A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (22 page)

‘Good idea, Pete,’ said Annabel, making a supreme effort to draw attention to her cleavage by adjusting her bra. ‘Unless a more
sensational
story comes in, right, Vicky?’

‘Take Randall to lunch,’ Pete enthused, ignoring Annabel’s last remark. ‘All expenses paid. Keep the receipts.’

‘Great,’ I smiled, edging towards the door. As Pete took a hefty swig of tea, I caught Annabel’s attention with a gentle cough and crossed my fingers, mouthing, ‘
Pax
?’

Grudgingly, she raised her fingers in response and muttered, ‘
Pax
.’ It may be a childish playground agreement, but considering we both had secrets to trade, it would seal the deal.

Walking downstairs, I felt giddy with relief. Dave’s unexpected appearance had been my saving grace. Not just from the clutches of my lecherous boss, but Dave’s very presence had substantiated my story and made me look
really
professional. I’d also learned a vital lesson. Annabel believed it was feminine wiles that clinched the hot assignments. Yet here was I, a whisker away from the scoop of the century, and still a virgin!

Of course, I needed proof, but now with the go-ahead to take Dave to lunch, there was nothing like alcohol to loosen the lips and reveal sordid secrets. I pushed open the door to reception to greet my informer.

Life was good.

‘I
’not in it, am I?’ Dave fumed, flapping Saturday’s edition of the
Gazette
in my face. ‘You promised me a full-page feature!’

Dave’s outburst left me speechless. Where was the mild-mannered man of three days ago when I had had to practically
beg
for his hedge-jumping exclusive? How typical of the general public who claim to shun fame, yet once they get a taste of it, become prima donnas.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea, Mr Randall?’ asked Barbara sweetly, popping up from behind the counter.

I stifled a yelp of surprise. Barbara was wearing an African tribal headdress made of scarlet feathers and colourful beads. Around her neck was a necklace dangling with plastic skulls.

Dave shot me a nervous look. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Barbara’s organizing a—’

‘Competition. Whoever guesses the real author of
Voodoo Vixens
wins a coach trip for two to Land’s End,’ Barbara enthused, adjusting her headdress that had begun to slip rakishly over one ear. ‘Every week the
Gazette
will provide a vital clue.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, glad that Barbara’s astonishing getup had thrown Dave off his stride.

Barbara whipped out a makeshift entry form. ‘Just jot the name down on here and pop it into this box.’ She tapped a padlocked, wooden letterbox on the counter. ‘If you need privacy, you can use the nook.’

‘Thanks, Barbara. Mr Randall, shall we?’ I turned to face the nook and was startled by another transformation.

Plastic green palm fronds were pinned to the star-spangled curtain. A pair of maracas sat on top of a large drum on the floor to the right of the entrance. I guessed that Barbara had borrowed the props from the Gipping Bards, our local amateur dramatic society who had just put on a highly ambitious production of
The African Queen
.

As I feared, the interior of the cramped nook supposedly resembled the inside of an African hut. A black and white striped fake-fur rug was nailed to the back wall. The green plastic chairs were covered in old sacking. But the
pièce de résistance
was the pale brown giant stuffed gorilla sitting on top of the small table.

‘I want an explanation.’ Dave’s bewilderment returned to annoyance. ‘And it had better be good.’

Mustering one of my warmest smiles, I said, ‘The truth is, Dave – can I call you Dave? My editor wants to do a rather
special
story on you. A front page.’

‘He does?’

‘In fact, he’s asked me to take you to lunch tomorrow,’ I said. ‘All expenses paid.’

‘You’re on,’ Dave said. ‘But I want the photographs back.’

‘Absolutely.’ I was perplexed. Chester had them – apart from the one on Dave’s bed that was pinned to the chicken legs. Did this mean Dave had not seen them at all? Could someone have removed them secretly? And if so, why?

‘Shall I go and fetch Mr Randall’s pictures?’ Barbara whisked the curtain aside. I should have known she’d been eavesdropping. ‘Are they upstairs?’

‘Actually, those photographs were great but we need more action shots,’ I said quickly. ‘Limbering up; on the launch pad; maybe one at Cricket Lodge – “A champion relaxes at home.” That kind of thing.’

‘Oh, yes,
yes
!’ Barbara clapped her hands in raptures. ‘Our readers will love it.’

Dave grunted something unintelligible but looked pleased. ‘Come to Riley Lane on Wednesday afternoon. There’s a virgin box I’d like to sink my teeth into.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I blushed scarlet. Barbara clutched at her throat and had to steady herself against the back of my chair.

‘Boxwood, or
Buxus handsworthii
to the layman,’ Dave said wistfully. ‘Wide, thick, and untouched. Six glorious feet of splendour.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ I said, struggling to suppress the image conjured up by Dave’s reference to a virgin. ‘I’ll still need to discuss details over lunch, of course. How about tomorrow, shall we say—?’

‘Noon. The Three Tuns.’

As I watched Dave exit the reception – giving Barbara a wide berth – I thought things had gone rather well. I’d neatly sidestepped the tricky missing photograph situation, got an interview
and
a photo shoot. This reporting lark could be fun especially now I had an expense account.

‘I hope he’s not expecting a pricy lunch,’ Barbara said, automatically throwing a damper on my good spirits. ‘You
do
realize that as a trainee reporter, you aren’t eligible for reimbursement?’

‘Pete said—’

‘It’s up to Wilf. He’s the editor.’ She gave me a conspiratorial smile. ‘My advice is to eat before you go. If he has any manners, he won’t eat if you don’t.’

The Three Tuns was renowned for their Sunday lunch special and I’d been looking forward to it. But, sometimes we all have to make sacrifices to get what we want. If I had to pay for Dave’s confession myself, it would be money well spent.

I
t was just after noon. The public bar, heavy with cigarette smoke, was packed with Sunday lunchtime drinkers.

‘How big is a pitcher of scrumpy?’ I asked Arthur, the ruddy-faced barman. A sign behind the bar at The Three Tuns pronounced the local cider as today’s house special at the bargain price of five pounds.

The barman produced a huge jug and thumped it down on the counter. ‘Bloody good value, if you ask me.’

‘I’ll take it. Two glasses, please,’ I said, certain this would last long enough to get Dave to admit to his affair with Lady Trewallyn and, with luck, discovering Sir Hugh’s body.

‘You be careful now. That’s real Devonshire scrumpy.’ Arthur grinned. ‘It’ll knock your socks off.’

‘It’s only cider, isn’t it?’

‘Only cider? Only
cider
?’ Arthur laughed, shaking his head.

Dave was sitting at the same corner table I’d shared with Topaz the other night. He was sprawled in a high-backed wooden bench, his eyes closed.

I set the pitcher and glasses onto the table with a thump. ‘Scrumpy,’ I announced. ‘Wake up!’

Dave’s eyes popped open. ‘Bloody hell. A whole jug!’

Carefully, I poured out two glasses, noting the liquid was the same colour as urine, and sat down beside him.

‘What are you having?’ Dave said.

‘I had a huge breakfast.’ I hoped he didn’t hear my tummy grumble. ‘But, please, have what you like.’

‘Roast beef and all the trimmings. Yum.’

Barbara was wrong about Dave’s manners.

‘Whoa!’ Dave exclaimed, taking a sip of scrumpy. ‘This is the real local stuff.’

‘Cheers!’ I had a lot riding on this good local stuff.

‘Bottoms up,’ said Dave as he put away another glass.

Gingerly, I took a sip. It tasted of apple juice. Frankly, I couldn’t understand what the barman was fussing about. Scrumpy seemed perfectly harmless to me.

‘So come on, Vicks, what’s new at the
Gazzzzzette
?’ Dave’s elbow nudged me hard in the ribs. ‘You know everyone and everything. Right?’

‘Yes I do,’ I giggled. ‘I
really
do.’

Three empty pitchers stood on the table. Lunchtime drinkers had morphed into early evening revellers. I never realized what a lovely pub The Three Tuns was, filled with lovely people.

After the second pitcher of scrumpy, I had decided to abandon the interview. Dave had pointedly ignored all my attempts at casually dropping his employers into the conversation. Instead, I’d had to listen to him droning on about hedge-jumping and the merits of the Fosbury Flop versus the traditional Straddle. He was quite sweet, really. I felt flattered that he shared his dreams with me – including the wild hope that Plym Valley Farmers would sponsor his lifelong ambition to introduce hedge-jumping as an Olympic sport. Even when I pointed out that some countries – Africa or parts of the Middle East – did not have hedges to practise on, he took it well. I could see why Topaz was so enamoured. He really was one of the most attractive and wittiest men I had ever met.

‘I’ve done all the talking,’ Dave announced suddenly, slapping his hand on my knee. ‘Enough of me. Tell me about you. Tell me everything.’

‘I make a lot of tea,’ I said, conscious of his hand resting on my knee and rather liking it.

‘You cover funerals, don’t you?’ Dave said casually.

I felt flattered. He
knew
who I was! He must have been asking about me. He must fancy me.

‘All of them,’ I said, taking another sip of scrumpy. ‘Yep. That’s me. I haven’t missed one since I moved to Gipping.’ I raised my glass. ‘I am the funeral
queen
.’

Dave’s glass clinked mine. ‘To the funeral queen!’

‘Hurrah!’ I cheered. We drank and slammed the glasses down on the table.

‘So why did Annabel Lake cover Sir Hugh’s obituary?’ Dave said suddenly.

It was as if an ice-cold bucket of water had been thrown over my head. Dave wanted to talk about Annabel. How typical! Every man on the planet wanted to talk about
her
.

‘She’s my junior, you know,’ I said haughtily. ‘She went to The Grange with our chief reporter – still training, obviously. Actually, it’s taking the names at the church that needs
skill
. I remember everyone who goes to my funerals – and even those who don’t.’

‘Wow.’

‘Like you.’ I wagged my finger at him. ‘Naughty Dave. You should have gone to poor Sir Hugh’s.’

‘I had my reasons.’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘The fact is—’

‘Another scrumpy on the tab, Vicky?’ said Arthur, looming over us with a fresh pitcher in hand.

‘Yes, yes. On the tab. Bye.’ What rotten timing! Somewhere through my alcoholic haze, I sensed Dave’s confession brewing.

‘You’d better watch out for her, Dave,’ said Arthur with a wink. ‘She’s a bit of a goer.’

Dave leered. ‘Really?’

‘Ask her about her lady friend – the girl from The Copper Kettle. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Know what I mean?’ With a chuckle, Arthur bore off the empty pitchers, pushing his way back through the punters to the bar.

Dave turned to me, intrigued. ‘What’s he on about?’

‘Let’s talk about the funeral.’

‘I’d rather talk about you.’

Blast!
The barman had ruined everything by his stupid remark. Dave tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch felt electric. What if I reverted to Topaz’s original plan of suggesting a threesome, after all? If it got me closer to Lady Trewallyn, then so be it.

‘Topaz and I aren’t serious,’ I said, putting my hand on Dave’s thigh. ‘It’s just some harmless fun.’

Dave looked puzzled. ‘Topaz who?’

‘You are hilarious!’ I laughed. Men were so transparent. Now he was interested in me, he wanted to conveniently forget she existed. ‘Topaz Potter. Your
ex-girlfriend
?’

Dave’s expression remained blank. I lowered my voice. ‘We thought you’d fancy a
ménage à trois
?’

‘A what?’

‘Threesome.’

Dave’s eyes widened with disbelief. He leapt up, waved at Arthur, and gave him the triumphant double thumbs-up.

Sitting back down he threw his arm around my shoulders. ‘Listen, luv, I don’t know who the hell she is, but I’m game.’

‘Wait a minute!’ This was a turn up for the books. ‘You swear you
really
don’t know her?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’ He stuck his finger in my ear. ‘Do you like that?’

I jumped, feeling all atwitter. If only I hadn’t drunk so much scrumpy. Why would Topaz lie about Dave? I must sober up. ‘Do you know a man called Chester Forbes?’

For an answer, Dave belched and yanked me to my feet. ‘I’m ready!’ Mum always said that when a man’s passions were aroused, all the blood ran out of his brains. Dave was living proof.