Thieves! (26 page)

Good grief.
Spit it out!

Finally, Probes took a deep breath. “I’m sorry we never got to finish our meal.”

“Excuse me?” For a moment, I was confused. “Meal?”

Probes turned red. He gave a harsh laugh. “I see it wasn’t as memorable for you as it was for me.”

Realization dawned. “You mean six weeks ago, when you suddenly rushed out minutes before the main course arrived and left me with two plates of scampi and chips?”

“Yes. And I’m truly sorry,” Probes said ruefully. “I was called out on a case. I did leave two messages with Annabel Lake. Didn’t you get them?”

“She must have forgotten.” No surprises there. Annabel had a habit of forgetting messages intended for me.

“She didn’t? I thought you were so annoyed that you decided never to speak to me again.” Probes smiled, showing his neat, sharklike teeth. “When I saw you with Steve at the Manor—” He thrust his hands savagely into his pockets. “And now I suppose it’s too late. This is embarrassing. I am making a complete fool of myself here.”

Probes’s vulnerability was surprisingly touching, and I found myself saying, “Steve and I are just friends.”

“Friends?”
Probes eyes widened. “Do you treat all your friends in such a
friendly
manner?”

Blast!
Probes must have seen me kissing Steve at Gipping Manor after all.

I felt my face redden. “We
were
friends,
then
. But now we’re not. It’s . . . complicated.”
Good grief, Vicky
. How could you trot out that old cliché!

“I’m a bit old-fashioned,” said Probes stiffly. “Some call me stuffy, but I’m a one-woman man.

A one-woman man!
How unbelievably refreshing in this day and age!

“Are you seeing anyone?” A trillion butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I realized Probes was actually trying to find out if I was available! Suddenly the area behind the pigsty seemed charged with electricity.

I hesitated. Much as I liked Noah, he was moving on. “Not exactly.”

“You must know that relationships between police and journalists are frowned upon,” Probes went on. “It could lead to a conflict of interests. It’s just that—” He gave a heavy sigh, and his face turned pink. “You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met.” He looked into my eyes. “I really like you, Vicky.”

Golly
. This was a real turnup for the books. “I had no idea,” I said, stunned. “Honestly—you’ve always seemed so disinterested. In fact, if anything, you’ve been a bit standoffish.”

“That’s boarding school for you,” said Probes. “I was sent away at seven and, other than Ethel—Topaz, whatever you want to call her—never had much to do with girls.”
Poor Colin! What an awful example of female companionship!
“Since my people had a farm in Africa, I was sent out there every holiday, so that didn’t help much. Father called me socially inept.” He gave an apologetic shrug.

Golly again!
From the very beginning I’d had a soft spot for Probes, but having been brought up to believe that the only good copper is a dead one, the possibility of dating Probes properly was something I occasionally fantasized about, but that was about as far as it went.

Much as I felt flattered, I was also annoyed.

What was wrong with men? Why were
they
only interested when they thought
you
were interested in someone else? Probes only came forward when he thought I was with Steve. Jimmy Kitchen turned up the moment he found out that Barbara was about to marry Wilf.

“I know this venue is hardly romantic,” said Probes, gesturing to the recycling bins. “Actually, I thought the path led out to a field, but when this is all over, I want us to have a proper date in a restaurant that does not serve scampi.”

“Yes, a restaurant,” I said, but my heart began to thump the way it always does when I could sense a story brewing. “What do you mean, when
this
is over? When
what
is over?”

“There! You see!” cried Probes, exasperated. “You’re asking questions like a newspaper reporter.”

“I
am
a newspaper reporter,” I cried. “This is about Carol Pryce, isn’t it?”

“Goddamit, Vicky!” Probes exclaimed. “Why do you have to go and spoil things?”

“It was a perfectly innocent question,” I said defensively. “And I don’t see why she should change anything between us.”

“Be quiet,” Probes whispered. “Don’t say that name.”

“After all, according to the police, her death was just an accident.” I suddenly saw Probes back in Mudge Lane on Tuesday night in his pajamas and had an epiphany. “Good grief! Was Carol Pryce your
girlfriend
?”

“Enough!” Probes took my arm and pulled me roughly toward him. Redheads had a reputation for fiery tempers, and Probes was no exception.

“What’s going on?” said an angry voice. “Leave her alone!”

Probes dropped my arm like a hot potato and spun around. How long Noah Pike had been standing in the shadows, clutching a white recycling bag filled with plastic bottles, was anyone’s guess.

Noah dropped the bag and hurried toward me, sweeping me into his arms. “Are you all right, luv?”

“Fine,” I mumbled, praying that the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

Probes regarded me with contempt, muttered, “Unbelievable,” and stormed off, leaving me with the realization that in the space of less than twenty-four hours I’d almost had—and lost—two boyfriends.

“He’s a copper, isn’t he?” said Noah. “I can always tell.”

Only last night, as we lay canoodling in Noah’s wagon, we’d shared our mistrust of Her Majesty’s Police Constabulary. I wasn’t sure how much Noah had overheard, and I didn’t want to appear two-faced.

“He’s a distant cousin of Lady Turberville-Spat at The Grange.” This was true. “And yes, he’s a police officer, and since some of the silver belonged to the family, he is obviously concerned.”

Noah regarded me with suspicion. “What were you doing around here anyway?”

Think Vicky, think!
“D.I. Probes was worried that his cousin may have gotten herself into some hot water over the”—I gestured to the row of wheelie bins—“recycling situation here.”

“Oh, that!” said Noah with disgust. We know the Spat woman is trying to frame us. We’ve got it on tape.”

“D.I. Probes and I were wondering what to do about it.”

“You mean, he’s wondering how to get her off?” said Noah with scorn. “But what’s that got to do with you?”

Good question
. I gestured to all the recycling bins again. “One of our reporters—Tony—was up here taking photographs of this particular area to illustrate how environmentally conscious you all are and—”

“And that will appear along with my report, I hope.” Dora was standing right behind me, clutching a blue plastic bag—paper products only. Neither of us had heard her approach.

Noah gave a guilty start and sprang back.

Dora’s eyes widened as she spotted a quart-sized plastic container marked ACETONE—HIGHLY FLAMMABLE lying on the ground. It must have fallen from Noah’s white plastic bag.

The silent warning signal she gave Noah would have been imperceptible to anyone other than me. Dad’s anger was legendary, and Mum had perfected various subtle facial expressions that stood for “Keep quiet,” “Run!” and “You silly cow.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Belcher Pike?” Dora said harshly. “Not chit-chatting around here.”

Noah didn’t answer, simply scooped up the offending container, shoved it into the recycling bag, dumped it into the white bin, and scurried off without even saying good-bye.

“Men,” said Dora, all smiles once more. “Give them something to do, but you may as well do it yourself.”

“Goodness. Is that the time? Best get on,” I said, knowing full well that Dora was going to grill me about her wretched article.

“I’m looking forward to seeing my article on tomorrow’s front page,” she said.

“I gave it to Pete Chambers, our chief reporter,” I said brightly. “He’s the man you want to talk to if you have any questions.” I paused, not sure if I should bring up the subject or not. “You mentioned something about a tape concerning her ladyship?”

Dora nodded. “That’s right.”

“Is this something you wanted to give to the
Gazette
?” I said innocently.

“Do you think I’m blind?” snapped Dora. “Her so-called ladyship is your friend. You’d never run the story, and anyway, it’s too late.” Dora’s eyes gleamed with malice. “What’s done is done.”

As I drove back to the office, I couldn’t help thinking what a horrible person Dora was. At first she’d seemed so nice, with all her gypsy, activist, want-a-better-future attitude—and environmentally conscious, too—but there was something about her I couldn’t quite put my finger on. No wonder Jimmy preferred Barbara.

What could Dora do to Topaz? I’d seen that container marked ACETONE. What if she was planning on burning down The Grange?

My mind was reeling with all that had happened this morning.

Probes had practically declared his undying love, only to be interrupted by Noah, who believed I was under attack. Yet when Dora appeared, he scuttled away like a coward. Was there no perfect man in this world?

Back at the
Gazette
, I let myself in by the side door so as to avoid walking through reception. I’d have more than my fill of Barbara and Olive tonight at the party, and it sounded as if things had already started, judging by the sounds of laughter coming through the walls.

Over the past few months, I noticed that Barbara started having “Casual Friday Afternoons,” which basically meant that with Wilf and Pete putting the paper to bed in Plymouth, the ladies liked to celebrate the end of the week with alcoholic beverages. Word soon got around town.

Upstairs, Edward greeted me with a smile. “Great. You’re back just in time to make my tea. Just kidding. Wait there.” He disappeared into Wilf’s empty office and returned with two mugs, having obviously utilized Wilf’s personal kettle and raided his tea-bag stash. Whereas we drank PG Tips, Wilf was partial to Yorkshire Gold—a far more superior brand. And I could see why. It was delicious.

“Why do you think gypsies would carry large containers of acetone in their wagon?” I asked suddenly.

“Of course it’s highly inflammable, as you know,” said Edward. “Traditionally, gypsies burned their wagons with all their possessions in it after a death.”

“Not these days, surely?”

“There was a case only recently. It’s on the Internet.”

Edward was right. I also found some accounts of incredible gypsy funerals—one, a famous gypsy king from northern England was carried in a white carriage pulled by seven white horses whilst his widow and immediate family traveled behind in silver limousines; another funeral was attended by more than a thousand mourners who walked behind the horse-drawn coffin singing gypsy songs.

Traditionally, floral wreaths and tributes were woven with cherished possessions belonging to the deceased. It all sounded very lovely.

A part of me was sorry that Belcher Pike was leaving and I wouldn’t have a gypsy funeral to include in my obituary archives.

For the rest of the afternoon I researched gypsy funerals and studied their traditions. Often, funerals—or wakes—would run for days, if not weeks, so that people from all over the country could come and pay their last respects. Many were undertaken before the gypsy died.

One thing began to really bother me.

If Belcher was such a notorious figure in gypsy life, where was everyone? The gypsies had been at The Grange for at least a week. Perhaps he just wasn’t that popular?

I also became increasingly obsessed with Carol Pryce. Probes knew the dead woman, but why all the secrecy? It also occurred to me that Noah hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know in the wagon last night.

I searched Google for
sodium hydroxide
and discovered it was used as a drain-cleaning agent for clearing clogs. Years ago it was also one of the main ingredients in hair relaxing products. Among the side effects listed were “chemical burns.” How could sodium hydroxide have gotten onto Carol Pryce’s head?

Steve would know. Hoping the end of our so-called personal relationship had not affected our professional one, I picked up the phone and dialed his number.

It rang for what seemed like ages but then switched into voice mail. I tried again using my mobile—Steve told me he’d programmed a special ring tone for my calls, Abba’s “Dancing Queen”—but to no avail.

With a sinking heart I knew he was avoiding me.

I was beginning to think that Barbara was right. Men brought nothing but heartache.

Tonight was Olive’s hen party. With everything that had happened, I couldn’t help wondering if Barbara would actually turn up.

A
fter inheriting the Larch millions from her overbearing father, the late Sammy K. Larch, Olive couldn’t wait to move from her childhood home and had put in an offer for a huge manor house on the outskirts of Pennymoor.