Thieves! (5 page)

“I don’t know what to do with them. Or
that
thing.” She pointed to a man-sized hobbyhorse standing by the entrance to the nook. A long, black cape enveloped the wooden pole reserved for the rider. Atop was a garish white horse head sporting a highwayman mask and jaunty black tricorn hat. The model horse’s mouth was permanently open in a macabre smile, revealing an impressive set of teeth.

“That’s not the mascot for the Gipping Ranids,” I said, knowing full well our local Morris dancers had a giant green frog.

“It’s the Turpin Terrors,” said Olive. “Phil insists I put it in the window, and all this stuff, too.” She kicked the box with her patent-leather pump.

“Where’s Barbara?” I said.

“No one knows.” Olive wrung her hands. “Wilf called and told me to come in.” Olive occasionally worked in reception when we were extra busy, but her excruciating slowness was more of a hindrance than a help. “I rang her house and left two messages.”

“Perhaps Barbara had too much fruit punch and overslept?” I said—though that would be a first in
Gazette
history. Barbara liked to boast that she’d only taken two days off sick in all the years she’d worked for the newspaper—and that was because she couldn’t ride her bicycle to work because her ingrown toenail had flared up.

“Phil wants all this in the window
today
,” said Olive.

“I saw Amelia Webster outside wondering why the window wasn’t done yet.”

“I can’t do it without Barbara. You know how she is.”

I certainly did. Along with the archive room, it was her pride and joy. Barbara refused to let anyone interfere in her themed window displays and kept the shutters padlocked just in case someone silly enough was tempted.

“Since Barbara keeps the key with her, there is not much you can do about it,” I said. “And anyway, who is Phil?”

“You don’t know?” Olive’s jaw dropped. “Phil Burrows is a famous Morris dancer.”

I shook my head. “No. Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him.”

“He used to dance with the Gipping Ranids until he was poached by the Turpin Terrors,” said Olive. “They’re based in Brighton and dance all over the country. Phil is making a guest appearance. It’s very exciting. I knew him as a lad. Even then I knew—”

“I’m sure Barbara will be here soon.” Time was moving on, and I was anxious to get upstairs to the reporter room. “Just tell Phil he’ll have to wait, and in the meantime, take a look through those boxes.”

“But they’re Phil’s,” said Olive. “Oh, I forgot to tell you that Pete called an emergency meeting in his office. You’d better hurry. You’re already late!”

Cursing Olive under my breath, I tore upstairs.

L
uckily for me, Pete was on the phone. I managed to slip into his office unnoticed and stood at the back of the room. There was an air of excited anticipation. I knew my instincts had been right about the bald woman.
Accidental drowning? My eye!

My fellow journalists—court reporter Edward Lyle; sports go-to man Tony Perkins; and, of course, Annabel—were squashed on the tartan two-seater sofa seemingly riveted to Pete’s “conversation,” if you could call it that.

Gripping the receiver in one hand, Pete was hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously into his notepad and uttering the occasional grunt.

Pete slammed down the phone. “We’re on!” He threw his pencil onto his desk, where it promptly rolled off and fell to the floor.

Annabel leapt from the sofa. “I’ll get it!” She bent down to pick it up—making sure that Pete got an eyeful of cleavage in her plunging V-neck, pale-yellow T-shirt before putting the pencil back onto his desk. “Looks like we’ve got some action here this week, folks,” said Pete, all business.

“That was Detective Inspector Stalk at the police station putting us on red alert. We’re about to be invaded by some hundred-plus gyppos.”

“It’s politically incorrect to say the word
gyppos
, Pete,” reminded Annabel. “I believe the term these days is
travelers
.”

“They’ll be coming for the funeral,” I said. “Do we have a name yet?”

“Belcher Pike,” said Pete.

“That’s a strange name for a woman.”

“Belcher is not a woman, silly.” Annabel swiveled around to face me, draping her arm along the back of the sofa. Her V-neck gaped open to reveal a lace-trimmed, pale-blue bra. “He’s some important gypsy king who has come to Gipping to die.”

“What about the dead woman in Mudge Lane?”

“Accident,” growled Pete. “Can we move on?”

“Let me fill her in, Pete.” With an exaggerated sigh, Annabel turned to me again. “The police said she was cycling across the kissing bridge, wobbled off the edge, hit her head, and drowned.”

“That’s ridiculous!” I cried. “What about the Land Rover that hit my car?”

“Don’t know anything about that, do you Pete?”

“Are you quite finished?” snapped Pete, unwrapping a fresh stick of gum and folding it into his mouth. Sometimes I wish he still smoked. His mood had seemed better in the good old days.

“I was just filling her in,” said Annabel, adding, “since she
was
late.”

“I went to Ms. Trenfold’s funeral, actually.”

“Are you feeling all right?” said Edward. “It must have been a terrible shock to find the body.”

“It was, thank you, Edward.” I shot him a grateful look, unwilling to say that last night I had suffered nightmares about drowning in a sea of hair. “All I’m saying is that I have a feeling I might know who is responsible, and I don’t believe it was an accident.”

“Well, believe it,” said Pete.

“But even Stalk originally hinted that it was a suspicious death, but then Detective Sergeant Probes turned up—”

“Oh! Colin is such a cutie-pie,” gushed Annabel.

“Enough!” Pete slammed his hand down on the table. “The woman drowned. End of story.”

“The less of those bloody gypsies, the better,” Tony declared. “Thieving beggars.”

“She’ll
still
have a funeral,” I persisted. “We
still
need to know who she is.”

“We forget, Pete,” said Annabel sweetly. “Vicky takes her job as an obituary writer very seriously.”

“Why would the ruddy gypsies pick Gipping?” Tony said bitterly. “They’ve never been here before.”

“Actually, Tony,” said Edward, “my mum told me they used to come here years ago. They camped up at The Grange.”

“And that’s where they’re going now,” Pete said. “Apparently Belcher Pike has decided to spend his last days on this earth in Gipping-on-Plym. Aren’t we lucky?”

“They’re sticklers for tradition and highly superstitious,” said Edward. “Apparently the dying gypsy’s wagon must be pitched away from the main camp in an isolated spot. He must never be left alone day or night. Gorgers—that’s the name they give for non-gypsies—are forbidden to cross the threshold, as it’s believed their presence can send the Romany’s soul to hell.”

“How pathetic!” said Annabel.

“Did you know that there are between two and three hundred thousand gypsies living in Great Britain at the moment?” Edward went on. “Of course, it’s impossible to be accurate because they are always on the move.”

“That’s why they’re called travelers,” Annabel insisted. “Because they are always on the move.”

“Ah, but
that’s
where you’re wrong,” Edward said cheerfully. “Many people make that mistake. Both are legally recognized as distinct ethnic groups and have the protection of the law. Romanies are the real deal. Travelers tend to be dropouts from the seventies, old hippies, and people unwilling to work. Now, the
Irish
traveler is a different breed all together. He’s disliked by—”

“Romanies, travelers, who cares!” shouted Pete. “We’ve got a bloody important gyppo about to kick the bucket here in Gipping-on-Plym, and hundreds of the buggers are heading for The Grange just in time for this Saturday’s Morris Dance-a-thon.”

There was a chorus of dismay, especially from Tony. “Bloody hell. It’ll cause a riot.”

Pete leaned back in his chair and flung his feet up on his desk. “And that means
trouble
. And trouble means
news,
and news means
readers
!”

“Why can’t we just evict them?” said Annabel. “The Grange is private land. Surely it’s illegal.”

“Technically, yes,” said Edward. “I believe there is a public right-of-way from Ponsford Ridge. But even if the site is unauthorized and perceived as an official transit pitch, the law stipulates they can stay put for thirty-five days—actually, it takes a good ten to file an eviction notice, so you’re looking at a minimum of—”

“A bloody long time,” said Pete. “We get the picture.”

“And since the old boy is dying, we’ve got the Human Rights Act to deal with,” Edward said. “They can’t be thrown off the land.”

“It’s true,” I said, taking the flyer out of my safari-jacket pocket. “One of the gypsy women gave this to me today.”

Pete snatched it from my hands and skimmed the contents with a groan. “Bloody hell!”

“A gypsy told my fortune once,” said Annabel with a seductive wriggle. “She said men would always fall in love with me and to be careful of the married ones.”

“They’re all crooks.” Tony stuck his jaw out belligerently. “The bastards mended my roof, and the first time it rained, water poured into the attic and brought the ceiling down. It cost me hundreds of pounds. If it were up to me, I’d set those caravans on fire and burn the lot of them.”

“Not helpful, Tony,” barked Pete. “Who lives at The Grange now?”

“It’s supposed to be empty,” I said. “The place belongs to—”

“Lady Ethel Turberville-Spat,” said Annab.el smoothly. “Inherited it from her aunt and uncle—”

“She usually lives in London,” I said, wondering why I was continuing Topaz’s lie.

“Not anymore. My sources tell me she’s back at The Grange.”

“Good,” Pete nodded, seemingly deep in thought. “Do you still have your contacts with Westward TV?”

“Why?” Annabel said.

My heart sank. Shortly before Annabel’s fall from grace, she’d persuaded Westward TV that she had the biggest exposé of the century, namely that she’d located the daughter of one of the most notorious criminals in England—i.e., me. Since Annabel ended up with egg on her face and it all came to nothing, I’d be surprised if they were willing to talk to her again.

Pete jabbed his finger at Annabel. “Call Westward. Do whatever it takes to get a camera crew. Go and interview the Spat woman—”

“Omigod!” squealed Annabel. “I’m going to be on camera at last—”

“Get her reaction. How does she feel about her home being invaded? Is she frightened? You know the deal.”

I raised my hand. “Actually, I sort of know her ladyship. Why don’t I handle her? She can be a little unpredictable.”

“No, Vicky,” said Pete. “You’ll have your hands full with Belcher Pike’s funeral if we’re to believe Edward’s prediction.”

“But he’s still alive,” I protested.

“So get a head start.”

“She won’t get very far,” said Edward ruefully. “Gypsies don’t like talking to gorgers—especially the press.”

“We’ll run the Spat piece on this week’s front page,” Pete declared. “That should get a few angry letters to the editor.”

Annabel clapped her hands. “How about this for a headline—SPAT’S SPAT WITH THE PIKEYS!”

“You can’t say
pikeys
,” said Edward. “Politically incorrect.”

“But the gypsy’s name
is
Pike.” Annabel sounded smug. “Belcher Pike. Get it?”

I cringed. Annabel was appalling at headlines.

“PIKE’S PLOT IN PERIL,” I said suddenly. “Or, GRIEVING GYPSIES—”

“Silence!” Pete slammed his hand on the desk. “Just get on with it.”

“I’ll come with you, Annabel,” said Tony.

“I don’t need anyone to hold my hand, thanks.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Tony had asked Annabel out on a date once and still hadn’t gotten over being rejected. “These people can cause a lot of problems with the environment when they leave a site. You know how strict our recycling rules are. I want to take a few photos before they wreck the place.”

Tony was an avid supporter of Greenpeace and had sympathies with Eco-Warriors, Gipping’s environmental watchdogs.

“A fly-tipping piece?” Pete nodded eagerly. “I like it.”

“I thought I’d get a few quotes from Ronnie Binns about the challenges he faces as a garbologist.”

“Good luck,” Annabel and I chorused. We’d never agreed before—though in this instance, Ronnie Binns’s personal hygiene problem was legendary. His pungent aroma of boiled cabbages could be smelled a mile away.

Pete’s phone rang. He snatched it up, listened for a brief moment before slamming the receiver back into the cradle. “Vicky, Olive wants you downstairs. Phil Burrows is in reception.”

“He’s got some nerve showing up here,” said Tony grimly. “Guest appearance! What a bloody cheek.”