Expose! (34 page)

My face burned with shame. “Not that there’s anything wrong in flogging handbags,” I mumbled.

“There’s a lot wrong in flogging
fake
handbags,” Chuffy declared. “I wouldn’t touch ’em. My stuff is genuine Hoat cootur.”

Haute couture!
“Exactly!” I said. “Because according to the Anti-Counterfeiting Group, there’s a big clampdown on fake anything. The authorities are positive the proceeds go toward funding terrorism.”

“I read the papers,” said Chuffy.

“We should notify the authorities and get Annabel arrested!” I cried.

“Notify the
authorities
?” Chuffy’s expression turned ugly. “Snitches are the scum of the earth,” he hissed. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Mortified I looked away, wishing that the floor would swallow me up. In the uncomfortable silence that followed three trains passed by. Across the room, the young woman caught my eye and mouthed the words, “Are you okay?” I nodded. Her unexpected kindness brought a lump to my throat.

“Don’t pout,” said Chuffy finally. “It doesn’t suit you. Does this Annabel live alone?”

“No, with a doctor.”

“Write down her address and make sure you get them both out of the house tonight. I don’t care how you do it,” he said. “And give me the address of Dino’s warehouse, too.”

I scribbled down both and gave him Topaz’s report. He slipped it into his pocket.

“I want you to go back to Gipping and clear out your stuff,” Chuffy said. “I’m talking computer. I’m talking laptop. Delete all files. I’ll get new papers for you. Keep your mobile turned on until I give you instructions, then destroy it.”

I nodded mutely. Even though I suspected this would happen, knowing my dream as an investigative journalist was coming to an end was utterly devastating.

Chuffy stood up and bent over to gently kiss me on the forehead. “Chin up,” he said. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“Is it true about the security guard being in a coma?” I said quietly.

Chuffy nodded grimly. “It was an accident. Best forget it.”

But I knew I couldn’t.

I was ordered to wait a full fifteen minutes while Chuffy left the Railway Inn so we wouldn’t be seen leaving together.

My spirits plunged even further. How on earth would I get Annabel and Dr. Frost out of the house? I sat gloomily watching the clock. The businessman whispered sweet nothings in the brassy blonde’s ear, then got to his feet. “Ten minutes,” he said, and left.

The woman took out a small compact mirror and began to touch up her makeup and comb her hair. She opened a raggedy clutch bag and took out a pink business card.

To my horror, she sauntered over to me. “Here,” she said, laying it on the table. “Give me a call sometime. We get nice punters. No creeps.”

“Thanks.” I watched her leave before examining the card.
Good God!
Could my day get worse? EDWINA’S ESCORTS: WOMEN WITH CLASS stared up at me. Had she honestly thought I was a hooker and Chuffy was my client? The thought was repulsive.

My indignation turned to excitement. That was it! I knew exactly how I was going to deal with Annabel and Dr. Frost.
Thank you Edwina!
All it would take was one clever phone call.

It was only during the return journey to Gipping Junction that my thoughts returned to Olive Larch. I’d write to Pete. Taking out pen and paper I wrote a detailed account of all my suspicions, taking care to include Scarlett’s part in Sammy Larch’s tragic fall. I told Pete where to find the key to the vault, the incriminating CCTV tape—in my bottom drawer at Factory Terrace—and gave him Neil Titley’s contact number.

As I reread my report, another wave of misery hit me afresh. It didn’t seem fair that I had to leave Gipping-on-Plym because of my dad. Chuffy said he was going to make it all go away and I knew he’d do just that. Did that mean I had to go away, too?

One piece of advice that Dad had always given me was to deny everything. Even when Mum caught him in fla grante with Pam Dingles in a hotel room in Shoreditch, he swore he was helping her change a lightbulb.

The only connection I had to Harold Hill was my name and my eye color. I’d looked myself up on Google once and discovered there were dozens and dozens of Vicky Hills in existence. As for my sapphire blue eyes—hadn’t Annabel purchased her own colored contacts on the Internet? The postcard she’d seen in my bedroom was just a postcard. It was all circumstantial evidence. Nothing could be proved.

My spirits began to lift.

Thanks to a signal failure, the train was an hour late getting into Gipping Junction. I made my untraceable phone call from the pay phone on the platform station. By the time I reached Factory Terrace it was after six.

The members of the Gipping Snail Racing Federation were already in full cry in the sitting room. Tony was taking photographs, Mrs. Evans had laid out nibbles on the coffee table, and Barbara was handing round paper plates. I was about to take off my safari jacket when I realized there was no sign of Olive.

“Where’s Olive?” I asked Fleming.

“She was feeling very tired,” he said. “I persuaded her to stay at home. She said she knew the minutes were in good hands. Do sit down, Vicky.”

I stared at him with mounting horror. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Dragging Mrs. Evans out in the hall, I whispered urgently, “Some emergency has come up. I can’t stay.”

“That’s all right. Barbara’s taken the minutes before.”

“I’m going to leave something in an envelope for Tony to give to Pete,” I said. “It’s really important you don’t forget.”

Reassuring me that she wouldn’t, I dashed upstairs to grab an envelope and stuffed the report inside, scrawling CONFIDENTIAL: PETE CHAMBERS and left it on the hall table.

I got back on my moped and tore off toward Headcellars, praying I’d get there before it was too late.

37

The gravel drive was flanked by thick woodland on one side, and a hedge on the other behind which was a field of cows. Presumably, they were the same cows that Mary Berry had put out to pasture on that fateful morning when all this began.

Being May, the evening was still relatively light. I prayed that whatever Scarlett had planned for Olive’s demise would happen under cover of darkness.

Spying a five-bar gate, I left my moped in a concealed spot and continued on foot. Having no idea what lay ahead, I didn’t want to announce my arrival. I’d seen enough movies where the friendly neighbor or a lone cop shows up unexpectedly. It always ended badly.

Keeping to the field side of the drive behind the hedge, I crept stealthily toward the house. Unfortunately, the cows followed me en masse. Each time I paused, they stopped, snorting and stomping their hooves. When I continued, so did they. It was most unnerving and it was all I could do not to run.

To my dismay, the hedge had been stock-proofed. The only exit from the field to the house was a second five-bar gate, a good fifty yards farther on.
Idiot, Vicky!
I was losing valuable time!

The cows suddenly made a wild dash and congregated around the gate—presumably expecting to be fed.
Blasted cows!
It was a good five or more precious minutes of careful negotiating around piles of cow manure, before I could clamber over.

I found myself in the courtyard behind the house. Scarlett’s Range Rover stood outside the converted barn.

Praying no one was watching from a window, I darted over to the car and ducked down behind it. Retrieving my Swiss Army penknife, I plunged the blade into the front and rear passenger tires. If Scarlett were planning on a hasty exit, two flat tires would certainly slow her down.

I made another dash toward the back door and that’s when I heard them. Chilling screams were coming from inside and the sound of smashing glass and china. I went to turn the handle but the back door had been locked.

Frantic, I recalled the tiny bathroom window I’d climbed through before. It was open. I scrambled inside as Olive’s screaming grew louder and more hysterical.

Jumping down into the bathroom, I ran into the hallway toward the dreadful noise and stopped dead. Horrified.

A brown-robed monk was grappling with Olive at the top of the cellar stairs.

For a split second, I thought it was the ghost of Father Gregory until I realized the figure was dressed as Robin Hood’s Friar Tuck, complete with full face mask and monk’s pate.

“Scarlett!” I yelled. “Let her go!”

Startled, Scarlett turned toward me, loosening her grip on Olive for a second. It was all Olive needed. She kicked Scarlett in the shin crying, “Help, Vicky! Help!” But it only made Scarlett more furious.

With one final determined push, she flung Olive away and through the open cellar door. There was a sickening series of thuds and screams as Olive tumbled down the stairs. Then, silence.

I was so shocked I could hardly breathe. “You’ve killed her,” I whispered, backing away, hardly able to believe what I’d seen.
Please God don’t let Olive be dead
.

Scarlett swiftly moved toward me She looked grotesque and utterly terrifying in her ill-fitting mask especially as it looked like she’d added some touches of her own. Friendly Friar Tuck’s face had black-rimmed eye sockets and fake blood streaked down gray cheeks.

Surrounded by broken vases, smashed picture frames, I cast around for a weapon of any kind but fell over a fallen chair. Scarlett lunged forward with astonishing speed. She grabbed my wrists and hauled me to my feet, slamming me hard against the wall. Through the mask, her eyes were yellow with rage.

“Please Scarlett, don’t,” I protested feebly. “It’s not too late to talk.”

She didn’t answer, simply propelled me toward the open cellar door. “Yes, let me go to Olive,” I begged. “She might still be alive.”

Instead Scarlett kicked the door closed. I tripped and fell on my back again, dragging her down with me, only just managing to roll out of her way as she hit the floor, loosening her grasp.

I spied an abandoned cricket bat yards away and stood up, only to pitch forward as Scarlett took hold of my ankles; her acrylic nails digging deep into my flesh.

I went down again, hitting my chest on an overturned chair and my head on the corner of an oak dresser. Severely winded, I lay there, eyes closed, unable to move. I’d forgotten that among her many accomplishments, Scarlett held a red belt in Tae Kwon Do.

Was this how it would end for me? I steeled myself for a final beating but nothing happened. All I could hear was a loud click, retreating footsteps, and the sound of my heart pounding in my ears.

I hauled myself into a sitting position. My head hurt. My ribs were sore. The house was eerily silent. My thoughts flew to Olive. I had to get to her yet I knew Scarlett would be back at any moment. I’d seen enough horror films to know there had to be a grand finale.

I longed to call out to Olive, to reassure her that she wasn’t alone but I daren’t utter a sound. Wait! I could call 999! I didn’t need to speak. They could triangulate my bearings! I pulled out my mobile but my hands were shaking so much I couldn’t hit the right numbers. Then, a blinding pain in my arm as the phone was kicked out of my grasp.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Scarlett calmly, as I watched my mobile skitter away.

She stood over me holding Fleming’s starter pistol. Having discarded her monk’s costume for a navy velour jogging suit, anorak, and trainers. Her blond hair was scraped back in a ponytail. Except for a slash of bright red lipstick, she was devoid of makeup and sported just four acrylic nails.

“The phone lines have been cut,” she said and, without taking her eyes off me, snatched up my mobile and put it in her pocket.

“The police are on their way,” I bluffed. “They know your real name is Sydney Pember.”

“Really? How clichéd!” Scarlett said. “I was expecting something more original from the
Gazette
’s star reporter. Oh! By the way, I liked my obituary. You did a nice job.”

“Thank you,” was all I managed to say but my hopes rose a little. Scarlett was beginning to talk. This was good. Dad always said that keeping your abductor talking was the key to survival.

“It was a bold plan, but if I must say, not very well thought through,” I said, then wished I hadn’t.

“I beg your pardon?” A tide of red flew up Scarlett’s face. “It was very well thought through. How dare you!”

“What I meant was, there were things I’d have done differently.” I tried to sound calm but my stomach churned with fear.

“Really,” she said, her voice hard. “Like what?”

“Hiring Go-Go Gothic was a mistake.”

“I wasn’t to know Titley’s outfit was a gimmick,” Scarlett snapped. “Sadie told me he had a very classy Cadillac.”

“And pretending to be Melanie Carew when you made the booking,” I said. “You must have known someone would check.”

Scarlett’s jaw hardened. “Go on.”