I
did
see
these people. They’re real writers. I’ve got their books on my Kindle.”

“Well, perhaps you should spend a little less time reading
books, Mrs Whittaker.”

* * *

I was livid. Since when did reading books lessen one’s
credibility as a witness? Surely being a bookworm shows intellect! Certainly
being a writer demonstrates attention to detail!

Biff was dead, and the police weren’t even investigating his
murder! Still, eventually, someone, somewhere, would report him missing and then
the police would be kicking down my door, begging for information. D.I. Clive
Taylor would be down on his knees crying, “Mrs Whittaker! Mrs Whittaker! Please
help me catch the killer! My career is going down the pan.”

And I’d look at him, and I’d remember the brash, arrogant
way that he’d spoken to me. But then, I’d look at his pitiful, pale eyes and
think of his pitiful, pale children and their pitiful, pale, hungry mouths and
I’d decide that I would assist him. I’d be helping to feed a family as well as
bringing Biff’s killer to justice.

I took a moment to grieve for Biff. I hadn’t known him well,
but something had clicked between us that night, as we watched
Arrested
Development
and mocked the writers together.

Then I thought back yet again to what Biff had said — “I’m
sorry.” What was he sorry for? “Oh, it’s nothing,” he’d added. “Forget I said
anything.” But how could I forget now, now that he was dead? What had he done?

“Are you all right?” asked a concerned, rumbling voice.
Gareth’s goofy face was a welcome sight, and I realised that I’d been missing
him even for the short time he was in the bathroom.

It was easy to fall into his embrace, into his familiar,
comfortable arms. Aside from a fairly recently acquired beer belly, Gareth was
rather bony. Yet his cuddle thrilled me like a fall from a great height, onto a
bouncy castle covered in cushions.

I felt his breath on the back of my neck, warm and moist
like a breeze on a summer’s day. He smelt faintly of stale smoke but I found
that I didn’t mind. Lovely, cosy Gareth, the only person who believed that I
saw what I saw.

At least Gareth agreed that covering up a murder was wrong.
Rafe had appeared to be the only one of the writers capable of seeing sense. Did
I have an ally in Rafe Maddocks? He’d refused to go along with Dawn and
Montgomery’s harebrained plan. Perhaps he would give a statement to the police,
if he hadn’t already.
Of course he hasn’t already, otherwise they wouldn’t
have given me such a hard time.

“Are you still cold? Do you want me to run you a bath?”

I smiled, trying to remember the last time that Gareth had
run me a bath — possibly, our honeymoon.

“Do you remember the last time I ran you a bath?” he asked,
with a twinkle in his eye. I recognised that look — it was the look of lust. It
was one of my favourites from Gareth’s vast range of enjoyable expressions.

No, I was not going to sleep with my husband. Absolutely
not. There was nothing that would make this break up harder than falling into
bed together. No matter how good he was at the sexy stuff, I had to be strong,
for both of us.