A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (14 page)

‘If you want to know about Dave, you should buy the local paper,’ I said, calculating how many limbs I would break if I threw myself from the moving car. ‘There’s a really good feature on him in it. I bet it would answer any questions you have and – whoa!’

The car swerved over to the side of the road and stopped with a jerk. My heart was pounding.

Chester turned to me, eyes narrowed. ‘I know you’re lying,’ he snapped. ‘If you are covering up for Dave Randall, you’re making a very dangerous mistake.’

I had to get out of the car. ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I announced. It was my favourite childhood technique for long car journeys and very effective. Surely, the last thing Chester wanted was someone vomiting in his immaculate Porsche.

‘Got to have fresh air.’ I gave two, very convincing dry heaves. ‘Going to throw up.’

‘Get out then,’ said Chester, coldly. ‘I’m not stopping you.’

With one hand clasped over my mouth, I undid the seat belt and scrambled out.

‘Good-bye, Vicky,’ he said, adding with a touch of sarcasm, ‘I hope you feel better soon.’

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, scrambling out, surprised to find my knees
were
shaking and I
did
feel nauseous.

The Porsche roared off. I glared after the car. No real gentleman would have abandoned a sick woman on a deserted road. Unless, of course, he’d not believed me.

Apart from a herd of Jersey cows in a field, I was alone. There were no houses in sight, just a dreary string of telegraph poles stretching into the distance. It was too far to return to The Grange. I’d have to trek back to the office.

I plodded along. The walk seemed endless. As if to add insult to injury, a light sprinkling of rain began to fall of the variety famed in the West Country – it looked deceptively harmless but, in fact, soaked right through even the thickest raincoats.

Over and over again, I replayed my conversation with Chester, kicking myself for lost opportunities. What was he doing in Gipping skulking in pigsties? He had warned me about Dave Randall but I hadn’t asked why. Why did he call Lady Trewallyn ‘Kandi’ and why was she so afraid of him? Was he really involved in Sir Hugh’s murder?

Then, from behind, I heard wet tyres on the road. A car was approaching. A horn blasted two loud beeps. My heart turned over. It had to be Chester! With head held high, I turned around to confront my fate, with dignity.

A
nnabel’s silver BMW burst into view. Never had I felt so happy to see her – though relief was mixed with anxiety. Annabel was bound to tell Pete the truth about the missing coroner’s report. I’d rather have risked a run-in with the killer than with my boss. Yet, surely wouldn’t my little faux pas prove insignificant compared to the fabulous truth that Sir Hugh had been brutally murdered?

As the car drew alongside, it splattered my already sodden jeans liberally with muddy water that looked suspiciously like liquid cow manure. Even that indignity – to say nothing of the stench – failed to suppress my joy at her arrival.

I yanked open the passenger door. ‘Blimey! Am I glad to see you.’

‘Stop!’ Annabel said, pinching her nose. ‘Absolutely not. You smell like a sewer.’

‘For heaven’s sake. It’s only farmyard muck.’

Annabel shook her head decisively. ‘This car is six weeks old. You’ll have to walk.’ Clearly, Good Samaritan skills were not one of her attributes.

I peered into the rear. ‘You’ve still got the dealer’s plastic stuff on the back seat.’

‘I have to keep it clean.’

‘I’ll sit on that.’ I opened the back door and slithered in feeling like a naughty child.

Annabel swivelled round to check I was following her instructions. Satisfied, she thrust the BMW into gear and we sped off.

‘Why on earth didn’t you wait for Pete and me?’ Annabel said, via the rear-view mirror.

I leaned forward, resting my hand on the top of her seat. ‘I decided—’

‘Sit back!’ she commanded, slapping at my fingers.

I slumped against the seat. All gratitude for my rescue vanished. How dare she speak to me in such a scathing and patronizing way! After all, I was four months older than her.

‘How unprofessional of you not to tell us you’d decided to go off on your own,’ Annabel continued. ‘Didn’t you—?’

‘What’s it to you? It’s a free country, isn’t it?’ I felt inexplicably close to tears. My encounter with Chester had upset me more than I realized.

‘Pete and I were concerned about you, that’s all.’

‘Well, don’t be.’ My eyes stung. For an awful moment, I thought I might actually cry.

Annabel studied me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Jeez! Have I grown two horns or something?’ I retorted hotly, and turned away from her to stare dismally out of the car window.

‘You just look a bit pale. You really should wear makeup.’

‘I do, as a matter of fact – I just don’t wear it plastered over my face like war paint.’

There was a ghastly silence. Feeling slightly guilty, I made a supreme effort to be civil. ‘How did everything go at The Grange?’

‘It didn’t exactly go anywhere,’ Annabel said sourly.

‘No magical secrets in the coroner’s report?’ I said, leaning forward. ‘No death in suspicious circumstances?’

This time Annabel did not order me to sit back. ‘Sir Hugh Trewallyn had a heart attack.’

‘
What?
’ I was astonished. ‘That’s not possible.’

She shrugged. ‘Apparently Lady Trewallyn discovered him in the library.’

‘The
library
!’ I cried. ‘And you’re telling me the verdict was death by
natural
causes?’

Annabel’s voice quavered then broke into a sob. ‘ Oh Vicky, I had
so
wanted Sir Hugh to be murdered.’

So did I. ‘Poor you.’ I gave her shoulder an awkward pat, thoroughly puzzled by this turn of events.

‘Yes, poor me.’ Annabel snatched a tissue from a handy snap-on pouch under the dashboard and blew her nose.

‘It’s not the end of the world,’ I said briskly. ‘It’s only a funeral and there’ll be plenty more before the year is out.’

‘You are sweet to say so, but it was going to be my big break.’ Annabel sighed. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

‘Maybe,’ I said warily.

‘I’ve got a deal with the
Bugle
,’ she said, watching me through the rear-view mirror. ‘My murder story would have made the front page.’

I was miffed. By rights, any murder story should belong to me. And then there was the question of company loyalty! ‘What about the
Gazette
?’ I demanded.

‘The
Gazette
!’ Annabel said scornfully. ‘It’s so boring, Vicky. The
Bugle
wants a crime reporter—’

‘But you’re still training,’ I broke in, jealousy rearing its ugly head. I’d heard about that job, too, but had dismissed it as too senior. ‘You have to have experience – contacts in the police world.
Reliable
professional informers, not someone like the local dustman.’

‘Oh Vicky.’ Annabel sneered. ‘Surely you don’t think old Binns is my
only
informer?’

‘Of course I don’t!’ A fresh jolt of envy hit me anew. ‘Who else?’

‘No can do. Got to protect my sources.’ Annabel smirked, adding, ‘You and I are so different, Vicky. You’re happy in this fleapit. You don’t have my ambition. I’m suffocating here. I really am.’

I was about to tell her that I, too, was dying of boredom but didn’t trust her not to tell Pete.

‘Is my mascara running?’

Annabel’s face resembled a panda’s. ‘Not really.’

‘I’ll just drop you off.’ Annabel pulled up outside the
Gazette
, oblivious to the building traffic behind us. ‘I’ve got to see someone.’

‘I expect Mr Binns will be back at the tip by now,’ I said, wondering if she was going to chastise him for the false lead about the chickens.

‘Oh him,’ said Annabel dismissively. ‘I’ve moved on. Pete needs a new front page, and I’m going to get it.’

I was just about to mention Pete had approved the hedge-jumping story, when my stomach turned over. Outside the post office, tucked in between a pale yellow VW Bug and an ancient Reliant Robin – a death trap on wheels if ever there was one – crouched the unmistakable shape of the black Porsche. I tried to keep calm. Perhaps Chester had gone to buy stamps?

‘Are you going to sit here all day?’ Annabel said as the motorist behind sounded his horn three times. ‘Hurry, Vicky, I’ve got a lot to do.’

I scanned the area. There was no sign of the American. Reluctantly, I got out. The BMW moved off. As I turned to give the impatient motorist an apologetic smile, he wound down his window and swore obscenities at me. To my annoyance, several pedestrians turned round to stare. It was hardly my fault.

‘Yoo-hoo!’ called out a familiar voice. Topaz,
still
wearing my scarf, was standing in the doorway of The Copper Kettle.

I had a bone to pick with Topaz, and at least I could spy on the Porsche from inside the cafe. After our heated conversation, the last thing I wanted was to bump into Chester in the High Street.

Even though it was only four thirty, Topaz flipped the
CLOSED
sign across the door. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘I didn’t come for tea.’ I pushed past her, headed for the table next to the window, and sat down. The Porsche was in plain sight.

Topaz hurried after me. She slowly unwound my scarf, then gently draped it around my neck.

‘Oh, is that mine?’ I tried to sound unconcerned. She’d obviously decided to keep my gloves. ‘I must have left it here.’

‘Not exactly
here
.’ Topaz pulled out a chair and sat down. Cupping her chin in her hands, she looked at me intensely. ‘I think one good turn deserves another, don’t you?’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ I looked away and glanced out of the window. To my utter horror, Chester was leaving the
Gazette
! The fact that we could have met each other
there
was too much to handle. I felt quite faint. Surely, he couldn’t have guessed my true identity when I’d been so careful?

‘Are you all right?’ Topaz reached over to stroke my hand. ‘You’ve gone as white as a sheet.’

I couldn’t risk her spotting Chester. I had to distract her attention. Impulsively, I grabbed her hand and pulled her towards me. ‘Topaz—’

‘Goodness, Vicky!’ she gasped with wide-eyed wonder. ‘Of course, I was hoping, but truly, I had no idea.’

I was aware of Topaz’s body scent – a mixture of Elizabeth Arden’s Blue Grass and stale kitchen. If I could smell Topaz, I was certain she could smell me – especially as the warmth from the cafe was heating up my damp clothing.

I was right. She sniffed, and then grimaced. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you pong a bit.’

‘I got caught in the rain.’

Topaz raised her eyebrows invitingly. ‘Do you want to get out of those wet clothes? Our size is identical.’ She had the same peculiar glint in her eye that I’d noticed in Pete’s when he asked if I had a boyfriend.

I looked away embarrassed just in time to see a flash of black streak past the window. The roar of the Porsche engine was unmistakable. Thankfully, Chester had gone.

The cafe was closed. If Topaz were to make a lunge at me, no one would hear my cries for help. I scrambled to my feet. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we go for that drink now?’

‘I can’t go out dressed like this,’ Topaz declared, pointing at her mob cap. ‘Why don’t we get changed together?’

‘My clothes are almost dry, but, please, you carry on.’ I headed for the cafe door. ‘Meet me at the office in ten minutes.’

Outside, I gulped down fresh air, trying to clear my head. I could handle Topaz as long as we were in a public place. I was more worried about the American. Why had he returned to the
Gazette
? With a jolt, I realized my mistake. I’d told Chester there was a newspaper article on Dave. He must have come to buy a copy. But, there was a problem. The article had not been published. In fact, it was still sitting on Pete’s desk.

As I crossed the street, I prayed that Chester had not asked Barbara too many questions. If he found out my true identity, my cover was blown.

‘G
oodness, Vicky. You look like a drowned rat.’ wrinkled her nose with distaste. ‘That smell—’

‘What did that American want?’ I was not in the mood to discuss cow manure when my very existence was at stake. In the short time it had taken me to cross the street, Chester had grown into a mass murderer with me as his next victim.

‘What a handsome man!’ Barbara’s eyes sparkled. ‘So polite. He wanted to know about a hedge-jumping article.’

‘There isn’t one.’

‘That’s what I told him, but he insisted there was.’

Blast!
‘Did he mention me, by any chance?’

‘Oh yes, you lucky girl,’ she said wistfully. ‘If I was twenty years younger—’