Gareth’s theory that the copycat was all five writers made sense. If the killer wasn’t a collaboration of people, then the police would be looking for a particularly specific culprit — somebody tall, who smoked spliffs, owned a dog costume, had access to my wallet, had no alibi for Amanda’s murder and who had something to gain from the whole saga. It seemed unlikely that one person would fit the bill — but multiple people, working together, might just tick all the boxes. Still, even if the police managed to catch all five of them, it wouldn’t fix my marriage. How was it that Gareth and I could solve a murder together, yet fail to master being married? I couldn’t stand it any longer. I leapt off the sofa. I had to see him. I couldn’t leave things like this, with him thinking I was a whore, without him knowing how devoted I was to our marriage. Owing to my fear of imminent ingestion, I had vowed to stay indoors, at least until the police had rounded up the writers. However, that might take hours — days even.
