Thieves! (2 page)

“It wasn’t my idea,” Barbara declared.

“Tell me what?”

“Someone—and we won’t say who—added a teensy weensy bit of vodka to the fruit punch,” said Olive.

“The punch was
spiked
?” I was flabbergasted, particularly as I’d had five glasses. “I could lose my job!”

Spearheaded by the odious Detective Inspector Stalk, Gipping Constabulary was in the midst of an aggressive campaign to clamp down on driving while intoxicated. What’s more, he was working closely with the
Gazette
. Every week, names of Gipping citizens who had been stopped by the police and ordered to take a Breathalyzer test—often in broad daylight and without due cause—were listed in MOTORIST MENACE OF THE WEEK.

“So you’ll stay?” said Barbara hopefully. “We’d love a youngster’s opinion.”

Opinion on
what
? “I’ll take the back road via Mudge Lane,” I said firmly. “We haven’t had that much rain, so the ford won’t be deep.” As a shortcut linking Lower Gipping to Middle Gipping, access was through a shallow stream that could be unpredictable at times.

“Don’t you mean
Smooch
Lane?” Olive tittered again. It was a notorious place for romantic trysts. “Are you having a secret rendezvous?”

“Not tonight.”
Or any other night for that matter.

Realizing that I meant business and after promising to attend Olive’s Butler-in-the-Buff buffet on Friday in Barbara’s honor, I said my good-byes and left.

As the cool night air of summer hit me, I had to admit to feeling a little light-headed.

I made it a rule to never drink alcohol and drive. The risk was too high. Besides, you wouldn’t catch my heroine Christiane Amanpour arriving at the front line tipsy in a taxi.

I’d recently traded in my moped for an old but nippy blue Fiat Panda Sisley 4x4. It was hardly a flashy silver BMW like that of fellow reporter, roommate, and bane of my life, Annabel Lake—but it was mine, and not a gift for services rendered, like hers.

The Fiat’s engine started the first time. Apart from a bit of rust on the doorsills and a juddering clutch, I was thrilled with my purchase for which I paid cash, naturally. As the daughter of a notorious silver thief—nicknamed The Fog—I never used bank accounts or credit cards in case they could be traced. Old habits die hard.

Moments later, I headed for open countryside, leaving the sounds of Donna Summer and the comforting lights of The Marshes housing estate behind me. The night was black as pitch—rather like the sudden wave of depression that hit me hard.

Barbara was getting married. Even coy Olive Larch was living in sin—a thought I didn’t want to dwell on too long given the man in question—and here was I, an ancient twenty-three years old with no boyfriend and no prospect of finding Mr. Right, either. Gipping-on-Plym was rather sparse on the bachelor front.

I reached the entrance to Mudge Lane, marked by two triangular road-warning signs. They were both graphically clear. One showed a vehicle being submerged in water; the other, a cyclist being knocked over by a car. The first didn’t concern me because my Fiat had four-wheel drive, and the latter was highly unlikely given the hour of the night.

Mudge Lane wasn’t one of my favorite shortcuts. The narrow, high hedge-banked road was twisty, steep, and impassable in winter.

My mood darkened. What if the ford
was
running high? My Fiat would be swept downriver and my bloated body—when it was finally discovered somewhere in the English Channel—impossible to identify. And who would notice? I had no real friends to speak of. Even my parents seemed to have disowned me.

Get a grip, Vicky!
I hated it when I got maudlin and administered a sharp pinch to my inside thigh. It really hurt but always did the trick. Who cares about love! Who has time for love anyway? What I needed was a front-page scoop to cheer me up. A nice juicy murder would do nicely and—
blast!

I slammed my foot on the brakes and swung the steering wheel sharply to the left as a vehicle, blazing with a row of white lights atop a safari roof, flew around a blind corner and came barreling toward me. I managed to pull into a concealed farm entrance signposted MUDGE COTTAGE and flashed my headlights, but the vehicle didn’t even attempt to slow down.

There was a hard thud. My right wing mirror was torn off, followed by the sickening sound of metal screeching on metal as a green Land Rover scraped by. I caught just a glimpse of a figure in a woolen hat fly past without so much as a second glance.

Furious, I leapt out just as the Land Rover’s taillights were swallowed up in the darkness. Pulling my Mini Maglite from my safari-jacket pocket, I braced myself for the worst and went to inspect the damage.

I was gutted. The wing mirror could be repaired, but a deep gouge along the entire length of the driver’s side would need an expensive trip to the body shop.

Damn and blast!
I was absolutely trembling with rage. I’d used every last penny to buy my car and intended to hunt down the driver—no doubt a farmer, given the make of vehicle—and make him pay for the damage. I couldn’t even report the incident to the police because of that wretched “fruit punch.”

I set off in the Fiat once more, drawing to a stop at the brow of a hill where a third triangular road sign warned of the almost-vertical drop below. Among the many skills I learned under Dad’s “advanced driving course,” which I eventually realized focused on handling a getaway car, was navigating obstacles. These included railway lines, ditches, and small rivers. The key to success, Dad said, was in the approach.

Engaging the four-wheel drive, I took a deep breath and began a slow descent, stopping only when I reached the edge of the water at the base of the hill.

I couldn’t believe it! That wretched Land Rover had dumped a pile of household rubbish in the middle of the ford and—
good grief
—was that a
bicycle
?

Fly-tipping was illegal and culprits faced huge fines of thousands of pounds. It was also on the increase thanks to Gipping-on-Plym County Council’s ridiculous “bonsai bin system”—supposedly to encourage homeowners to cut the amount of rubbish they put out. People drove miles to dispose of old refrigerators or mattresses. I made a mental note of talking to our chief reporter, Pete Chambers, first thing in the morning. I even had a headline—BABY BINS BALLS-UP: FLY-TIPPING FIASCO!

Since I could hardly turn around, I’d have to move the stuff aside.

I cut the engine but left the headlights on so I could keep both hands free to see what I was doing. According to the wooden-posted depth reader peeping above the water line, the water was seven inches deep. I always kept a pair of Wellingtons in the boot of my car and swiftly switched footwear.

I passed the short flight of steps up to the “kissing bridge,” which was basically a wooden walkway on stilts that straddled the stream for pedestrians. The drop had to be about eight feet. There was no handrail, and I would imagine if things got hot and heavy, it could prove quite dangerous for lovers. I could think of much better locations to steal a kiss—on a cliff top overlooking the ocean, or perhaps around a campfire deep in the woods under a sky filled with stars. He’d be playing a guitar and—
focus Vicky!

A gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the surrounding trees. I waded into the ford, making for the bicycle, but almost fell over. My feet were caught up in some kind of debris. I pulled out my Mini Maglite for a closer look.

Wrapped around my Wellingtons was an octopus-like creature with long, thick black tentacles. Puzzled, I gingerly poked at it and, to my surprise, realized it was a wig.

My heart began to thump. Something felt wrong down here. I trained the flashlight over the rubbish just a few feet away. Were those
curtains
?

The wind suddenly picked up and tore through the trees above, making my skin prickle. Edging closer, I lifted my foot and nudged the mound of material. It toppled over heavily with a loud splash.

Captured in the harsh white light was the gray face of a partially bald woman. Her eyes were wide open, caught in an expression of horrified surprise.

I would have screamed, but there was no one—no one alive—to hear. Instead I gave a muffled whimper and began to back away, falling heavily in the water with the sudden thought. Mum was right when she said, “
Be careful what you wish for
.”

“
G
lad you rang me first, doll,” said Steve Burrows, Gipping’s paramedic and my most ardent admirer. Unfortunately for Steve, the feeling was not mutual. I hadn’t “rang him first,” either. All 999 calls were routed to Emergency Services, as Steve was perfectly aware.

“Here, let Steve help you get out of those wet jeans,” he said, holding up a gray hospital blanket. His cherubic face was etched with concern.

“I was only in the water for seconds,” I said, although I was beginning to feel a distinct chill around my nether regions.

In vain, I tried to shake the image of the woman’s face out of my head and shivered.

“You’re in shock, doll. Let me give you a hug.” Steve put his arm around my shoulders.

“I wonder who she is,” I said. “Or was.”

“That’s for the police to find out.” Steve pulled me closer. I wouldn’t describe him as fat, but he was certainly cuddly. Inhaling his scent of Old Spice and antiseptic, I felt strangely comforted.

“I’m a reporter,” I said. “It’s
my
job to find out.”

The poor woman couldn’t have been more than forty and certainly wasn’t one of my mourner regulars. What was she doing in Mudge Lane at this hour of the night? Was it a romantic tryst that had gone terribly wrong? Had they quarreled on the bridge and she’d fallen and drowned? In a panic, he’d fled the scene in a Land Rover.

“I really think you should sit down.” Steve gestured to the campstool he’d set up just for me.

“No. I’m fine.” In fact, I’d never felt better. Despite being banished to the sidelines the moment Detective Inspector Stalk turned up, I was riveted by the activity going on in the stream. It was just like on the telly! The area was ablaze with lights, adding an eerie stagelike effect to the small white tent erected over the woman’s body, which still lay in the water to await the arrival of Coroner Cripps.

I already had a couple of headlines up my sleeve. MUDGE LANE MYSTERY: A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE! Or better still, RIVER OF DEATH SHOCKER!

“What’s your expert opinion, Steve?” I said.

“To be honest,” said Steve, “when you hadn’t returned my phone calls, I thought you had given up on us.”

Good grief!
Here we were at the scene of what could be, at worst, a fatal accident or, at best, manslaughter, and all Steve could think about was us. But since he had proved to be a valuable informant in the past and would be taking the body to the morgue, I needed to be tactful.

“You know I don’t have time for relationships, Steve,” I said gently.

“I know, I know,” said Steve. “You want to take things slow.”

“Not slow. Not anything. I want to focus on my career.”

“And so you should, doll,” said Steve, patting my arm. “We’ve got our whole lives in front of us. Don’t worry so much. Steve’s not going anywhere.”

Which was exactly my problem.

He kissed the top of my head. A frisson of electricity shot through my body as it always did around Steve—a phenomenon that utterly baffled me every time. I did
not
fancy Steve Burrows.

“Let Steve get you some hot tea,” he said. “We could be in for a long night since Stalk wants to take you down to the station.”

“He does
what
?” My stomach flipped over. I had an inherent fear of police stations. “Why? I’ve already told him everything.” But even as I said it, I knew the real reason. Stalk wanted to give me the Breathalyzer test.

“You’re right, Steve. I do feel a little wobbly,” I said, struck with one of my brilliant ideas. “Do you have anything stronger than tea? Brandy perhaps?”

“Anything for you, doll.” Steve ruffled my hair—causing another tingle to surge through my loins—and disappeared into the rear of the ambulance, returning a few moments later with a small paper cup filled with amber liquid.

“This is just for medicinal purposes, you understand,” he said.

I thanked him and drank the lot.

Several cheerful beeps announced the approach of the coroner’s metallic-red Freelander GS 2.

Coroner Cripps flung open the driver’s door, collected his black case from the passenger seat, and strode past us with a nod of acknowledgment. Dressed in his regulation white jumpsuit and Wellingtons, Cripps exuded an aura of confident professionalism. He plunged into the ford, oblivious to hidden hazards, and vanished inside the white tent.

Moments later, Stalk appeared, accompanied by a reed-thin, fresh-faced copper who couldn’t have been more than nineteen.