Authors: Rosen Trevithick
Did she have family? Did she have a boyfriend who’d miss
her? A mother to be heartbroken? What would ‘Dogs for Disabled People’ do
without her?
I would say that it felt like being punched in the chest,
but it didn’t — it felt like a giant cannonball being fired into my guts.
Everything hurt — my chest, my stomach, my pelvis.
Then I felt another emotion — anger. In fact, it was fair to
say I was fuming. My story was about the
winning
candidate dying, not
the runner up —
the winner!
Despite having copied the other stories with
precision, the killer had done a sloppy job with mine! He’d killed off the
wrong character! Had the bastard even read my story?
Chapter 13
Suddenly the police
did
want to speak to me. They
wanted to speak to me very much. It can’t have been more than 9am when I heard
the doorbell ring. I looked over at Gareth who was fast asleep and felt annoyed
to note that
I
was going to have to be the one to answer the door. But
then I remembered that Gareth didn’t live here anymore. He might spend the
night with me whenever there was the odd murder, but that didn’t grant him
door-answering rights.
I shuddered when I realised that we were now talking about a
serial killer. It wasn’t just Biff who’d been killed, but Amanda too. Whilst I’d
been devastated about Biff, it was nothing compared with how I felt about
Amanda. Although I’d never met her, I had played an instrumental part in her demise
— I’d written it!
I pulled on my purple polka-dot dressing gown and headed for
the stairs. It was difficult to see through the dust in my eyes — the crunchy
remnants of yesterday’s tears.
It didn’t surprise me that there were officers on the
doorstep. Although why it had to be Taylor and Forrester
again
, I will
never know. I opened the door and showed them in, muttering offers of coffee
that I was far too sleepy to fulfil.
They looked the same as ever — Taylor thinning; Forrester bursting
at the seams.
Taylor sat in Gareth’s armchair, which I found immensely irritating.
Why couldn’t he sit on the sofa like other guests? Forrester took the sofa.
“I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news,” began Forrester.
“Amanda Kenwood is dead,” I replied.
“Yes, I’m afraid she is,” said Forrester softly.
“Would you like to explain exactly how you know that?” asked
Taylor.
“My husb ...
estranged
husband told me.” I
was confused. I hadn’t stopped to ask Gareth how he knew that Amanda Kenwood
was dead. I suppose I had assumed it had been on the news.
“And where is your estranged husband right now.”
“Um ...” I blushed, “upstairs.”
“Can we speak to him?” asked Taylor.
“Right now?” I asked. I pictured Gareth, nose in the pillow,
mouth gaping, dead to the world.
“No, we’ll arrange an interview with him shortly. Right now
we need to talk to you,” said Taylor.
“Okay.”
“How did you know that one of the girls in the Porter and
Miller contest would get killed?”
“Because it’s in the book.”
“The book that you think is coming true.”
“
Think
? Amanda’s dead! That’s four stories now — two
thirds of the book!”
Taylor scribbled something on his notepad.
“Surely you don’t still think I’m deluded?”
“You seem to know a lot about a very serious offence,” said
Taylor.
“I didn’t have anything to do with this! I mean, I didn’t
kill her. I was trying to protect her ... Well, I tried to protect
Netta. I thought Netta was the target. That’s how it is in my story.”
“Do you use drugs?” he asked, rudely.
“Oh for heaven’s sake! Amanda has died, and you still think
that I’m loopy!”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you implied.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
Forrester cut in. “We found a cannabis cigarette outside the
door at Amanda’s flat — the one that was broken into.”
“What? I thought she was thrown into the Thames?”
“How do you know that?” demanded Taylor.
I wanted to tell him that Gareth had told me, but I was
afraid of getting Gareth into trouble. I was sure that there was a perfectly
innocent explanation for Gareth’s knowledge, but I wouldn’t be comfortable
mentioning him to the police again, without knowing what it was.
“Do you use cannabis?” asked Forrester.
“No. Maybe it was Amanda’s.”
“Amanda Kenwood was known for being very anti-drugs,”
explained Forrester.
“What those girls are known for, and what they’re actually
like, are two different things.”
Taylor frowned. “You sound very critical of the victim.”
“I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you mean!”
Taylor changed the subject. “An ear of wheat was found on
Waterloo Bridge next to the spot where Amanda’s body was dropped.”
“So she
was
thrown over the bridge!”
“We also found an ear of wheat next to that foot. Do you
know anything about that, Dee Wheat-Acre?”
“Um ... I feel sure that I’m one of those
Whittakers derived from
White
Acre. Besides, it’s my husband’s name.”
The two officers exchanged glances, and began scribbling
away.
“Why would I leave a calling card anyway? That’s just dumb.”
“So you have thought about committing murder,” noted Taylor.
“No!”
Forrester spoke. “A female tipped off the emergency services
about the pig.”
“Well, it wasn’t me!”
“Nobody said it was!” said Taylor, looking triumphant.
“You think it was me, don’t you? Even though I came to you
and told you what was going to happen, even though I’m the only one
of six
who reported Biff’s murder, even though I was out last night trying to protect Netta ...”
“Where were you at nine o’clock last night?”
“Trying to find somewhere to park in central London.”
“And can anybody verify that?”
“Yes! Danger! He was driving.”
“Danger Smith?” asked Taylor. “One of the people you say you
met at Pompomberry House?”
“There’s no
say
about it. He
was
there!”
“But you can understand why I might be suspicious, when
there’s nobody called Danger Smith in the country.”
“What?”
I was getting more and more distressed. My body began to
shake. It was bad enough feeling responsible for writing Amanda’s death; now
the police seemed to think that I’d carried out the murder too.
“I didn’t kill Amanda! I’m the law-abiding citizen who came
to you about Biff. If you want somebody to blame, how about tracking down Dawn
Mann, or Montgomery Lowe? They’re the ones who hid Biff’s body. They’re the
ones who had access to the whole book before it was published. They’re the ones
who recovered my story from a memory card without my permission ...”
“Are either of those people big?” asked Forrester.
“Enormous! They’re both tall. Montgomery is heavy set and
Dawn is morbidly obese.”
They exchanged glances.
“The killer was somebody big, yes?”
No response.
“So you know it wasn’t me! Why have you been torturing me
when you know I didn’t do it?”
“Don’t leave the country, Dee, will you?”
* * *
I made myself breakfast, feeling confused, aggrieved and
frightened. How dare the police make me feel bad when I’d been on the side of
the law all along? How had Gareth known that Amanda was dead? What would the
copycat do next?
There were two stories left to come true — Montgomery’s and
Rafe’s. Montgomery’s was worrying — his protagonist shoots a criminal who
escapes the justice system; Rafe’s was downright petrifying — a group of people
select the weakest one amongst them, then kill and eat the poor creature!
Cannibalism didn’t bear thinking about. Still, the killer
hadn’t followed my story to the letter — hell, he or she hadn’t even got the
victim right — so perhaps the copycat would stop short of eating the victims.
Even so, regardless of the copycat’s culinary plans, he or she was clearly not
afraid to kill.
I told the police about the further murders I predicted, but
I didn’t feel I’d been terribly helpful. It wasn’t like my story, where the victim
had been easy to predict (or so I thought!) There were criminals who escaped
justice everywhere. As for the people who represented Rafe’s group, they could
be any group of people.
Who could have done this? Did I really still suspect anybody
from the writers’ weekend? They were useless, but were they evil? At least now
Danger was definitely off the list. There was no way he could have killed
Amanda while he was with me.
Gareth had mentioned seeing Annabel in Barry’s local that
night — a pub called Green Bar. Or, as he put it ‘that fit one from your forum’.
I had been put out, to say the least. It’s not that I minded Gareth being
attracted to other women — it happens — but Annabel Fleming? Her beauty was the
exact opposite of mine. Hers was obvious, mainstream and feminine, mine was
quirky, acquired and laddish.
Rafe had been engaged in a live Skype chat at nine that
night, with dozens of witnesses. It was a pretty sound alibi. Once again,
suspicion pointed at Dawn and Montgomery. But with Dawn in Spain, it had to be
Montgomery — didn’t it?
I sat down at my computer, wondering if Amanda’s death was
in the news. I could think of no other way that Gareth would know. I couldn’t
entirely trust what the police had told me; I got a definite sense that they
were trying to catch me out — particularly Taylor.
However, just as I was typing Amanda’s name into Google, I
heard footsteps on the stairs — Gareth.
“Morning,” he groaned, looking like a cross between a yeti
and a dormouse.
“The police were here.”
He groaned again. His hair was even messier than normal and
his usually enormous eyes were mere slits beneath crusty lids. It was obviously
far too early in the morning for him to function. I wondered if he even
remembered that Amanda was dead, that he was the one who had broken the news to
me.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
“No, you’re all right. I have to get going.”
“What?”
“I’ve got places to be ...”
“... People to see. Yeah, I remember.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“All moody.”
“I’m not being moody.”
“Yeah you are.”
“Gareth, two people have died! And one of them probably
wouldn’t be dead if I hadn’t written a murder story.”
“So should we cancel?”
“Cancel what?”
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?”
“
Mediation!
”
“What? Oh spoon!” It had completely slipped my mind. This
was the day that Gareth and I were supposed to go to a mediation session — a
preliminary step to see if we could agree on separation terms without the
expense of a full-on legal battle. I’d even programmed an alarm into Gareth’s
phone, to make sure that he didn’t forget.
“We can cancel it if you like,” he said.
I frowned.
“Or postpone. I meant
postpone
,” he added.
I thought about it. The last thing I felt like doing was
sitting in a solicitor’s office dividing our assets. Mind you, if I agreed to
postpone, what sort of message would that send to Gareth? It was important not
to blow hot and cold.
Imagining discussion of the ‘D’ word felt like having my
insides whisked with an electric blender. Did it hurt because ending a marriage
always leaves you feeling mixed-up, or did it hurt because I didn’t really want
to end the marriage?
“Have you been looking up Amanda online?” he asked, looking
at the computer screen.
“Yeah. I wanted to see if it’s been in the news yet.”
“And has it?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Why would I know?”
“Well, how did you know she was dead?”
He paused for a moment. “Twitter”.
Without really thinking about it, I loaded Twitter and began
typing in Amanda’s name.
“What are you doing?”
“Just taking a look.”
“Oh my God! You’re checking!”
“No, I’m not!”
“Yes, you are! You don’t believe me!”
“I do!”
“Then why did you check?”
“I ... um ... wondered if there had been
any new developments.”
“No, you didn’t!”
Damn! Why did he have to know me so well? “Well, the police
thought it was a bit odd — you knowing that she was dead before it had been on
the news.”
“That’s how the media works these days! Death rumours spread
around Facebook and Twitter, then, a few hours later, the press let you know
whether or not they were true.”
“Well, you seemed a bit sure, considering they were just
rumours.”
“Because of your story, Dee. Because I believed you when you
said that a charity worker would die! I didn’t realise that trust only worked
in one direction.”
“I
do
trust you!”
“Yeah right.” Hurt frown furrows stretched across his
forehead. “See you at mediation, Dee.”
Before I could stop him, he stormed out the door, slamming
it behind him.
I tried to make sense of what had just happened. I didn’t
distrust Gareth, did I? Throughout this entire, hideous ordeal, he was the one
who had been there for me. He was the one person that I
did
trust.
Why had I wavered, even for a second? Now, thanks to that
momentary lapse of faith, we would have to go to mediation. In just a few hours’
time, we might be making decisions that would forever separate our belongings
and, more importantly, our hearts.
Why didn’t I run after him and shout, “Stop!” Why didn’t I
tell him that I’d changed my mind, that I didn’t want to break up after all?
Why didn’t I tell him that these last few weeks had shown me that he
was
dependable, that he
was
responsible and that he had overcome his chronic
inertia?