A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (36 page)

I was confused. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’re from
Paparazzi Razzle
!’ He fumed. ‘Don’t try to deny it.’

‘No, the
Gazette
,’ I said. ‘Why . . . oh!’ My mouth dropped open in astonishment as I took in reference books on Africa stacked on his desk. A ream of paper scribbled with Post-its. A dry-erase board propped behind the computer. In red marker were three names: Susu, Kisi, and Fatu – the infamous Voodoo Vixens.

‘Good grief!
You’re
Salome Steel?’ I was stunned. ‘But you’re—?’

‘A man,’ the admiral said with resigned irritation. He gestured to the receiver I still held in my hand, ‘Go ahead. Call your newspaper, but let me tell you one thing,’ he said. ‘I served in Her Majesty’s Navy for forty years. I received the St John’s Bravery Award from Queen Elizabeth herself. Your scandal-mongering will destroy my reputation.’

‘I’m not that kind of journalist.’ This was true. Everyone had a right to privacy. I replaced the phone. ‘I’ll keep your secret, if you can help me get back to Gipping.’

I gave a brief account of events that led to my rescue but decided against telling him about the silver. After all, I hardly knew him and besides, a man who calls himself Salome Steel and writes steamy sex novels wasn’t necessarily normal. Who knew how the admiral would react at the prospect of all that loot?

‘All hands on deck!’ he exclaimed, striding to the back door.

Horatio, sensing excitement, struggled out of his basket and gave a deep woof. ‘No room for you, old boy,’ cried the admiral, stopping to give the old dog a pat.

The admiral handed me a motorbike helmet. ‘Pop that on, young Vicky. It’s battle stations!’

T
he ancient Ariel Red Hunter motorbike was surprisingly fast. Wearing helmet and goggles, I clung tightly to the admiral as we flew along the heather-covered moorland tracks, over a cattle-grid, and towards the distant lights of Gipping.

It was exhilarating. No wonder men got addicted to these machines. The freedom, the speed, the wind in my face, and the power throbbing between my legs – I could easily become a biker’s moll.

What would have taken forty minutes by a car driven at twenty-five miles per hour, we accomplished in under fifteen minutes.

The admiral had wanted to go straight to the cops but I persuaded him to drop me home to change my clothes and shoes. I insisted that Mrs Poultry was long gone and I was in no danger. The admiral would find Probes and they’d call an all-cars alert on Mrs Poultry’s Morris Traveller.

He seemed puzzled as to why I wouldn’t want to give the news myself but I knew how the law worked. I’d be ‘helping police with their inquiries’ whilst they got all the glory.

I wanted my scoop. I’d earned my scoop! Yes, it was dangerous, but I was determined to catch Mrs Poultry red-handed.

Dad said the element of surprise was often worth more than any weapon so I asked the admiral to drop me off at the top of Rumble Lane.

I was too late. There was no Morris Traveller outside number 10. The house was in darkness.

Bitterly disappointed, I kicked off the admiral’s Wellington boots and let myself in through the downstairs bathroom window. Up in my bedroom I took off the long johns and was just about to pull on my jeans when I realized the door to the water tank cupboard was open.

I’d been so preoccupied with Mrs Poultry having my precious postcards, I’d forgotten about the most incriminating evidence of all. She must have taken the coroner’s reports, too! She might even try to blackmail me. ‘Perverting the course of justice,’ rang in my ears, or worse: ‘An accessory to murder!’

I took a deep breath. It was vital I checked the basement. Perhaps she hadn’t even started to shift the silver yet? I tore downstairs and, to my joy, the padlock was still clasped firmly to the basement door.

I picked the lock once more, switched on the light, and thundered down the stairs. ‘Damn and blast it!’ I shouted. The boxes had vanished. The silver was gone. I threw open the freezer. Empty.

‘Mmmm!’ came a sound from behind me. I froze. ‘MMMM!’

Slowly, I turned around. There, behind the door, tied with duct tape to the central heating pipes, sat Dave Randall.

He was bound and gagged, his face red with sweat and eyes bulging with fear.

I stared at him in surprise.

He wasn’t that handsome at all.

‘Y
ou were her accomplice all the time,’ I said, helping Dave to his feet. ‘She was at your house the other night. That’s why you wouldn’t let me in.’

Dave gingerly touched the back of his head. ‘She hit me!’ He seemed both dazed and incredulous. ‘She offered me some hot chocolate and when I said I didn’t like it, she just hit me.’

‘You do realize, Dave, you can go to jail for this?’ I said severely. ‘You can say good-bye to your Olympic dream.’

Dave looked scared. ‘The old bat made me do it,’ he whined. ‘I was just shifting the stuff from the Folly for her. It was just a favour, like. She didn’t even pay me. I swear to God.’

‘Receiving stolen goods is the least of your problems,’ I said. ‘The cops are far more interested in you finding Sir Hugh’s body.’

Dave turned white. ‘How do you know?’

‘You had a motive,’ I said. ‘Everyone knows you were having an affair with Lady Trewallyn.’

‘We only did it once,’ Dave cried. ‘Said she’d give me a lap dance and a night to remember if I kept my mouth shut about finding her old man.’

Men are so easily bought, I thought with disgust.

‘If this gets out, my career is over.’

‘Not if you do as I say,’ I said. ‘If you help me, I’ll persuade the cops to view your case kindly. You might even get a suspended sentence.’

‘But I don’t know anything,’ he wailed.

‘You must know where she’s gone.’

‘Somewhere up north,’ he said. ‘We’ll never catch her now.’

But we could. Mrs Poultry couldn’t get far on a quarter tank of petrol and the only place open at this time of night was the motorway service station five miles away at Barrington Cross.

‘Where’s your Land Rover?’ I cried.

D
ave’s Land Rover was parked out of sight at the end of the cul-de-sac. As we turned out of Rumble Lane, a panda car with a blue flashing light, followed by the admiral’s motorbike, flew by.

We sped through Middle Gipping, past The Grange, and out into the open countryside.

‘I swear I had nothing to do with Sir Hugh’s death,’ Dave insisted. ‘He was with Mrs Poultry at the Folly the night he died.’

‘She must have known you saw them together,’ I said. ‘My guess is that Chester left the photograph on your bed to warn you off Katherine. He was jealous. Then, Mrs Poultry turned up afterwards with the chicken, saw the photograph, and realized it was perfect for her plan.’

‘Plan?’

‘To frame Katherine for Sir Hugh’s death,’ I said. ‘And, of course, you helped her by not reporting it to the police.’

Dave bit his lip in anguish. ‘Oh bugger.’

‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘Katherine doesn’t go to the police, either. Instead, she enlists Sharpe to write a
second
report. Same diagnosis. Heart attack. Perfect.’

‘I bet she gave him a lap dance, too,’ said Dave mournfully.

Dave went on to explain that Mrs Poultry had started the silver scam. He’d helped her move the stolen goods until he turned professional and wanted out. But Mrs Poultry wouldn’t let him, and threatened to damage his hedge-jumping sponsorship chances with the Plym Valley Farmers. By then, Sir Hugh had muscled in on the deal. After that, all Dave would say were things got complicated.

Ahead, a yellowish glow rose to greet us – the lights of the motorway. We crested the hill and there below stretched the six-lane motorway and Barrington Cross service station nestled in a dell next to the motorway slip-road.

Mrs Poultry’s lone figure stood at the self-service petrol pump, struggling to replace the nozzle in the cradle, which seemed to have a life of its own.

‘She’s there!’ I yelled with excitement. ‘We’ve got her!’

Dave thrust his hand down hard on the horn.
PAARPP!
We peeled into the forecourt and screeched to a halt a whisker away from the front bumper, blocking her escape.

Startled, Mrs Poultry dropped the nozzle and promptly tripped over it. Staggering to her feet, she yanked the driver’s door open and made a grab for her handbag on the back seat.
Move, Vicky! Fast!
She’s going for her gun!

I leapt out of the Land Rover, grabbed Mrs Poultry round the waist, and hurled her against the side of the Morris Traveller. Grasping her arms firmly by her sides, I screamed at Dave, ‘Call the cops! Hurry!’

‘I’ve got a signal!’ cried Dave, waving his mobile. Thank God, we were in government-owned West Country Wireless territory.

Mrs Poultry didn’t even flinch. Her eyes stared coldly into mine.

‘I want those postcards,’ I whispered urgently. ‘
Now
!’

‘I posted them to the police station.’ Mrs Poultry gave a nasty smile. ‘And those reports, along with a nice little note explaining where I found them.’

‘I don’t believe you.’ Surely no one carries stamps in their handbag – let alone the right postage.

As I glanced into the back of her car, Mrs Poultry saw her chance. She stamped hard on my right foot, deftly kicked my left shin, and as I buckled over with pain, delivered a strong uppercut to my chin. I keeled over, falling in a dirty puddle of greasy water.

I really did see stars. I felt dizzy. Sick. Tried to clear my head. ‘Dave! Help!’ I stumbled to my feet conscious of Dave circling the scene with his mobile phone camera like a professional photographer.

Mrs Poultry was half in the car, reaching over the back seat. I grabbed her ankle and pulled with all my might. She tried to kick me off but I clung on, even when blows from the
Automobile Association Travel Guide
rained down on my head.
So much for arthritis!

Dave continued to snap away, shouting, ‘Look over here, Vicky! Yep! Nice one. Aaaand just one more.’

With one last supreme effort, I let go of Mrs Poultry’s foot, launched myself into her lap, grabbed her coat sleeves, and hauled her out of the car and onto the ground.

Straddling her, I pinned her arms above her head. We were both panting, hard.

Dave hurried over with some binder twine from the back of the Land Rover and the two of us trussed her up like a chicken.

‘I got some great photos,’ Dave said, beaming.

As Dave stood guard, I rummaged through Mrs Poultry’s handbag. Thankfully, the two coroner’s reports were inside along with my precious postcards. I tucked them into my safari jacket. Now it would only be a case of her word against mine.

A fleet of panda cars poured into the service station, followed by the admiral. By now, a handful of stragglers from the twenty-four-hour Little Chef –
WE NEVER CLOSE
– had trickled out to see what all the fuss was about.

Mrs Poultry and Dave were bundled into the separate patrol cars.

As I stood gazing in wonder at the amount of silver stashed in the back of the car, I experienced a twinge of guilt. True, I’d apprehended a serial killer but I’d also captured a silver thief. I hoped Dad would understand.

‘Well done, Vicky,’ said Probes, slipping by my side. His voice was warm with approval. ‘You’ve got your front page, I’d reckon.’

Despite my scraped knees and nasty bruises, a warm glow filled my heart. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A Vicky Hill exclusive!’

‘O
h, Vicky, you are so brave,’ Topaz declared. She cupped her chin in her hands and gazed at me with adoration. ‘I wish I were like you.’

‘I was only doing my job,’ I said modestly. It was Saturday afternoon and the cafe had finally emptied. Business had never been so good. Topaz was taking a well-earned break and had joined me at my usual table overlooking the High Street.

The
Gazette
was spread out before us.

A CRIPPEN IN GIPPING?

SILVER THIEF’S SHOCKING ROAD TO MURDER

POISON! POULTRY! AND ME!

True to his word, Wilf had given me a six-page spread, promotion to staff writer,
and
a laptop. Newspaper sales were at an all-time high. Pete had been pleased to write:
YOU READ IT HERE FIRST
.

Topaz had even hung a large banner that read
ORDER YOUR SUNDAY NATIONAL PAPERS TODAY
along with a sign reading ‘Here at The Kettle tomorrow! The reporter who single-handedly apprehended celebrity caterer turned thief and serial killer after being heavily drugged, abducted, and held at gunpoint on Dartmoor’.

Topaz was predictably jealous of Dave’s part in the highspeed car chase even when I pointed out that without his graphic photographs, the front page would have definitely lacked punch – literally.