A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (20 page)

‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘I’ve never seen him before in my life.’ I bit my lip and looked away. How could I have used that old line? It had guilt written all over it!

‘I was talking to Probes.’ Stalk regarded me with suspicion.

Probes made a peculiar gulping sound, and whispered, ‘Looks like he’s not going to make it, sir.’

To my surprise, my eyes welled up with tears.

‘Are you all right?’ Probes touched my arm, his voice heavy with concern.

‘I’m fine, thank you. I’ve never seen . . .’ My voice cracked. Was it possible I was in some way responsible?

Brian’s body was gently loaded onto the stretcher. Probes took the white sheet from one of the paramedics. ‘May I do the honours?’

Without warning, Brian sat bolt upright. His eyes snapped wide open. We all leapt back in surprise. I actually screamed.

Manically, Brian pointed his finger straight at me. ‘You! Annabel! You must . . .’

I shrank back, mortified.

‘Steady, lad,’ said the thin paramedic, trying to push Brian back down and force an oxygen mask over his face. Brian knocked it to the ground.

‘Let him speak,’ Probes cried. ‘Oh God, Brian. Talk to me.’

‘She knows about us,’ Brian raged on. ‘She knows!’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Probes turned to me. ‘Who knows?’

‘He’s delirious,’ I said desperately.

‘Annabel!’ Brian gasped, struggling for breath. ‘You’ve got to—’

And with that, he immediately slumped backwards onto the stretcher.

‘He’s gone,’ observed the fat paramedic dispassionately.

Probes elbowed him aside and began to administer CPR. ‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘Come on,
Brian
!’

‘He’s a goner, I tell you. Internal bleeding.’ The paramedic turned to me with a shy smile. ‘Name’s Steve, by the way.’

‘Hello. Nice to meet you,’ I said, glad to add another new contact, yet too traumatized by Brian’s deathbed revelation to want to chat. ‘Is he really dead?’

‘Those combine harvesters are built like tanks,’ said Steve as we watched Probes valiantly pound Brian’s chest and breathe into his bloodied mouth. ‘I’ve seen a lot of farmers come to grief under those wheels.’

Out of the corner of my eye I watched the young policeman’s frantic efforts. He’d appeared so nerdy when we first met at the
Gazette
, yet seeing him in action I felt an unexpected frisson of desire even more shameful, given the circumstances.

Finally, Steve dragged Probes away and covered Brian’s face with the white sheet. It was hard to believe he really
was
dead.

‘Hope we meet again,’ Steve said with a wink. ‘What was your name? I’ll give you a jingle.’

‘Vicky Hill.’ It felt wrong to be chatted up, somehow.

The paramedics completed their duties, slammed the doors shut, and sped off with the siren blaring once more.

Probes sank onto the edge of the pavement with his feet in the gutter. He shook his head in despair. ‘Too late. It’s all my fault.’

I was surprised at his obvious distress. Had he been
that
friendly with Brian? Or perhaps he was an exception to the rule – a copper with a heart?

Other than what remained of Brian’s Vespa and the abandoned combine harvester, we were alone on the bridge. Stalk must have closed down all access to this side of town until the tow truck arrived to remove the wreckage.

Probes removed his helmet, slowly scratched his head, and frowned. ‘Brian
knew
you.’

‘Everyone knows me,’ I said gaily. ‘It’s the nature of my job.’

‘No, he was specific.’ Probes looked at me, his expression hard. ‘And he called you
Annabel
.’

‘He didn’t
call
me
Annabel
. He just shouted, “
Annabel
”!’ I looked at my watch. ‘Good Lord. Must go. Barbara will wonder where I am.’

‘Ms Hill!’ Probes scrambled to his feet. ‘I know the press and the police don’t often see eye to eye but . . . Brian was my friend.’ He paused. ‘If you know of anything strange, any tiny detail, however insignificant—’

‘Sorry. I don’t.’ Was he deranged? I would never tell a copper about Pete’s arrangement with the dead youth. That would make me a snitch. Dad said that those that snitched to the cops were the scum of the earth. But wait! Wasn’t Brian’s demise just a tragic accident?

‘Surely you don’t suspect foul play, officer?’ I had to admit the possibility took away some of my own guilt. Hadn’t I simply startled him? Maybe he thought I wanted my money back – after all, he had been paid twice for information.

Probes stepped towards me. I caught a whiff of his manly scent. All that hard work attempting to resuscitate Brian had given him a musky odour. He lowered his voice. ‘Can we speak off the record?’

Here we go, I thought, and braced myself for the inevitable Columbo moment.

‘Ms Hill, I want us to work together. Share information. Help the community.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ I said, glad that Dad wasn’t here. ‘You go first.’

Probes took a deep breath. ‘I think we’re looking at another murder.’

‘
Another
murder?’
Blast!
Brian must have revealed the contents of the original report to his friend Probes, after all. Probes must have known all the time about my part in the tragedy.
Tread carefully, Vicky
.

‘Are you saying someone else is dead?’ I pretended to look shocked. ‘Good grief! Who?’

Probes scowled. ‘I think it’s best if we continue this conversation down at the station.’

They were the words every man, woman, and child feared most of all. Imminent arrest. I’d be the proverbial ‘helping police with their inquiries’, the classic, good-as-guilty, cheap one-liner, fed to the media.

Probes couldn’t prove a thing. The coroner’s report was safely hidden in the water tank in my attic bedroom. Brian hadn’t asked for a signature when he gave it to me, either. It was his word against mine – and let’s face it, dead men tell no tales. I was sitting pretty. In fact, maybe it wasn’t so bad, after all. Just how well had the redheaded copper known Brian, and why had Probes said it was all
his
fault? I was sure I could wheedle the truth out of him with a few cunning questions.

Rewarding Probes with a dazzling smile, I adopted a tone of supreme confidence. ‘I’d
love
to come to the station! Shall we meet there at four?’

I
was no stranger to police stations. Many a time I’d sat with Mum in the waiting room when Dad was helping the coppers with their inquiries. We’d pass the time reading magazines like
Prison Widow
and
Inside
–
Outside: Surviving Without Your Man
.

As Probes escorted me along the bustling corridors, I smiled cheerily at everyone I passed for fear they’d believe I’d been arrested.

‘In here,’ Probes said, ushering me into a cramped corner office filled with traffic cones – I counted eleven and hadn’t even peered into tucked-away nooks and crannies.

‘Kids steal them,’ Probes said, kicking one out of the way. He gestured for me to take a plastic chair in front of a desk stacked with files. ‘Please sit down. I’ll go and make some tea.’

‘Lovely. Milk and one spoonful of sugar.’

Probes left the room. I leapt to my feet, not wanting to miss this marvellous opportunity to inspect a policeman’s office.

One wall was devoted to photographs of stolen silver ranging from silver tea services and tankards to candelabras. I couldn’t help thinking that Dad would have been tempted by the silver George III footed tea urn. He always had a weakness for a nicely turned spigot.

Alongside the photographs was a detailed street map of Upper and Middle Gipping. Red flags indicated those homes that had been burgled. Blue flags showed which homes had burglar alarms. Dad colour-coded his maps, too, only he included yellow flags for homes with guard dogs. I made a note to tell Dad that whomever masterminded this operation was a genius at disabling burglar alarms. To my practised eye, I calculated the stolen loot must be worth at least seventy-five thousand pounds on the black market.

Stepping carefully over the traffic cones, I headed for the far wall next to the window. Written in black marker and underlined were the words,
SUSPECTED ECO-WARRIORS
. A photograph of a group of nine men and women standing outside Tesco Superstore looking tough was accompanied by the question
Do You Know These People?
Apart from the sullen faces of the Barker brothers – no surprises there – the others were not local. Only one looked really dangerous – a heavyset man in his early twenties, with a shaved head and handlebar moustache:
WANTED FOR FAILURE TO APPEAR IN COURT, DRIVING WITHOUT A LICENCE AND DISTURBING THE PEACE
.

‘Vicky! Can you open the door?’

Probes had returned with two mugs of steaming hot tea balanced on a cardboard shoe box. Carefully, he set them down on the desk. ‘Before we continue, there is something I have to tell you.’ Probes placed his hands firmly on top of the lid, his expression grave.

I hated that awful phrase because it always accompanied bad news: Grandma has died; the cat got run over; Dad has gone to prison.

‘We have reason to believe there were two coroner’s reports,’ Probes said. The shock caused me to violently inhale, sending me into a ghastly coughing fit. Probes hurried to my side, thumping my back with the same abandon he had used to pummel the dying Brian’s chest.

‘Stop!’ I gasped, pushing him away. ‘I just need a minute.’ I put my head in my hands to compose myself.
Blast!
Taking a deep breath, I went on, ‘I thought Sir Hugh had a heart attack.’

‘Brian had mentioned something unspeakable about . . . chickens.’

‘Chickens?’

Probes leaned towards me and said in a low voice, ‘Under our new arrangement, what I’m about to show you is strictly off the record.’

‘Arrangement. Of course.’ I made a silent prayer for Dad’s forgiveness.

Probes took a deep breath, his expression grave. ‘Do you believe in witchcraft?

‘Like
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
?’ I suggested.

‘No, not vampires!’ Probes answered vehemently, and stared at me hard. ‘I must know, Vicky.
Do
you believe?’

I hesitated, unsure how to answer.
Was
I a believer? Suddenly, I was aged eight, back in Sunday school learning about Christian miracles. The vicar was enthusing about Jesus’s feeding of the five thousand with a mere five loaves and five fish. I had scornfully pooh-poohed the idea and told the vicar he was dreaming. He had been predictably furious and promptly banished me from the group for heresy.

‘Of course I do,’ I said.

‘I found this in Brian’s motorcycle pannier.’ Probes slowly opened the lid and lifted out a miniature toy Vespa. A tiny wax figure was tied to the bike with black thread. Its face was stuck with pins. The front of the scooter was mangled.

I shivered. ‘That’s horrible.’

‘And this, too.’ He tipped the box towards me.

I felt the colour drain out of my face. Two chicken legs complete with gnarled claws, also bound with black thread, nestled on a bed of straw. My first thought was they must belong to the same bird languishing on Dave Randall’s bed.

It was hard to tell. When you’ve seen one chicken leg, you’ve seen them all.

‘Of course, I’ve seen this sort of thing before.’ Probes’s voice was tinged with excitement. ‘But not in Gipping.’

Probes picked up a magnifying glass and stepped around the desk beside me. I caught a whiff of his musky masculine scent as he stood close to my shoulder. ‘The wax figure is called a
poppet
.’

He handed me the glass. ‘Incredible attention to details.’ The front wheel of the miniature motorbike lay twisted under its crossbar. A piece of paper the size of a postage stamp was glued to the back of the rear wheel.

‘Is that a licence plate?’ I was fascinated. The tiny figure wore painted-on black simulated leathers. The doll even sported a sky blue paper helmet.

‘It’s Brian, isn’t it?’ My skin prickled. ‘What’s written on his jacket?’

‘Black Sabbath.’ Probes had a feverish glint in his eye as he leaned forward to whisper in my ear. ‘I believe there are
Satanists
in our midst.’

‘Wow. Black Sabbath!’ I said. ‘So, Brian was a Satanist?’

‘Black Sabbath is a band from the seventies, you fool,’ Probes said exasperated.

‘There’s no need to be rude.’ I was indignant. ‘I didn’t have to come here and help you out.’

‘Forget it. This is a waste of time.’ Probes turned on his heel and went to stare out of the window.

‘I’ll be off, then.’ I couldn’t leave his office quick enough. ‘Bye.’

Yet, the moment I closed the door, I realized I’d let my hot temper get the better of me. Wasn’t the whole purpose of going willingly to the police station to find out why Probes was so upset about Brian’s death and why he’d said, ‘Too late! It’s all my fault!’

It was no good. I’d have to go back. Perhaps even I would try Columbo’s just-one-more-thing tactic and see how Probes liked it.