A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (17 page)

I looked at the kitchen clock and scrambled to my feet. ‘Goodness! It’s eight fifteen. Thanks for breakfast. Must go.’

At least one part of the mystery would be solved today. Being Friday, the newspaper was going to press. If Annabel were lying, Trewallyn’s death in mysterious circumstances would be plastered over the front page. If she were telling the truth, then there were three people who knew what had really happened to Sir Hugh – Coroner Sharpe, myself, and the killer.

I’d had no luck questioning Mrs Poultry but I knew Coroner Sharpe liked me. We had a lot in common – funerals, for starters. Perhaps, during my lunch hour, I would pick up egg-and-cress sandwiches for two and pop into the morgue for a quick chat.

Call it inheriting my father’s genes, but instinct told me that whatever appeared on the front page today was just the tip of the iceberg.

T
he reporters’ room was a den of frenzied activity. Unfortunately, it was all focused around my desk. I watched, with a growing sense of unease, as Pete rifled through my drawers and sifted through files.

‘Vicky! Where the hell are they?’ Pete’s cigarette was stuck to his lower lip and bobbed up and down as he spoke.

A ghastly feeling of premonition washed over me. ‘What are you looking for?’

Annabel emerged from under my desk. ‘They’re certainly not down there.’

‘Randall’s photographs,’ said Pete. ‘Trewallyn’s death is back-page news. Hedge-jumping is a page-one
go
!’

‘Page one? You’re giving me a page one?’ Annabel had
not
been lying! Yet, how could the heart attack story be true? I’d have to think about that later. Right now, I was faced with the chance of a lifetime and couldn’t even follow through. It just wasn’t fair.

‘It’s no good without photos,’ said Annabel, thrusting her boobs in Pete’s direction. ‘My tractor story is perfect. I’ve got a super snap of the new Massey-Ferguson.’

‘Who cares about tractors? Hedge-jumping spells danger. Man against nature. Right, Vicky?’

I smiled weakly. ‘Right.’

‘So come on,
think
! Without Randall’s photos, we’re dead.’

‘I thought you Girl Guides were always prepared,’ Annabel sniggered, adding, ‘I bet she’s lost them.’

‘I heard that!’ I said defensively. ‘I know exactly where they are.’

No sooner had the words tumbled out of my mouth, I knew I’d made a mistake. Chester had stolen Dave’s photographs. They had gone for good.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Go and get them,’ Pete said.

‘They’re at home.’ This could give me some time to find a solution.

Pete glared. ‘You’d better be quick. We’re leaving for Plymouth in twenty minutes.’

‘I’ll go right now. In fact, I’ll deliver them later to the printers myself.’

‘You don’t have a car,’ Annabel said with a hint of malice.

‘I’ll catch a bus.’

‘Annabel’s got a bloody car,’ Pete said sharply. ‘She’ll drive you home. Make sure you’re both in Plymouth by four.’

‘Plymouth!’ Annabel’s face lit up with delight. ‘Wow!’

‘Vicky, we’ll set your stuff last.’ He stalked back into his office, shouting, ‘And don’t screw up.’

I felt the colour drain out of my face. ‘It’s okay, Annabel. I don’t want to be any trouble.’

Annabel grinned. ‘Oh my God. We’re going to
Plymouth
!’

As well as housing our newspaper’s printing press, Plymouth’s main claim to fame was the presence of HMS
Dauntless
, home to several hundred sailors and every single woman’s fantasy.

‘If we get there early enough, we might be able to drive by the docks,’ Annabel enthused. ‘We might even see
sailors
!’

It was amazing that the prospect of lithe men in uniforms suddenly became more important than Annabel’s farm machinery on page one. However, I was far too distracted with the knowledge that this week’s publication rested entirely on my shoulders. The newspaper had never missed an edition – even during World War II when bombs were dropping on Plymouth itself.

The BMW was parked outside the office. Topaz was sitting in the cafe window, clearly taking her job as High Street spy extremely seriously. The moment she saw us she ducked out of sight.

‘How many times have you been to Plymouth?’ Annabel started the engine and we eased into the morning traffic. ‘Don’t you just
love
that town?’

‘Too many times to count,’ I said curtly. The truth was, I had never been to Plymouth and, perhaps on any day other than today, and with anyone other than Annabel, I would have relished an opportunity of spending a day in such a nautical metropolis.

Annabel pulled up outside 10 Rumble Lane. I was relieved to see Mrs Poultry’s ancient Morris Traveller gone. My landlady was out.

‘Hurry. We’re on a deadline,’ said Annabel.

Scrambling from the car, I ran up the path and hurried around the side of the house to the downstairs loo window. Pulling my Swiss Army knife out of my pocket, I slipped the window latch and clambered in. Why should I pay extra money for the privilege of having a key?

Minutes later, I returned to the car brandishing a sealed white envelope containing a coupon for washing powder. Hopefully it would give the illusion that the envelope contained
something
. When I handed it to Pete and he discovered the contents, I would simply accuse Mrs Poultry of accidentally picking up the wrong one on her way to the supermarket. It would be a genuine mistake and surely no one got fired for those? They’d have no choice other than to run the story minus the photograph.

‘To Plymouth!’ I said, with forced gaiety.

Annabel executed a perfect three-point turn. As she floored the engine, Topaz’s remark about the BMW’s ownership came back to me.

‘This is such a lovely car. Is it yours?’

‘Of course it is.’ Annabel bristled. ‘Just what are you trying to say?’

‘I wondered why you keep the plastic on the back seat and the dealer paper on the floor.’

‘What’s it to do with you?’

‘Just making conversation,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s nothing like Pete’s. That van of his is filthy.’

Annabel smiled, seemingly relieved to change the subject. ‘God! Isn’t it awful? He’s such a pig.’

We laughed, and for the first time, I felt a pang of longing. I had so hoped we’d become friends. This adventure to Plymouth would have been fun. Instead, I had to pray for a miracle of biblical proportions to magic Dave’s photographs into the envelope on my lap.

The BMW roared past a signpost to the Cricket Pavilion. ‘Stop the car!’ I shouted.

Annabel hit the brakes, fishtailing on the wet road. ‘Good grief! What’s wrong?’

Dave Randall lived at Cricket Lodge, which had to be close to the abandoned Cricket Pavilion. He might even be home and was bound to have some extra photographs lying around.

‘I need to check the spelling of one of Trewallyn’s mourners,’ I said eagerly. ‘She lives down that lane.’

Annabel was not thrilled. ‘Vicky, you are the absolute
limit
. Couldn’t you have telephoned?’

‘She doesn’t have a landline,’ I declared. ‘Remember? There aren’t any mobile phone signals until—’

‘I’m perfectly aware of what happened to the belfry at St Andrew’s and more besides. As a matter of fact . . . never mind,’ Annabel said. ‘Wait a moment. This is about Salome Steel, isn’t it?’ Her face contorted with envy. ‘Ha! I knew it! I knew you were up to something!’

‘No, it isn’t. Honestly.’
Blast!
In all the excitement, I’d forgotten all about
Paparazzi Razzle
! The tacky London tabloid had offered a substantial sum of money in exchange for exposing the identity of the author of
Voodoo Vixens
who was rumoured to be hiding out in Devon.

‘And you thought I wouldn’t guess?’ Annabel was triumphant. ‘Everybody wants to know who she is.’

‘Well, I don’t.’ Frankly, I thought it was appalling. I knew how important it was to keep one’s anonymity. My parents wouldn’t be in Spain if it hadn’t been for
A HANDSOME REWARD FOR ANYONE WHO COULD REVEAL THE WHEREABOUTS OF NOTORIOUS JEWEL THIEF, THE FOG
. It made my blood boil.

‘Okay. We’ll
share
the money,’ Annabel went on. ‘Can’t be more fair than that.’

No! If Annabel accompanied me to Dave’s house, the cat would be out of the bag.

‘Wait!’ I said desperately, trying to think of a plan. ‘Annabel, I swear on my mother’s grave that I have absolutely no idea who Salome Steel is.’

‘Oh my God, Vicky. I didn’t think!’ Annabel’s expression unexpectedly softened to one of compassion. ‘How utterly tactless of me.’ She patted my arm. ‘You poor thing. Pete told me you were an orphan.’

‘It’s all right,’ I muttered, squirming with the lie. ‘Life goes on.’

‘But I forced you to think about . . .’ Annabel hesitated. ‘Your mother’s
grave
.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I don’t,’ I said, adding quickly, ‘What I mean is, I throw myself into my work. It keeps my mind occupied. That’s why I’m so particular when it comes to accurate reporting.’

‘You’re right. You can’t bring back the dead.’ Annabel nodded. ‘Let’s check that mourner’s spelling. The reputation of the newspaper is at stake.’

She swung the BMW off the main road and into a lane flanked by ten-foot-high hedges. Moments later, Annabel was forced to slow the car down to a snail’s pace as the lane became narrower and narrower. It was like driving into a leafy funnel.

Hedges that were neatly clipped at the entrance became denser and more unruly. Razor-sharp branches fell in swaths across the BMW’s roof and bonnet, scraping the sparkling paintwork.

Annabel began to panic. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, wincing, as yet another branch whipped across the windscreen, splattering it liberally with sap and flies. ‘This is
ridiculous
!’

‘We must be nearly there.’ I gripped my notebook tightly. I’d seen horror films that started out like this: two girls on a deserted road leading to terror and a grisly death.

Suddenly, what little road surface there was fizzled out altogether and became a mud-rutted cart track flooded with such an expanse of water it resembled the English Channel.

‘Right,’ Annabel said. ‘That’s it! This is
stupid
!’ She cut the engine and folded her arms petulantly across her magnificient bosom. ‘I’m not driving any farther.’

‘Oh dear.’ I was relieved. ‘We can’t exactly turn around.’ The hedge on either side was a snug half inch away – even opening a car door would be impossible. Perhaps we’d get stuck! We’d be trapped in this wilderness for weeks, or at least until the paper went to print. My job would remain secure at the
Gazette
because everyone would be so relieved we had not been murdered.

Annabel restarted the car. Her face had flushed an ugly red that clashed with her auburn hair. I’d never seen her so angry and was even a little afraid.

We edged towards the water. Surely she wasn’t planning on driving through it! I grabbed her arm. ‘Annabel, it could be really deep.’

‘Hold tight.’ She revved the engine several times as if waiting for the starter’s gun at Le Mans. All of a sudden, the BMW took off. Its tyres kicked up fountains of muddy water as we ploughed on through the giant puddle, which, mercifully, turned out to be quite shallow. Annabel whimpered as clods of thick sludge spattered onto the roof, windows and bonnet. Then, the BMW, suddenly freed from the constraints of its watery trap, catapulted onto dry ground with a loud
whoosh
.

I couldn’t help but be impressed at Annabel’s expertise and once again felt that familiar sense of inferiority at yet another of my rival’s talents – rally driving.

‘There’s the Cricket Pavilion,’ I said as the fuzzy outline of a building appeared through the mud-coated windows. It was a typical end-of-war prefabricated one-storey rectangle with a high-pitched corrugated iron roof. A rotting veranda, covered in graffiti, bordered one outside wall overlooking what used to be a perfectly groomed cricket ground. It now lay knee-deep in nettles and rusty bicycle parts, inexplicably standard fare for abandoned buildings wherever the location. A large sign said
DANGER, KEEP OUT
!

‘No one can possibly live here,’ moaned Annabel. ‘This is so
unprofessional
of you, Vicky.’

I saw a wooden sign pointing to a path through the pine forest.

‘Cricket Lodge is through there.’

Annabel scowled. ‘How do you know she’s home?’

‘She’s an invalid,’ I said, and flung open the passenger door before Annabel could stop me. ‘Won’t be long.’

Leaving Annabel staring at her beloved BMW, now slathered in thick, sticky muck, I set off at a trot and took the path through the woods. All noise was cushioned from the thick pine needles that lay strewn on the path. There was a small clearing up ahead where I could make out a chimney.

Cricket Lodge was creepy. The former hunting lodge was a miniature replica of The Grange. It even had a pair of ugly gargoyles peering from beneath the gabled roof. I was surprised that Dave Randall actually
lived
on Trewallyn’s property. Perhaps he even worked for the family? Suddenly, I recalled his words that day in the nook when he had said he ‘had to return for the pheasants’. Could Dave be Trewallyn’s resident gamekeeper?