Expose! (26 page)

“Remember the man you met by the statue of Sir Francis Drake?”

“Yes,” I said. “He’s one of Annabel’s informants.”

“Goody. I thought as much.” She beamed. “I followed him
all
night.”

“And?”

“His name is Dino DiMarco. He’s got a huge warehouse down by the docks and—” she paused dramatically, “You’ll never guess what’s in there.”

“Handbags?”

“Yes!” Topaz screamed with excitement. “Yes! Handbags! Boxes and boxes of them! I found a place to hide and watch. People were coming and going all night long. Money was changing hands. She’s a criminal. Don’t you see? ”

I did see, but I needed to think. Annabel had a room full of handbags that she openly admitted to flogging on eBay but this sounded like a whole other operation. I also realized that Annabel had been telling the truth and that made me feel conflicted. I didn’t agree with what she was doing, but I just couldn’t snitch on my friend.

“Annabel will go to prison, and I’ll have her job,” said Topaz happily. “Let’s go to the police. Let’s call Colin
now
!”

“It doesn’t quite work like that,” I said. “We have to catch her in the act of physically receiving the stolen goods. You need to get hard evidence. Photographs.”

“Bother. You’re right.” Topaz gave a heavy sigh. “There is always so much to learn.”

“Did you get a look at the handbags?”

“Not close up. Why?”

“Just wondered.” There was a world of difference between dealing in fake handbags and selling stolen merchandise. I thought of a potential problem. Dad’s friend and my godfather, Chuffy McSnatch, dealt in the latter—among other things. The criminal world was small. Everyone knew everyone and I certainly didn’t like the idea of Annabel being in it. “Maybe you
should
keep an eye on things, Topaz.”

“Golly! You mean, go undercover for real? Stake out the warehouse? Write reports?”

“Well . . . yes, I suppose I do.”

“Ha-ha,” Topaz sang childishly. “You’ll
have
to tell Steve I’m a real reporter now!”

“Okay. I will.”

“Really?” Topaz’s eyes bugged open. “When? Today?”

“I’ve got the GSRF meeting at the Tuns,” I said. “How about this evening? Ask him to come to the café at six-thirty.”

Topaz put her mug down on the nightstand. “Thanks, boss.” She was bursting with excitement and leaned over to give me a hug. I tried to avoid her touch but was utterly trapped in my bed.

“Oh, I wish I could snuggle in with you right now,” she said. “I’m so tired.”

“We work together, remember?” I said, shoving her roughly away. “There is just one more thing.”

“I’m all yours.”

“As an
undercover
investigative reporter, there can be absolutely no scandal attached to your reputation.”

“You’re right.” Topaz sighed. “I won’t touch you again, I promise.”

“I’m not talking about us . . . not that there is an us,” I said hastily. “I was talking about setting off the fire alarm on Friday night.”

“But I didn’t!” Topaz’s eyes filled with tears. “I promise on my aunt’s grave.”

“Remember that side door you found behind that curtain?” I said. “It was a fire exit.”

“How was I to know?” she said sulkily. “Are you going to punish me?”

“I won’t, but the police might,” I said sternly. “Take my mug downstairs when you leave.”

Topaz did as I asked and fairly skipped out of my bedroom. As I heard her Capri—and several car alarms being triggered by the powerful V-8 engine—roar out of Factory Terrace, I slid back under the duvet for a snooze.

Unfortunately, mere moments later my mobile rang. With a groan, I recognized the caller ID. It was Robin. Didn’t he realize it was Sunday morning? I hit “ignore” and let it go to voice mail but couldn’t go back to sleep.

Pushing Annabel and her handbags, and Steve and Sammy Larch’s fatal fall aside, I tried to focus on Douglas Fleming and the day ahead.

Questioning a killer without arousing suspicion was no easy task and required tact, skill, and nerves of steel. I’d done it twice before, surely I could do it again.

27

The first race of the season was held in a gloomy annex at the rear of the Three Tuns.

Part skittle alley, part games room, today’s venue had been vastly brightened up by the GSRF’s signature green and silver bunting hanging from the rafters. Even though it wasn’t quite eleven, the car park was packed and the place was rapidly filling up with competitors and fans alike, all wearing green sweatshirts emblazoned with the letters GSRF.

To the right of the front entrance Olive Larch sat at a trestle table marked REGISTER SNAILS HERE. Registration cost twenty pounds per snail for the entire season with an additional five pounds entry fee per race. Personally, I thought that a bit steep but since GSRF offered cash as prize money, could see the reasoning behind it.

A dry-erase board listing the locations of all the upcoming twice-monthly meetings stood on an easel next to the trestle table. Local pubs took turns hosting the event. Some publicans liked to throw in plates of sandwiches and fruit punches on the house. Since I was partial to Cornish pasties, I was particularly looking forward to next month’s venue at the Nag and Bucket.

A long line of eager entrants clutching shoeboxes or holding palm-sized saucers snaked around the outside of the annex. I drifted over, notebook in hand to ask a few general who, what, when, where, how, and why questions. There were a handful of first-timers—“not from these parts,” but willing to “give it a go just this once.” Most of the competitors were simply taking part because “that’s what we’ve always done.”

Everyone seemed in excellent spirits although the general consensus was that the secretary was unbelievably slow. I had to admit they were right. Olive Larch sat in front of a large leather-bound ledger and painstakingly entered each snail’s details in her spidery scrawl. Next, she fixed a tiny numbered plaque to the snail’s shell with glue. The snail was then passed on to the Scrutineer—Tony—for slime testing and, if necessary, assigned a minute weight cloth. This strip of silk had small pockets—sewn by Olive—specifically for lead weights and was fastened to the plaque with cotton. Champions such as Seabiscuit, Bullet, and Rambo would be among the select few to be allocated a handicap.

I took a pale green leaflet from a pile entitled
GSRF-Everything You Need To Know But Are Afraid To Ask
and skimmed the contents.

Basically, snails were run in heats of six on any of the three circular cloth-covered tables placed along the floor of the alley itself. These tables looked like four-ring archery targets. Six snails were placed in the bull’s-eye and, on starters orders, made their way to the outside perimeter. The first two to cross the line went through to the finals, which was held at the far end of the annex on a specially adapted billiard table, covered with a waterproofed wooden insert. Flanking the billiard table were three-story bleachers, affording an excellent view for spectators.

Scoring was as follows—six, for a win, five, for second place, four, for third, and so on. These points went toward the Larch Legacy Supreme cup awarded to the best overall champion of the season. Naturally each race meeting had its own champions of the day.

Spying the Barker brothers from Gipping’s notorious gang, the Swamp Dogs, I noted each lad carried a glass plant mister filled with water and demanded to know why.

“Snails like damp conditions,” said Mickey who was the oldest and tallest of the four. The boys’ job was to make sure every racetrack was well spritzed prior to each heat.

I spotted Mr. Evans standing on an upturned orange crate next to a blackboard. As the official bookie, he was taking bets for major races including—the Half-Yard Sprint, the Three-Yard Endurance, and the One-Yard Steeplechase. Mrs. Evans—looking very fetching this morning in a green velour jumpsuit—took the money from eager punters, recording each transaction in yet another ledger.

Catching my eye, her face lit up and she beckoned me over, much to the chagrin of one of her customers, a man with mutton-chop whiskers and bad teeth. I hadn’t seen him before. No doubt he was an out-of-towner.

“Did you see Sadie last night?” she whispered, keeping one eye on Mr. Evans in case he overheard. “Did she like the care parcel?” Assuring her that yes, I did see Sadie and yes, she did like the care parcel, I was about to ask her not to allow
anyone
to enter my bedroom whether I was there or not, but didn’t get the chance. Mr. Evans announced that bets were about to close for the first race—The Maiden Half-Yard Slide.

Leaving Mrs. Evans to her duties, I saw Wilf chatting to Fleming and strolled over. Fleming seemed perfectly at ease. I still found it difficult imagining him as a cold-blooded killer.

“The Gala was an utter fiasco,” I heard him say. “Not helped by that rabble rouser Randall. Those jumpers are a destructive lot.”

“Morning gents,” I said.

“Ah, just the person I want to see,” said Wilf. “Make sure you get plenty of tidbits today, young Vicky.”

“At least Randall isn’t here,” Fleming remarked. “We don’t want any more bad publicity.”

“Actually, I saw Dave Randall yesterday, and he has written proof that the Larch Legacy should have gone to the jumpers.”

“Do you have proof?” Wilf swung around to face me and fixed me with his one good eye.

“Yes, a signed document. Dave said he felt someone made Sammy change his mind at the last minute.” I was about to mention it had been Scarlett but remembered that hearsay was one of Wilf ’s pet peeves. Instead, I said, “Don’t you handle the Larch estate now, Mr. Fleming?”

There was a slight pause before Fleming gave a pleasant smile and said, “Whoever told you that was misinformed.” He glanced over at the clock on the wall. “Goodness. Is that the time? You’d better get My Girl settled on table two, Wilf. I’ll be starting your race in ten minutes.”

As Wilf hurried away I called out, “Good luck! Break a shell!” before turning to Fleming. “Can I have a quick word?”

“Perhaps later, dear,” said Fleming. “I need to run to my car. I left the starter pistol there.”

“I’ll come with you. We can talk on the way.”

“Of course,” he said, but a flicker of annoyance crossed his face.

Outside in the car park, Fleming withdrew a small case from the boot of his black Audi RS Avant. “What was it you needed to ask me?”

“I wanted to apologize about missing out on some key details in Mrs. Fleming’s obituary.”

Fleming looked surprise. “It is me who should apologize for the rather sparse information I gave you. You did a lovely job. I’ve had a few people come up and tell me they had no idea Scarlett was such an accomplished actress.”

“Funerals are a specialty of mine,” I said modestly, “which is why I am so persnickety about details. Where on earth did you find an Egyptian coffin at such short notice?”

“I’m sorry?” Fleming turned white. “I don’t follow.”

“I’m sure a lot of my readers would be interested to know.”

“The funeral company did everything,” Fleming said quickly. “I really must get back.”

“And obviously, they arranged for the body to be transported from Spain, too?”

“Of course. Really, Vicky, is this necessary? Scarlett is gone.
Gone!
” Fleming’s eyes grew watery, but this time crocodile tears would not fool me. “I cannot believe these questions coming from
you
of all people. You have always shown such kindness. Scarlett called you a journalist with a heart, but now . . . I don’t know what to think!”

“I’m just doing my job,” I faltered. “I was only—”

“Stop!” He held up his hand. “Enough! Let’s forget we ever had this conversation. I don’t want to tell Wilf that you are harassing me. Good day.” And with that, he stormed back to the annex.

You idiot, Vicky!
I could have kicked myself. My interrogation skills left a lot to be desired. What had I expected? That he would just cave in and admit that he preordered the coffin himself?

I trooped back to the annex thoroughly disheartened until I spied Ronnie Binns placing a shoebox on the windowsill. Oh well. My day was already ruined. Why not just finish it by insulting Ronnie Binns, too?

Ronnie cupped Rambo—wearing a plaque with the number five and a dark purple weigh cloth—in the palm of his hand.

“Rambo seems shy this morning,” I said, peering closely at a brown shell. “Oh! Excuse me.” I took two steps back as the full force of Ronnie’s foul body odor hit me. Once again, I marveled at how Annabel survived behind that curtain in Gipping Manor with this smelly little man.

“He’s resting, aren’t you, my boy.” Ronnie lovingly ran a grimy forefinger across the snail’s shell. “Saving his strength for the steeplechase.”

“What extra weight is he carrying?”

“Half an ounce.”

“That’s a lot.”