Authors: Rosen Trevithick
I remembered him slamming the door. ‘
See you at
mediation.
’ I remembered yesterday when he had picked up his dressing gown and
left without a kiss. Perhaps he didn’t
want
to get back together.
Perhaps, if I ran after him and told him how I felt, I’d only make a fool of
myself.
Was I really that stupid? Would I really let my marriage end
over a matter of pride? What would be worse, being rejected or knowing that I
hadn’t even tried to tell the love of my life how I felt. I was going to go
after him!
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that something
wasn’t quite right — something was out of place. I moved closer to the
offending item of furniture — the DVD rack. There were some DVDs missing, no,
not just
some
— many! Gareth had already helped himself to half the DVD collection!
When had he done that?
I glanced through. At first it didn’t seem too bad. He’d
taken films that he knew I didn’t really want to watch again, like
Sixth
Sense
,
The Hours
and
Identity.
He’d left quite a lot of
sitcoms, knowing that I’d rather watch a good British comedy series than a
Hollywood film. He’d even left
Green Wing,
despite it being one of his
personal favourites. He’d also left
Coupling
and
The Office
.
However, where were the live Tim Minchin gigs? Where were
Peep Show
and
Brass
Eye
? He’d never even heard of Chris Morris until I introduced him to that
show!
It was annoying that he’d taken all
seven
seasons of
Peep
Show,
but I could understand him not wanting to break up a set. However,
how could he possibly have thought it was acceptable to take both Tim Minchin
DVDs? They didn’t even match!
Then the true effrontery of the situation struck me — it
wasn’t
what
he’d taken that was the problem, it was the complete lack of
consultation! It was as if he thought he was better equipped to know my opinion
than I was. Was this what life was really like? Gareth taking whatever he liked,
whenever he liked to take it?
Well, at least he’d helped me make a decision — we were
going to go to mediation.
My phone rang — a welcome interruption to the indignation
that I felt, until I saw who it was. I felt I might as well face the music.
After all, I’d been frustrated when she had avoided me.
“Netta, hello!” I sang into the phone.
“Amanda’s only bloody winning the competition.”
“Netta, Amanda’s dead,” I said softly. Obviously she hadn’t
been on Twitter.
“Yes! I know — dead and winning. The bitch!”
I wouldn’t say that I had ever had a high opinion of Netta,
but at that moment, it plummeted, drilling a deep well for itself to hurtle
into, as it dropped into oblivion.
“It was just like you said — dying is a brilliant publicity
stunt.”
“Stunt? She’s
dead
.”
“I was miles ahead last night, and now she’s got sixty-seven
percent of the vote —
sixty-seven
! You said I was going to win.”
“No, I said you were going to
die
.”
“And then win!”
“Look, what is it that you want from me, Netta?”
“I want you to help me get my lead back. Use your psychic
powers or whatever it is that you have. Write a story where I win! The voting
closes in one hour!”
“I can’t help you, Netta.”
“Why not?”
“Because I just don’t want to.”
“But what about my charity? Do it for
Africa
!”
“What about Dogs for Disabled People? Isn’t that a
worthwhile charity too?”
“Pity Pups?” she cried. “I’m more important than a few
mongrels!”
“Goodbye Netta.”
“Wait ...”
I hung up the phone. A hysterical Netta was the last thing I
wanted to deal with right now or, indeed, ever. Why couldn’t the woman just be
happy to be alive? Had she no idea how close she’d come to a watery death?
* * *
Neither the spider plant, the water feature nor the seascape
painting could give this place spirit. It was, without a doubt, the most
soulless building I’d ever visited. Leaflets such as, ‘Cheating spouse, huh?’ and
‘From VD to Divorcee’ didn’t help.
Where was Gareth? Perhaps if he joined me in the waiting
room, I’d have a chance to stop things. I’d find a way to tell him that
actually, mediation wasn’t for us — at least not now, not yet.
We didn’t need a legal expert to help us communicate. We
communicated just fine. In fact, only hours before, I’d managed to communicate
perfectly ‘Touch me there’ and Gareth had managed to communicate perfectly ‘I’d
love to.’
Where was Gareth?
Finally, a faceless man in a pinstriped suit came to get me.
He was called Richard or Robert or David or Matthew.
I was already sitting down when Gareth came in. He strolled
in with his hands in his jeans pockets, still wearing the t-shirt he’d had on
last night, still scented with my perfumed deodorant. I glanced down at my
straight, corduroy skirt. Was I overdressed? Was my adherence to a smart dress
code a sign that I was taking the divorce more seriously than Gareth was?
I smiled at him. He looked at the floor.
The mediator started explaining how the process worked. Words;
just words; and more words.
There was one question in my mind, and one question only. I
knew I had to wait for the words to finish before I could ask, so I did. Words,
words, words. When, finally, the mediator finished speaking, I blurted, “Why
didn’t you check with me before dividing up the DVDs?”
“Mrs Whittaker ...”
“I haven’t divided up the DVDs.”
“Yes, you have.”
“No, I’ve just taken a few to watch at Barry’s. I didn’t
realise I needed permission.”
“
Half!
You’ve taken half.”
“Well, there’s not a lot to do during the daytime!”
“What about looking for a job?”
“No point,” he said, with a little smile.
“No point?
No point?”
The legal expert interrupted again, “Mrs Whittaker ...”
“Gareth! I supported you for eighteen months. Our marriage
has broken down as a direct consequence of you not getting a job, yet
apparently you seem to find this
amusing
!”
“Mrs Whittaker!”
“When are you going to grow up? People are supposed to have
jobs. That’s how the economy works. If we were meant to sit in front of a games
console all day, we would have evolved to have controllers attached to our
hands. You’re not a student now, Gareth. I mean, seriously, you’re the only
person I know who still watches
Neighbours
!”
“
Mrs Whittaker!
”
“As a result of your unemployment I’ve learnt what a lazy,
selfish, greedy prick you really are!” Finally, I paused for breath.
Gareth responded, “I was going to say, there’s no point in
looking for a job, because I’ve just got one.”
Oh.
I felt deflated. It was the news I’d been yearning to hear
for many months, but under the circumstances, it didn’t feel like a triumph. Or
did it? Was this the start of a better future for my husband and me?
“What job?” I asked, sheepishly.
“Teaching assistant. It’s not quite what I’m looking for,
but it’s an income, and it’s at a school that’s really big on sports so it
might lead to an awesome teaching job.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me this this morning?”
The mediator tried to cut in. “You saw each other this
morning?”
Gareth continued, “I only found the letter when I got back
to Barry’s.”
“You’re getting your post delivered to Barry’s now?” I asked,
hurt.
“Yes! You kicked me out.”
“Because you wouldn’t get a job.”
“Well, I’ve got one now.”
“Yes,” I said, brightly. Was he coming home?
“But since I’m a lazy, selfish, greedy prick, I guess we’ve
got nothing else to say to each other.”
No! Please come home.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Mr and Mrs Whittaker, perhaps I could say something?”
In all honesty, I hoped the mediator would keep his trap
shut. The last thing we needed was to put any more break up wheels in motion. I
wasn’t in the mood for discussing the separation, if there’s ever a mood for
that sort of thing. Even if it weren’t for my general state of romantic
confusion, a woman had just been killed and we still had two more murders to
expect.
I wanted to ask Gareth about my conclusion that Montgomery
was the killer. He was the best sounding-board I knew. An estranged husband is
not the typical choice for a sidekick, but in this case, he was easily the best
person for the job. However, looking at him now, huffing and puffing, I wasn’t
sure that he’d want to help me, even if he could.
He was so annoying. Why didn’t he stop sulking and help me
solve crime, instead of getting bogged down with petty linguistic niggles. Then
I remembered what he’d said about Annabel, ‘that fit one from your forum’.
“You haven’t been on the forum for months!” I cried.
“What?”
“You said you recognised Annabel in Green Bar, but you haven’t
been on the forum for months.”
“Yeah, but I still remember her, don’t I?”
“How?”
“She’s ... distinctive.”
“You mean ‘fit’.”
He shrugged, making me more annoyed than ever.
“I went to lunch with Rafe Maddocks.”
“Oh, whoopee-doo!”
“Mr and Mrs Whittaker, we’re not getting anywhere.”
The legal man was right. We weren’t getting anywhere and I
needed to move things forward. I needed to find a way of stopping the other
murders and I had no time to lose. I had to stop my husband from being
obstructive.
“Gareth!” I shouted, still so angry that he jumped.
“Yeah.”
“What do I need to do next? I mean, to stop the killer?”
“
Mrs Whittaker!
”
“Do you think it could be Montgomery?” I yelled, being
careful not to drop the furious tones.
Gareth screwed up his face and scoffed. “Duh!”
“Right! Of course. I was just checking.” I cried. “Hang on ... ‘Duh,
it’s obvious’, or ‘Duh, it’s not him’?”
“A killer’s got to have a motive, right?” he said,
scornfully.
“Oh, and Montgomery hasn’t?” I demanded, sarcastically.
“Not really, no!” Gareth laughed rudely.
“But you said publicity could be a motive ...”
“Yeah, well then I used my brain, didn’t I?”
“Oh great. Like that’d be helpful!” I scoffed. Then I
shouted, “So why did you change your mind about publicity?”
“It’s just too obvious. If one of the writers did this, they
would have known the authors would be the prime suspects. No matter what the
proverbs say, killing one of the most renowned charitable women in the country
is
bad publicity and won’t help anybody’s career.”
“You think this will damage our careers?” I cried, fearing
for my own work.
“If you want a motive,” barked Gareth, “you need to consider
the people who don’t like you.” Then in a snide aside, “Not that that narrows it
down.”
But who would want to hurt a group of writers? We were just
writers. Then I remembered that there was somebody who hated writers, at least,
our sort of writers. “Enid Kibbler!” I cried.
I saw Gareth lean forward with excitement but then he tried to
cover it up and appear uninterested. He slouched back in his chair and tried to
put his long legs on the wastepaper basket, but ended up kicking it over.
Enid Kibbler — why hadn’t I thought about her before? She
felt that indie writers were ruining literature! She hated us with a passion.
Even the comments she’d made about me (her favourite), were sarcastic and
cruel.
“You’re right Mr ... er ... We’re
getting nowhere,” I said. Then, I grabbed my coat and darted for the door.
“Mrs Whittaker!
Sit down!
”
As I put my hand on the handle, I felt a burning desire to
go back for Gareth, to grab him and bring him with me. An adventure wasn’t really
an adventure without my infuriating ex. But then I remembered the DVDs, the way
he’d just spoken to me and the snide remark about nobody liking me. I opted
instead for a head toss. Then I left.
Chapter 14
I remembered the writers saying that Enid Kibbler used the
forum. I couldn’t personally remember her, but it didn’t surprise me that she
was a member. Anybody who would read books she knew she was going to hate must
be a masochist. And such a person would therefore love to participate in a
forum surrounded by people for whom she had nothing but contempt.
Of course, I told the police about Enid as soon as I had the
idea, but were they interested? No, apparently they’d spent the following day following
up my other leads to no avail. It would seem that I was the only writer at
Pompomberry House not to use a pen name. Still, the police knew where the forum
was. It wasn’t as if these were people who’d disappeared off the face of the
earth. Every indie knows how important a strong online presence is when you’re
selling a book.
Enid wanted to meet in Café Revive, which sounded exotic and
exciting until I discovered it was a Marks and Spencer coffee shop. Apparently,
they had an irresistible offer on baked potatoes with butter. She didn’t mind
which Marks and Spencer we went to, as long as it was a Marks and Spencer and ‘not
any of that tack like Littlewoods’. I could already tell that she was going to
be a character. Eventually, we decided upon the one at Victoria. I picked out
my squishy purple beret.
I really didn’t know when the copycat would strike again.
This wasn’t like the charity competition, which had a clear deadline. (Amanda
won by the way, sorry Africa). In ‘I Shot Five Men’, the victim was a white
male in his thirties, average build, average height, who had raped a woman but been
found not guilty. Unfortunately, such cases were likely to be relatively
frequent compared with the Porter and Miller contest, and could occur at any
time. As for Rafe’s story, the group of cannibals were tourists who became
stranded on an island due to a dangerous shark that had drifted into UK waters.
In the absence of a likely shark, it seemed virtually impossible to work out
who the victims might be.