A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (3 page)

‘Do you want to see it?’ Ronnie whispered as he extracted a key from his pocket and gestured for me to follow him.

I shrugged. ‘If we’re quick.’

We stopped outside the padlocked gates.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEEP!

The car horn startled me. I spun around, momentarily blinded as a pair of flashing headlights filled my vision.

Ronnie stood transfixed as a silver BMW barrelled towards us. He spun to face me, his expression filled with accusation. ‘You told me she was at death’s door!’

Blast!
It was Annabel.

‘T
hank God you’re alive!’ I said, opening Annabel’s car door. ‘She’s alive! It’s a miracle!’ I yelled out to Ronnie who was standing over by the open gates with a face like thunder.

‘For heaven’s sake, Vicky, you’re such a hypochondriac!’ Annabel sneered. ‘It was just a touch of food poisoning. You’ll never survive out in the field if you’re worried about little things like that.’

‘I’m not—’

‘I’ll take over now.’ Annabel checked her reflection in the rear view mirror. With her auburn hair (Nice ’n Easy Natural Copper Red), she looked pale and beautiful. She was wearing another new outfit – an indecently short, denim miniskirt and leather bomber jacket – obviously for Ronnie Binns’s benefit. ‘Is there a loo around here?’

‘I think there’s one in the office.’ I know it sounded uncharitable, but I couldn’t help hoping she’d suffer a hideous relapse.

‘Haven’t you got a funeral to go to?’ Annabel opened the glove box and retrieved an envelope that, to my practised eye, looked thick with banknotes.

‘You don’t have to pay Mr Binns,’ I declared. Ronnie was striding towards us flushed with self-righteous indignation. ‘He says he’s happy to give us information for free.’

‘Nothing is for free, Vicky.’ Lowering her voice, she added in a voice heavy with menace, ‘And if you ever try to steal one of my stories again, I’ll make sure you’re fired.’

‘Pete sent me. He thought you’d be on your back for days,’ I said. Pointing to the office camera swinging around my neck, I added, ‘He even loaned me the Nikon digital.’

‘Well, really!’ Annabel seemed annoyed but switched to fullblown charm as Ronnie – and his fragrance of boiled cabbages – joined us. ‘Ronnie darling! How lovely to see you.’ I noted her effusive greeting did not extend to a warm embrace.

Ronnie’s eyes zeroed in on the envelope clutched in Annabel’s hand. He threw me a look of triumph, ‘Is that for—?’

‘Excellent. You remembered.’ I snatched the envelope from Annabel’s grasp, thrust it into my pocket, and drew her to one side. ‘You do realize that everyone at the
Gazette
knows his tips are pure invention,’ I whispered.

Annabel didn’t answer. No doubt she was feeling foolish for paying for the old man’s ramblings.

‘I feel a bit peculiar.’ Annabel started doing little bunny hops on the spot.

‘Don’t. We all make mistakes. He’s not worth it.’ I glanced over at Ronnie who was glowering at me. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.

‘I haven’t got all day,’ he shouted. ‘Do you want to see it or not?’

‘Be right there!’ I cried. Turning back to Annabel, I shared one of Dad’s pieces of wisdom. ‘You’re far too trusting. Never pay for information first.’

‘You don’t know what you’re . . .’ Annabel trailed off and closed her eyes tightly. A grimace spread over her face.

Good grief! Had the woman no spine? If she were intimidated by the likes of Ronnie Binns, she’d never be able to deal with squealers from organized crime.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I won’t tell Pete about your financial arrangement with the dustman.’

‘You silly
cow
.’ Annabel clenched her fists and suddenly froze. ‘Toilet. Got to . . . oh God . . .’ and darted in the direction of the trailer. She wrenched open the door and disappeared inside.

‘Is she going to be long?’ grumbled Ronnie as he adjusted his thigh-high waders with a pained groan. ‘I was up at four and still have Cowley Street to do.’

How I yearned to leave them both to it, but Ronnie was bound to tell Annabel I’d told him he was off the payroll. She’d be furious with me for interfering. I felt the envelope in my pocket, half tempted to give it to him anyway and be done with it. But, of course, I couldn’t do that. Family principles ran deep. The Hills never paid for information without proof first.

‘Better wait for Annabel.’

We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. I could feel Ronnie’s eyes boring into me.

‘I know who you are,’ he suddenly announced. ‘You’re the young lass lodging at Mrs Poultry’s place in Rumble Lane!’

‘Yes,’ I said, warily, happy to change the subject but wondering what my landlady had been saying about me. ‘Why?’

‘She’s a good sort.’

‘Mrs Poultry
is
wonderful, isn’t she?’ I wondered if we were talking about the same person. ‘Heart of gold.’

‘Generous.’

I let that one go. Clearly, our definitions of
generous
were worlds apart. I recalled the weak tea at breakfast with one slice of toast; the ‘kitchen closed after 6.00 p.m. rule’, which meant I rarely had the chance to make myself a hot meal at night.

To add insult to injury, Mrs Poultry ran a special event agency called Cradle to Coffin Catering. One of the few perks I enjoyed after working a funeral was being invited back to the house for cold cuts and fruitcake. Given that my landlady usually supplied these delicacies, she always complained I was eating her profits.

‘Her dustbins are a joy to empty,’ Ronnie said. ‘You can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat their rubbish.’

‘Mrs Poultry certainly loves a clean dustbin,’ I agreed.

‘Does she ever . . . like . . . talk about me?’ he asked shyly. Surely he didn’t fancy that dour old battle-axe? Yet who am I to cast judgment? My mum always says, ‘There’s someone for everyone.’

‘Mrs Poultry says you’re reliable,’ I said.

‘
Reliable
, see?’ Ronnie thumped his chest. ‘
She’d
never accuse me of crying wolf!
She’d
believe me!’ With that, he spun on his heel and stormed back to the open gates shouting, ‘The devil’s at work here in Gipping, and I’m going to prove it!’

What if he was right? I couldn’t risk Annabel snagging a front-page scoop beneath my very eyes. I trotted after Ronnie, positive that Christiane Amanpour would have done the same in similar circumstances.

The stench of rotting garbage was overpowering. How could anyone work here? The rain of the past few weeks had turned the narrow muddy paths between the towering stacks of rubbish into a quagmire.

We sloshed past piles of abandoned household articles – mattresses, dozens of rusting prams, and old refrigerators.

‘Over there,’ said Ronnie, pointing to a rough clearing among the debris. I could make out a small shape under a piece of black plastic.

My heart began to pound faster with the wildest hope that even if it wasn’t a body, it could be part of one. I steeled myself. A head, though shocking, would look terrific on page one.

‘Wait!’ I heard a shout and looked around. Annabel was attempting to catch up in kitten-heel shoes. Mud was spattering up her bare legs and she was slipping all over the place.

‘Vicky! Wait for me!’ she screamed. ‘This is
my
story.’

Ronnie bent down and whipped off the plastic.

Three white fluffy birds lay in a heap.

‘Chickens.’ I felt a stab of disappointment. All that fuss for nothing. ‘Just chickens.’

‘They’re not just any old chickens.’ Ronnie poked at the pile with the toe of his boot and flipped one of the unfortunate creatures over. ‘Blood’s been completely drained out, see?’

I knelt down to take a closer look. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.

‘Their throats have been cut, see?’ said Ronnie. ‘Usually you just chop their heads off, but someone’s gone to a lot of trouble here. If you ask me, that’s not normal.’

He was right. Each fragile neck had a neat slice, yet there wasn’t even a speck of blood on their snowy white feathers.

Apparently, Ronnie Binns had some expertise in chicken killing. ‘First, you take your chicken,’ he began, ‘and you string it up by the legs—’

‘Where
are
their legs?’ I said alarmed. Each chicken was minus vital limbs. Ronnie was right to describe this spectacle as macabre. It reminded me of the curse scene in chapter four of
Voodoo Vixens
– with one vital ingredient missing: a voodoo doll. The Vixens’s trademark signature.

‘You’re right to bring this to our attention, Mr Binns.’ I reached for my camera.

‘No, stop!’ Annabel stumbled towards us and stood staring at the pathetic wretches in silence.

At last, she gestured for Ronnie to replace the plastic. ‘Sorry to waste your time, Mr Binns.’

‘What?’ I was astonished.

Ronnie scratched his head – he seemed to often do this – dandruff, possibly, or worse. Head lice?
‘She
doesn’t think so.’

‘Vicky doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’ Annabel’s tone was crisp. ‘The
Gazette
appreciates you calling, but there is no story here.’ Annabel turned on her heel and began to slosh her way back towards the car. ‘Come along, Vicky.’

‘I’ll walk,’ I said, anxious to have another word with Ronnie. Obviously Annabel had not read
Voodoo Vixens
.

‘Nonsense, it’s going to rain. I’ll give you a lift,’ she demanded, adding darkly, ‘And besides, I want a word with you.’

The last thing I wanted to do was be trapped in Annabel’s car getting a lecture. But a glance at my watch – Dad said it was a genuine Christian Dior – told me I needed a lift back to Middle Gipping.

‘I’ll be back later,’ I whispered to Ronnie, fighting the urge to give him the money, after all. ‘Please don’t go to another paper. I believe you.’

He rewarded me with a gap-toothed smile, ‘Tell your lovely landlady I said hello.’

Back at the car, I found Annabel carefully rearranging the dealership paper in both foot wells.

‘Keep your feet on this,’ she said. ‘The carpet’s new.’

We drove up the muddy lane, slick with garbage residue. Annabel, cursing under her breath, did her best to steer around numerous, rain-filled potholes.

After some minutes, she heaved a big sigh. ‘Vicky, Vicky,
Vicky
. What
am
I going to do with you?’

‘Pete told me to come.’ I felt six years old.

‘You had no business opening a confidential letter,’ Annabel scolded. ‘Ronnie’s not always a reliable informer, but he still belongs to me.’

‘The money—’

‘Is mine. Pete gives me a small allowance for these little incidentals.’

I felt jealous. Annabel had an expense account. I didn’t.

‘Which reminds me, the envelope, please.’ Annabel took one hand off the steering wheel and held it out, palm side up. ‘I wouldn’t want Pete to think you’ve been stealing money as well as stories from me.’

Her insult left me speechless. I may have inherited many Hill traits, but theft was not one of them.

‘I suggest you forget all about Ronnie Binns and the chickens.’ Annabel laughed. ‘I mean, the countryside is full of them – dead or otherwise.’

I glanced over at my rival. A complacent smile was on her face. She thought she had me fooled. Fat chance! It was clear to me that whatever the chickens meant to Annabel, she was determined not to share her theories with me.

It was nearly ten fifteen. ‘Do you mind dropping me off at the church?’ If I walked from the
Gazette
, I’d never make Sir Hugh’s funeral in time.

‘No can do. I’ve got to get back to the office.’ Annabel pulled a face. ‘You really must learn to manage your time.’

‘If it’s for Pete,’ I said, adding pointedly, ‘there’s no rush. He’s going to wait for that
special
report.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Annabel turned pink.

I yawned, feigning indifference. ‘He told me everything.’

‘Pete told
you
about the coroner’s report?’

This was an interesting piece of information. A coroner’s report put a completely different slant on matters. ‘Why
wouldn’t
he tell me?’

‘I don’t believe it!’ she snorted. ‘Typical man.’

‘I’ve never seen Pete so agitated,’ I said, warming to my theme.

‘Well, who wouldn’t be?’ Annabel said with a sniff. ‘If anyone found out, it could cost him his job.’

The plot was thickening! Getting access to a coroner’s report before the inquest was illegal. ‘Bit risky, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Of course it is, but this is a very special circumstance.’

I did a mental check of who had died recently and could only conclude it had something to do with Sir Hugh.

‘Poor old Trewallyn.’ I bluffed. ‘It’ll be good for us to know the truth.’

Annabel’s look was pure spite. ‘Pete gave this story to
me
, Vicky.’