Pompomberry House (23 page)

At first, I scurried after her, but what was I going to do?
If the killer appeared right now, I wouldn’t be able to protect her. Whoever
killed Biff had attacked a large man with a knife. What use would I be against
a knife-wielding maniac? No, I needed some other way of protecting her, I just
didn’t know what it was yet.

* * *

“Answer your phone!” I thought, as I waited for Gareth to
answer his phone. However, even while I waited, impatiently, I thought about it
— was Gareth really the ideal bodyguard? I mean, sure, he was tall, but he wasn’t
wide, and he certainly wasn’t in peak physical condition. Watching men run
around on a football pitch didn’t qualify as exercise, no matter how great an
affinity he felt with the players. Besides, I couldn’t bear it if anyone were
to hurt Gareth. What if he got killed? Marital separation was one thing, but
knowing that his mortal body had left the earth I walked upon would be unbearable.
We were supposed to walk the same world, whether we did it together or not.

No, what I needed was somebody covert, somebody trained, and
somebody I wouldn’t miss. I needed Danger Smith.

Naturally, I didn’t have Danger’s number. I thought he was
the most insipid person I’d ever met. But he was apparently a bodyguard. He
didn’t look like one; perhaps that was his secret skill — the element of
surprise.

A suspect might not seem like the ideal bodyguard for a
potential victim. However, I planned to work collaboratively with the
bodyguard, shadowing Netta’s every move. So, if Danger was innocent, he would
help protect her, and if he wasn’t, I would have him under my nose at all times.
Either way, she’d be safer if I stalked her with Danger.

I logged onto the forum, promising myself that I wouldn’t
read any of the posts, just find the contact details that I needed, and leave.
I would not let myself get sucked in. I found Danger’s profile and drafted a
quick message.

Danger, it’s Dee. I need your help urgently. Somebody’s
life is in danger. Please call me on —

He must have been online, because he replied almost straight
away.

That’s nice isn’t it? You have not written to me once
since the weekend, and now you want a favour.

Oh for heaven’s sake! Hadn’t he read the bit about somebody’s
life being in danger? I wasn’t fond of manipulation, or sucking up to people
who didn’t deserve it, but in light of the impending murder, I managed to
muster a suitable response.

That’s because I haven’t needed a strong man with
security training before now. I assumed you’d be too busy writing your next
masterpiece to want to be bothered by little me. However, tonight humanity needs
you to take a break from perfecting that masterpiece. Save the life you were
born to save 00-Danger.

My finger hovered over ‘Send’ for a while. Typing the words
had drained me of all dignity and self-respect. I feared that clicking ‘Send’ might
actually kill me. Was it possible to die from depleted pride? I thought of
Netta Lewis, and how my short story had as good as signed her death warrant,
and the guilt gave me the strength to send the response.

It worked a treat. I’d obviously pushed the right buttons.
Why wasn’t I always this good at getting what I wanted from men? Danger agreed
to meet me as soon as possible. He claimed to have freed up the entire evening
for me, but I knew that his Dungeons and Dragons friends would understand.

* * *

It’s difficult to undertake an undercover mission
accompanied by somebody who’s angry with you, but somebody needed to protect
Netta. So, I put up with Danger’s angry glares, I put up with his short
responses, and I put up with his frosty silences.

We were supposed to be disguised as a pair of misguided
tourists — a disguise that allowed us to wear large hats and sunglasses in
March. However, it was difficult to pretend to be having the holiday of a
lifetime, when my faux travelling companion was clearly reluctant to share the
same airspace as me.

Danger looked greyer than I remembered, and bonier. I
realised that I hadn’t pictured his face once since leaving Pompomberry House.
In fact, in my mind, he’d become a neutral, beige cube.

We were standing outside Netta’s Kensington flat, pretending
to read a map, when I decided that I’d had enough of Danger’s sulking.

“Have I done something to offend you, Danger?”

“No,” he replied, turning his face away from me.

“You’re not still upset because you’re missing Rafe’s live
Skype chat are you?”

“No.”

This was ludicrous. How were we supposed to combine forces
and save a life, with Danger operating in power-saving mode?

“She’s on the move!” I cried. Netta Lewis appeared behind
the large, French doors. Moments later, they opened and she strutted out into
the garden.

“Wow,” gawped Danger. I knew he was impressed, because his
jaw almost hit the pavement. However, there was little change to the tone of
his dreary voice. I’d never heard ‘Wow’ said with so little enthusiasm.

Netta wore a tight little black number, which meant that her
‘assets’ splurged out in every direction, giving them the impression of being
even more ample. She was carrying a helmet.

“Put your tongue back in your mouth.”

“
That’s
who we’re saving?”

“Yes! Haven’t you seen her before, on YouTube or something?”

“No.” Then the tiniest flash of colour gave his face a
slight glow, and I knew this was the most excited that Danger Smith had been in
his entire life. “What does she do on YouTube?”

“Nothing sexy.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointedly. Great — a sulker
and
a
sleaze.

We watched as she straddled a fuchsia moped. I knew exactly
what Danger would have wished for, had a genie appeared at that moment.

“Look — stop gawping. We need to follow her! Get in the car!”
I led Danger to his own car — a knackered old red Volvo. “Get in!”

He started the engine. We had to be careful about tailing
her. With a killer on the loose, she might imagine that we were the enemy and speed
away to greater danger.

We followed her for about three and a half minutes before
she pulled up outside a posh bar. The sort with a guest list torn from
Hello
magazine. It had maroon, velvet pillars and a tunnel of fairy lights led inside,
between two suited valets. Both seemed to light up when they saw Netta and quivered
on the spot, willing her to approach them. She chucked her keys to the one on
the left, briefly giggled, and disappeared inside.

“Where am I supposed to park?” moaned Danger.

“The bouncers don’t know you?” I asked, sarcastically.

He moaned.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll find somewhere near here,” I said,
optimistically. “At least now we know where she plans to spend some time.”

Some thirty-five minutes later, exhausted, we staggered in
through the twinkling tunnel. I’d walked all of five steps when a bouncer
stepped into my path.

“Got some ID?” he asked.

“Seriously? I’m in my
thirties
.”

“It’s not your age I’m interested in.”

“What are you interested in?” I demanded, abruptly.

“Allow me,” said Danger, stepping in. He opened his wallet
and flashed something at the bouncer.

“Apologies, sir, we didn’t recognise you.”

I couldn’t wait to get out of earshot, so that I could ask
Danger what had just happened. We turned a corner and entered a lobby. We were
alone.

“How did you get us in?”

“As if I would reveal my secrets to you!”

“Okay, that’s it!” I wanted to slam him against the wall,
but that wasn’t really my style, so instead I glared at him. “What is your
problem with me?”

“Fine. I used to work in computers. I know a bit about fake
ID.”

“Thank you. But it’s not just about the ID, is it? You’ve
been funny with me all night. What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, shuffling his feet.

“Obviously it’s not nothing. Come on!” I grabbed him by the
arm and led him into the main bar area, forgetting for a moment that we were
supposed to be being discreet.

I caught sight of Netta at the bar. Even though I was
wearing dark glasses in a dark bar, she blazed like a sparkler. As expected,
she was flirting. On this occasion, she was toying with a dumpy, bald,
middle-aged man wearing a suit. He was holding a martini; a trumpet case leant
against his bar stool. Was he the one she’d come here to meet? What was the
matter with her? The guy had assassin written all over him.

Did this mean that the killer wasn’t one of the suspects on
my list, or had the killer hired him? Surely no run-of-the-mill indie is
affluent enough to hire a hit man.

Apart from Netta and her companion, the bar was very quiet.
I looked at my watch — 9pm — the place was probably too trendy to be busy
during the evening. I bet it was one of those places where celebs roll in at
5am, off their faces, and drink a whisky to sober up.

“It’s her!” whispered Danger.

“Yes,” I said, unimpressed. “It’s her.”

We scurried into a booth and peered at her from around a
black, velvet partition.

“Do you think that’s him?” I asked.

“I do not know. He looks suspicious. Does he not?”

“You bet!”

Then, he returned to his silent disgruntled looks.

“Danger, are you going to tell me what I’ve done to offend
you?”

Silence.

“Danger! Tell me what’s the matter, or I’ll walk over there
right now and tell her that you’ve noticed the ladder in the inner thigh of her
tights. And I know that you
have
noticed the tear, so it will be pretty
embarrassing for you.”

“All right! Fine!” he said, hurriedly.

Bingo!

“It’s Enid Kibbler.”

Enid? That name seemed to come up a lot.

“It is what she said about our book.”

Dammit, why did I keep forgetting to check the review?
Anybody would have thought I had a murder to stop. “What did she say about the
book?”

“Oh, do not pretend that you do not know!”

“I really don’t! Rafe quoted a bit of it, but that’s all.”

“You are trying to torture me!”

“I’m not! I really haven’t read it. But if quoting it hurts
you
that
much, I can always look it up on my phone ...”

“She said ‘Busty and Giving’ was the only bit worth reading.”

“Oh,
that
.”

“Oh, that.”

“Well, look Danger, it’s only one review. And you know what
she’s like. She loves to criticise.”

“She didn’t criticise yours.”

“She did! Rafe told me that she called it ‘a blemish on the
face of literature.’”

“Yes, but she called the rest of the book ‘a viral skin
disease set to destroy everything that serious literature has set out to
achieve throughout history.’”

“Oh.”

“Oh.”

“Well, at least she was moved.”

“Dee!”

“Look, Danger, if you think that the opinion of an idiotic
woman who repeatedly sets out to read books just so that she can slate them, is
worth getting upset about, then you’re clearly misguided.”

“So you do not think that she is right?”

“No. Of course not.”

“You do not think that
Foot
was one dimensional and
uninteresting?”

“Uh ...”

 “You do not think it was full of pointless, unintelligible
imagery and attempts at horror that were so bad that they were funny.”

“Uh ...”

“You do! You agree with her! You look down on me! How are we
supposed to protect Netta when you look down on me!”

“Uh ...”

I was stuck. Either I could be honest, and risk Danger
walking out right there and then, or I could lie. Telling one of the most
insipid writers in the world that he has talent must be a crime against
literacy, but intellectual integrity could result in a crime against humanity.

“No, Danger, your story is brilliant. It’s revolutionary, it
moves the genre forward, that’s why Enid Kibbler can’t appreciate it. It’s
ahead of its time.”

“Really?”

I gulped. “Yes, really.”

“You are just saying that though, are you not? You are just
saying that.”

“No. I loved it.”

“Really?”

“YES!”

“What was your favourite part?”

Oh crikey!
“Um ...”
Think Dee, think!
“I
liked the bit where the foot washed up on the beach.”

“But that’s the whole story.”

“Exactly! I liked the whole story.”

Then he did something that amazed me. He got up, walked
around to my side of the table and gave me a massive hug. It was peculiar; in
the space of ten minutes, I’d seen Danger exhibit
two
emotions. That was
two more than I’d seen him exhibit in two days at Pompomberry House.

As he sat back down, I wondered if I’d got him all wrong.
Perhaps he wasn’t an apathetic bore after all. Perhaps he was passionate.
Perhaps he was a killer!

The stupidity of my plan hit me. Yes, if Danger was the
killer, then keeping him close could help protect Netta, but wasn’t I putting
myself in incredible danger?

“You never told me what you thought about all the copycat
events,” I said, quickly.

“Well, they are bad, obviously,” he said, returning to
monotone.

“But who do you think is responsible?”

“I do not know,” he said, monotone.

“You must have some thoughts on the matter.”

“I do not know,” he repeated, with the same lack of
expression.

“Danger, Biff was murdered. You were there when Biff was
murdered. You helped to cover it up. Don’t you have any feelings about this?”

“I do not know who wants to kill Netta,” he droned.

“But you do think there is a killer?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you must have some reason for thinking that.”