A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (32 page)

‘What are you talking about?’ said the man with the freezing balls.

‘Oh shit! It’s that reporter girl,’ said Lisp Lady. ‘Annabel Lake.’

‘The one with the big tits?’ piped up another male voice.

‘You told me you’d taken care of it.’

‘I put the doll thing on her bed like you told me to,’ said Lisp Lady. ‘Barry and I—’

‘No first names,’ said Sickle Cloak. ‘Did you find the plans and—?’

A blinding flash of phosphorescent light illuminated the Pavilion. Someone screamed, ‘It’s her! She’s here!’

Candles were extinguished, plunging the room into darkness amid panicked cries of ‘Spread out!’ ‘Get that camera!’ ‘Flash came from up there!’

I froze.
Bugger, damn, and blast Ken’s Kamera!
I hadn’t even pressed the button! It had gone off by itself. Pete was right. The bloke was useless.

As the room emptied, I threw myself over the minstrel railing, dropped the twelve feet to the ground, and did a parachute roll. I darted blindly across the room, collided with the table, and dived under the cloth.

‘Nothing up here,’ shouted a voice from, presumably, the minstrel gallery. ‘I bet she’s running to her car!’

I crouched on the dirty floor, listening to the sound of footsteps clattering down the steps outside. Then, complete silence.

I felt gutted. Annabel
was
chasing the same scoop as me but she’d been careless. The witches knew what she was up to, enough to leave a warning poppet on her bed.

After counting to 750, I decided the coast must be clear. It was too dangerous to go back to the BMW tonight. They’d have it staked out. Instead I decided to continue with my original plan and make my way to Dave Randall’s place.

I felt high on adrenaline and, even though I was trembling from such a near brush with death,
absolutely
in the mood for sex. Would Dave sweep me into his arms the moment he opened the door? Would he . . .
oh God
! I stopped dead in my tracks.

Leaning against a pine tree stood Barbara’s pink bicycle.

I was so shocked I thought I’d faint. Surely if Barbara had been in the Pavilion I would have recognized her voice, the woman never stopped talking. Unless – the idea seemed ludicrous – I was wrong about Lady Trewallyn being the High Priestess. Maybe – just maybe, it was Barbara Meadows.

The implications were so huge I felt sick. Barbara would know Annabel was in the hospital. She’d know that someone must have borrowed her car. What were the chances she’d think it was me?

What I needed was a cast-iron alibi and I knew exactly who that could be.

Dave Randall.

T
o my relief, the lights of Cricket Lodge were still on. Not wanting to startle him, I took off my balaclava, ruffled my hair a little, and tapped quietly on the door.

After some minutes, Dave opened it a crack. His face fell. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s Wednesday in half an hour.’ I pushed out my chest the way I’d seen Annabel do. ‘I’ve thought of nothing else since that kiss on Sunday night. I just want you to—’

‘I’m not in the mood tonight,’ he said, and abruptly slammed the door.

Not in the mood?
How humiliating! Was he throwing a temper tantrum because I’d refused to sleep with him on the front lawn last Sunday?
Blast Dave!
It was miles to walk home, and the witches were already out looking for me. He
had
to let me in.

I was about to knock on the door again when I heard the sound of raised voices – one was female. What a cad!

I tiptoed around the side of the house to the bedroom window. A curtain was drawn across with just a chink to allow minimal view but I couldn’t see anything. All I heard were a jumble of words, ‘never again’, ‘one last time’, ‘our secret’.

Absolutely crushed, I turned away not relishing the long walk home. My blisters hadn’t healed. I’d be crippled for life.

As I painfully retraced my steps, I was surprised to find Barbara’s pink bicycle was exactly where she’d left it. No doubt her followers had insisted on driving her home.

I stared at it for several moments. I could take the old rear entrance to The Grange past the Folly and zip along the river path back to Rumble Lane. Tomorrow, I’d get up early, cycle to the BMW, and make the switch. Easy.

Once I got used to the high handlebars and sitting bolt upright, the bicycle was surprisingly comfortable. No wonder Barbara was fond of it. I still found it hard to believe dear, friendly Barbara capable of murder – naked orgies, yes – but cold-blooded killing?

Back in Rumble Lane, I left Barbara’s bicycle hidden in a bed of wild foxgloves in the copse at the end of the cul-de-sac.

Fortunately, Mrs Poultry was still not home. Minutes later, I was tucked up in bed and fell into an exhausted sleep until a loud crash from downstairs woke me up.

It was three in the morning!

I jumped out of bed, my heart thundering in my chest. Someone was trying to break in.

Quietly, I opened my bedroom door and tiptoed out to the landing. To my relief, I heard my landlady’s voice and a man’s.
Good grief!
Not only was Mrs Poultry staggering about drunk and breaking things, she had brought someone back with her. What were the chances it was Ronnie Binns?

Mrs Poultry’s bedroom was directly under mine. I darted back into my bedroom, grabbed a pair of earmuffs from my chest of drawers, and dived under the covers. The thought of them writhing around naked made me gag. Instead, I turned my thoughts to Barbara.

Somehow I had to infiltrate the coven. Barbara had always liked me. She’d probably be thrilled – especially when I confessed I was still a virgin. The problem was, I liked her, too, and felt a little uncomfortable stabbing her in the back.

I suppose this was the heart-breaking side of investigative reporting and something I was too tired to think about right now. I closed my eyes.

Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

I
wasn’t the only one who overslept. Mrs Poultry was still tucked up in bed when I came downstairs next morning. No doubt she was exhausted from her night of passion with Ronnie Binns.

As I took my safari jacket off the hall coat stand, I noticed a padlock on the door to the basement.

Mrs Poultry told me she stored her catering supplies down there but she’d never had cause to lock it before. Unless –
oh God
! I bet last night the two lovers got ravenous and went to make a postcoital snack. She must have discovered the diluted jam, but frankly, this was the least of my problems today.

As I was already late for work, I couldn’t switch the bicycle, after all. I hurried to the
Gazette
, agonizing over how to approach Barbara. I could hardly introduce the coven in a friendly chat and tell her I wanted to apply.

In reception, Tony was perched on Barbara’s stool behind the counter, nursing a mug of tea and eating a bacon sandwich.

‘Where’s Barbara?’ I said.

He shrugged and pointed to his mouth that was stuffed with food.

Barbara was never late. She practically lived at the office. What if she had had to walk home last night, after all? It had been colder than usual. In fact, many elderly people succumbed to hypothermia in these conditions. The graveyard was full of winter tragedies.

The phone rang. Tony continued to chew his breakfast, picked up the receiver, and handed it to me.

‘
Gipping Gazette
,’ I said, glaring at him. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Vicky?’ said a mournful voice on the other end of the line.

My stomach turned over. ‘Barbara! Are you ill? We were just getting worried about you.’

‘My toe is playing up. It’s infected. I can’t even wear my slippers, let alone walk.’ She sounded despondent. I felt guilty. Obviously Barbara
had
walked home. ‘But something terrible has happened . . .’ She made a strange gulping noise. ‘Someone has stolen my bicycle.’

How very clever!
Barbara was going to play dumb.

‘Have you reported it?’ I said.

‘No police!’ Barbara’s voice held a hint of hysteria. ‘What do they care about a missing bicycle?’

Naturally, she wouldn’t want the police involved. ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’ll make a few discreet inquiries on the condition that you see a professional about that toe.’

‘Doctor Jolly the chiropodist will be here any minute.’

Another stab of guilt hit me afresh. If she had to succumb to the medical skills of Jab-it Jolly, she’d be lucky to have a toe left at all. I decided against telling Barbara about Mrs Reynolds’s fatal bunion.

‘Must go. I’ll be in touch later about your bike,’ I said. ‘Bye.’

Pete burst in waving a two-way radio. ‘Where the hell is Annabel’s car? It’s not outside.’

I felt myself redden. ‘Actually, I left it down at Ted’s garage this morning. Thought she’d appreciate a full tank.’

He clicked the button on the two-way radio and yelled into it. ‘Car okay. Now turn this bloody thing off and give me a break.’ He slammed the gadget down on the counter. ‘No bloody peace for the wicked. Where’s Barbara?’

‘Out with a bad toe.’

‘Christ! We’re surrounded by invalids here,’ he growled. ‘Vicky, come with me.’

I trooped upstairs into Pete’s office, knowing full well he was going to ask about my scoop.

‘Door!’ he shouted, and went and sat behind his desk whilst I closed it and stood awkwardly in front of him. Pete lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘We are screwed.’

I didn’t comment. I hated being alone with Pete.

‘I’ve got a mate. A freelancer. He called me at bloody seven o’clock this morning to tell me the bloody
Bugle
was running an exclusive about Gipping in today’s paper.’ Pete slammed his hand down hard on the desk and jumped to his feet. ‘This is the
Gipping Gazette
,’ he shouted at me. ‘If the
Bugle
has trumped us with a local exclusive, we might as well be dead.’

I was beginning to feel sick. Was everyone following the same story as me? ‘Do you know what it’s about?’ I said gingerly.

‘If I knew, I wouldn’t be having this bloody conversation with you, would I?’ Pete fumed. ‘There’s a leak in this office.’

‘Well, it’s not me,’ I declared hotly. ‘I always work alone. My sources are one hundred per cent reliable.’ Even if there were other journalists on the trail, no one knew about Barbara’s role. ‘I’m positive no one else has my story. It’ll be huge.’

Pete looked unconvinced. ‘You’d better show me what you’ve got.’

I shook my head. ‘No offence, Pete, but my mum – God rest her soul – said “Tell a secret and you tell the world.” It’s just the way I work.’

‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Pete declared. ‘All right. Tomorrow. Noon. On this desk or you’re fired. Oh! And I want photographs.’

‘Can I borrow the Nikon digital again, please?’ I said. ‘You were right, Ken’s Kamera is rubbish. Need to take a few final shots.’

‘Okay,’ Pete said, then frowned. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out Annabel’s car keys. ‘Hang on. How could you drive her BMW without these?’

‘I used the spare set in her desk,’ I said quickly, and snatched them out of his hand. ‘But I’ll take those. Thanks. Bye.’

As I left the office, I suddenly knew exactly how I’d endear myself to Barbara.

I was going to
personally
return her bicycle.

I
jogged back to the copse in Rumble Lane, grabbed Barbara’s bike, then cycled the same route I took last night via The Grange rear drive.

As I caught sight of Hugh’s Folly peeping over the tree-tops, I remembered Topaz’s remarks. Her aunt had seen ‘a light in Hugh’s Folly. Hooded figures even’. So had Mrs Evans. Whilst I was here, it was worth investigating.

To my surprise the padlock was dangling by its hinge. I stood still, listening for any sound of movement but could only hear the wind rustling through the trees. Satisfied I was alone, I opened the door and stepped inside.

Apart from a wrought-iron spiral staircase, the circular room was empty. Speckled light came from the gun-loop openings in the walls, revealing a spotlessly clean stone floor. A broom leaned against the wall. Someone had cleaned the place up.

I decided to explore upstairs.

At the top, I paused to catch my breath. To my right was a mullioned window with magnificient views of Gipping and Dartmoor and, to my left, a doorway covered by a red velvet curtain.

I pushed the curtain aside and peeped in.
Good grief!
It resembled an Arabian harem.

Deep purple cushions were strewn over the floor. Red, orange, and yellow sheets fell in soft folds from the walls. On the ceiling was an enormous circular mirror. An empty wine bottle and two pewter goblets stood on a low coffee table along with three church candles.

This must be the VIP area! This was where the High Priestess and her ladies got ready and waited until midnight. Perhaps the chickens had been stored downstairs? The equipment, too! Obviously, after last night’s interruption, the witches knew this place was no longer safe and had decided to move on.