A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (21 page)

Quietly, and without knocking, I pushed open the door and froze in my tracks.

Probes stood motionless in front of the desk facing me. He had a curious glazed expression in his eyes as he held the model of Brian and his motorcycle up high, as if offering them to the stars. Solemnly, he placed the gruesome poppet back into the shoe box.

I lurked in the doorway and watched in astonishment as the copper began to wave his hands in a clockwise, then counter clockwise direction. He mumbled some kind of incantation before finishing the ritual off with a spectacular double-arm wheel, knocking over a plant and pot of pencils. He seemed in a trance.

Probes picked up a glass jam jar that held something that looked remarkably like rabbit droppings. Tipping a few into his hand, he sprinkled them over Brian’s ‘remains’ in the shoe box, and shouted, ‘
Exitus acta probat
!’

Good grief! I couldn’t believe it! Probes was one of them! I’d caught a member of Gipping Constabulary right in the act of a Satanic ritual!

With a mixture of horror and elation, I backed out of the door, turned, and walked away as quickly as I could without attracting attention. The policeman’s nerve was astounding. He was practising witchcraft in broad daylight. And in a police station!

Outside, I took in great gulps of fresh air and replayed the events over and over again. But my elation turned to gloom when I realized that without a camera to record this sensational discovery, the story was worthless. It would be the copper’s word against mine. I swore at that moment
never
to be without a camera again.

As I walked home, I started to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Was Probes a witch or a warlock? I’d better check the correct terminology. Perhaps Probes
and
Chester had left the billet-doux on Dave Randall’s bed as some kind of warning? Good grief! Could I be next?

When I made the decision to become a top investigative reporter, I knew that exposing the truth was not supposed to be a walk in the park, but I never expected to face such peril in
Gipping
.

As I turned into Rumble Lane and saw Mrs Poultry’s Morris Traveller parked in the drive, I was unexpectedly glad that she wasn’t the kind of nosy landlady who would bombard me with meaningless questions. I knew Topaz was expecting her next set of instructions but I couldn’t face a post-mortem on our intimate drink last night. I was tired and wanted to soak in a long, hot bath. I’d run it shoulder deep – to hell with Mrs Poultry’s no-more-than-three-inches-of-water rule.

Later that night, I lay in bed unable to sleep. I kept remembering Brian’s warning, ‘She knows about us!’ and ‘You’ve got to—’ Got to
what
? I wished I could ask Mum and Dad for their advice.

It had been over a month since I got the second postcard from Costa Brava. It simply said
Business is good
. Sometimes, I wondered if they actually received the letters I sent, care of Ye Olde Matador Pub. No doubt it was too risky for them to write. Thanks to the stringent antiterrorist laws now in force, even Her Majesty’s mail is no longer secure.

I was surprised to feel a tear crawl down my cheek and drip into my right ear.
Buck up, Vicky
. It was vital I get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow being Saturday, the
Gazette
hit the newsstands. If Annabel managed to snag her front page scoop, after all, she would be utterly unbearable.

I must be ready.

‘C
ongratulations on making the front page,’ I said to Annabel, who seemed far from happy about her tractor exclusive. She sat hunched over her desk, gloom seeping from every pore.

‘I didn’t even get a by-line,’ Annabel moaned, flapping the newspaper at me. ‘I’ve also been obliterated by a giant advertisement for fertilizer. Look!’

It was true. Apart from the small paragraph advertising the merits of purchasing a Massey-Ferguson, half the page was devoted to a revolutionary new fertilizer, said to be
the
dung of the twenty-first century.

‘No offence, Annabel,’ I said, pointing to the – what I considered, lame – lead headline,
GIPPING CAT BURGLAR STRIKES AGAIN: A PETE CHAMBERS EXCLUSIVE
! ‘If I had to choose between reading about burglary or dung, I’d pick burglary every time.’

Annabel scowled. I gave a reassuring pat on her shoulder. When one’s rival seems crushed, it’s only sporting to show a little sympathy. ‘Disappointment comes with the job – it’s the nature of the beast.’

‘You’ve got some nerve!’ Annabel shook me off.

‘What do you mean?’

Annabel thrust out her chin. ‘Pete told me you phoned and promised him some fantastic and far-fetched scoop.’ She gave a nasty snicker. ‘You said you’d discovered – I quote – “Randall is part of a depraved sex ring run by perverts and the local council.”’ Annabel rolled her eyes in mock despair. ‘Honestly, Vicky! How desperate can you get?’

I’d discounted pillow talk. Of course, Pete would have told her, verbatim. ‘I’m not desperate at all. It’s true.’

‘What’s more’ – Annabel tossed her head, nostrils flaring – ‘you told Pete . . .’ She paused to draw in an indignant breath. ‘“Annabel has a
little
tractor story that I suppose might do.”’

‘But we agreed—’

‘I wanted to tell him myself.’ Annabel seethed. ‘It was my idea. I
saved
your hide. You owe me.’

Was she that insecure? ‘For God’s sake, it’s not the end of the world.’

‘It may well be. For
you
,’ she declared in a threatening voice. ‘Well, all I can say is you’d better not be making all this up. Pete phoned the nationals yesterday: the
Mirror
, the
Sun
– even
The Times
.’

‘The Sunday papers?’ I was stunned. Sunday papers were the crème de la crème of journalistic aspirations.

‘Pete expects your
sensational
story by Friday, a mere six days away,’ Annabel declared. ‘By
noon
.’

‘Trust me, it won’t be a problem,’ I said, confident of my recent discoveries. All I needed was proof. I already had a couple of catchy headlines:
GIPPING’S LADY CHATTERLEY LOVE TRYST AS HUSBAND LIES DEAD: A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE
! Or if I could get proof:
LOCAL BOBBY TURNS BLIND EYE AS YANKEE WIDOW DABBLES WITH DEVIL
. A corrupt copper would be the icing on the cake. Plus, nailing a policeman would make my dad proud.

‘Well, don’t get too complacent.’ Annabel sneered. ‘I’ve been secretly working on a
shocking
front-page exclusive for ages now. Even Pete doesn’t know what’s it about,’ she went on. ‘But the moment he does, he’ll lose all interest in your little story anyway because mine has money, sex, power, and
photographs
!’

‘May the best scoop win,’ I said, conscious of a peculiar leaden sensation in my stomach.

Pete strolled in. ‘Morning, girls.’ He seemed in a rare good mood. ‘Vicky! How is my young star this fine morn?’

‘Excellent, thank you,’ I said, smiling broadly and shooting Annabel a triumphant look. Usually he focused on her, but today I was queen. I had to admit it was quite lovely.

‘Any news yet?’ he said with a leer. ‘Got any titillating scraps to keep us going?’

His question caught me off guard. ‘There was a fatal motorcycle accident yesterday.’

Pete guffawed. ‘Very funny. That’s what I like about you – your sense of humour.’

‘No, there really was. Brian Dickson, the messenger from the coroner’s office.’

‘Our Brian? Bugger!’

‘Was he a friend of yours?’ I asked, all innocence, delighted to take the heat off me.

‘You could say that.’ Pete glanced over at Annabel. ‘Did you hear that? Brian’s kicked the bucket.’

I followed his gaze to see Annabel’s features undergoing extraordinary contortions. She was in the process of mouthing at me, ‘Don’t say anything about me. Pleeease.’

Pete scowled. ‘What the hell is wrong with your face?’ Annabel looked mortified.

Pulling one of the two cigarettes lodged above his ear, Pete stuck it between his lips and lit up. Inhaling deeply, he turned to me and said, ‘Give me the facts.’

‘Brian collided with a combine harvester on the Plym Bridge,’ I said bluntly. ‘The cops have the details.’

‘Annabel,’ Pete growled, ‘I want
you
dealing with the police on this one. Just you.’

Annabel, all business, got to her feet and picked up her shoulder bag. ‘I’ll get to the station right away.’

I panicked. ‘No! It’s too soon.’

‘Why?’ Pete and Annabel chorused.

‘The cops have to tell Brian’s parents first.’ I knew he was an orphan, but they didn’t. ‘Police procedure.’

‘You’re right. Bugger.’ Pete thought a moment. ‘Vicky, into my office.’

My heart skipped a beat. All newfound smugness evaporated in a flash. It had always been Annabel who had been cloistered for hours in Pete’s office. Had I replaced Annabel in every way imaginable?

Pete paused in the doorway. ‘Let’s have a cuppa?’

‘I’ll make it,’ I gushed.

‘No, Annabel will do it. Annabel!’ he barked, ushering me in front of him. ‘Tea!’

Annabel’s mouth dropped open, appalled. ‘I don’t do tea.’

‘Milk and one sugar, please,’ I said.

‘Come on, Vicky.’ Pete gave my behind a playful tap, pushed me into his office, and shut the door.

‘Over there.’ Pete pointed to a tartan two-seater sofa pushed against the wall. It made the cluttered room even more cramped. Framed family photographs were on his desk.

Oh God. This is it. My knees began to tremble violently. Surely, he wasn’t really expecting some form of sexual gratification this early on a Saturday morning? It was only nine thirty.

‘Don’t be shy.’ Pete started to rifle through his top drawer, clearly oblivious to my confusion. ‘I know it’s your first time in here, but it won’t be the last.’

My hands felt clammy, and my mouth went dry. What could he mean,
first time
? Resigned to my fate, I slipped off my shoes and lay back on the sofa. We’d have to be awfully quick. Annabel could appear at any moment with the tea. My mother’s words echoed in my ears: ‘Be careful what you wish for.’ I’d wanted to lose my virginity. I only had myself to blame. Pete was going to be the lucky man, and in an odd way, I was doing this for the greater good of journalism.

‘What are you doing?’ he said, horrified at my prone state. A sheet of paper was in his hand. ‘Are you tired?’

Startled at his tone, I sat bolt upright.

‘This is no time for
naps
,’ he admonished. ‘There’s work to do, young lady. I’ve got a lot riding on your scoop.’

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, surreptitiously slipping my shoes back on. ‘Didn’t sleep well last night.’

‘This is a list of town officials.’ Pete handed me the paper. ‘It would be bloody brilliant if we could nail old Rawlings.’

‘The mayor?’

‘Serve him right. He’s always a right bastard to the press.’

I took the list and, with a sinking feeling, realized my life was becoming more complicated by the second.

‘And that stuck-up magistrate. What’s her name?’

‘Margaret Pierce?’ I said.

‘Yeah. See if you can catch them both at it.’

‘What if they’re innocent and—’

‘Pierce is trying to win the Conservative seat in the next election,’ Pete said. ‘This will put the kibosh on her chances.’

I felt uncomfortable. ‘Doesn’t she do a lot of charity work for the blind?’

‘Who the hell cares?’ Pete said cheerfully. ‘Charity work doesn’t sell newspapers. Sex does.’ A light seemed to go on in his head. ‘Do you think they’re into bondage?’

Thankfully, a tap at the door saved me from replying. ‘Enter!’ Pete shouted.

Annabel came in, labouring under a tray with three mugs of tea. ‘I thought I could join you,’ she said with a grimace, putting the tray down on the desk with a thump. It wasn’t
that
heavy!

‘I’ve added milk and sugar,’ Annabel said, handing Pete a mug emblazoned
WORLD’S GREATEST DAD
! She pointed to the remaining mug. ‘Yours.’

I noted mine was black and oversteeped. ‘It looks perfect.’

Clearly, she was determined to join us. Annabel took her mug and sat down beside me on the sofa.

Pete’s phone rang. ‘Yep?’ he said, pausing to listen to Barbara chirping on the other end of the line. ‘Well, tell him it’s too damn bad.’ He slammed the phone into the receiver. ‘That Randall bloke is in reception, pissed off that he wasn’t in the paper this week.’

In all the excitement, I’d forgotten my promise to Dave. I jumped up. ‘I’ll just pop downstairs—’

‘I wonder what happened to his
photographs
, Vicky?’ said Annabel spitefully.

‘Wait a minute,’ Pete said, ‘isn’t Randall your informer, Vicky?’

‘Sort of.’ I refused to look at Annabel.

Pete thought long and hard. ‘Tell him we’ll run his story next Saturday instead. The nationals will carry your scoop on Sunday.’ He rubbed his hands together with glee. ‘We’ll be the
preview
. “You read it here first.” Brilliant!’