A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (19 page)

‘Really, Vicky, don’t be dense.’ Annabel sighed. ‘Of course, I flashed my press card. Brian accessed Sharpe’s files from his home computer.’ She chuckled. ‘In fact, he seemed very relieved to see me.’

‘I bet he was!’ I joined in with a laugh that was a little too hearty. ‘I suppose he made some excuse about not showing up at the
Gazette
?’ It was a gamble but I had to know.

‘Who cares? It’s the results that count.’

But I cared. Why hadn’t he told Annabel he’d already given the report to me? Brian’s behaviour made no sense. Perhaps he was smitten by my
cool
eyes and was hoping I’d come and demand an explanation in person. Or, was he trying to cover up Sir Hugh’s murder by replacing the original report with a fake?

I knew then exactly what I had to do.

‘What’s the matter, Vicky? You’ve got a funny look on your face.’

‘You’re right,’ I said with an exaggerated sigh. ‘I don’t think I’m up to handling Pete, after all.’

Annabel looked smug as if to say I told you so.

This time, her snotty attitude didn’t bother me. I’d phone Pete at the printers and tell him I was pulling my hedge-jumping story. The reason? Dave was implicated in a far bigger scandal. When asked for details, I’d imply it had something to do with sex but that I couldn’t say more until I’d double-checked the facts.

It was time to pay Brian a friendly, but discreet, visit at the morgue. But first, I’d have to deal with Pete’s wrath.

P
ete’s reaction to my revelation was mixed. After ranting for a full five minutes about what I expected him to do with an empty front page, he’d become enthusiastic about the forthcoming scandal. Of course, I’d sprinkled the word
tits
liberally into my findings as well as alluding to sexual deviations that involved at least two naked participants brandishing whips. I’d also made Pete promise to let the story belong exclusively to me – otherwise I might leak it to the
Bugle
.

Barbara’s disappointment on learning there would be no first-hand accounts of sexy-sailor sightings in Plymouth today was not as acute as I feared. She had the two wooden doors open, which separated reception from the window display recess fronting the High Street.

‘It’s about time the window was changed,’ I said, joining her as she stood, hands on hips, surveying a rather sad collection of
Gazette
artefacts – an ancient, cracked carthorse collar, a threadbare scarf with
GIPPING GROWLERS
, the local football team, written in faded black on yellow, and a photograph of the Gipping carnival queen being crowned in the pouring rain.

‘Can you believe it, Vicky?’ Barbara’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘Pete actually agreed!’ She fanned her face dramatically and chattered on, ‘I was so nervous I didn’t sleep all night.’

‘What happened?’ I had no idea what she was talking about and stole a quick glance at my watch. If this turned out to be one of Barbara’s lengthy he-said-she-said stories, I’d miss Brian at the morgue. It closed at five.

‘As you know,
Paparazzi Razzle
is launching its Find Salome Steel celebrity search competition,’ Barbara cried. ‘So, I thought, if Salome Steel lives in Devon, it was only right that the
Gazette
should have a contest, too!’

‘What a clever idea, Barbara,’ I said, though to be honest, I felt sorry for Salome Steel – yet another victim of our society in which cherished anonymity counted for nothing. Dad was right when he said the country was going to the dogs.

‘What’s the prize?’

‘A day trip for two to Land’s End . . . frankly, Vicky dear, I know how much you love to chat but . . .’ She pointed to the window. ‘I must get on. What do you think about a black banner with
Voodoo Vixens
written in red?’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘Perhaps a skull?’

‘Sounds lovely.’

‘Be a dear and give me a leg up.’ Barbara grasped the three-foot ledge with both hands and raised one knee, giving me a good view of scarlet bloomers edged with black lace. Recoiling from the sight, I hoisted her inside and made my escape.

T
he morgue was conveniently located at the rear of Gipping Hospital behind a walled courtyard. It was a plain one-storey, redbrick building with a flat roof and no windows, presumably to deter morbid members of the public from taking a peek inside.

Leaving the bustling High Street behind me, I turned into Scalpel Avenue, a quiet residential area lined with dreary Edwardian semidetached houses with bay windows and pebble-dash.

One of these belonged to Messrs Ripley and Ravish, Gipping’s popular funeral directors – Dust to Dust with Dignity. Both hearses were parked on the street – a rare sight during these cold, winter months when hypothermia was one of the main causes of death in the elderly.

It had only just turned 4.30 p.m. With any luck, I’d catch Brian before he went home.

Before I could give this more thought, a horrible sound of grinding gears broke the afternoon silence. A familiar Morris Traveller crawled into view. I was surprised to see Mrs Poultry, who generally only drove into town on market day. If she’d been visiting someone at the hospital – unlikely, as she had no friends that I was aware of – the car park entrance was off the High Street. Then, it occurred to me that Scalpel Avenue eventually became Tripp Lane, which offered a shortcut to Refuse Dump Drive, Gipping County Council Rubbish Tip – and Ronnie Binns! Even though Mrs Poultry had appeared repulsed by my message that Ronnie praised her dustbins, she must have changed her mind.

I gave a friendly wave as my landlady slowly drove past me at her usual snail’s pace but she pretended not to notice. Her eyes were focused on the road ahead, and her hands tightly gripped the steering wheel. Obviously she was embarrassed that I’d guessed what she was up to. I wasn’t offended. The thought that I could be responsible for bringing two lonely senior citizens together in such a cruel world brought a warm glow to my heart.

I strolled through the morgue gates and was greeted by the sight of Coroner Sharpe’s black Mercedes Coupé parked alongside a sky blue Vespa LX 50. Recalling Brian’s sky blue scooter helmet, I assumed the bike was his. With half an hour to go, I looked around for somewhere to wait unseen.

A few yards away, tucked against the wall bordering the road, stood a large black and red striped bin marked
HOSPITAL WASTE
. Ignoring the stench, I settled behind it to wait.

I didn’t have to wait long. Moments later, the tinkling sound of female laughter caught my attention. I dropped to my knees and peeked around the side of the Dumpster.

Coroner Sharpe was helping a woman wearing a stylish Burberry raincoat and matching bucket hat into the passenger’s seat of his car. She had her back to me but from the way she squeezed his arm and whispered something into his ear, I could tell there was a sexual je ne sais quoi between them, especially when Sharpe pinched her bottom.

Sharpe climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and turned the Mercedes around. As he passed my hiding place, I practically fainted. The passenger in the front seat wore a slash of red lipstick. It was Lady Trewallyn!

So much for the grieving widow! I thought back to the graveyard scrap at Sir Hugh’s funeral when Chester tossed Her Ladyship into the mud. Even then I’d thought Sharpe had rubbed Lady Trewallyn’s dirty knees with just a little too much enthusiasm. Tragedy must have thrown them together.

Annabel had said it was instinct that made a good journalist. My instinct told me that Lady Trewallyn had bewitched the old man just like she had bewitched Dave Randall – enough to get Sharpe to change the coroner’s report.

I found Brian, wearing pale green overalls, washing down the floor in the morgue lobby. He took one look at me, threw down the mop, kicked the bucket of soapy water in my direction, and tore off down the corridor, vanishing through a door marked
EXIT
.

I ran after him – narrowly avoiding breaking my ankle on the slippery floor – and burst out of the building. I raced to the front but was only in time to hear the sound of the tinny Vespa motor erupt into life. Brian had fled.
Blast!

I felt excited knowing Brian had something to hide! Far from discouraged, all I needed to do was go back to the
Gazette
, find his address, and go and wait – just like Annabel had done.

As I turned into the High Street, a police car tore past with its lights flashing and siren screaming. A growing stream of pedestrians hurried after the disappearing vehicle, chattering with speculation.

‘What’s happened?’ I said, catching up to an elderly man with a limp.

‘There’s been a traffic accident down at the bridge,’ he shouted, breaking into a lopsided trot. ‘Hurry, or you’ll miss it.’

For a moment, I hesitated. With Pete and Annabel in Plymouth, there was only a small window of time to find Brian’s address. However, being first on the scene of a scoop had to take priority.

I took the shortcut through the market square, over the wooden stile, and along the footpath that bordered the River Plym. Ten minutes later, I reached the front line.

The situation on the bridge looked dire. A mangled sky blue Vespa protruded from beneath the front of a bright yellow combine harvester. My stomach turned over.
Brian!

What rotten luck! I hoped he wasn’t hurt – my front page splash depended on his evidence.

I pushed my way through the surging crowd as a policeman was trying to cordon off the bridge with two orange cones. ‘Back! Back, I say!’

To my dismay, I saw it was DC Probes. The moment he noticed me, his face lit up. ‘Help! Over here.’

At last I had a chance to flash my press card, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea. The combine harvester spanned the ancient narrow bridge. Brian must have attempted to squeeze through the small gap, overbalanced, and tumbled under the giant wheels.

‘I can’t hold them,’ Probes said exasperated, as a particularly aggressive woman in a red-checked headscarf stamped on his foot and told him that Plym Bridge was a notorious accident black spot and should have been closed to traffic years ago.

‘Has anyone seen the motorcyclist?’ I said anxiously, scanning the curious faces.

‘Yeah. That’s him, I reckon,’ said a thin youth sporting a nose stud. ‘Right there.’ He pointed to what seemed like a pile of green rags lying under the chassis.

‘Oh God,
Brian
!’ I felt sick, having never been this close to a broken body before – especially one that had been very much alive a few minutes ago.

Moments later, a wailing siren and flashing blue lights broadcast an ambulance approaching. It sped towards the bridge at high speed, scattering the crowd and flattening the traffic cones. Two ambulance drivers – one fat, the other thin – leapt out. They hurried to the rear of the vehicle, opened the doors, and pulled out a stretcher.

A second panda car screamed to a halt alongside the ambulance and disgorged its occupants, one of which was the obnoxious Detective Inspector Stalk. He strutted over to the nosy bystanders, brandishing his truncheon and looking dangerous.

‘Move along, move along! There’s nothing to see here.’ His commanding tone had the desired effect. The crowd meekly obeyed and moved away, apart from the woman with the red-checked headscarf, who stopped to pick up Brian’s sky blue helmet. ‘Souvenir,’ she said proudly, to anyone who would listen.

‘Now, madam, put that down!’ ordered Stalk. ‘It’s evidence.’ The woman flung the helmet to the ground in a huff and stomped off.

The paramedics dragged the rags out from under the vehicle. Brian’s face was a bloodied mess, his left leg skewed at a weird angle.

Stalk peered at the body. ‘He looks dead to me.’

I turned away in anguish. Even though I was deeply distressed, a fabulous headline popped into my head:
RIDE WITH THE WIND, DIE WITH THE WIND
–
A BIKER’S FINAL JOURNEY! A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE
!

The fat paramedic solemnly handed Stalk a blood-stained leather wallet. Stalk examined the contents and gestured for me to come over. ‘You’re from the paper, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Vicky Hill.’ My heart started to pound. What if Stalk found out I was the last person to see Brian alive? Hadn’t I stolen the coroner’s report? What about impersonating Annabel? Oh God! What if they found out about my parents?
Get a grip, Vicky
. I pinched my arm, whisked out my reporter notebook, and forced myself to sound professional. ‘Do we have an identity yet?’

‘These kids don’t fasten their helmets. Think they’re immortal,’ grumbled Stalk, thumbing through the wallet. ‘Name’s Dickson, Brian Dickson.’

‘With a
K
I presume?’

Stalk ignored me and turned to face Probes who was walking towards us, his face ashen. ‘Probes! You’d better track down the parents and all that crap.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Probes said, adding with a sob, ‘He was an orphan – just like Ms Hill here.’

I turned red, having already forgotten that particular lie of mine.

‘Was Brian Dickson a friend of yours?’ said Stalk.