Vicky Hill: Thieves!

Book 4: Vicky Hill

by Hannah Dennison

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

When the body of a woman is found in a shallow stream, aspiring investigative journalist Vicky Hill suspects there's a connection between the murder and the string of recent silver thefts plaguing the small town of Gipping-on-Plym. And since both her boss and the local police refuse to investigate, Vicky takes on the case by herself - and she's determined to uncover the answers and clinch her fourth national exclusive! 'A dizzy romp with an endearingly gullible investigator' - Ann Purse 'A laugh a page ... a hilarious debut' - Carolyn Hart on A Vicky Hill Exclusive!

Release date: September 20, 2012

Publisher: Constable

Print pages: 323

Sample

‘Yon can’t leave now!’ Barbara Meadows cried as I drifted nonchalantly towards her front door to make my escape.

‘It’s nearly one in the morning,’ I protested. How many more hen parties can the human body take? ‘I’m really tired.’

‘You’ll miss all the excitement.’ Barbara readjusted her glittering tiara – HERE COMES THE BRIDE – that had slipped rakishly over one ear. ‘You youngsters have no stamina.’

It wasn’t that I begrudged our receptionist her newfound happiness at the grand age of sixty-plus. This was the third hen party of Barbara’s that I’d been to in the last two weeks, and I knew of at least three more in the works.

‘Olive bought the director’s cut of The Full Monty on eBay,’ Barbara burbled on. ‘We’re in for a real treat.’

That settled it. There are some things a young woman should never be subjected to – and full-frontal nudity in a room filled with members of the Greying Tigers Society was definitely one.

I grabbed my safari jacket from the hall coat stand and pulled it on. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to be at St Peter’s the Martyr Church at eight tomorrow.’ It was only a tiny white lie. The service didn’t start until nine thirty.

‘Why bother? No one will go to Gladys Trenfold’s funeral,’ Barbara said with scorn. ‘She was a horrid old bag.’

‘Maybe not,’ I said. ‘But the Gipping Gazette does have a reputation to keep up.’

Obituaries were my area of expertise, and it was my responsibility to make sure that no funeral went unreported and no mourner was left out. ‘Unless you’d like to have a word with your fiancé and ask for an exception?’

‘Oh no, dear,’ said Barbara quickly. ‘Wilf is a stickler for tradition.’ She stretched out her left hand and gazed rapturously at the solitaire diamond ring on her finger. ‘I still can’t believe he proposed.’

I couldn’t either! I was still grappling with the idea that after years of working together, Barbara was marrying our illustrious – and intimidating – editor, Wilf Veysey.

It had all happened so suddenly – but at least it gave me hope. It was never too late to find love.

Olive Larch emerged from the kitchen accompanied by the raunchy sounds of Donna Summer’s ‘Hot Stuff’ starting up for the fourth time. Perched atop her sleek grey bob was a pair of striped cat’s ears. She carried a silver tray of tumblers decorated with slices of fruit and was moving toward us at glacial speed.

‘Good grief, Olive,’ said Barbara. ‘We’re all dying of thirst. What took you so long?’ She turned to me and mouthed, ‘She’s always so slow.’

‘Vicky, you’re not leaving, are you?’ said Olive aghast. ‘You can’t!’

‘Sorry, I hate to go, but I really must.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t—’ Olive started to titter nervously. ‘Tell her, Barbara.’

‘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 honour, I said my goodbyes 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 favourite 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 frontpage 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 woollen hat fly past without so much as a second glance.

Furious, I leapt out just as the Land Rover’s tail lights 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 grey 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.’

‘Glad 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 grey 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 quarrelled 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 wants 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 acknowledgement. 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.

In his late forties, Detective Inspector Stalk was built like an Aga, with a neatly clipped beard and piggy eyes. As an active member of Gipping Boxing Club, he was not a man to be trifled with. Stalk was very unpopular at the Gazette. Pete Chambers often said he’d rather spend the night with Jack the Ripper than five minutes in Stalk’s company.

I took a deep breath and waited for the two policemen to join us. ‘Do you have an ID on the victim yet, Inspector?’

‘No,’ Stalk snapped.

‘Could it be a romantic tryst gone wrong?’ I said. ‘Or perhaps a hit-and-run?’ I hadn’t considered that possibility. ‘She was on a bicycle. Maybe he didn’t see her?’

‘No comment,’ he said.

I took out a business card – I’d had some cheap ones made at Gipping Railway Station – and handed it to him. ‘If you find out the owner of the Land Rover, at least let me know. Not only did he leave the scene of an accident, he hit my car.’

‘We’re perfectly aware of what went on here.’ Stalk studied my card and handed it back to me with a sneer. ‘But if I want to talk to the Gazette, it won’t be with a rookie.’

‘But I saw the Land Rover!’ I protested. ‘I found the body.’

‘Which is exactly why Detective Constable Bond, here, will be taking you to the station.’

‘Why? I already gave you my statement.’

‘To give you a Breathalyzer test,’ Stalk growled. ‘There is only one reason why you would be in Mudge Lane at one thirty in the morning – if you were drunk and hoping to avoid the police.’

Damn and blast!

‘There is another reason.’ Steve stepped forward and threw his arm around my shoulders once more. ‘This is Mudge Lane, Officer. Surely you know what that means?’ He wiggled his eyebrows.

‘No,’ said Stalk.

‘Vicky and I had a romantic rendezvous.’

‘That’s right,’ I said with relief.

‘When I got here, she was in a terrible state. I remember when I saw my first body. It was a farming accident. Bloke got mangled in the thresher. Couldn’t sleep for weeks. Even hit the bottle myself for a while.’

Good old Steve! ‘It was a terrible shock,’ I chimed in. ‘I was shaking—’

‘So I gave her a medicinal shot of brandy.’

‘Just a small one. I am perfectly capable of driving home.’

Stalk regarded us both with suspicion.

Steve stuck out his jaw. ‘Ms Hill needs to be out of those wet clothes and tucked up in bed, not hauled off to a cold police station.’

I had to admit Steve was impressive when angry and, despite my feelings, was deeply touched. If only I could fall in love with him.

‘Inspector?’ said a familiar voice. ‘A word please.’

Startled, Stalk swung around. ‘Probes! What the hell are you doing here?’

I gasped and, without thinking, shrugged Steve’s arm off. This was not Detective Sergeant Probes’s beat. He worked with the Plymouth Drug Action Squad, a good forty-minute drive away. What’s more, I hadn’t heard or seen his car arrive, and we were in the middle of nowhere.

Mobile phones did not work down in the dell, either – as I found out when I’d had to run up to high ground to make the emergency call to Steve. Considering that Probes’s lightweight raincoat hardly covered his red-and-white-striped pajamas, it was as if Probes had simply teleported in from his bedroom.

Wait! Why was Probes wearing his pajamas? Surely he couldn’t be the third member of the love triangle?

With barely a nod in my direction, Probes led Stalk out of earshot, closely followed by DC Bond.

‘Okay, I get it. I’m not blind,’ said Steve, arms akimbo. ‘What’s going on between you and that redheaded copper?’

‘Nothing. I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, flustered at seeing Probes so unexpectedly. It had been weeks since we’d tried to enjoy a celebratory dinner over my last front-page exclusive, but that magical evening had been cut short when he got a phone call. Probes’s promise that we’d make it another time came to nothing. Frankly, it was embarrassing seeing him again, and it was obvious that he felt embarrassed, too.

‘Stalk’s right,’ said Steve. ‘What were you doing in Mudge Lane at one thirty in the morning?’ Steve’s expression darkened. ‘I noticed his pajamas. And yet you tell me you want to focus on your career?’

‘I was at Barbara’s hen party. For heaven’s sake, Steve,’ I said. ‘A woman is lying dead not twenty feet from where we stand. This is hardly the time to discuss our relationship.’

Steve brightened. ‘So we are having a relationship!’

Fortunately I was saved from answering by the return of Stalk and Probes. Without even bidding a hello or goodbye, Probes stepped up onto the wooden walkway and was swallowed into the darkness as quietly as he had appeared.

‘You’re free to go, Vicky,’ said Stalk, who had never addressed me by my first name before. ‘My colleague speaks very highly of you.’

‘Oh yes, I’m sure he does,’ muttered Steve.

‘We won’t need to talk to you again,’ said Stalk. ‘It’s clear what happened here tonight.’

‘Probes knew the victim?’ I said, feeling an inexplicable stab of jealousy.

Stalk made a strange chuckling sound. ‘Nothing like that. The poor woman was riding her bicycle on the walk way, slipped off, hit her head, and drowned.’

I looked at him with disbelief. Did he think I was born yesterday? ‘What about the Land Rover with all those fancy lights?’

‘Coincidence,’ said Stalk. ‘Anyway, she’s most likely a vagrant. There is a small group of gypsies camped in Upper Gipping—’

I’d heard the rumour. ‘But that’s miles away!’ I said. ‘What would she be doing down here?’

‘Frankly she’s no loss,’ said Stalk. ‘Those gypsies are a menace to society.’

Didn’t Mum say that her side of the family had Romany blood in their veins? Stalk’s inflammatory comments made my blood boil. ‘She still deserves justice,’ I said coldly.

‘I’ll say it again’ – Stalk’s voice hardened – ‘it was an accident, and that’s official. Now, you’d best get home unless you want to continue this conversation down at the station with a Breathalyzer test.’

I mumbled that it wouldn’t be necessary. Stalk turned on his heel and left.

‘I’d offer to take you home, doll,’ said Steve apologetically, ‘but I’ve got a body to deliver to the morgue.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m off.’

After Steve had successfully turned my F. . .