A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (24 page)

‘What do you want?’ she cried.

‘I came to say hello.’

‘I was asleep.’

‘It’s nearly lunchtime!’ I was appalled. How lazy! ‘Can I come in?’

‘All right,’ she said grudgingly, and closed the window. A few moments later, she unbolted the back door.

Topaz looked distinctly dishevelled in a pink tie-dyed kaftan, clasping a violet knitted shawl around her shoulders. She wore no makeup.

‘Good grief! Are you ill?’ I said, staring at her wig, which was slightly off centre and had obviously been donned in haste.

‘Why?’ Topaz stepped aside to let me pass, then bolted the door behind us. Without a word, she padded along the hall and into the kitchen – if you could call it such.

Basic
was the only word I’d use to describe it. It was hard to imagine anyone could cook in such shoddy surroundings. A two-ring hot plate sat on top of the draining board. There was no stove, only a microwave. A waist-high refrigerator stood in one corner with a toaster on top. I counted two saucepans, one frying pan, a kettle, and a spatula. A pile of unwashed dishes sat in the sink. The whole place needed a good clean and smelled similar to our basement across the street.

In a basket in the corner slept a very old black Labrador with grey whiskers.

‘I didn’t know you had a dog,’ I said. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Slipper,’ Topaz said. ‘She’s deaf.’

‘Not much of a guard dog, is she?’ I said, trying to make a joke.

Topaz glowered and flopped into one of the two shabby armchairs that flanked the small Victorian fireplace filled with litter. ‘Actually, she used to be a guide dog for the blind.’

‘Why is the cafe closed?’

Topaz sighed. ‘I don’t feel like working at the moment.’

Not
work
? I had been brought up to work hard. Only the rich could afford to be idle.

‘You can’t just please yourself! You’re running a business. People expect you to be open.’ It certainly explained her lack of customers. Why walk all the way to the top of the High Street for a cuppa only to find it closed?

Topaz shrugged. ‘Why should you care?’

I felt guilty. Someone must have told her that Dave and I were out together yesterday. Clearly, she was jealous. Coupled with my rejection of her on Friday, it had proved too much for her to handle. ‘Did I tell you the newspaper has asked me to do a hedge-jumping feature on the Randall chap?’ I asked casually.

Topaz’s expression hardened. ‘No, you didn’t.’

‘I had a meeting with him last night.’

‘You didn’t say anything about me, did you?’ she said, turning red.

‘It was purely business.’ I remembered how Dave had slammed me against the Land Rover and stuck his tongue in my mouth. Having had time to think about it overnight, I decided I had liked his suggestion of love on the lawn, after all. He seemed spontaneous, passionate – probably an exciting and inventive lover. No doubt Lady Trewallyn had taught him a thing or two. I’d only chickened out through nerves.

‘Vicky, this is embarrassing,’ Topaz said sheepishly, bringing me back to reality with a jolt. ‘You know the other night in the pub?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘When I’ve had a lot to drink, I tend to say silly things.’ She began to laugh. ‘You see, I’ve never ever met Dave Randall.’

‘Goodness! You had me fooled!’ I hoped my face did not betray my annoyance. Did Topaz think I was born yesterday? I recalled her hatred of Lady Trewallyn, her tears and histrionics.
Blimey!
She had even tried to persuade me to be a lesbian and been flirting with me well before her first Babycham.

‘Don’t be angry, Vicky.’ Topaz played with the silver locket around her neck. Her eyes filled with tears.

This time I wasn’t deceived. People lie to hide something. I’d get it out of her soon enough. ‘I’m not angry,’ I said smoothly. ‘That’s what friends are for. Sharing secrets. Sharing fears.’

Topaz shot me a grateful smile. ‘I knew you’d understand.’

We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Topaz was so unpredictable. If only I didn’t need her spying services.

‘Guess what? I’ve got an undercover job for you.’ I braced myself for her squeal of joy.

Topaz frowned. ‘Does it have to be today?’

Her apathy was seriously beginning to irk me. I gestured to the mess in the kitchen. ‘You can’t just sit around moping. I thought you wanted to work for the
Gazette
?’

Topaz shrugged. ‘It depends what it is.’

There was a long pause while I counted to ten. ‘I want you to find out about that new copper, DC Probes.’

‘He’s a policeman.’

‘Yes, I know that.’ What was wrong with her? Was she being deliberately obtuse? ‘I just need some background information: where did he live before he moved here? Are his parents alive? Does he have brothers and sisters? That sort of thing.’

Topaz slowly shook her head. ‘I’d rather not.’

‘For heaven’s sake, it’s not difficult.’ I was exasperated. ‘When he comes into the cafe, you just ask a few friendly questions.’

‘I haven’t been open very long,’ she said in a sulky voice. ‘I just don’t want to attract attention, that’s all.’

With my upbringing, one thing I know is that when someone does not want to attract attention, it’s because they are doing something illegal.

‘What about Coroner Sharpe? Does he ever come in for a cuppa?’

‘I don’t know who he is,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Isn’t there something else I can do that doesn’t take up so much time?’

It suddenly dawned on me that I was definitely wasting mine. As an informer, Topaz was less than useless.

‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we hold off on you working for the
Gazette
until you’re not so busy?’

‘Do you mind? I
am
utterly frantic, at the moment.’ Topaz got to her feet and stretched, thrusting her breasts in my direction.

Still trying that on, I thought with scorn. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I have a lot to do.’

I left The Copper Kettle deeply perplexed. It was of little consolation that Pete need never find out the
Gazette
had nearly hired a psychopath. Something was niggling me. Who was Topaz Potter? And why did she feel the need to wear that wig? She was new to the area and clearly had absolutely no business sense. Only a few days ago, she had been obsessed with Lady Trewallyn and Chester Forbes, to say nothing of her brokenhearted grief over Dave Randall. It was obvious Topaz was hiding something and I was determined to find out what it was.

A
s I crossed the street, I saw Barbara standing in the
Gazette
window, putting the finishing touches to her banner –
VOODOO VIXENS: WHO IS SALOME STEEL
?

‘I thought you were off today,’ Barbara said, as I helped her down from the recess. ‘I need someone to help with the heavy lifting.’ She pointed to an iron, waist-high cauldron that I hadn’t noticed. ‘It’s for the window display.’

‘I’m in a bit of a rush. Can’t Tony give you a hand?’

‘Tony?’ Barbara scoffed. ‘He’s far too weak. We need a real man – someone with a nice set of biceps like Jimmy Kitchen.’

Not Jimmy Kitchen
again
. ‘Where on earth did you find such an enormous pot?’

‘Down at the abandoned wool and textile factory.’ Barbara beamed.

‘But it’s heavy. How did you get it all the way up here?’ I was puzzled.

Barbara’s face reddened. ‘A . . .
friend
dropped it off.’ She coughed and looked away. This was a turn up for the books. I thought all Barbara’s romantic adventures were lodged deep in her past.

‘Everyone will be here tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Let’s try to roll the thing into the corner until then.’

Given that Barbara’s bad toe was playing up, it took us a full fifteen minutes to manoeuvre the cauldron next to the drum outside the nook. Try as I might to extract information on Barbara’s mystery friend, she remained stubbornly silent. I made a mental note to ask Topaz if she’d seen anyone delivering a pot though didn’t hold out much hope. Topaz had seemed particularly dense this morning. ‘Do you know where Tony went for lunch?’

‘He left for The Warming Pan about forty-five minutes ago.’

Good. It was a long walk to the other end of the High Street plus service there was notoriously slow. ‘He should try The Copper Kettle,’ I said. ‘It’s closer, and Topaz needs some regulars.’

‘She needs to offer free cups of tea and perhaps a nice Victoria sponge cake,’ Barbara declared. ‘She won’t find it easy attracting new customers. They remember The Kettle as a junk shop. People don’t like change.’

‘
A junk
shop?’

‘Sold odd bits of furniture, cheap prints, old pots and pans,’ Barbara said. ‘All proceeds went to Guide Dogs for the Blind. Very worthy cause.’

This was interesting. Topaz had probably bought the junk shop and its contents, dirt cheap. She’d merely rearranged the furniture and stuck a sign on the front door. Still, I couldn’t criticize her. Didn’t we all have dreams?

Fortunately all further conversation stopped when Barbara had to answer the phone. I dashed upstairs to sneak into Pete’s office before Tony returned.

To my alarm, Wilf, puffing away furiously on his pipe, was standing in the reporters’ room holding a manila folder. I’d forgotten our elusive editor practically lived at the office.

I always found Wilf disconcerting. He had a bright blue glass eye that didn’t quite fit right. I was never sure if he was looking at me or not. ‘Morning, sir,’ I said, stealing a look at the title on the folder. I’d always been able to read upside down – another birthday party game invented by Dad. To my astonishment, it was the fake coroner’s report.

Wilf took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘Annabel, is it?’

I bristled. ‘Vicky Hill, actually, sir.’

‘Ah! The young gel getting our front-page scoop.’

‘That’s right.’ I beamed. Obviously Wilf’s eyesight had initially been to blame for mistaking me for Annabel, but once he heard my name, he knew exactly who I was.

‘I thought we could have a little chat in my office,’ he said. ‘Care for a cuppa?’

‘I’d love to!’ I was having tea with the editor of the
Gipping Gazette
! Although Pete had power, Wilf was the king.

Wilf’s office was cluttered, to say the least. Bulletin boards stuck with photographs and newspaper clippings from the nationals littered every surface. Piles of old editions were stacked in towers on the floor, necessitating skilful navigation to cross from one side of the room to the other.

‘Tea might be a bit strong,’ said Wilf as he poured thick liquid from a brown teapot into a cracked mug, adding powdered milk and four teaspoons of sugar. ‘I made it this morning.’

I glanced at the clock. It must have been steeping for at least four hours. I took a sip and practically gagged. ‘It’s delicious.’

I perched on the edge of a plastic chair in front of Wilf’s desk. The coroner’s report was tantalizingly inches from my grasp. I fought the urge to distract him in some way and steal it from under his nose.

I watched Wilf take great pains to line up his pipe-cleaning utensils on a small mackintosh square, placed neatly on a sheet of newspaper. A tin of Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco –
IT SMOKES AS SWEET AS IT SMELLS
– lay open, alongside a pipe rack holding three Dunhill pipes.

The silence between us lengthened as Wilf began to scrape the bowl out with a small penknife. ‘Why don’t you tell me a little about your scoop,’ he said eventually. ‘Pete is very secretive about it. Claims it will change the history of our newspaper.’

I hesitated. First of all, I had nothing concrete to tell; and secondly, Pete must have his reasons
not
to have told Wilf. ‘Oh! You know how Pete is!’ I said cheerfully. ‘I think he’d rather tell you himself.’

‘Is that so?’ Wilf carefully filled the bowl with tobacco and tamped it down. ‘I’ve worked here for over forty years, you know. The
Gazette
’s never run a story we were ashamed of.’

I nodded a hearty agreement. ‘That’s why I’m proud to be working for you, sir.’

‘I’ve known Pete since he was a nipper.’ Wilf struck a match and lit his pipe. The tobacco caught; he sucked in deeply. True to Sir Walter’s promise, the smoke
did
smell sweet.

‘From time to time, Pete gets carried away with new-fangled ideas,’ Wilf went on. ‘Sometimes, he doesn’t understand our readers. They want things to remain the same. They know if they open to page two, they’ll get Gipping Gossip. They know if they turn to pages eleven and twelve, there’s an obituary spread.’

‘That’s my section, sir,’ I enthused.

‘Gipping prides itself on tradition. We’re a happy paper.’ Wilf drew on his pipe. ‘We want happy stories.’

I reflected on the dozens of funerals I attended weekly. Although they weren’t exactly happy, the post-service parties were often a lot of fun.

Wilf’s active eye blinked at me intensely. ‘Has someone won the football pools?’