A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (12 page)

Too late. The handle came off in my hand. I dropped it on the floor and kicked it under an empty take-away carton.

‘Well, what do you make of it all?’ Pete slipped his hand onto my knee and gave it a squeeze.

I froze, unsure how to reply – or even what he meant. There were so many possible answers.

‘It’s a total screw-up,’ Pete continued, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘I
knew
I should have got that report myself.’

‘My mum always says, “If you want a job done, you should do it yourself.”’

‘I thought your mum was dead?’

‘She is. They are.’ I blushed. ‘Her sayings are so vivid, it sometimes feels like she’s still alive.’

‘Well, your mum – God bless her soul – was right.’ He gave an emphatic nod. ‘I shouldn’t have given Annabel such a big responsibility.’

‘I’m sure she did her best.’ I felt uncomfortable. Not just cringing at my remark about my parents’ demise, but for getting Annabel into trouble.

The van left the comforting confines of Gipping and zoomed into open country.

‘How did Brian get hold of that report in the first place?’ I said.

‘Helps with odd jobs up at the morgue.’

I couldn’t think of anything worse. What kind of odd jobs would those be? Filing away internal organs?

‘Tips us off if anything suspicious comes in,’ Pete went on.

‘And Sir Hugh’s death was definitely suspicious,’ I said.

‘How do you know?’ Pete looked annoyed. ‘Did Annabel tell you?’

‘Of course not.’ This was true. She hadn’t. ‘It’s just a hunch.’

‘I bet that’s why Brian didn’t show up,’ Pete muttered to himself. ‘Someone probably warned him off. Maybe we should go by his flat and check?’

‘No!’ I said quickly. ‘Informers get paid for taking risks.’

‘Yeah, but I know Brian. He would have called if he couldn’t deliver,’ Pete said.

‘Not if he’s only got a mobile phone,’ I pointed out.

Pete was only half listening. ‘We’ll go to the morgue first after we’re done with this just to check.’

This?
The van slowed down, bringing me back to matters in hand. To my surprise, we were not in a desolated spot on the moors conducive to seduction. We had stopped outside a pair of formidable wrought-iron gates, flanked by Victorian gatehouses.

‘Where are we?’

‘The Grange, of course.’

‘For the Trewallyn interview?’ I couldn’t believe it. It was as if I’d finally won the lottery! All this time I’d been imagining the worst for nothing. God truly worked in mysterious ways. This was my chance of a lifetime. I could now impress Pete with my broad range of verbal expertise and inciting questions. ‘So, it’s just you and me?’

‘Yep. You and me, luv.’

We turned into the driveway, bordered by acres of parkland that seemed to stretch for miles.

‘If you really believe there was foul play . . .’ I trailed off. My use of the word
foul
reminded me of another kind of fowl. Hadn’t Ronnie Binns said he had found those poor little fluffy chickens at The Grange? What a perfect opportunity to case the joint.

‘You were saying?’ Pete said.

‘Just that it’s a good chance for us to infiltrate the Trewallyn household and look for clues.’ My confidence was increasing by the minute. ‘Perhaps study Lady Trewallyn? She was much younger than him, you know.’

‘Yeah,’ leered Pete. ‘I’ve seen her a few times in the town. She’s got great tits. What do you think she saw in the old geezer? I’ve got my theories.’

‘Money,’ I stated flatly. ‘Obviously.’

‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong,’ said Pete with a smirk. ‘Trewallyn was broke.’

‘What do you mean?’ I was shocked. If that were true, my theory of young wife marries rich dinosaur was completely off track.

‘Trewallyn lost the family fortune betting on horses,’ Pete continued. ‘Old Trewallyn’s first wife was loaded, but he soon went through her money.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘Heart attack.’

Pete was so naive. Obviously, he did not understand women. Lady Trewallyn saw an elderly man, stricken with grief. She believed him as rich as Croesus and married him on the rebound. Months later, she realized the truth and killed him in a fit of pique. He probably had a hefty life insurance policy.

As we approached The Grange, just visible among tall pine trees in the distance, the fence changed into a thick, ten-foot-high yew hedge.

‘Christ!’ Pete exclaimed as he slammed on the brakes. The van skidded in a cloud of dust. ‘What the hell happened here?’ The hedge was peppered with gaping holes.

‘Hedge-jumpers,’ I declared. ‘They train on The Grange estate.’

‘There’s a bloody story here, my girl.’

My heart leapt. ‘As a matter of fact, there is and I’ve written one.’ Today was turning out to be better than I dreamed.

‘Angle?’

‘Men pit themselves against—’

‘Man against nature!’ Pete was exuberant. ‘Yeah! I like it. Where’s the copy?’

‘Apparently, Annabel has to clear any—’

‘Screw her. Got any photos?’

‘Absolutely.’

I was thrilled. At last I’d been drafted into the
Gazette
’s, inner circle of power. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be long before Annabel was down in the basement making the tea for
me
!

Pete turned to face me, his expression hopeful. ‘Can you work in a sexual angle?’

‘A what?’ I said, hiding my dismay. The hedge-jumpers had been heavily padded for protection against nature’s wrath. Even a determined groper’s efforts would have little effect penetrating clothes as thick as a rhino skin.

Pete eased the car into gear and we drove on. ‘Sex sells newspapers,’ he said cheerfully. ‘
That’s
what readers want.’

‘You mean, like the
Plymouth Bugle
?’ Founded by two sailors in Plymouth docks, the
Bugle
was our rival newspaper. It was supposed to provide educational material for navy personnel away at sea. I’d flipped through it once, shocked to find pages devoted to topless strippers with lurid headlines like,
ORGIES AHOY
! and
HORNPIPE HARLOTS
!

‘Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.’

I wondered what our old-fashioned editor thought about blatant pornography.

As if reading my mind, Pete continued, ‘Wilf is stuck in the dark ages. But, a sex scandal on page one—’

‘Would increase circulation,’ I said with a nod.

‘Hell yeah! The old codger would see we were right,’ Pete enthused. ‘You and I make a good team, Vicky.’

A team? Had I misunderstood him? All earlier suspicions as to Pete’s sexual motives vanished. No doubt he had a frigid wife. A nag. Someone who spent all his hard-earned money buying clothes. According to women’s magazines, men who felt unappreciated in the home were forced to find solace elsewhere.

We passed under a brick archway – topped by a rather grand Victorian clock tower splattered with bird droppings – and emerged into the cobbled courtyard of The Grange. Stables with green painted doors flanked the yard. Grimy dormer windows above indicated former living quarters for the servants and grooms of a bygone age. Although I felt a pang of nostalgia for the glory days of the British Empire, I was aware the likes of me would be slaving away below stairs in the scullery, never up with the toffs.

As we drove on through, the cobbled stones were strewn with weeds. Paintwork was chipped, and the stone water trough carried a film of green slime. I could understand why Dad felt little guilt in dealing with his upper-class clients who so casually allowed their possessions to fall into disrepair. In many ways, he was a modern-day Robin Hood. Why not take from the rich – who don’t care – and sell to the poor at bargain prices?

We exited the courtyard through a second, matching archway and arrived at the rear entrance to The Grange.

‘Oh no,’ I whispered, stunned.

Annabel’s BMW was parked alongside a bank of derelict outbuildings. She sat perched on the bonnet, snuggled in a fake fur bomber jacket to keep out the autumnal chill. In her hand, she waved a brown manila envelope. It
had
to be the coroner’s report. Annabel must have found Brian, after all. No doubt, he would have remembered my
cool
eyes and the cat would be out of the bag. My heart sank. My career was finished.

‘Thank God she’s got it.’ Pete wiped away what looked like a tear. ‘Bloody hell! That was a close shave. Good old Annabel. She’s the best.’

‘Yes, isn’t she wonderful,’ I said bleakly.

Pete stopped the van next to Annabel’s car and got out to engulf her in a highly unprofessional embrace. That same hand that had spent most of the last twenty minutes on my knee was now clamped firmly on Annabel’s left buttock. I noted she made no attempt to move away from his touch. My earlier feelings of compassion towards Pete and his marriage evaporated. Didn’t the man have any control?

The two of them spoke in low, secret voices. They looked over in my direction. I braced myself for an angry shout or reprimand from my soon-to-be ex-boss.

‘Vicky!’ Pete called out. ‘We don’t need you now. You can wait there for us.’

‘We’ll be an hour or so,’ Annabel shouted, pulling Pete towards her to whisper into his ear. They laughed. I knew it was about me – or sex.

‘Annabel says if you get bored, you can clean out my van!’ Pete sniggered.

‘Good idea!’ I shouted back, suppressing my fury as I watched them link arms and head towards the short flight of stone steps leading up to the back entrance.

Clean out the
van
? Who did they think I was? The charlady? Yet, how little they knew me! Hadn’t Dad said,
‘Opportunity knocks when you least expect it’
?

Hadn’t Ronnie Binns said you could tell a lot about a person by the state of their dustbins? Pete and Annabel had unwittingly played into my hands. It was time to investigate Lady Trewallyn’s rubbish.

P
ete was right when he said Sir Hugh was penniless. The rear of the house was distinctly run-down, too. A row of ramshackle outbuildings revealed an old tractor with no wheels and an assortment of rusty farmyard machinery.

Two metal dustbins stood on the far side of the courtyard, which was littered with broken glass and empty beer cans. Recalling Dad’s advice, I double-checked the area for any sign of activity. Given the general state of decay, it was unlikely that a stray gardener or handyman would appear, but one could never be too careful. I felt very exposed and wondered what reason I could give should I be spotted foraging through the Trewallyn rubbish.

Suddenly, I was struck by an idea so clever that even
I
couldn’t help but be impressed by my own ingenuity.

I returned to the van to retrieve one of Pete’s empty Chinese take-away cartons. Ignoring the sweet-and-sour sauce dripping from the bottom of the box and onto my shoe, I strolled leisurely across the courtyard.

The dustbins were located below the cobwebbed window of a stone pigsty. To the right, a five-bar gate opened onto a narrow rutted cart track that presumably looped back to the tradesman entrance and from there, on to the main drive.

As I drew closer, a strange, prickling sensation swept all over my body, and my heart began to pound. Someone was watching me.

Suppressing the urge to dash back to the van, I held my cardboard alibi on high and began to hum my favourite hymn, ‘Jerusalem’, for courage.

The first dustbin was empty – not even a stray potato peel left behind. Ronnie had done a thorough job. I lifted the second lid and stifled a scream.

In the bottom of the metal bin lay the corpse of
another
fluffy white chicken – throat neatly cut and legs removed. I felt a rush of elation. Frankly, I hadn’t really expected to find anything at all. Yet something irked me. Ronnie claimed he’d found the other three chickens at The Grange, so why leave one behind? The coroner’s report stated Sir Hugh had been discovered with six chicken legs stuffed in his mouth – where were this little chap’s feet?

Was it possible – my stomach churned at the implications – that Lady Trewallyn was planning a
second
murder? How careless to leave the evidence behind for the dustman!

The sensation of being watched hit me anew. I looked over my shoulder, but the courtyard was empty. Turning back to the pigsty, I practically had a heart attack.

Pierce Brosnan’s face was peering through the cobwebbed window, his nose pressed against the glass. Our eyes met. Although blind panic consumed me,
this
time I was determined to keep my head. Nonchalantly, I looked away, tossed the leaky carton into the dustbin on top of the chicken and replaced the lid. Brushing my hands with a flourish I said loudly, ‘Must keep Britain tidy,’ and turned on my heel.

Pierce Brosnan rapped sharply on the window. ‘Hey! Wait up!’

I pretended I hadn’t heard and set off at a brisk walk. Planning to return to the front of the house, I hurried through the gate and down the track.