Thieves! (17 page)

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Authors: Hannah Dennison

BOOK: Thieves!
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With that in mind, I set off for the market square.
20
T
oward the top of the High Street, the traffic was at a standstill. Some motorists had their car doors open and were balancing on the sills to get a look at the holdup. One motorist hit his car horn, and suddenly everyone’s car horns were blaring in a deafening chorus.
There was a buzz of excitement in the air. In a flash, I knew what was happening. The much-awaited gypsy invasion had begun.
I broke into a jog, cursing the fact I’d left my Canon Digital Rebel in my Fiat glove box. Rounding the corner, I came across a wall of onlookers.
A Garrett showman traction engine, circa 1913, was completely blocking the street. It seemed to have stalled. Steam belched from the black funnel that protruded through the bright red-and-green-striped canopy that stretched the length of the shiny green engine.
Along the sideboards THE GORDON was embellished in fancy scrolls and picked out in gold. Hanging from the rear was a rather worrying sign—COME AND RIDE THE GORDON! THE GRANGE! THIS SATURDAY! £1 A GO!
At the helm stood Mary Berry, a sixty-something do-it-yourself mechanic dressed in an orange boiler suit.
Following the death of her husband—champion hedge-cutter Gordon Berry—Mary had been determined to finish his lifelong labor of love, namely rebuilding this showman traction engine so that one day she could drive the hundred-plus miles to the Great Dorset Steam Fair.
Three times the iron monstrosity jolted forward several inches, then rolled back with a screech of brakes, sending a cry of alarm from the growing crowd of spectators. Pete had wanted a new front-page lead, but I wasn’t sure if this was what he had in mind.
For a moment, I faltered. It’s one thing to imagine the worst and quite another to bear witness to it. As another cry of fear erupted from the crowd, my knees turned to jelly. Did I really have what it took to be the next Christiane Amanpour?
Forcing myself to get a grip—after all, Christiane must have witnessed much worse in the trenches—I plunged into the fray and pushed my way through to the front amid cries of “Those wheels will squash him flat” and “Mary Berry’s drunk.”
There was a sudden round of applause. It was all over. With a cheery wave and long peep on the whistle, the showman tractor lurched forward and slowly chugged up the hill.
Thanks to Simon Mears’s quick thinking, tragedy had been averted. First Gipping Scout Group’s Akela had saved the day by miraculously wedging a large cinder-block under each rear wheel. Where Simon found them was anyone’s guess, but it certainly took the Boy Scout motto of “Be Prepared” to a new level.
Traffic began to move and the crowd dispersed, chattering with excitement and comparing this near-death experience with alpine avalanches and other natural disasters.
Simon joined me, shaking his head with disbelief. Dressed in beige trousers and a beige-and-brown-patterned shirt, he reminded me of a giraffe with his long and intelligent pointed face. Even though Simon wasn’t dressed in uniform this morning, he wore the distinctive scout trefoil badge on his winged collar.
“Mary’s determined to give rides to the kiddies at this Saturday’s event,” he said. “With all this rain, foot traffic, and cars, the ground surface will be like an ice rink. It’s just not safe.”
“I suppose I could have a word with her sister-in-law, Eunice Pratt.” Though the thought didn’t thrill me.
“Please do. I believe she’s in the market square this morning. I would have been happy to do so but the truth is—” he paused and looked a tad uncomfortable before plunging on, “I don’t really like Eunice, and she’s become so militant with her petitions.”
This didn’t surprise me. Eunice Pratt was hugely unpopular, and her endless petitions were legendary.
Simon lowered his voice and added, “I think Mary Berry was drunk.” This didn’t surprise me, either. I’d never seen Mary Berry sober.
“I don’t really want to report her to D.I. Stalk,” Simon went on. “Let’s hope Eunice will intervene.”
The thought of talking to the odious Eunice Pratt brought back all sorts of memories. Not that long ago, and for all of forty-eight turbulent hours, I’d been obsessed with her handsome nephew, the gorgeous Lieutenant Robin Berry of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.
What a disappointment he had turned out to be—just like all the other men I’d had such high hopes for. As Barbara said, love only seemed to bring trouble.
Four alleys led into each corner of Gipping Pannier Market—to use its correct name. Built on the site of an original Roman encampment, the market still retained its original perimeter walls. In the center was a large open-sided, glass-roofed building topped with a Victorian clock tower and weathervane.
Inside and center were two rows of stalls that extended along the entire building, with a farther row lining the perimeter. The area outside the market was scattered with more stalls and exhibits, making this one of Gipping’s prime tourist attractions during the summer months.
The traditional market was always held on a Wednesday, with the sale of livestock, local produce, and crafts. Today was the general market, consisting of second hand furniture, household effects, and cheap clothing—and it was packed.
I entered the south alley flanked by high stone walls. At the end was the familiar sight of Eunice Pratt, clipboard in hand. There she stood in the perfect position to strong-arm anyone into lending his or her signature.
A couple in front of me did an abrupt U-turn, muttering, “We’ll have to take the west alley” and “Can’t stand that old battle-ax.”
Eunice stood in front of a three-paneled display board reading KEEP GIPPING TIDY! GYPSIES GO HOME! Photographs of rusting old fridges, mounds of rubbish, and filthy raw sewage were laid out in gory detail.
One look at Eunice’s sour expression and I was already regretting my rash promise to Simon Mears.
Frankly, I was irritated. Why should I be made responsible for Mary Berry’s behavior? What if someone really
was
killed on Saturday; would it be my fault? Maybe I
should
talk to D.I. Stalk regardless?
Eunice’s usual perm was a vibrant shade of violet. She wore a severe charcoal-gray long-sleeved dress and flat shoes. Mixed in with her usual aroma of mothballs was the pungent smell of hair chemicals, suggesting a recent visit to the hairdresser.
I mustered up a smile. “Morning, Eunice! Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“It would be if it wasn’t for them.” Eunice pointed to a queue of women waiting outside a candy-striped tent. A pennant depicting a crystal ball fluttered atop in the summer breeze. Ruby—being ignored—was pacing back and forth with her basket of extortionately expensive lucky heather.
“Gypsies,” hissed Eunice. “Always laws for them and laws for us.”
Here we go
. “There are only a handful of them,” I said. “I’m told they won’t be here long.”
“They’re camped at The Grange, you know” she fumed. “Why don’t I buy a caravan and go and plant it anywhere I like, throw my rubbish around the countryside and then clear off?”
“Not all of them are like that,” I protested. “Some of them even recycle!”
“They’re thieves, the lot of them! I suppose you heard about the church silver?”
“Nothing has been proved—”
“Nothing ever will,” she said. “Her ladyship at The Grange had even booked an eviction service, but the police told her to cancel. It’s New Labour with their rights-for-all, isn’t it? What’s wrong with this country?”
“One of the gypsy elders is fatally ill, and they can’t—”
“Well, we’re going to do something about them.” Eunice’s eyes were slits of spite. “Jack Webster has a plan. Do you know how many sides we’ve got coming from all over Devon?” I told her I knew I should, but I didn’t. “Including the Ranids and that silly Burrows chappy—
nine
!” she exclaimed. “We won’t allow these criminals to ruin the Morris this Saturday.”
“Speaking of ruining things,” I said. “I really need you to talk to Mary.”
Eunice scowled. “What’s she done now?”
“It’s about The Gordon,” I said. “She’s not really going to give rides to the children, is she?”
“Mary is stubborn and pleases herself,” Eunice snapped. “She won’t listen to me.”
“What about Robin? Would he talk to her?” I said. “Is he still at sea?”
At the name of her favorite and only nephew, Eunice’s entire face transformed. Her eyes shone. She actually smiled. “Darling Robin. He’ll be home this weekend. I’ll speak with him. If anyone can make Mary see reason, it’s her son.”
I recalled my first date with Robin, during which he spent most of the evening texting his wretched aunt. I’d thought about that a lot since then, and frankly, it’s not normal. Mum was right when she said,
“Sometimes being rejected means being saved.”
Eunice thrust the clipboard under my nose. “Sign here.” I noted there were dozens and dozens of signatures.
“As a journalist, I have to stay impartial,” I said. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to write your real name. No one is going to check.”
Fortunately, I was saved by a sudden burst of applause coming from the direction of the Public Toilets just a few yards away, where a crowd of women stood clustered around the exit to the Gents.
Phil Burrows emerged and was instantly mobbed by a sea of female admirers. He was dressed exactly like his action hero standee—white trousers, black T-shirt, and Terminator sunglasses.
“Excuse me, Eunice,” I said, glad to make my escape. “I need to talk to Phil Burrows. As you know, he’s making a guest appearance.”
“I can’t think what for,” she said. “He’s got some nerve showing up here after all the Ranids did for him.”
“The
Gazette
is doing a day-in-the-life,” I lied.
“No one will read it,” said Eunice. “You should be writing about the Ranids. That’s traditional Morris dancing for you. The Turpin Terrors are just young upstarts.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
I caught up with Phil in the refreshment area on the opposite side of the square. The statuesque figure of sensible Gillian Briggs, a former cook in the Royal Navy, stood behind a long trestle table piled with freshly baked goods and a steel tea urn. I was ravenous.
Phil was seated at one of the many wrought-iron tables and chairs surrounded by his posse and, judging by the squeals of delight and photographs held aloft, signing autographs.
He waved me over. “Enough ladies, enough!” he said beaming. “Give me five minutes with Vicky.”
With groans of disappointment, the women moved away to reveal a table strewn with black-and-white headshots. I took the empty chair and sat down.
“They exhaust me,” said Phil happily. “Everyone wants a piece of Phil. You should see what’s on offer for the silent auction. Two of the ladies almost fainted when I told them I was flogging the shirt I wore when I met the Hoff.”
Eunice was wrong. There were many people who would like to hear all about a day-in-the-life of Phil Burrows—especially his newfound friendship with David Hasselhoff, who was a
real
celebrity.
I brought out my notebook. “What’s the silent auction in aid of?”
“Me, of course,” said Phil. “I’m raising money for my trip to Los Angeles. My agent says if you want to break into America, you’ve got to physically be there.”
“Good idea,” I said. “Perhaps you could give me a list of the auction items for the newspaper?”
“I’ve left it at Gipping Manor,” said Phil. “I’ve penciled you in for six thirty tonight. We’ll catch a quick bite. I’ve got to call my agent at seven thirty in L.A., and then I’ve got a tanning session at eight. Hey! Danny-boy!”
I glanced over my shoulder and, to my surprise, saw Noah walking by carrying two take-out cups of tea.
Phil jumped excitedly to his feet. “What are you doing here?” he cried. “Come and join us! Come and meet Vicky.”
For a split second, Noah hesitated, then turned on his heel and walked off in the opposite direction.
“Well I never.” Phil’s jaw dropped. He seemed bewildered. I thought it just plain rude.
Phil sat back down. “Danny was as chatty as you please in Brighton two weeks ago.”
“Maybe you’re mistaken?” I said. “That’s Noah Pike. He’s one of the gypsies up at The Grange.”
“No,” said Phil firmly. “I never forget a face or a name. I can’t afford to in my profession. His name is definitely Danny. He plays the guitar—got a pretty good voice, too. We got to talking whilst waiting for the bank to open.”
Even if Phil had gotten Noah’s name wrong, he certainly had the right man. The gypsies had been in Brighton, and Noah did play the guitar.
“He must be here for Saturday’s event,” Phil went on. “My fans come from all over the country. They can get intimidated. When we first met, Danny didn’t know I was famous.”
More likely Noah was embarrassed about being a gypsy and didn’t want to admit it. Who was I to judge? Didn’t I lie about my parents? I still regretted inventing the story of their death-by-lions in Africa. Even to me it sounded far-fetched.

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