Thieves! (20 page)

“Gipping Manor.”

“You’re going to his
hotel
?”

“No. We’ll be in the bar,” I said.

This time the pause lasted a full minute. “All right. Well, I suppose my news will have to wait.”

“What do you mean?”

“My man came through for me at Plymouth morgue,” said Steve. “I’ve got a name, but it doesn’t matter. We can talk some time next week.”

My heart gave a leap. “What is it?”

“I can’t remember.”

Blast
Steve! Of course he remembered. “Look,” I said smoothly. “What time do you go on duty?”

“Eight.”

“Why don’t you sit in on my interview with Phil at six thirty? That way you can be sure that nothing weird is going on. Phil told me he had an appointment at seven thirty, so we’ll be able to have a little bit of time together.”

“All right. Sorry, doll.” Steve gave a heavy sigh. “It’s just that Phil always steals my girls. He can’t help himself.”

“I promise that he hasn’t a chance with me.”

Steve made a strange gurgling sound. Was he
crying
? “Thanks, doll. I really needed to hear that.”

Somehow, I had a feeling that this evening was going to get complicated.

W
hen I broke the news that I wouldn’t be eating Mrs. Evans’s liver and onions tonight, my landlady said, “Good. It’ll be just Lenny and I, like old times.”

“What about Annabel?”

“Dining with her ladyship,” said Mrs. E. “She’s gone all la-di-dah.”

Since Topaz’s culinary skills left much to be desired—her Copper Kettle fare usually consisted of stale buns and Tesco produce well past their expiry dates—I thought, rather you than me. Even so, Annabel’s presence certainly put the kibosh on my idea of having a quiet word with Topaz about the recycling situation before my meeting with Noah.

“What time will Annabel be back?”

“She didn’t say.” Mrs. Evans grinned. “You see! That charm I bought from the gypsy is working already.”

I went upstairs to change. What should I wear? Of course, I’d put on my usual jeans, clean shirt, and safari jacket, but maybe, just tonight, I’d don my worn-only-once Wild Nights Millennium lingerie from Marks & Spencer. Not that I intended to get fresh with Phil, Steve, or Noah, but—as the Boy Scout motto of “Be Prepared” had certainly proved true in the High Street today, it was better to be safe than sorry.

I had a quick shower in the bathroom I shared with Annabel. On the old marble washstand was a small package gift-wrapped in pink flowery paper and tied with a pink ribbon. The tag read, “To Annie with love.”

Poor Mrs. Evans. So much for Madame Dora’s love charm.

Half an hour later I pulled into Gipping Manor car park. An hour later, I was sitting in the themed 1920s hotel bar, thoroughly bored with listening to Phil Burrows droning on about David Hasselhoff this and David Hasselhoff that. Phil also claimed to have enjoyed a one-night stand with sixties icon Cilla Black, but of course, there was no way of proving it.

But what was really annoying was the fact that Phil was on a diet. Our “catch a quick bite” was one shared iceberg lettuce with blue cheese dressing because he “only wanted a nibble.” At least with Steve I could always count on at least three courses.

One of Jack Webster’s cronies, John Reeves, strolled into the bar and made a beeline for our table.

“Here comes another fan,” said Phil, smoothing back his hair. But I wasn’t so sure. John Reeves was wearing a dark green sweatshirt with RANIDS RULE! emblazoned across the chest. His formidable handlebar mustache was fairly bristling with indignation.

Phil instantly whipped out his pen and magically produced a headshot seemingly from thin air. “I get just as many men as ladies, you know,” he boasted.

John Reeves towered over Phil. “You’re not wanted in Gipping,” he said bluntly. “If you ever want to dance again, you’ll pack up your bags and leave. Do you understand?

“Loud and clear,” Phil replied with a smirk, seeming completely unfazed.

“Good.” John Reeves turned on his heel and stalked over to the bar.

“Loser,” said Phil with a nasty laugh.

“Wow. You were amazing.” I was impressed at Phil’s sangfroid but far more excited about a potential real story—TURPIN TERROR TERRORIZED: A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE!

“I get threats like that all the time,” boasted Phil. “Goes with the territory. It’s jealousy. I broke out of Gipping. Did something different. It was a big risk joining the Turpin Terrors.” He gestured to my open notepad on the table. “I hope you got all that down.”

“Yes,” I said. “Word for word.”

Phil leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “You’re cute.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Steve pushed his way between us.

“Phil’s just had a death threat,” I said quickly. Why was I feeling guilty?

“And he’s about to have another one.” Steve jabbed his finger into Phil’s shoulder, hard. “Leave my girl alone.”

Phil laughed. “Don’t worry, baby brother. She’s just not my type.”

Thanks!
Even though I didn’t want to be Phil’s type, it still wasn’t nice to be rejected in such a dismissive manner.

Phil pulled out his iPhone. “I’m going to text my agent. What was that old bloke’s name again?”

“John Reeves,” I said.

Steve dragged up a chair. I caught the familiar scent of Old Spice and antiseptic. He was already wearing his white medical coat.

“What’s that?” said Steve, pointing to the half-nibbled iceberg lettuce on Phil’s plate that had been divided into two. “You must be starving.”

“I am a bit hungry,” I said.

“Cheryl?” Steve gestured to a passing waitress in a black-and-white parlor-maid outfit and white frilly cap. “Burger and chips for Vicky,” he said. “And the same for me.”

Looking at the two brothers with their startling blue eyes and cherub-shaped faces—despite Phil’s distinctly orange pallor—they couldn’t have been more different.

“You should get your cholesterol checked,” chided Phil. “You’re a walking heart attack.”

“Women like something to hold on to,” said Steve defensively. “Isn’t that right, doll?”

“It sure is,” I said, wondering if I should have ordered extra chips.

Phil’s
Flashdance
ring tone erupted from his man-bag. “That will be L.A. I sent my agent an e-mail, and he’s freaking out about that death threat.” Giving me a wolfish grin, he added, “You remember my room number for later, don’t you, Vicky?”

“She’s not going to your room,” snapped Steve.

“It’s five-oh-nine,” said Phil with a wink. “I’ll keep the champagne on ice.”

“Why you—” Steve rose to his feet, taking the tablecloth with him as usual. There was a tinkle of cutlery as it scattered across the stone floor. I made a quick save for the wine glasses.

“You’re so easy to wind up,” chortled Phil.

Steve and I watched him weave his way through the tables to the exit, acknowledging admiring fans and enemies alike.

“Don’t take any notice,” I said.

“I don’t trust him with you, doll. Everyone wants to go out with Vicky Hill.”

“Hell-lo—” Steve’s expression hardened. “Speak of the devil. What’s he doing here?”

I glanced over my shoulder to see Detective Inspector Probes stroll into the bar. He paused to scan the room, clearly looking for someone. Our eyes met. A shadow of distaste crossed his features.

Suddenly, Steve fastened his lips onto mine and kissed me hard. I felt dizzy. Delicious tingles ran through my body. I tried to keep my lips clamped together, but Steve was relentless. I just couldn’t help but kiss him back. Why, oh why, did this have to be
Steve
?

“Would you both like ketchup?”

Steve stopped kissing me immediately. “Yes. And pickles.”

Cheryl set two plates of burgers and chips in front of us without batting an eyelid despite shouts from other customers—“Get a room!” and “Go for it, Steve!”

I was mortified and looked around for Probes, but he had vanished.

Steve tucked a paper napkin into the top of his white uniform and plunged a fork into a pile of chips. “Eat up, doll.”

The skin on my face began to prickle.
Damn and blast!
I’d completely forgotten. Steve may be a good kisser, but on the two occasions we had accidentally made out, he’d always given me a skin rash.

The food was delicious, and after a few minutes of eating in silence—except for loud appreciative groans from Steve—I turned my notebook to a fresh page. Now that Steve had kissed me, I felt I’d earned the right to ask him a few questions.

“You mentioned your friend had some news from Plymouth morgue?”

Steve swallowed an enormous mouthful, washed it down with half a glass of water. “Got a name for you,” he said. “Carol Pryce.”

The name meant nothing to me. “Pryce, spelled with a
y
?”

He nodded. I jotted it down. “How about an address?”

“Nope.”

“What about her bicycle?” I said. “Was there any damage from the Land Rover?”

Steve shook his head. “Clean as a whistle. Poor lady definitely drowned. But the toxicology report came back with something really weird.” Steve speared another five chips onto his fork.

I waited impatiently for Steve to finish his mouthful.

“A sample of her hair contained sodium hydroxide—otherwise known as lye or caustic soda. Probably explains the chemical burns on her scalp.”

“Could that have killed her?”

“I doubt it,” said Steve. “Maybe it was a form of torture?”

I shuddered. “And why she wore a wig.”

“All they know is that she was unconscious when she hit the water.”

“What about the internal police inquiry?”

“He said he’d keep me posted.” Steve wiped his mouth on his napkin and pushed back his plate. “Got to go. I’ll escort you to your car.”

We headed for the exit, passing a corner booth in the dimly lit bar. I recognized the back of Probes’s curly red hair but could not see who his companion was. For a horrible moment I wondered if it was Annabel.

Outside in the fresh air, Probes’s Smart car was parked in a spot reserved for motorcycles. Steve gallantly opened my door, and I slid in quickly, narrowly avoiding another full-on kiss.

Promising to call Steve later, I set off for The Grange feeling very pleased with myself. Who was this mysterious Carol Pryce, and why was her death surrounded in secrecy?

I had high hopes that Noah had the answer.

I
didn’t want to risk bumping into Annabel so decided to leave my Fiat along Ponsford Ridge and continue down to The Grange on foot.

It was still early and wouldn’t get dark for another hour or so. I loved summer evenings, the smell of freshly cut hay and the sounds of birds singing at the end of their day.

My trek to The Grange took me past the bridleway entrance to Belcher Pike’s wagon. I had plenty of time before I met with Noah and decided to take a quick detour. Call me curious, but I just wondered if the “never leave a dying gypsy alone” palaver was true or just for tourists.

As I drew closer to the clearing, I was startled to hear someone sobbing his or her heart out, and I just
had
to investigate. It was just as well I was wearing my khaki-colored safari jacket—I’d be difficult to spot.

Slowly, I crackled my way through the undergrowth until I had a good view of Belcher Pike’s wagon. Dropping to a crouch, I headed toward a handy elderberry bush and crawled underneath its branches.

There, just a few yards away, tough-nosed Ruby sat on a fallen tree trunk shedding copious tears.

The wagon door opened and Jimmy appeared with a china mug in his hand.

“Drink this,” he said, sitting down by her side—presumably this was tea, the only thing to drink in a crisis.