Expose! (21 page)

I cringed with embarrassment. I knew Wilf was right. “Perhaps someone forced Sammy Larch to change his mind?”

“In the spirit world?” Pete sneered. “Larch died weeks ago—in case you forgot.”

“The decision was made before he died, Pete.”

“But can you prove it?”

Of course I couldn’t! It was just a
feeling
I had and Barbara felt the same way, too. “There’s too much at stake for Dave to make it all up,” I said. “We need to save Dave’s Olympic dream, not get on the bandwagon with everyone else.”

“It’s too late for that.” Pete handed me a copy of the
Plymouth Bugle
. “Seen this?”

I hadn’t. My heart sank.

“The GSRF is a laughing stock,” muttered Wilf, savagely thrusting a pipe cleaner into the stem.

Splattered on the front page of the tackiest tabloid in the West Country were photographs of the Gala fiasco with the headline GARCON! THERE’S A SNAIL IN MY TRIFLE!

Several hand-drawn cartoons of garden snails accompanied snaps of various brawling tuxedo-clad gents covered in various delicacies from the buffet table. Another photograph showed Gillian Briggs screaming under a water sprinkler—OH LA LA! FUN AND FROLICS AT THE MANOR. Her white dress had become indecently transparent and clung to her ample form in unattractive folds.

But nothing was as bad as Dave Randall being bundled into a waiting custody van: HEDGEROW HOOLIGAN: DO YOU WANT THIS MAN IN OUR OLYMPICS? A telephone hotline number followed so readers could call in and vote.

I threw the newspaper down in fury. “No wonder Ronnie Binns can afford a new camera. This is his doing.”

“Ronnie Binns?” Wilf ’s jaw dropped. “Well, I’ll be damned.” His one good eye zeroed in on Pete. “I thought he was one of ours?”

“Defected, sir,” said Pete. “We can’t afford his prices.”

Wilf grunted and began to pack fresh tobacco into his pipe—Sir Walter Raleigh’s—
It smokes as sweet as it smells
. “The
Gazette
doesn’t give in to paparazzi terrorists and we’re not starting now.”

“Do we care about this drivel anyway?” I cried, leafing through the paper. “I mean . . .”
Good grief
! A blurred out-of-focus shot of a catlike creature was caught behind the kitchen dustbins in Gipping Manor car park—BEAST OF BODMIN HUNTS FOR NEXT VICTIM. Of course it was Topaz. I stifled a snort of laughter.

“This is hardly a laughing matter,” Pete scolded.

“You
have
to laugh,” I said quickly. “Anyone who takes the
Bugle
seriously is beneath our contempt. It’s sensationalism. Not journalism!” Wilf looked up in surprise. “As a journalist, my mission is to tell the
truth
!” I was actually getting quite heated about it all. “If there is a conspiracy, we should expose it.”

“Conspiracy?” Pete seemed to perk up. “Bloody hell.”

“Please let me make some inquiries before printing apologies, sir,” I appealed to Wilf then turned to Pete. “Honestly, if I’m wrong, I’ll take full responsibility. You can blame it all on me.”

“We would,” said Pete.

“All right.” Wilf nodded. “I must say you’ve always proved to be thorough in the past. Not every trainee reporter snags two national scoops in her first year on the job. You’d better make a start. Off you go.”

“I thought I’d go to the snail meeting at the Tuns tomorrow,” I said. “See what I can find out.”

“Isn’t tomorrow your day off?” said Pete.

“It’ll give me a chance to have a word with Ronnie Binns, too. See why he defected to the
Bugle
.”

“I was going to go to the Tuns to cover the first snail meeting,” said Pete. “Thing is, Emily’s parents are in town and—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” I said. “Oh, and tonight I’ve got a meeting with one of those guerrilla undertakers. Go-Go Gothic.”

“I like your enthusiasm, young Vicky.” Wilf made a strangled chuckling noise before adding, “You’d better watch out, Pete, or she’ll have your job.”

I left Wilf’s office feeling euphoric. Sauntering over to Tony’s desk I leaned over his shoulder and whispered, “Thought you’d like to know that Wilf and Pete are backing up Dave’s story.”

“Those bloody jumpers are environmental barbarians,” Tony snapped. “The sport should be banned. Oh! Someone looks in a bad mood this morning.”

I spun around. Annabel was standing at the door dressed in jeans and a baby blue sweater dress with a face like thunder. “You’ve got some nerve,” she said. “Call yourself my friend?”

“I could ask
you
the same,” I said hotly. “Thanks for leaving me stranded.”

“
You
stranded? Where the hell were you?” I noted that Annabel’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Had she been
crying
?

Tony made a silly
woooh
noise and said, “Now, then, children.”

“Oh shut up,” we chorused.

“I want to talk to you,” said Annabel. “In private.”

22

I followed Annabel to the usual venue for private conversations—the ladies’ loo. Her face was flushed an ugly red. “I looked for you
everywhere
last night!”

“Was that after your little assignation with Ronnie Binns?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Annabel fumed. “I told you, I’ve got nothing to say to the wretched dustman.”

I couldn’t believe why she still persisted in lying to me. “You were seen going behind a curtain with him.”

“That’s utter rubbish. Whoever said that is blind!” Annabel sank onto the wooden chair and wailed, “If you must know, it’s a miracle that I’m not lying dead in the gutter.”

“What are you talking about?”

Annabel’s bottom lip began to quiver. “It was after the fire alarm went off,” she said. “I’d gone somewhere private to make a phone call—” At least that part of her story was true—“Suddenly Christine Rawlings and her friends appear out of nowhere and wouldn’t let me pass.”

“Oh, dear.” I’d always assumed Christine Rawlings’s threats to be just that—threats.

“It was more than ‘oh, dear.’ ” Annabel’s eyes began to water. “They started calling me horrible names and were rude about my contact lenses. I have to wear contacts. I can’t see without them. And then they attacked me. Look!” She pushed the sleeve of her sweater dress up to the elbow. There was a nasty purple bruise. “And here, too.” Annabel bent over and rolled up the bottom of her jeans to reveal more bruises. “Quentin Goss’s wife kicked me with her Prada shoes. Why are they so cruel? It’s not my fault their husbands fancy me.”

“How did you manage to get away?”

“The fire exit was open.”

A light went on in my head. “You mean, the one behind the curtain where you had that rendezvous with Ronnie—?”

“I don’t remember where!” Annabel shouted. “I had to get out. They were going to kill me.”

“Oh, dear,” I said again. “Dr. Frost must have been furious.”

Annabel burst into tears. “Jack didn’t come home last night.
Again.
I called the police station and the hospital in case he had an accident but . . .” She shook her head in despair. “I found him at the surgery this morning.” She looked at me with such misery in her eyes I actually felt sorry for her. “Jack told me he had to pick something up from his office last night and must have fallen asleep.”

“Perhaps he had.” If she couldn’t see the obvious, I certainly wasn’t going to tell her.

“I know Jack can’t be having an affair.” Annabel pulled a tissue out of a fake Coach handbag and blew her nose. “I’m young and beautiful. Aren’t I? I mean, look at me, Vicky. Aren’t I?”

“Yes. Of course you are.” I was more concerned about why she wasn’t coming clean about Ronnie Binns. Unless . . .
Good grief!
It came to me in a flash. Hadn’t Topaz heard Annabel talk about “Plymouth” and “photographs”? Was Annabel in cahoots with Ronnie and flogging pictures to the
Bugle
? “You’re not working with Ronnie on the side, are you?”

“For heaven’s sake,” Annabel said crossly. “Of course I’m not. I’m a serious investigative journalist and besides, he stinks and gives me the creeps. Oh, Vicky.” She let out another wail. “What am I going to do about Jack? Maybe he was punishing me for going out?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m going to make him jealous.”

“That kind of thing never works.” At least, that’s what Mum always says.

“What do you know about relationships?” Annabel said with scorn. “No. You and I are going clubbing tonight in Plymouth and I’m going to collect lots of telephone numbers.”

“I’m working tonight.” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be out with Annabel in her current reckless mood. What if she went off with a sailor and abandoned me down at the docks?

“On a Saturday night?”

“A reporter never sleeps.”

“Neither does Plymouth. Never mind, I’ll pick you up after whatever it is you’re doing,” said Annabel. “Where is it?”

“Actually, I have to go to Plymouth,” I said reluctantly. “I’m meeting the chap who drove the rented hearse for Scarlett Fleming’s funeral at nine.”

“You can’t go all the way to Plymouth on your funny little
moped
.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Don’t be silly.” Annabel went to inspect her reflection in the mirror, all tears forgotten. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

I returned to the reporters’ room with mixed feelings. I was pleased we’d cleared up last night’s misunderstanding. I did feel a little guilty about Annabel’s run-in with the wives—though it was hardly my fault.

Driving to Plymouth with Annabel would give me another chance to try to find out why she was fascinated with Ronnie Binns. Annabel was already flogging fake handbags on eBay to make some extra money. Why not cash in on Ronnie’s sideline, too? If she still wouldn’t come clean, I fully intended to corner him—figuratively speaking—at the Tuns on Sunday.

Fortunately, the reporters’ room was empty. Tony had already left for an action-packed Saturday of soccer and rugby matches before the season ended and cricket began.

Back at my desk Tony had scribbled
Call Lieutenant Berry. Urgent!
on a Post-it.

Even though I was having serious second thoughts as to Robin’s romantic viability, dialing his number still gave me the butterflies.

Robin picked up on the second ring. “You’ll need to go to Dairy Cottage and pick up Auntie’s statement,” he said briskly.

My heart sank. “She’s written one already?”

“It’s very detailed. I want you to read it and add what you saw, too.”

“I. Can’t. Hear. You,” I said, bursting into a series of guttural sounds simulating radio static—a trick I’d learned from Dad. Of course I could hear Robin but I needed time to think.

“Hello? Vicky, are you still there?”

“Hello? Robin? Yes. Awful line.”

“I took photographs of Auntie last night,” he said. “She’s got a nasty bruise on her shoulder and practically cracked her skull open on the toilet bowl. We’ll go for a charge of aggravated assault.”

“Sorry. Didn’t. Catch. That.” I launched into the static routine once more and slammed the phone down.
Blast!
He couldn’t be serious! It rang again immediately but I let the call go through to the answering machine.

After counting to sixty, I tentatively replayed Robin’s message. It was a long one.

Basically my instructions were to drive to Dairy Cottage “on the double” and collect the statement and a series of photographs illustrating Eunice’s “injuries.” Apparently Eunice was expecting me. I was then to call on Olive Larch and, showing her the evidence—but “don’t leave the photographs or statement”—suggest she consider making an offer so the charge would all “go away.”

I was to stress that aggravated assault was a “very serious offense” and imply that it was distinctly possible Olive might go to prison. I wasn’t to worry about the specifics of monetary compensation since Robin would be home next Saturday. He then rang off without so much as a thank-you.

Frankly I was disgusted and had no intention of doing his dirty work. I was also bitterly disappointed. I’d wasted
weeks
of my life, yearning after a man who turned out to be nothing like Prince Charming after all. On the bright side, at least Robin was out of circulation all week, which gave me some time to sort out the mess Topaz had left in the ladies’ loo that night.

Of course, I’d have to question her again. Caped Kitten or not, she was going to have to come clean but first things first.

Since Eunice was expecting me this afternoon. I’d have to start with her.

I phoned Dairy Cottage armed with the very real excuse that I couldn’t come over today because I was working.

“Don’t bother,” said Mary. “She’s asleep and I can’t wake her up.”

My stomach turned over. Robin mentioned Eunice had cracked open her skull.
Good grief!
What if she died? Should I call 999? I tried to keep my voice steady. “Mary, Robin said she had a head injury. It’s important she’s kept awake.”