A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (7 page)

‘I’ve got to go to the loo. Right now, actually.’ I realized the grimace was one of pain. ‘Can you wait here in case Brian, that messenger, comes?’ Before I had a chance to answer, she had darted out of the nook.

I trooped back into reception and slumped into one of the brown leatherette chairs, which was as uncomfortable as it looked.

Barbara emerged from behind the counter. ‘Your hedge-jumping man will be here in a minute.’

‘Dave Randall?’ My heart went over. ‘Today?’

‘He has some photographs for you and was going to drop them off but I told him to come back later.’

Barbara produced the tortoiseshell mirror and matching comb that she always kept handy. ‘Oh dear, I
must
do something with your hair.’

She ducked under the counter and, with a critical air, began to comb through my dark brown bob. ‘You really should grow it long, like Annabel,’ Barbara said. ‘Men like long hair. It brings out their caveman instincts.’

Barbara’s iron grey hair was pulled back in a tight bun. I tried not to think of her clad in animal skins.

I peered at my reflection in the mirror. Mum had described my looks as
handsome
and
natural
. I supposed I did have flawless skin – that was something to be grateful for. People had even remarked that I must wear tinted contact lenses because my eyes were such an unusual sapphire blue.

‘Dave’s
hot
, isn’t he?’ Barbara cooed. ‘Isn’t that what you young girls call it?’

Abruptly, Barbara hid the comb and mirror behind her back as the door opened and Dave walked in holding a large brown envelope. I caught my breath. I’d forgotten how gorgeous he was. I only prayed Annabel’s diarrhoea would keep her captive for some time. I wouldn’t stand a chance with Dave if she turned up with her buoyant breasts.

Dave was a little older than me, dressed in thick trousers, a navy fisherman’s jersey, and woollen hat under which escaped dark wavy curls. I longed to run my fingers through those curls and explore his hairy chest – I hoped he had one. Mum always said chest hair was a sign of virility.

‘Vicky, why don’t you take Mr Randall into the nook?’ Barbara suggested with a meaningful wink.

‘No, we’re just fine here.’ I was afraid that being in an enclosed space would have the predictable effect on Dave. The memory of Pete emerging from the basement with Annabel still fascinated, yet repelled me at the same time. Besides, I wanted my first experience to be romantic. Flowers, chocolates, Celine Dion singing, ‘My Heart Will Go On’, not some grope in a dingy nook smelling faintly of mildew and old cigarettes.

Of course, there was another reason, too. If Brian arrived and we were in the nook, he would have to deal with Barbara’s insatiable curiosity. The cat would be out of the bag. Barbara may well be a gossip but she was a conscientious worker. The newspaper was her life. If she suspected any illegal dealings, she was sure to report them to the editor.

Conscious of the fact that Annabel could surface at any moment, I turned my attention to Dave who was looking bored. It was best to get the photographs and whisk him away as soon as possible. At least I knew where he lived. It would be easy to invent some vital last-minute story detail that would entail a visit to Chez Randall.

‘Thanks for coming by, Dave.’ I gave him one of my best smiles. ‘I’m on a bit of a deadline this afternoon, so don’t have a lot of time to chat.’

I ignored Barbara’s surprised look. She seemed let down. No doubt planning to live vicariously through me.

I sat in one of the leatherette chairs and gestured for Dave to take the other. He grunted something unintelligible. I felt a twinge of disappointment. Where was the man I remembered on the field? There, he had been overexcited in a there-will-be-tears-before-bedtime kind of way, no doubt heady from his triumphant win. Celebrities were like that. They shone when the camera was on them, but take them out of the limelight and they were as dull as ditch water. If it weren’t for the lack of alternative suitors, I would have moved on to pastures new.

‘Here.’ Dave opened the brown envelope. With a shy smile, he pulled out two eight-by-ten colour photographs. ‘Can the paper use them, like?’

I’d forgotten how much his country brogue sounded like Mellors the gamekeeper. I gave myself a mental slap. This was no time to daydream.

I looked at the pictures. ‘Wow. This is amazing,’ I gushed, masking my dismay. The first photograph appeared to be nothing but a collage of green leaves.

Dave pointed to the centre of the photograph. ‘That’s me.’

Much to my relief, a faint form began to take shape. ‘Good Lord. So it is!’

Dave’s entire outfit was moss green, including a jaunty peaked cap. His face was smothered in brown boot polish, which didn’t help much, either.

Dave lay spread-eagled in the middle of razor-sharp fronds – his expression, not one of ecstasy, but agony.

‘That must have hurt.’ I wondered if he was one of those men who enjoyed pain and frequented dubious establishments run by Asians with names like Madame Spankee.

‘I’ve got my moleskins,’ said Dave grimly, giving his thigh a brisk slap. ‘No good wearing cavalry twill. Won’t last five minutes in hawthorn. It’s okay with yew.’

I tried to look interested. ‘Do tell me more.’

‘
Taxus baccata
or yew, to the common man, is a difficult jump,’ Dave enthused. ‘It’s all about getting enough lift on the approach.’

Unwilling to dwell on the pros and cons of hedges, I pointed to the second photograph featuring Dave holding what could only be described as a round stick about one foot long. ‘That’s my trophy.’

Dave held the trophy-stick as if it were the Olympic torch. Behind him, a decimated hedgerow looked as if an entire Panzer tank division had merrily bulldozed through it.

There was a ghastly silence. ‘That hedge put up quite a fight,’ I said at last.

Frankly, I was shocked at the carnage. Perhaps Tony’s staunch objection to this barbaric sport was actually justified.

‘She was reluctant at first, but we prevailed,’ Dave said. ‘We jumpers are always on a quest for the perfect hedge. Sometimes,’ he continued dreamily, ‘I get so excited when I see a neatly trimmed privet, I’d sell my grandmother to have first go.’

‘Wasn’t Sir Hugh Trewallyn a jumper?’ I said, seizing the chance to turn the conversation around. Though I could not visualize the septuagenarian, hampered by a walker, able to get up enough lift to soar over a hedge.

I slipped the photographs back into the envelope. ‘Hedge-jumping is a small world, I’m sure you knew him well.’

‘Aye. He was a good man.’

‘You must have spent a lot of time at The Grange?’

Dave blushed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘When you were practising,’ I said. ‘I expect you met the chappy in the black Porsche?’

Fascinatingly, his face turned quite pale. ‘No. Why would I?’

‘Some acquaintance of Lady Trewallyn’s gate crashed the funeral,’ I said. ‘Looked just like Pierce Brosnan.’

‘I have to get back for the pheasants.’ Dave leapt to his feet and headed for the exit. ‘Didn’t realize the time.’

The door from the inner hallway flew open.

‘At last!’ yelled Annabel. ‘I say! Wait!’

How typical of Annabel to show up at the crucial moment. She seemed to have a gift for ruining my life.

‘Thanks for the photos. I’ll call you later,’ I said, bundling Dave out the front door.

Annabel pointed to the envelope I was holding. ‘I’ll take that.’

I clutched it to my chest. ‘It’s
mine
.’

‘Give it to me,’ Annabel commanded.

‘It’s not what you think,’ I said, beginning to panic. What if she put two and two together and realized Sir Hugh and Dave were avid jumpers? She’d steal my only lead.

‘I know what you are up to, Vicky Hill.’ Annabel’s eyes flashed with accusation – she’d obviously had a lot of time to think on the loo. ‘You’ve wanted to steal this story from me from the beginning.’

‘That’s not true!’ Annabel believed Dave was
Brian
! She must think the envelope contained the coroner’s report.

‘Girls! Girls! Really!’ Barbara’s face popped up from behind the counter. ‘What are you two arguing about?’

Annabel and I froze instantly. How much had our nosy receptionist overheard?

Barbara chuckled. ‘I expect it was about men. Well. Let me tell you—’

‘Actually, we were discussing your ingrown toenail,’ I said quickly. ‘Annabel said you weren’t in pain and I said that wasn’t true.’

‘Yes, that’s right, Barbara. You seem so brave.’ Annabel snatched the envelope out of my hand, adding pointedly, ‘So brave that I think I’ll tell
Pete
about it.’

‘Oh goodness.’ Barbara turned pink. ‘There’s no need to bother Pete.’

‘I’m sure Pete likes to know
everything
, don’t you, Vicky?’ Annabel glared at me. ‘Must dash. Why don’t you be a dear and make me some tea. I’m utterly
parched
.’ With that, Annabel sauntered out of reception, leaving me speechless.

‘Well, that’s a turn up for the books.’ Barbara beamed. ‘Annabel has never asked after my toe before.’

There was no point disagreeing. I flopped into one of the chairs.

‘Can you hold the fort while I nip to the loo?’ Barbara said.

I suppressed my impulse to growl that it seemed that the only role I was good for was covering loo breaks and making tea.

No sooner had Barbara left the room, the front door opened. A young acne-faced youth dressed in black motorcycle leathers and clutching a sky blue helmet wandered in. He looked around nervously before hurrying to the empty nook and swishing the curtain closed behind him.

Puzzled by his odd behaviour, especially as he did not reappear, I tiptoed over and drew back a corner of the curtain. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Don’t want to be seen,’ he whispered, eyes darting left and right. He bent down and peered under the plastic table as if expecting Scotland Yard to suddenly spring out and arrest him. ‘You can never be too careful.’

I slipped into the nook beside him. ‘You must be Brian.’

‘Annabel, right? Got this for you,’ the youth replied, scratching a ripe pimple on his chin.

Brian opened his leather jacket a crack and whisked out a brown envelope, whispering urgently, ‘You
are
Annabel Lake, aren’t you?’

‘Actually—’

‘Do you wear tinted contacts?’ Brian stared at me.

‘No, these are my own eyes.’

‘They’re cool.’ He thrust the envelope into my hands. ‘Sorry I was late. Liquid chromatography. Old Sharpe is getting slow.’

I had no idea what
liquid chromatography
meant but it sounded important.

‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ said Brian, making no effort to move. There was an ugly pause. The thought occurred to me perhaps he was waiting for payment.

‘Didn’t Pete—?’

‘Oh yes, but . . .’ He fingered his overripe spot again. ‘I usually get a tip.’

A tip! How awkward. I could hardly ask Barbara for some petty cash. I pulled out the tattered nylon wallet from my jeans and opened it. There was just one ten pound note inside. I’d have to ask for change. In a flash, Brian had whisked it out of my hands and, with an appreciative nod, vanished through the curtain. I stared mournfully after him. That ten pounds was supposed to last until Friday.

I looked at the envelope weighted with so much promise. Never had I had such an overwhelming urge to rip something open and devour the contents. I fought with my conscience. I really should give it to Annabel straightaway. Yet, surely, this information could be crucial to my own investigation? What’s more, hadn’t I just paid ten pounds for the privilege?

The envelope was sealed, but luckily, not tamperproof. When I was a child, my mum had shown me how to steam open envelopes. She claimed that married couples should have no secrets and swore me not to tell my father. Mum said it was just bills and that by her knowing how much he owed made her a better and more frugal wife. As I grew older, I realized Mum was tracking Dad’s affair with Pamela Dingles via this method.

Barbara appeared in the nook entrance. Startled, I hid the envelope behind my back.

‘Ooh, that feels better.’ She gave a little wriggle and adjusted her underwear. ‘It’s always such an effort to go. Just you wait until you’re my age.’

‘Excuse me, must get on.’ I sidled past her, wrenched open the door, and disappeared into the hallway, promptly knocking Barbara’s wretched pink bicycle over. It fell to the ground with a resounding crash.
Blast!
Why did the old biddy insist on keeping it indoors? One day, someone would really get hurt.

‘Vicky, is that you?’ shouted Annabel from the upstairs landing. ‘What are you doing?’ There was a note of panic in her voice. ‘You
must
wait in reception! Brian will be here any moment.’

To my horror, she started towards me, down the stairs.

Wildly, I looked around for somewhere to hide the envelope. I wasn’t going to steal it. I was merely borrowing it. ‘You told me to make the tea!’