Thieves! (19 page)

Outside the
Gazette,
a handful of people were clustered around the show window, chattering animatedly. I caught snatches of conversation: “Burrows shouldn’t even be in there!” “Long live the Ranids!” “Burrows put Gipping on the map!” “It’s a disgrace!”

Before I got dragged into God-knows-what—I’d had more than my fair share of drama today—I darted across the street to get a better view of what was causing so much excitement.

It would seem there were two opposing camps stationed on either side of the show window. In the middle, Barbara and Olive were reorganizing the display to cries of dismay or yelps of delight from the onlookers.

Out
went Phil Burrows’s horse mascot.
In
came the Ranids’s bright green frog.
Out
went Phil Burrow’s Turpin Terror standee.
In
came a life-sized mannequin of a Gipping Ranids Morris man in full-on costume, bells et al. Olive seemed to get tangled up in his baldricks, and the two of them toppled over to the glee of the pro-Burrows clan. Barbara threw up her hands in frustration.

This was one of the rare times when I did not want to be part of the action. My stomach rumbled again—the rock cake had not been that filling.

Realizing it was the day that Mrs. Evans “did” for Margaret Pierce, I decided to go straight home and raid the pantry. I’d also had an idea.

There was still the mystery of the missing shoebox. Since it was the summer holidays, the Swamp Dogs were bound to be festering in their lair at the abandoned wool and textile factory opposite my home. I might grill them on the church silver. Who knows—maybe they might have seen a green Land Rover with a safari roof rack and overhead lighting.

I went to get my car and set off for Factory Terrace.

Rounding a corner, I saw Bill Trenfold’s post van driving away from the pillar box on the corner of Tripp Lane. I looked at my watch with astonishment!

This time it wasn’t even 3:30 P.M.! Bill’s collection time was getting earlier and earlier—no doubt he was sneaking off home and pretending to put in a full day’s work.

On a whim, I stopped by the pillar box and found that, once again, he’d forgotten to close the door properly. This was unacceptable.

I sped after Bill and managed to catch him at his next port of call—the pillar box at the entrance to Bexmoor Way.

Making sure to cut off his escape with a PIT maneuver—precision immobilization technique that I’d seen on an American show on the telly—I leapt out of my Fiat and strolled over, giving a playful rap on the bonnet of his car.

Bill wound the window down and scowled.

“Hi, Bill,” I said. “Nice day.”

Bill regarded me with his rheumy eyes. “Forecast says we’ll have scattered showers on Saturday, but what do they know?”

I noted he hadn’t shaved. Gray whiskers peppered his chin and sprouted from his nostrils in tufts.

Reminding myself that despite the rumors that brother and sister loathed each other, Bill had still lost his only living relative. Suppressed grief could do funny things to people and might explain why he was becoming so forgetful.

“How are you coping?” I said. “Are you eating properly? Feeling light-headed?”

Bill looked wary. “Why?”

“You might want to double-check those pillar boxes in Tripp Lane and The Marshes. Both doors weren’t closed properly.”

All the color drained from Bill’s already pale face. He opened his mouth and shut it several times but no sound came out. Finally, he managed to croak, “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Don’t worry. No harm done.” I gave him my most reassuring smile, but deep down I was worried. I pointed to the collection plate. “Are you coming back again at five thirty?”

“Eh?” Bill scratched his head under his polished peaked cap.

“It’s just turned three thirty,” I said helpfully.

Bill stared at me again, then blurted out, “New times,” he said. “It’s not my fault. It’s head office. They keep cutting down my hours.”

Of course, everyone in the entire country knew about the enforced closure of hundreds of village post offices. Many postal workers were being laid off as the government slashed postal budgets, and countless petitions had been signed by customers worried about saying good-bye to yet another landmark of British country living.

“You mean, you’re only picking up post once a day?” I said.

“What?”

“Is there a new time?” Really, this was quite maddening. “Because if there is, these collection plates need to be updated.”

Bill’s bottom lip began to quiver. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” he said. “I don’t want to get the sack.”

“Of course not.” Poor man. If Reverend Whittler was right, Bill already had enough money problems. “I just don’t want you to get into trouble.”

Bill got out of his post van. He pulled out a large fob of keys from his pocket and made a meal out of slamming and locking the door shut. “Happy now?”

Leaving him to it, I set off once more.

Tripp Lane was narrow with a series of blind corners. A cyclist coming in the opposite direction was upon me before I could brake, but fortunately, he pressed himself against the hedge. As I sailed on by, I caught a glimpse of a bright yellow shirt and long ribbon-threaded braid. An empty gunnysack was slung across the handlebars. I was
positive
it was Jimmy the gypsy. I was also positive that he was poaching rabbits. And in broad daylight, too!

Thinking of food, my thoughts turned to Mrs. Evans’s homemade black-currant jam, but it would seem that my afternoon snack was destined not to be.

Jack Webster’s Land Rover was parked outside Chez Evans. It was unusual to see Jack in these parts. I hadn’t realized he and Mr. Evans were close friends and only hoped he wasn’t planning on leading my landlady’s husband astray.

Since I didn’t want to bump into Jack Webster, I drove my car on past and stopped outside the factory’s main gate.

No sooner had I cut the engine then I heard the distinctive grating sound of metal scraping on concrete. The main gate edged open, and to my astonishment, Jack Webster emerged. Immediately, I ducked out of sight.

Through the side mirror, I watched Jack pull the peak of his flat tweed cap down over his eyes and saunter back toward his Land Rover.

What on earth could Jack Webster want with the Swamp Dogs? Having been instrumental in getting the lads prosecuted for theft on at least three occasions, it didn’t make sense.

Jack surprised me again. Instead of driving off, he marched up the front path of number twenty-one and rapped on my front door. Moments later, Mr. Evans appeared and gestured for him to step inside.

To say I was intrigued was putting it mildly. One of my favorite after-dinner games in the Hill household was called Whistle Blower! When it came to playing the interrogator, I’d never once been beaten.

The Swamp Dogs had better watch out.

I
found the four Barker brothers—or Swamp Dogs, as they preferred to be called—standing in the far corner of the cracked concrete forecourt.

Mickey was drawing in the dirt with a long stick. I heard, “No, that won’t work,” “It’s in the wrong place,” and “We won’t know until Saturday.”

I gave a loud cough. “Hello boys!” All four spun around, guilt etched across their features.

“What the hell do you want?” snarled Mickey.

The boys shuffled closer together, forming a human wall and conveniently hiding Mickey’s handiwork on the ground behind them.

Malcolm pointed a finger at me. “You’re trespassing.”

“Yeah. Clear off,” squeaked Ben, whose voice hadn’t broken yet. Seeing all four stand side by side with their matching outfits, light-brown hair, and blue eyes, the only way to tell them apart was by height and acne damage.

“I was just hoping that Jack Webster wasn’t giving you any trouble,” I said.

“You must be blind,” said Mickey quickly. “He wasn’t here. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay blind.”

“Yeah, if you know what’s good for you,” the others chorused, slamming fists into palms, trying to look tough.

Their hostile demeanor did not intimidate me. Having been surrounded by real crime families who used to join us for Sunday lunch at home in Newcastle, dealing with these kids was a piece of cake.

“Nice try, boys, but I saw Jack Webster leave just a minute or so ago, and since he’s never been a fan of yours, I wondered what he was up to.”

“None of your business,” said Mickey sullenly. “And, anyway, why should you care?”

“Firstly, it was
you
, Mickey, who told me that Jack was threatening the gypsies with his billhook,” I pointed out. “Why the change of heart?”

“I made a mistake,” said Mickey defiantly. “We don’t want the gyppos here, destroying the countryside with their litter.”

“Sleeping with our women,” cried Malcolm.

“Stealing from the mouths of babes,” squeaked Ben.

“Blaspheming in the Lord’s house,” declared Brian.

Clearly, Jack had got to them already. “You don’t want to get mixed up with Jack Webster.”

“Why not?” Mickey said.

“I would have thought it obvious.” I gave a benevolent smile. “Jack has called the cops on you boys enough times. Why would he ask for your help now?”

“We’re not helping,” piped up Ben. “We’re being hired.”

“Shut up,” said Mickey. “Idiot!”

“To do what? Burn down their caravans?” I didn’t exactly like the Barker boys, but I would hate to see them get locked up in prison permanently just to satisfy Jack Webster’s agenda.

“Who says it’s about gypsies?” Ben squeaked and was promptly given a swift kick to his ankle. “Ouch. What was that for?”

“I’m sure your parents would like to know about this,” I said.

Mickey scowled. “You wouldn’t
dare
.”

“Please don’t, Ms.” Ben started to snivel. “Dad will kill us.”

“We’re not doing anything, okay?” said Mickey. “And you can’t prove anything. I know my rights.”

“It’s just a friendly warning,” I said. “But since we’re on the subject of theft. I’d like that package back that you stole out of my car yesterday.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Mickey.

“Oh,
please
. Not that old line. You were seen by her ladyship,” I lied. “And I
will
tell your parents about that, and then whatever Jack Webster has hired you to do won’t matter really, will it?”

Mickey cursed under his breath and gave a curt nod to Ben, who broke ranks and scampered off into the derelict building.

His exit allowed me a quick glimpse to what lay on the ground, but all I could make out were tiny heaps of stones set around a circular piece of rubber hosing.

We waited in silence for Ben to reappear, shoebox in hand.

I removed the lid, relieved to find the white shoe and bicycle bell still inside.

“Where is the brown outer wrapping? And the newspaper clipping?”

“Dunno.” Ben shrugged. “Its just rubbish. We burnt it.”

“Why did
you
have it anyway?” said Malcolm suspiciously. “It was addressed to Barbara Meadows.”

“She left it behind at the office, and that’s none of
your
business.”

“So, we’re all cool?” Mickey said.

Handing Mickey one of my cheap business cards, I told him to be careful of Jack Webster and to call me if he ever needed any help. My offer was met with scorn.

By the time I returned to number twenty-one, I was relieved to see that Jack’s Land Rover had gone and Mr. Evans was back in his shed, tending his snail champions.

As I polished off three pieces of toast and homemade black-currant jam, my phone rang. It was Steve. “The most terrible thing has happened, doll.”

“The woman was murdered?” I said hopefully.

“They’re short-staffed in Totnes.” Steve groaned. “I’ve got to work tonight, but I’m hoping it won’t be for long.”

“Don’t give it another thought.”
Excellent!
I had been worried about how to keep my rendezvous with Noah a secret from Steve, and now I didn’t have to. “We can do it another time.”

“I should be finished around ten. I’ll come over.”

“No, don’t do that,” I said quickly. “I’m working, too.”

There was a long pause, then he said, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh God.” He groaned again. “She’s lying to you, Steve.”

“I’m not lying,” I said hotly. “I
am
working. I’m interviewing your brother at six thirty.” This part was true.

“My brother!” Steve uttered a cry of anguish. “I knew it. I knew he’d do this to me. Oh God.”

“For heaven’s sake, stop being so dramatic. I’m doing a day-in-the-life feature on Phil, and to get it into this Saturday’s paper, it has to be finished by tomorrow lunch-time.” This wasn’t true.

There was another long pause. “I’m not happy about this. Where are you meeting Phil?”