A Vicky Hill Exclusive! (8 page)

Swiftly, I shoved it down the back of the iron radiator. A searing pain shot through my hand. The metal was blisteringly hot.

Seconds later, Annabel paused at the door to reception. ‘Bring my tea in here. I’ll wait for Brian. By the way, I put those photographs back on your desk. You
do
realize that any new ideas have to go through me now, don’t you?’

I didn’t. It was another blow to my self-esteem. Clearly Annabel’s rise in the newspaper hierarchy was far more meteoric than I realized. The thought of Annabel officially my superior was too much to bear. Yet, I was marginally comforted that she had no idea of the significance of those photographs and couldn’t resist making a comment.

‘I did try to tell you it was the wrong envelope,’ I said.

‘You should learn to speak up.’ With a toss of her head, she pushed past me and opened the door into reception.

Alone again, I turned my efforts back to the radiator. Somehow, I had to get the report out. I tried to slide my fingers down the back of it but only succeeded in burning my hand.

I needed something long and thin. I clattered down the basement steps and picked up a stick used for unblocking the drain. I put the kettle on to boil, then tore back upstairs.

I tried to pry the envelope out of its hiding place, but all I succeeded in doing was pushing it farther down. Exasperated, I got on my knees and attempted to reach the envelope from the bottom up. It was hopeless, as the skirting board was flush with the radiator base. The most awful thought struck me. It could become a fire hazard. The whole place could go up in flames. I could even be imprisoned for arson!

Stifling a cry of frustration, I stomped back down to the basement to make the tea. Tea was always a good salve in situations such as these.

As I waited for the kettle to boil, I actually had an inspirational flash. Wasn’t the central heating turned off at night? I’d just have to come back later on. If I could put the report on Pete’s desk by morning, surely no one would care how it got there?

A few minutes later I returned to reception bearing two mugs of tea. Annabel was sitting in the brown leatherette chair, leafing through a magazine on tractors.

‘Still no sign of Brian?’ I said, handing her a mug with a sympathetic smile. ‘What a bore!’

She shook her head. ‘Barbara’s locking up at five. I suppose something must have happened to him.’

‘Goes with the territory, doesn’t it?’ I said. ‘Perhaps he thought he was being followed?’

‘Pete’s going to be furious.’ Annabel looked worried. ‘He specifically told me to get it today.’

‘Have you tried to phone him?’

Annabel shook her head. ‘We only have his mobile.’

‘The hazards of living in a valley,’ I said, glad of Gipping’s non-existent mobile phone reception. ‘Never mind. Once Devon Satellite Bell finds a new site for that transmitter, our lives will be much easier.’

‘Which is hardly relevant now, is it?’ Annabel sneered.

‘Surely it can’t be
that
important.’

‘Actually, Vicky, it really is.’ Annabel swallowed hard and inspected her fingernails. Clearly that was as forthcoming as she was prepared to be.

‘Anyone would think it was a matter of life and death,’ I said lightly.

‘You really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Annabel snapped.

Her patronizing tone stung. ‘Perhaps not,’ I said. ‘But aren’t we supposed to be a team?’

Annabel peered into her mug of tea. ‘I can’t drink this. You’ve made it too strong.’

How ungrateful! Who on earth did she think she was? Why should I retrieve the coroner’s report just to save Annabel’s hide? Lord knows I had tried to offer the olive branch enough times, but not anymore. From now on, it was each woman for herself.

I
t was nearly 1.00 a.m. when I finally sneaked out of Rumble Lane. Mrs Poultry’s routine was like clockwork. She was a night owl and never went to bed before midnight.

Whilst my landlady was awake, it was hopeless to even attempt to leave the house unseen. She had acute hearing and kept the sitting room door ajar. It gave her a good view of the hallway and kitchen. I made the mistake once of trying to slip in for a late-night snack, but the moment my toe touched the floral linoleum, a voice materialized from the void, ‘Victoria! Out of bounds.’ I loathed being called by my full name. It always made me feel like a naughty child.

Earlier in the evening, I had tentatively broached Sir Hugh’s funeral when we had run into each other on the landing. I mentioned there had been a good turnout, taking care to watch her expression for any sign that she had actually been there under that bush.

Mrs Poultry, sucking slowly on her favourite Coff-Off cough drop, stared at me in silence. Then, turned on her heel and entered her bedroom without a word. I began to think I really had imagined it all, until I donned my outdoor clothes.

An Edwardian coat and hat stand stood against the wall to the right of the front door. As I searched for my scarf, I came across Mrs Poultry’s cloche hat stuck on a peg. To my delight, a tiny bur was caught under the brim. It was proof that she had been there in the church grounds, but why remained a mystery I resolved to look into later.

Soundlessly, I let myself out of the front door; Dad had showed me how to turn a lock so it wouldn’t click. I set off for the office at a brisk walk. Patches of fog sank down on my shoulders, filling the air with an oppressive heaviness that, just as quickly, lifted to reveal a cold, starry night and half-moon.

I shivered. Pulling my woollen scarf up around my face to keep warm, glad this was Gipping in the twenty-first century and not London in 1888. This eerie kind of weather would have provided fertile ground for Jack the Ripper’s stabbing sprees.

Oddly enough, I wasn’t afraid of the dark. I liked the stillness of night when I felt I was the only person awake in the whole world. I felt no fear taking the shortcut past the ruins of Gipping Castle and through the narrow alleyways.

In no time at all I was standing outside the
Gazette
. The three-story building loomed above me, seeming much larger in the dark. Even though the High Street was empty, Dad’s voice in my head insisted, ‘
Success in an undetected, forced entry centres on one
’
s ability to look as if you have every right to be there
.’ It was the main reason why I had carefully selected a brightly coloured purple and green striped scarf to wear with my safari jacket and jeans, as opposed to dressing all in black – complete with a black knitted balaclava – so favoured by burglars. If I were spotted, I would simply be doing some late-night research.

The front door was locked and bolted. Barbara was always overzealous when it came to security. I took the cobbled path alongside the building to the rear, which backed onto a narrow lane.

This rarely used entrance to the
Gazette
was via an old wooden gate, half off its hinges and wedged into a four-foot-high slate wall. I’d have to vault over it. Backing up a few paces, I launched myself into a pretty impressive straddle without so much as touching the surface. What a perfect couple Dave and I would make. We could hedge-jump together.

Safely over the wall, I was faced with never-ending piles of sodden, disused newspapers that, for decades, were tossed out of the basement door and left to rot.

Swiftly, I cast an appraising eye over the job, mentally running through Dad’s checklist:

1.   Assess the situation
.

2.   Check for hazards
.

3.   Proceed with caution
.

Above the basement door, about four feet to the right, was a corroded burglar alarm. Pete had given up persuading Wilf to get a high-tech security system installed. He said it was an unnecessary expense.

Like many foolish property owners, he believed just the sight of an alarm bell, or a sign reading
BEWARE OF DOG
was an effective deterrent. Dad and I always laughed about that, but in this case, I couldn’t afford to take any chances.

Needless to say, there was no ladder of any kind for me to take a closer look at the alarm. Reminding myself that every obstacle built character, I cast around for an alternative and, literally five seconds later, had a brilliant idea.

I began to stack the old newspapers into a tower against the wall under the alarm. It was jolly hot work as they were heavy with moisture. Many had disintegrated, most were soggy masses of mulch, but I pressed on regardless.

After ten minutes of heavy lifting, I was boiling and had to take off my matching scarf and gloves, which I carefully folded and put to one side.

Half an hour of backbreaking labour later, the newspaper stack was almost as tall as me. I felt chuffed and stepped back to admire my handiwork. True, it leaned horribly to the left, but would have to do. I was utterly exhausted. As I wiped my hands across my brow, I realized I was sweating buckets.

It was time to put my efforts to the test. Using the hedge-jumper run-up again, I backed up several feet, sprinted a few steps, then threw myself into the climb with gusto.

For about one minute, I stood on top of the heap, breathless, but triumphant. When, to my horror, the pile slowly began to sink beneath my weight. I grappled for a handhold but was instantly pitched face-first against the rough brick wall.

My arms were splayed out like Jesus on the cross, legs spread, quivering with the effort of keeping upright. Although the ground was only a few feet away, it may as well have been fifty. I was stuck – but, alas, not for long. With a sickening jolt, the lopsided tower collapsed, catapulting me sideways and forward straight onto the basement door. It flew open at impact.

I tumbled, head over heels onto the sticky tiled floor, and sat there, dazed, bracing myself for the shriek of the burglar alarm. Never had I felt so close to Dad. Somehow, knowing he must have experienced these moments, too, gave me the courage not to panic. The basement smelled of mould and dampness but it was comfortingly familiar.

There was no sound. Just silence. I counted to one hundred and got to my feet, ignoring the stabbing pain in my elbow from the fall. My God! I’d done it!

Taking a flashlight from the kitchenette – kept handy for regular power outages – I took the stairs up to the inner hallway. It was cold, meaning the radiator would be, too. Removing the coroner’s report should be a piece of cake.

A sliver of moonlight peeped through the skylight above, enough to see what I was doing. Abandoning the flashlight, I plunged my hand down the back of the radiator but only my fingertips touched the envelope. It was still beyond my grasp.

Returning to the kitchen, I retrieved a knife from the drawer and scurried back upstairs. Carefully, I pierced the knife tip into the envelope and dragged it slowly upward.

The moment I saw the top of the envelope, I grabbed it and pulled hard.

The envelope ripped and emerged, scorched and torn.
Blast!
My heart sank. I’d been overeager, horribly careless. It must have caught on a loose screw or piece of metal. I could never casually leave it on Pete’s desk now. I’d be lucky if I could read it myself.

I heard a floorboard creak behind me, and froze. My heart was pounding. Someone was in the building. Slowly,
^-
I turned to face the closed reception door where a pool of light crept under the door towards me – the tell-tale signs of an intruder.

I darted upstairs on tiptoe, slipping into the reporters’ room, which was never locked. There had to be
somewhere
I could hide. Annabel’s kneehole desk was ideal. It was pushed against an old fireplace that provided a handy cranny for me to curl into.

Moments later, the door opened and heavy footsteps followed the flashlight beam. My stomach was in knots. All I could think about was that I should never have had that last cup of tea. Nerves were making me desperate to go to the loo.

The footsteps approached Annabel’s desk, then turned away and stopped in front of mine. All I could see were expensive black leather shoes peeping from beneath a long, black trench coat. This was no local dressed in corduroys and Dr Martens.

I wriggled forward to get a better look and was startled to recognize Pierce Brosnan. Seen close at hand, he really did resemble James Bond – in an Italian godfather kind of way.

Still cowering in my hiding place, I saw him don latex gloves and begin to search systematically through my desk – a true professional! With a jolt of excitement, I realized he must be looking for the coroner’s report! Pierce Brosnan must be Trewallyn’s murderer. He was out to destroy evidence, and nothing would get in his way.

I clutched the torn and crumpled envelope tighter to my chest, aware that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me, too, if he knew I had it. Somehow, I had to stay alive to tell the truth to the world:
MAFIA MOBSTER’S MISTRESS IN MURDER MYSTERY: A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE
!

Mesmerized, I watched Pierce Brosnan flip through my reporter notebook. I thought I would expire altogether when he actually copied down some information gleaned from within. Other than a list of mourners at the church, I couldn’t understand what would interest him – other than my address.