Vintage Babes (8 page)

Eric had been fascinated by the girl’s chest, which was, I felt sure, the reason why he had employed her, and Tony, too, never missed a chance to ogle. I had despaired of them both and here was a third lascivious male.

‘According to Tony. He seems to be a connoisseur.’

‘A.k.a dirty old man.’

‘’Fraid so – but her piece on the indie band is ungrammatical, unstructured and too casual. Sloppy, in fact. She –’

‘Melanie is sloppy because she’s been allowed to be sloppy,’ I cut in. ‘But this is her first job and if she’s given tighter guidelines, she’ll follow them.’

‘You reckon?’

‘I do. Tony would benefit from a stricter regime, too. What it needs is for him to be motivated, though kick-starting him could take time,’ I said, and stopped. The telephone on his desk was ringing.

Steve answered it, then held out the receiver. ‘For you.’

‘Quick word,’ the caller said, ‘to let you know that Gifford’s has been robbed.’

‘Robbed!’ I repeated, in surprise. ‘When?’

Gifford’s is the local jeweller’s, a sedate, old-fashioned family establishment, and my caller was Roger, younger brother of a one-time schoolmate and friendly policeman. For years he has given me the nod on anything he thinks might be of interest to the paper. He tells me off the record and I, of course, never reveal his input. In return I’ve passed on various bits of info which, on occasion, have pointed the police in the right direction.

‘Around half an hour ago. One guy with what appeared to be a wrapped up shotgun stood guard at the door, while two others smashed the display cabinets. They wore balaclavas and protective paper suits, and were armed with sledgehammers and machetes, which terrified the staff and a customer. They grabbed watches, rings, jewellery, then drove off in either a Ford Mondeo or a Vauxhall Vectra, the witnesses are divided.’

‘Colour?’

‘Blue or it could be green, again the witnesses, two old codgers, can’t agree. Seems one has cataracts.’

‘I meant the colour of the robbers.’

‘White – and professionals. Knew exactly what they wanted and what they were doing. Traffic are keeping a look-out for what could be the getaway car, but haven’t spotted anything yet. No one hurt, just frightened, shocked and talkative. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

‘Who’s been robbed?’ Steve enquired, as I replaced the receiver.

‘Gifford’s, it’s the jeweller’s halfway along the High Street. Happened around thirty minutes ago.’ I rose to my feet. ‘I’d better get down there and –’

‘I’ll go.’

‘You?’ I protested.

‘Me.’

‘But Eric never did the nitty-gritty, no interviewing and –’

‘You don’t consider it’s the editor’s role? Sorry, but I like to keep my hand in.’

‘Look, I received the info,’ I began heatedly, ‘and I know the Giffords, both father and son. I also know the two assistants, old dears who’ve been there since the year dot, so–’

‘I’ll cover it,’ he said.

I glared. Although, like anywhere else, Dursleigh suffers its share of twenty-first century crime, this is mainly in the form of vandalism, car theft or drunken youths brawling. It was unusual for a shop to be attacked and a firearm flourished, which was why I was eager to get the story. A front page and detailed story which would have the entire village buzzing.

‘You’re another like Mr P-J, who believes women should know their place?’ I demanded.

‘No, I don’t. And there’s no need to be aggressive.’

I could have killed for a cigarette and I could’ve killed him. Stuck a paper knife into his heart and twisted it. Always supposing he had a heart.

‘I’m not,’ I snapped.

‘With all due respect, you bloody are,’ he said amicably. Or was it sarcastically? ‘But I want to get to know Dursleigh and to become known in Dursleigh, and this seems an ideal opportunity. However, I promise not to make a habit of stealing your leads. Okay?’

I scowled at the place on the desk where the ashtray used to be and then I shrugged. ‘Okay,’ I agreed, in who-gives-a-monkey’s tones.

‘So if you would visit Mrs Kincaid. Please,’ Steve said, and smiled.

I gawped. It was the first time I’d seen him smile and the smile which lit up his face was sexy, charming, pure manipulation. His full lips had curved, there were dimples in his cheeks, the grey eyes were warm. Now I understood why old ladies opened up to him. And, yes, when Captain Cool smiled he was handsome. Not male model handsome – his nose was a touch too big for that – but smoulderingly charismatic. Buggeration. But I refused to be cajoled. He had stolen the job I wanted and which I deserved. He was giving me orders. He was the enemy.

‘Me, not Melanie? You’re sure?’

‘Positive. From what I hear, people are always happy to talk to you.’

‘You mean I’m the motherly kind?’ I asked suspiciously.

I could only be five or six years his senior – well, ten at a pinch – but did he regard me as old? An ageing matron? Another crone to be charmed? He should be so lucky. This gal was made of sterner stuff. It took more than a couple of dimples to reduce me to quivering jelly. A hell of a lot more.

Steve laughed. ‘God, no! I just meant – well, you’ll be
simpatico.
Would you go this afternoon?’ He smiled again, another dazzler. ‘I’d be eternally grateful.’

Up yours, matey, I thought.

‘Will do,’ I said, then added as a kick of defiance, ‘as soon as I’ve finished the hospital waiting times write-up.’

I was damned if I’d be too much of a pushover.

The cars parked along one side of the High Street, combined with a delivery truck unloading on the other, had slowed the traffic to a crawl. Add drivers eyeballing the two police cars stopped outside Gifford’s and the crawl resembled that of an infirm snail. There was no sign of Steve, who was doubtless buried in the depths of the shop charming the female assistants.

I turned up the radio where Tom Jones was singing ‘Sexbomb’. I like his voice and his dirty laugh. I remember lusting after the young rough trade Tom, belting out songs in his string vest. Though nowadays a string vest seems so tacky. And Sir Tom ain’t so young and handsome.

‘Get a move on,’ I instructed the traffic.

Thirty-odd years ago when I’d sat my driving test, the roads in Dursleigh were empty. Or so it appears in retrospect. But no more. Now at morning and evening peaks, a solid queue can stretch back along the river in one direction and out to the roundabout west of the village in the other. The roundabout with the new lights which had been installed to ‘increase the traffic flow’, but were creating deadlock, was the one where Tony had dutifully listened to ten feather-spitting drivers.

As I inched my way around a bend, I peered into a charity shop. I was looking for Jenny, then I remembered that this afternoon she was attending a job interview and, besides, she usually did morning stints. Be lucky with the job, Jen, I willed. Be lucky.

Once upon a time jumble sales in church halls dominated the second-hand market, but these have given way to car boots and charity shops. There are three shops in Dursleigh which, although everyone calls it a village, is more accurately a small town. With easy commuting into London and edging onto countryside, it is an affluent town with umpteen estate agents selling ‘sought after’ properties for one or maybe two million – selling them easily, so my daughter, who works in an estate agency, tells me – and many well-heeled residents. Yet all three charity shops prosper, thanks to mankind’s eternal desire to grab itself a bargain. My dad isn’t the only one with a frugal streak.

Looking ahead, I caught a glimpse of the river sparkling in the sunshine. The March day was bright, but cold. A brisk wind blew, ruffling the dangling fronds of the willows with their fresh lime-green shoots. I made a mental note to call in at the supermarket on my way home and buy food for the weekend.

As the snail-pace decelerated to a full stop, I helped myself to a mint humbug from the tube which I keep in the door pocket. Steve Lingard had been right, people usually are happy to talk to me. My theory is, it’s because I listen. My mother used to say that people have two ears and one mouth because they should listen twice as much as they speak. She believed listening was an art. I am also interested. Interested in the story and interested in the individuals who’re involved. I’m fascinated by what makes people tick. What drives them, what they care about, how they function.

What drove Steve Lingard? What made him tick? I wondered. To have been so successful at
The Bugle
he had to have been smart, dedicated… and ruthless? Was it the thought of achieving glory which provided his impetus or the simple satisfaction of a job well done? Might his drive centre on his own aggrandisement, with no consideration for others?

‘At last,’ I said. The traffic had begun to move.

I drove alongside the river, past the children’s play area and around the green, where Field of Hope daffodils bobbed golden heads. Reaching Thyme Park, I turned in. Like so many other roads it had speed bumps, forcing me to slow, hurdle and accelerate, time and time again. The five-bar gate which opened onto the gravelled forecourt of the Kincaid house was closed, so I parked beyond it. Would my journey be worthwhile? After ringing and getting the answerphone – the ‘so sorry, my wife and I are unable to take your call right now’ message was spoken by Duncan – I had come on chance.

Climbing out of the car, I checked my bag. A somewhat battered black leather shoulderbag which is used whatever my outfit, whatever the season. I had my tape recorder, plus a notebook and pencil. The interview was the kind of colour-by-numbers exercise I can do in my sleep. Not that I minded. When I first joined
The Siren,
I had missed the excitement and tension of my London job as a news reporter with a popular broadsheet. I’d felt I was slumming it. I had longed for something
important
to happen, something which would set the journalistic vibes a-tingle. Like a plane carrying a royal making an emergency landing on the village green or a mysterious multiple murder or an international terrorist pitching up in a local pub. Then, one day, I had recognised that what I wrote about
was
important – to those involved. The problems may seem parish pump and ordinary, but they mattered to ordinary people. And pretty soon they had mattered to me. I was slumming it? Never.

What I did miss, and do still miss, is earning a decent salary. Reporters on small-town newspapers are not well paid – not if they work for Mr P-J – and although I don’t have a mortgage and, like I’ve said, am comfortable, I miss being able to splash out on occasion and indulge myself. But if Steve Lingard could be persuaded to resign as editor and I took over…

‘You’ll need to cut back on your spending,’ a man suddenly declared, in a carrying Hooray Henry voice.

‘Yah, get rid of the love god and his personal services for a start,’ jeered a second male.

Peering through the budding leaves of the beech hedge which edged the forecourt, I saw two men coming out of the house. Both wore dark suits and had fleshy features and shaven heads, like convicts – or the Mitchell brothers from
EastEnders.
But these brothers were Giles and Simon Kincaid, who may well consider those of us who watch soaps to be the lowest form of human life. Although I knew them by sight I hadn’t seen them at the wake, but the small boys sniffing the vol-au-vents belonged to them, so they must have been there. No doubt keeping barge-pole distance from their stepmother who, the grapevine said, they had always resented for frittering away their inheritance and hated with a vengeance.

Their own mother, who had died a couple of years or so before Tina sashayed onto the scene, had been a stocky, talkative woman who helped out in the shops. She had dressed in navy Crimplene and shown a propensity towards a moustache.

The grapevine had also revealed that Duncan Kincaid had planned for his sons to follow him into his businesses, but after attending private schools and going to university, they had both refused.