A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (26 page)

‘Victoria?’ Mrs Poultry said, rattling the handle. ‘Open the door at once!’ Thank God I had had the foresight to lock it. ‘There’s someone to see you.’

Someone to see
me
? My stomach turned over. The only night visitors the Hill family had wore dark blue uniforms and carried handcuffs. Topaz must have betrayed me to the cops.
Oh God!
I was going to be arrested.

‘Be right there!’ I gave the room a once-over, straightened the bedclothes, and went to let Mrs Poultry in.

‘Oh my God, Vicky!’ To my astonishment, Annabel pushed past my landlady and threw herself onto my bed.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said, instantly wary. Annabel’s face was pale, her hair in disarray – although I noted freshly applied lipstick.

Mrs Poultry stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, sucking a Coff-Off. ‘I’m afraid your friend can’t stay here. No visitors after nine o’ clock.’

‘Mrs Poultry, this is Annabel Lake,’ I said, trying to collect my thoughts. ‘Annabel, this is my landlady, Mrs.—’

‘Yes, I know who she is,’ Mrs Poultry snapped. Of course! Why was I surprised? Everyone knew Annabel.

I pulled my rival to her feet and tried to bundle her towards the door. ‘She’s just leaving.’ Annabel’s feet seemed glued to the floor. She wouldn’t budge.

‘I’m not leaving without Vicky.’ Annabel was defiant. ‘She’s the only person I can trust.’

Although severely disturbed by her arrival, my heart swelled with happiness. How odd life is. I had always assumed Annabel had tons of friends. Knowing that she rated
me
as her number one chum changed everything.

Annabel grabbed my shoulders and stared intensely into my eyes. ‘Something has happened, Vicky. You must come. This is what we journalists do. This is our calling!’

‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’ I said acutely aware of Mrs Poultry’s disapproval.

Annabel shook her head. ‘No. It’s a matter of life or death. We must go
now
.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Mrs Poultry’s face was grim.

If I risked eviction, so be it. Annabel needed me. ‘Let me change into my clothes.’ I was wearing my pyjamas.

‘There’s no time. They might still be there,’ she said, grabbing my hand and dragging me past Mrs Poultry.

We thundered down the stairs. ‘At least let me change my slippers,’ I yelled, but Annabel had already dashed out of the front door.

Grabbing my safari jacket from the hall coatrack, I threw it on over my pyjamas and kicked off my slippers.
Blast!
I’d left my shoes in the bedroom. Unwilling to meet Mrs Poultry on the stairs, I slipped on her wellington boots. Annabel was already revving up the engine outside. She sounded the horn three times, loud and hard.

‘Come on!’ Annabel’s BMW began to move off before I’d even closed the passenger door. She gunned the engine. I put on my seat belt. We peeled out of Rumble Lane and tore onto the main road heading away from the town.

‘For God’s sake, tell me what’s going on,’ I said, holding on to the edge of my seat as she took a particularly sharp corner, almost throwing the BMW up on two wheels.

Annabel didn’t answer, being too focused on her driving. One hand tightly gripped the steering wheel whilst the other manipulated the gear stick with great skill.

As we drove on, I began to curse my lack of foresight. First of all, I was dressed in my pyjamas; secondly, I had stolen Mrs Poultry’s boots; and third, she might even at this moment be collecting my things and tossing them out of the window.

Abruptly, Annabel turned down a gravel lane signposted
GIPPING CANAL
–
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED
.

‘Where are we going?’ Pebbles spun off the tyres, no doubt chipping away at the paintwork but Annabel only slowed down when the lane turned into a bridleway, barely wide enough for one car. A thick and ghostly mist drifted across the windscreen in waves, casting an eerie sheen. Visibility was down to no more than five feet. On the driver’s side, I could just make out a thick hedge and on mine, the flat blackness of deep water.

‘We’re not allowed down here. We’re trespassing.’ I felt scared. We were also too close to the bank for my liking. The day had been filled with lunatics. Why shouldn’t Annabel be one, too? I recalled her fury at having to make the tea. What if she believed I’d usurped her position as Pete’s mistress? How easy for Annabel to push me into the canal! Everyone knew I was an orphan. She’d just announce I’d run away. Even Mrs Poultry wouldn’t care because I’d paid up until the end of the week and it would save her the bother.

Stifling a sob, I pinched the inside of my thigh, hard. I had to get a grip. Who knew what Annabel had discovered? Although we were now bosom buddies, it didn’t change our professional relationship. We were still rivals and still in a race for that frontpage scoop.

The mist cleared to reveal a quaint one-storey cottage next to a huge gated lock. Annabel pulled up outside and cut the engine. The place was in complete darkness and very creepy.

‘What are we doing here? We’ll be in trouble,’ I whispered. ‘Isn’t this—?’

‘Beaver Lock Lodge, yes,’ Annabel said in a low voice. ‘I live here.’

‘You live
here
?’ All curiosity was replaced by pure envy. ‘All by yourself?’

Annabel must be loaded. Beaver Lock Lodge was one of five identical cottages dotted along the twelve-mile length of Gipping Canal. Only two weeks ago one had been for sale in the paper for over two hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. How on earth could she afford it?

‘Sssh!’ she hissed. ‘Can you see anything?’

‘What am I supposed to be looking for?’ I said irritably.

‘I came home and saw someone moving around inside with a flashlight.’

‘Well, there’s no one here now.’ If there was one thing I knew for certain, it was how burglars operated. They move in, do their business, and move back out. If startled, they don’t hang around to see who it is.

‘Are you sure?’ Annabel made no move to get out of the car. We sat there in darkness. It was cold.

‘Maybe it was that cat burglar,’ I suggested. ‘Why didn’t you just go to the police?’

‘Not yet,’ Annabel said. ‘You see, I think I’m on to something.’

I detected a tinge of excitement in her voice, which I didn’t like one bit. ‘Your shocking exclusive, I suppose,’ I said lightly.
Please God, don’t let her story be better than mine
.

‘Perhaps.’

‘In that case, why ask me?

‘I’m not as brave as you—’

‘Of course you are,’ I said, steeling myself for the inevitable insult that usually followed one of Annabel’s compliments.

Annabel gave a wry laugh. ‘I mean, you’re really one of the boys out in the field, risking life and limb.’

‘That’s true—’

‘I mean, you have to admit, you don’t even care what you
wear
.’ Annabel pinched the material of my safari jacket and pulled a face.

‘I’m freezing.’ I opened the car door. ‘Let’s go. Come on.’

‘I don’t want to,’ wailed Annabel, in a childish voice, but followed me all the same.

My heels already had blisters thanks to Mrs Poultry’s ill-fitting wellingtons. I trudged up the path and tried the front door. It opened at my touch. ‘Someone’s definitely been in.’

‘I don’t usually lock it.’

‘Do you know that ninety per cent of burglars are opportunists?’ I said sternly. ‘They’ve probably been casing the joint for weeks.’ I snapped on the lights.

‘Oh!’ Annabel screamed, and rushed into the centre of the room, twirling in circles like a dervish. ‘My things! My lovely things!’

There was no doubt about it. The room had been ransacked. Cupboards and drawers lay open with all their contents heaped in the centre of the floor. Pictures had been removed from the walls and propped against the furniture. Sofa cushions were tossed to the side. But there were no upturned plants on the floor; no tomato ketchup squirted over the sofa. Even the glass drinks cabinet was untouched.

‘Annabel! Calm down. Let’s take a deep breath and find out what has been taken.’

As a former lockkeeper’s home, it was small with a living room, galley kitchen, and two doors leading off the tiny entrance hall. It looked expensively furnished with all the fittings and fixtures made from the highest quality. Lace was everywhere – draped over the backs of chairs and on every conceivable surface. The living room seemed more of a prostitute’s boudoir, rather than the Flemish look – presumably – that Annabel had hoped to achieve.

‘Why me?’ Annabel perched on the edge of the sofa frame, looking bewildered.

‘Where do you keep your jewellery?’

‘In the bedroom.’ Annabel pointed to a door where her name was emblazoned with angel stickers. She clutched at her throat. ‘I can’t go in there. What if they’ve . . . you know . . . done a number two, on my things.’

‘A what?’ I was exasperated. ‘Oh really, Annabel. Don’t be so silly.’ It was true that sometimes burglars – particularly troubled teenagers – thought it hilarious to leave a personal calling card.

‘I think I’ll stay here.’

Annabel’s bedroom was painted dusty pink and gold. Pushed against the far wall was a flamboyant four-poster bed adorned with what looked like Belgium’s entire lace supply. A gigantic red velvet heart-shaped cushion complete with huggable arms was the
pièce de résistance
.

I was seized by an astonishing epiphany. Why hadn’t I realized it before? Annabel must be some kind of escort girl. That was why she kept the door unlocked for late-night callers. It certainly explained why she had money to burn – and a brand-new car.

‘Is everything all right?’ whispered Annabel, who had sneaked up behind me. ‘Oh! Oh! What’s that?’ she squealed in my ear. ‘The pillow! The pillow!’

Something was visible above the heart-shaped cushion. I approached the bed. Instinctively, I already knew what it was. A poppet.

‘Don’t look!’ I had to think. This poppet was distinctly different from Brian’s. Whereas Brian’s was beautifully detailed, this was an ugly doll made of papier-mâché. It wore crudely painted-on black trousers and a yellow top. Strands of orange wool were glued to its head. A hatpin was pushed through one pencilled-on eye.

Annabel peered over my shoulder and screamed again. ‘It’s a doll!’

Her fright seemed genuine. Suddenly, Brian’s words – ‘You’ve got to—’ came back with startling clarity. Brian knew I wasn’t Annabel Lake but had kept my secret. He knew I had the original coroner’s report – perhaps its existence had leaked out, and someone had believed Annabel had kept the damning evidence.
That’s
what this was all about. The poppet was a warning.

‘Don’t worry. It’s nothing but a childish prank.’

‘I don’t know any children.’ Annabel headed for her wardrobe and started rifling through her shoes. ‘My jewellery’s still in here.’ She paused quizzically, hands on hips. ‘Let me see . . . if it’s not jewellery, it must be—’

‘That
big
story you’re working on?’

‘Wait a minute,’ exclaimed Annabel. ‘Maybe it’s to do with Salome Steel? I don’t read her books but aren’t those doll things in them?’ Annabel frowned. ‘Or perhaps someone got the idea from
reading
her books?’

Blast!
Annabel was getting warm. But wait – hadn’t Topaz made some comment about Annabel’s bigwig lover? It was worth a try. ‘You could be right,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s a warning from an angry wife?’

Annabel turned pale. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s all right, your secret is safe with me,’ I said. ‘We’re friends, remember?’

‘I swore I wouldn’t tell a soul.’ Annabel sat on the edge of the bed, and began quietly, ‘It was when I started to research this
huge
story. I interviewed Walter and one thing led to another. We just fell in love.’

‘Walter? Walter
Rawlings
?’ I was incredulous. ‘The town
mayor
?’

Mayor Rawlings was also head of the town planning department and had fingers in all sorts of West Country pies from car dealerships to being on the board of Devon Satellite Bell.

Annabel looked wistful. ‘Walter says his wife doesn’t understand him. He says sex is mechanical with her and . . .’ She blushed. ‘We’re even talking marriage.’

The penny dropped. ‘This cottage is his, isn’t it? And the BMW?’

‘The car was a gift,’ she said defensively.

Annabel was a fool. I even felt a tiny bit sorry for her. Everyone knows a man never marries his mistress!

‘Is that why you didn’t call the police?’

‘I couldn’t. Walter’s wife is Detective Inspector Stalk’s cousin.’

‘I’m right. She sent that poppet as a warning,’ I said.

Annabel’s face fell. ‘It’s no wonder that Walter doesn’t love her. What a wicked thing to do.’ Annabel frowned. ‘But why would she mess up the living room?’

‘To find out what jewellery he’s been buying you.’

‘Why look behind the picture frames? She didn’t even go in my bedroom.’ Annabel stood up and began to pace around the room. ‘No! I think I’m going to tell Walter,’ Annabel exclaimed. ‘He should know what she’s capable of.’