A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (18 page)

‘Hello! Anyone home?’ I rapped smartly on the front door. There was no reply. ‘Dave? Mr Randall?’ My voice sounded stifled, swallowed up by the dense thicket that surrounded the lodge. Perhaps Dave was outside logging or indulged in some other manly occupation? Perhaps he would be stripped to the waist, washing himself from a wooden barrel filled with rainwater like the gamekeeper in
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
? I’d often been sceptical of life mirroring art, but here was a perfect example. If Topaz was right, Dave Randall was a modern-day Mellors complete with his very own Lady Chatterley. I might even surprise them going at it right now!

At the rear of the house, the silence was even more oppressive, filling me with unease. A second grassy track ran east towards the pine forest beyond. Hugh’s Folly could just be seen peeping above the treetops. Trewallyn’s estate was vast. Annabel and I must have taken the old, disused trade entrance.

Suddenly, the hairs on the nape of my neck stood on end. The back door lay wide open. I’d always pooh-poohed the saying as a cliché used by fraudulent mediums, but now I was experiencing it for myself: something evil was lurking inside Cricket Lodge.

A chilling thought struck me. I had seen Chester write down Dave’s address when he stole the photographs. He knew where Dave lived. Dave could already be dead. Chester had shown a violent side in the churchyard. The way he had tossed Lady Trewallyn over his shoulder indicated a man with a temper. Poor Dave could have been strangled, stabbed, or even shot – Chester was American and was sure to have a gun.

Annabel’s car horn broke the silence, snapping me back to reality. I shrank against the lodge wall. The killer could still be inside cleaning up.

I longed to flee but I was a professional reporter. If it turned out that Dave was, indeed, dead, I’d be first on the scene, which would make a terrific page-one scoop. Life was so ironic. Although Dave’s photographs had been stolen, he was still fated for front-page fame.

Annabel’s horn tooted with three insistent beeps. There was no time to lose. I braced myself for the inevitable bloodbath within and stepped inside.

I
nside, Cricket Lodge was gloomy. A low ceiling and two tiny, leaded windows, thick with dust and cobwebs, flanked a decorative Victorian fireplace. What natural light there was came through the open door.

My heart was pounding as I scanned the main living area for any sign of blood. The place was dank and smelled of old socks. Newspapers and a few empty beer bottles littered the floor. A broken carriage clock sat on the mantelpiece alongside several hedge-jumping trophies.

A worn brown sofa not exactly conducive to romantic athletics was pushed against one wall. A coffee table acted as the dining area, still holding the remnants of what, I guessed, could be breakfast.

The place seemed deserted but I had to make sure. Two closed doors led off the tiny living room. Presumably one was the bedroom.

If Dave were dead, he’d most probably be in the bathroom, a favourite location for killers, due to the convenience of post-death clean up. No doubt, Dave would be naked, his toned and muscled legs – an athlete’s perk – draped over the lip of a bathtub filled with bloodied water.

I stared at the door with trepidation. Frankly, I felt a bit frustrated. If Dave were alive, I’d be trespassing, and therefore, it would be an offence to rifle through his stuff. If he were dead, I’d be tampering with evidence.

The BMW horn blared imperiously again, galvanizing me into action. I marched to one of the two doors and threw it open.

It was Dave’s bedroom and even more dingy than the main living room. As my eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, a disturbing sight awaited me on Dave’s pillow.

Steeling myself to approach Dave’s bed, I was confronted with a legless chicken corpse with a hideous orange-speckled head. Some kind of note was pierced with a hatpin and secured to the poor bird’s breast. With a gasp, I realized it was the very same chicken I’d seen lying in the dustbin at The Grange. I’d tossed the Chinese carton on top of it with the sweet-and-sour sauce leaking out of the bottom. There was no doubt now. Chester and Lady Trewallyn were in cahoots.

The note would confirm my suspicions. With trembling fingers, I eased it aside with my pencil, astonished to find it wasn’t a note – it was a photograph.

In fact, it was one of the two photographs that Chester had stolen from my desk two nights ago. The hatpin, holding the photograph in place, was stuck exactly through Dave’s trophy, which he clutched so triumphantly to his heart.

This was the proof I needed. Topaz was right. Witchcraft was rampant in Gipping. Lady Trewallyn must be the High Priestess and Chester the Horned God. They’d murdered Sir Hugh and now Dave was the next victim. The fact that the chicken legs were missing must be part of the ritual. I’d watched enough horror films to know that the warning came first – then the killing.

I was in a dilemma. I could take Dave’s photograph, clean it up, and present it to Pete. No one would be any the wiser and I’d get my page one. Or, I could hold out for the bigger scoop and catch the coven of witches red-handed.

I was no longer satisfied with getting a front-page story. I was determined to reach for the stars. My story was going to go national.

H
aving decided to leave the crime scene intact, I jogged back to the waiting BMW with quite a spring in my step. I had a secret – one that gave me a peculiar sense of power over Annabel. Pete’s anger at my failure to produce Dave’s photographs would soon be forgotten once I told him I suspected devil worship was rife, right here in Gipping.

Meanwhile, I still had to face the journey to Plymouth and Annabel’s pubescent ramblings on the merits of mariners. I couldn’t afford to make her suspicious – after all, I was, for all intents and purposes, facing the sack. It might be prudent to switch tactics and throw myself at her mercy. With fame and fortune heading my way I could afford to be generous now. Let her have her glory. Let her dreary tractor story have its day.

As I reached the clearing, Annabel was waiting. In one hand was my white envelope, in the other, the washing powder coupon. What appalling nerve to open an envelope that was not addressed to her!

‘You’re such an idiot!’ she yelled. ‘Pete will be furious!’

Bracing myself for more insults, I took a deep breath and assumed an expression of utter anguish. ‘Annabel! Whatever’s wrong?’

‘Just as well I checked,’ she said. ‘You picked up the wrong envelope!’

‘Oh
no
!’ I cried, clasping my hands to my chest and sinking to my knees. I’d seen black-veiled women in Jerusalem adopt such a stance at the Wailing Wall and thought it a brilliant technique to generate compassion.

Annabel’s mouth dropped open in surprise. ‘Steady on,’ she said, helping me to my feet. ‘If you go on like that you’ll have a heart attack.’

‘What am I going to do? Oh God!’ I turned away, feigning deep distress, and staggered towards her muddy car.

Annabel hurried after me. ‘Look, calm down. It’s not the end of the world.’ So proving the curious theory that when one person is hysterical, the other automatically affects an air of supreme calmness, no matter what the circumstances.

‘Let’s get in the car and we’ll sort it out.’ Annabel opened the passenger door and guided me in – even putting her hand on my head to prevent an accidental bump on the doorframe. ‘Hush now. Hush,’ she crooned.

I was stunned at just how effective my mock breakdown had been. Annabel’s concern seemed genuine. Frankly, it was embarrassing.

Annabel started the car and we headed back down the lane. I stole a quick glance, expecting to see her deep in concentration, formulating a plan to save my job. Instead, she wore a smug smile. It was only when we smoothly negotiated the muddy water hazard, and Annabel did not even wince, that I became suspicious.

‘What should I do?’ I said, inserting a note of fear into my question.

‘I have a plan. I’ll deal with Pete. He’ll believe anything I tell him.’

‘Oh, Annabel, you are so clever!’ I gushed. ‘How I
wish
I was like you.’

‘Lots of people want to be me, Vicky.’ Annabel checked her reflection in the rear view mirror and smiled at herself. ‘Let me give you a tip on dealing with men. It’s simple.’ She paused dramatically. ‘Lather them with compliments, make them feel important, and they’ll be like putty in your hands. Look at Pete!’

‘He’s
so
in love with you.’

‘I know,’ she said with a sigh. ‘And he’s not the only one.’

‘It must be lovely to be you.’

‘Let me tell you something,’ said Annabel in a confidential tone. ‘I used to be just like you. Awkward, naive—’

‘Actually, I’m just—’

‘No! Let me finish,’ she commanded. ‘Then, something awful happened – I don’t want to talk about it – but it made me realize that life is all about looking after number one. If you don’t look after yourself, no one else will.’

Annabel’s philosophy surprised me. Beneath her brash exterior, could there be some childhood hurt? I’d always assumed she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth – everyone knows it’s hard to feel sympathy for someone with a new car. Yet whatever had happened in Annabel’s past was surely small fry compared to the burden of having a criminal for a father.

At the main road, she stopped the car and turned off the engine. To the left led the road to Plymouth, to the right, Gipping.

‘I’ve decided. I’m taking you back to the office,’ she said crisply.

‘What about Plymouth?’

‘Stop worrying.’ Annabel reached over to the back seat, retrieved a manila folder, and tossed it into my lap. ‘Take a look at that.’

It was a glossy photograph of a Massey-Ferguson tractor. A strapping man, dressed in dungarees and cap, leaned out of the cab holding aloft – inexplicably – a duck.

‘Fortunately I came prepared,’ said Annabel with a smirk. ‘Pete will
have
to use this on page one now.’

This time my paranoia was real. ‘What are you
really
going to tell Pete?’

Annabel thought hard for a moment. ‘How about your stupid landlady picked up the wrong envelope? No one gets fired for a genuine mistake.’

An hour ago, we would have been in complete agreement. But now I knew I just couldn’t trust her. ‘I’d rather explain it to Pete myself, in person.’

‘It’s up to you, of course.’ Annabel paused, adding darkly, ‘If you can handle him, please, go ahead.’

‘You said all I had to do was flatter him.’

‘You know how he expects to be flattered, don’t you?’ Annabel said, readjusting her bra and giving each magnificient breast a reassuring pat.

I had a good idea of how Annabel
flattered
Pete. I wasn’t born yesterday.

‘Yes, of course,’ I said with a confidence I did not feel, and looked down at my pathetic double-A cups. ‘He’s just a man, isn’t he?’

Annabel simply raised her eyebrows at me, started the car again, and turned towards Plymouth. Barely half a mile later, we joined the rear of a long crocodile of cars stuck behind a huge tractor, which was travelling at a mind-numbingly slow pace.

‘This is all we need,’ grumbled Annabel, checking her watch. ‘Five miles an hour!’

‘How lucky that you had your tractor piece with you,’ I said, pointedly.

‘Luck had nothing to do with it. As I said, you’ve got to look after number one. Watch out for any opportunity and go for it. The world is not for the weak, you know!’

As I suffered another pang of inferiority, I couldn’t help feeling she would get on well with Dad. I wondered what he would make of my smug rival. He’d never feel undermined by her patronizing attitude. In fact, Dad would use it to his advantage.

‘Gosh. You’re so right!’ I said, adding slyly, ‘You must have some terrific informers.’

‘Oh! Anyone can have informers, Vicky.’ Annabel sneered. ‘No, it’s
instinct
that gets a story. Either you’ve got it or you haven’t.’

‘Which is why you dismissed Ronnie’s
devil
chickens at the dump as ridiculous,’ I said, hoping with all my heart that was true.

‘Exactly.’

‘Wow.’ This was good news. Annabel really hadn’t seen the connection between Trewallyn’s dustbins and the dump, after all. ‘What other qualities make a good journalist?’

‘I’m glad you feel you can ask me,’ Annabel said. ‘A lot of people don’t because they’re threatened by my expertise.’

‘Not me,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘I just want to learn.’

‘Let me see . . .’ Annabel mused for a moment. ‘Persistence.’

‘Persistence? Can you give me an example?’

‘Well . . .’ Annabel considered. ‘Ah yes! When Brian the messenger didn’t show up as planned, I didn’t just sit around and cry. I drove to The Marshes and waited outside his flat until he came home.’

I swear my heart missed a beat. ‘You
saw
Brian?’

Annabel smiled at the memory and went on. ‘A few choice words of flattery and a twenty pound note bought me a copy of the report.’

‘A copy?’ I was stunned. ‘With no questions asked?’