A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (13 page)

‘Stop!’ Pierce Brosnan yelled. I didn’t look round. He was gaining on me. I wasn’t surprised. His judo moves in the churchyard showed him to be a fit man. I broke into a jog.

To my dismay, the track led
away
from The Grange, and safety. In fact, it fizzled into a narrow corridor, flanked by tall fir trees. I ran down the path and darted through a gap where I came face-to-face with Hugh’s Folly.

Standing thirty feet high and with a tiny window up top, it looked like Rapunzel’s tower from Grimms’
Fairy Tales
. There wasn’t time to pick the heavily padlocked door. Instead, I circled the thick yew hedge at the tower’s base, and dived into a convenient hole.

My safari jacket sleeve tore on the inner branches as I wriggled as far as I could to the back – Dave was right about moleskins and the importance of being properly dressed.

There was no way Pierce Brosnan would think of looking for me in here. I felt safe in this cocoon, buffered from the outside world.

Slowly, I managed to catch my breath and take in these new surroundings. There was far more room than I had imagined and it would actually make a terrific den.

As my heart regained its natural rhythm, I wondered why I hadn’t stood my ground and waited to see what the American had wanted. Better yet, I should have turned the tables and demanded what on earth he was doing lurking in the old pigsty. I had acted unprofessionally and sternly resolved never to do that again. I was quite certain that Christiane Amanpour would never have scurried back to the tent at the sound of the first little bang.

I glanced at my watch. Time was ticking on. Pete and Annabel could even be back at the car, wondering where I was. Apart from a few birds twittering and the rustle of the wind through the leaves, the coast seemed clear.

I’d no sooner crawled a foot back towards the entrance, when my heart flipped over. Familiar black shoes blocked the only escape route. The American had been as silent as a fox. How foolish of me! Dad always said in situations like this, it was vital to wait until dusk before making any move – not a mere ten minutes. I’d been careless and it could cost me my life.

People disappeared every day. No one knew where I was. What’s more, Pete and the entire police force thought I was an orphan – and, with my parents hiding out in Spain, let’s face it, I practically
was
.

Only God could help me now and frankly, even I was tiring of asking Him favours. Much as it’s handy to have the Almighty in my corner, I realized I was quite resourceful and had – so far – managed to solve my own problems.

This time, I would work alone.

I
t’s amazing how inventive the mind can be when faced with annihilation. I decided to be a hedge-jumper.

Drawing myself up into a crouching position, I lunged left and right yelling, ‘Yay! Yay! Yahooooo!’

I thrashed around in a frenzy of athletic leaps, much to the annoyance of a flock of pigeons who flew off at high speed.

‘Ma’am? Ma’am? Hello?’ The American sounded concerned.

I stopped, took a deep breath, and, adopting an angry tone, shouted, ‘What the
hell
. . . ?

‘Are you okay?’ The shoes disappeared to be replaced by Pierce Brosnan’s face peering into the gap. He removed his sunglasses to reveal piercing blue eyes. ‘I thought you were being murdered.’

Very funny, I thought – a killer with a sense of humour. I crawled towards him. ‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you. I was doing some exercises.’

‘Is that so?’ his eyes twinkled. To my surprise, they did not seem to be those of a dangerous man.

‘Let me help you up.’ Gallantly, he extended a black-gloved hand.

‘No need. All part of my
hedge-
jumping training,’ I said pointedly. Scrambling out, I got stiffly to my feet.

Elegant and distinguished, the American was dressed in a long black cashmere coat. His hair was jet-black, too – dyed. I recognized the bluish tinge from Dad’s efforts at knocking off a decade or two.

The American frowned. ‘Did you say you were a
hedge-
jumper?’

‘Oh! Do you jump, too?’ I asked, as if talking about the merits of fishing. ‘It’s fun, isn’t it?’

‘I was forgetting my manners. Name’s Chester Forbes.’

We shook hands. His fingers lingered over my palm for a second longer than necessary, sending an unexpected tingle to the soles of my feet. Really, he was quite an attractive man despite his age.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, conscious of a new dilemma. The slightest whisper of me being press could be disastrous. I was fairly confident he hadn’t recognized me in the churchyard and I was sure my accidental newsprint camouflage last night had rendered me invisible beneath Annabel’s desk. So far, Chester Forbes had no idea who I was, and I was determined to keep it that way.

‘My hedge-jumping friends just call me Vicky,’ I said, casually.

‘In that case you must know Dave Randall.’

Blast!
Chester had stolen Dave’s photographs so naturally he was going to ask about him.

‘Everyone knows Dave,’ I said with false enthusiasm. ‘He’s famous for the Fosbury Flop.’

‘Wouldn’t you think, as a friend of Sir Hugh’s’ – he paused – ‘Mr Randall would have
flopped
into his funeral?’

Clearly, this was a trick question. Thinking quickly, I said, ‘Dave? I heard he was prostrate with grief. Couldn’t leave his bed.’

‘Is that so?’ Chester’s expression indicated some doubt. He looked at me keenly. ‘I feel we’ve met before.’

I pretended to give this some thought. ‘I can’t imagine where.’

‘I saw you in the churchyard yesterday.’

‘You were there, too?’ I gushed. ‘I thought you looked a bit familiar. Wonderful funeral, wasn’t it?’ I gave a nervous cough and fell silent. Checking my watch, I exclaimed, ‘Good God! Is that the time? I really must go.’

Chester took my elbow and pulled me towards him. ‘So you saw what happened?’

‘Oh, that!’ I said, dismissively. ‘A new widow lashing out at random. Happens a lot in the country.’

‘Yeah. She
was
pretty mad.’ Did I detect a glint of amusement in Chester’s blue eyes?

I felt it safe to add a comment to show I was on his side. ‘I thought you handled it very well.’

‘Kandi’s always been a firecracker.’

‘Kandi?’ Switching deftly into my reporter mode, I inquired, ‘Katherine’s nickname, obviously.’

‘
Katherine
now, is it?’ Chester shook his head with a sigh.

‘She’s American. You’re American.’ I launched into my reporter routine. ‘Where did you meet?’

‘In America,’ he said sourly.

I wished I had a pen and paper. ‘How did you meet?’

‘Why all the questions?’ Chester’s expression darkened. Suddenly, he seized my hand again and turned it over. Alarmed, I tried to slip from his grasp but he held tight.

‘Too soft,’ he said, studying my palm.

I felt my face grow hot. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your hands are too soft for hedge-jumping.’ He stared deep into my eyes. ‘Who are you really, Vicky the hedge-jumper?’

‘I just told you. Honest.’ I snatched my hand away, burning with embarrassment. ‘The reason my skin is so soft is because . . . I usually wear gloves. I go to bed with my hands wrapped in oil, actually.’

I felt myself go a bit redder. Why would I talk about
bed
to this man, not to mention oiled hands?

‘Don’t worry, honey,’ he said with a soft laugh. ‘Sooner or later, you’ll tell me the real reason you ran away from me and hid in a hedge.’

‘Ran away?’ I said scornfully. ‘What a funny thing to say! I was practising my sprint-and-dive technique. I’ve enjoyed our chat but I really must be going.’ I tried to dodge past him but he blocked my way.

‘Why don’t I escort you to your car?’

‘I walked here.’ The last thing I wanted was to bump into Pete and Annabel. ‘Hedge-jumping is a gruelling sport. Fitness is everything.’ I demonstrated with energetic squats and lunges.

Chester stood back, his hands on his hips. When I stopped – panting heavily – he said, ‘Allow me to give you a ride back to town.’

‘Are you
sure
you don’t mind?’ I enthused, praying my face did not betray the sudden wave of terror I felt inside. After all, Annabel might be in the house getting the interview, but I was out in the cold, with the killer.

Chester offered me his arm. ‘Well, Vicky? Shall we?’

From this moment onward, I was not Victoria Brenda Hill, cub reporter on the world’s most boring newspaper, I was Vicky Hill, sharp and cunning private investigator and I was going undercover.

Slipping my arm through Chester’s, I gave him my best smile. ‘Lead the way.’

T
he Porsche was partially hidden under a bank of low-hanging trees. The moment Chester shut the passenger door I knew I’d made a foolish mistake. Not only was I getting into a car with a perfect stranger, I had broken the cardinal rule of safe reporting by not telling anyone my whereabouts.

Was I going to be another Peggy Fowler? I had been six years old when my school friend disappeared one hot summer afternoon. Peggy’s body had been unearthed months later, buried under a pile of leaves in a ditch by the side of the road. Martin Whelks, the postman, had done it. He’d lured Peggy into his van with a bag of sherbet pips. A few weeks before Peggy’s disappearance, Martin had offered the very same sweets to me. I preferred chocolate. It just goes to show that life is all about choices. Because of the cocoa bean, my life had been spared. Yet today, who knew if I would cheat death a second time?

With a grin I could only describe as wolfish, Chester slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. He turned towards me, fingers outstretched towards my throat. Good God! Was he going to attempt to strangle me straight away? Before I could lunge for the door handle, Chester reached for the seat belt behind my shoulder.

‘I like to drive fast,’ he said, drawing it over my body and fastening it with a snap. ‘Wouldn’t want you disappearing through the windshield and ruining that pretty little face.’

‘Ready?’ Chester asked as he turned the ignition.

The Porsche’s throaty engine exploded into life, sending a thrilling vibration straight through my body. There was something predatory about the sleek black car crouched low over the ground like a stalking panther. I couldn’t help thinking how jealous Annabel would be if she could see me now.

Chester reversed the car out from its hiding place and gently eased into the grassy track that led back to the main drive. His touch on the gear stick was a caress, so different from Pete’s awkward grope. I couldn’t help imagining Chester’s hand on my knee, then, perhaps, slowly making its way up my leg. I shuddered, instinctively clenching my thighs tightly together.

I glanced over at the man, reminding myself he was a creepy American who was nearly as old as Dad. Still, he seemed to possess a sophisticated James Bond aura, which I found attractive and unsettling. If I were to be seduced by Chester, surely he would be experienced in matters of love? I might even enjoy it!

‘Look at that!’ Chester said in an angry voice, putting a stop to my virginal musings.

He slowed the Porsche down to crawl alongside several yards of the decimated hedgerow bordering the drive.

‘Sheer butchery,’ he snarled, turning to me. ‘Why would you want to be a part of such a barbaric hobby? Don’t you have any respect for nature?’

Blast!
I had no defence. How was I to know my claim to hedge-jumping would backfire so horribly? All my valiant efforts at forging a friendship – and therefore securing a confession – seemed to dissolve in Chester’s contempt.

‘It’s taken decades to cultivate hedges like these,’ he raged on, his face flushed.

‘I suppose—’

‘Some of these country homes have hedges that date back to the seventeenth century—!’

‘I didn’t—’

‘It’s enough to force a man to take the law into his own hands!’

Bloody hell! This was the third time Chester had practically confessed to murder.

Fuelled by Chester’s fury, the Porsche picked up speed once more. His face set in severe lines, he said, ‘Dave Randall and I need to have a little chat and
you’re
going to arrange it.’

We had reached the Victorian gatehouses where, to my relief, the car turned towards the safety of Gipping, not in the direction of the desolate moors.

‘I don’t really know Dave all that well,’ I said, suddenly hating Dave Randall and his stupid hobby.

The Porsche was going faster and faster. I cleared my throat. ‘Excuse me, but I think it’s a thirty-mile limit here.’

‘You said you
did
know him.’ Chester deliberately pushed his foot down on the accelerator to increase the speed. Any suggestion of friendliness had evaporated. I gripped the edges of the bucket seat and glanced over at the speedometer. We were doing over sixty-five miles an hour! Oncoming cars flashed their lights and sounded their horns. At any other time, this would have been exhilarating.