Expose! (33 page)

“It’s tonight at the Evans’s,” said Barbara.

Excellent! The meeting was bound to run late. It would give me a chance to sneak back to Headcellars and find that other airline ticket.

“Perhaps Vicky should help Olive with the minutes, Dougie,” Barbara suggested.

“What a good idea,” said Fleming. “We’d like the
Gazette
to print our side of the story—although I have to admit, I was very disappointed in this week’s lead.”

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that at the moment,” I said firmly.

“Trust that hooligan, Randall, to concoct such a story!” Fleming declared.

I longed to say, “It was Scarlett’s doing! The Legacy belongs to Dave!” but fortunately Olive intervened. Putting her hand on Fleming’s arm she said, “Please, Dougie. Let’s not spoil this happy day.”

“Quite right. Sorry.”

“It’s very kind of you to help with the minutes, Vicky,” said Olive.

“I’m happy to.” I smiled.
Blast!
Still, at least I could keep an eye on her.

Leaving the revelers drinking the rest of the bottle I went upstairs. Olive may be safe for now but I had come to realize I was out of my depth. I needed help and decided I’d have to confide in Pete.

I’d come clean about breaking into the Fleming vault and finding the empty coffin. I’d tell him I was convinced that Scarlett was still very much alive and had the evidence to prove it. We could go to the police together. This was no longer about my career. This was about saving Olive’s life.

Upstairs in the reporters’ room, Annabel was already seated at her computer and feverishly typing away. “You’re in early. Is Pete here?”

“Can’t stop. Got to do this,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Pete emerged from his office and handed me a sheet of paper. “Just got this in from Ripley and Ravish.”

“Do you have a minute?”

“Not now,” he said. “Whittler is back tomorrow. You’re going to have your work cut out for you with this lot,” Pete went on. “They’ll be a few back-to-backs. I suggest you get a head start and visit a few families before the services. Maybe Gipping needs Go-Go Gothic, after all. Ripley’s swamped.”

“Speaking of Go-Go Gothic,” I said, “I really want to talk to you about this Scarlett Fleming business.”

“Later.” He checked his watch. “Ready for action, Annabel?”

“Absolutely.” Annabel got to her feet and grabbed her notebook. I was struck by her appearance. For once she was dressed conventionally in a black round-neck sweater, black tailored trousers, and black leather pumps. Around her neck, a yellow scarf was tied in a neat knot. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she actually wore
pearls
in her ears. The whole effect exuded professional competency.

Annabel gave me a cursory nod as she passed my desk and followed Pete into Wilf ’s office. Pausing in the doorway, she turned, saying, “See that we’re not disturbed for the next fifteen minutes, Vicky. I’m on an important conference call.”

The moment the door closed I darted over to eavesdrop. The conversation was difficult to follow with Annabel talking in a low voice, Pete interjecting with suggestions, and whoever it was on the other end shouting. But what I could make out shocked me to the core.

Annabel was talking to a television producer from Westward Television. She was on the trail of a wanted criminal, someone who had a hefty reward on his head. Yes, she could produce witnesses, facts, evidence, and photographs, and yes, she was certain that her story had the potential to become a real life docudrama that could “guarantee high ratings” and appeal to a “mass demographic audience.”

Appalled, I went straight to Annabel’s desk and sat down. Her computer was password encrypted despite her earlier assurances to the contrary. I was undeterred. Another of Dad’s after-dinner games involved the psychological study of passwords—dates of birth, favorite pets, colors, boyfriends, childhood nicknames, or special interests.

After many false starts of typing in the boyfriends I knew about, and the colors she wore, I started on handbag brand names. I got to
M
for Mulberry—Annabel’s all-time favorite—and I was
in
!

Keeping one ear acutely trained on Wilf ’s door—I could hear several voices talking at once now—I went straight to the Internet and selected “history” from the menu bar.

I swear my heart stopped beating.

The same phrase came up over and over again.

The Fog.

My fingers were trembling so much I could hardly type. How could Annabel have known about Dad? How had I given myself away?

I hit “Find” and typed in The Fog. What seemed like millions of folders popped up on screen: Prisons/Time Served, Rap Sheet, Extradition, Press Clippings, Personal Details, and Actors Wish List.

I clicked open PERSONAL DETAILS and was faced with a bullet point list of odd snippets all about my family. From the notorious color of the Hill sapphire blue eyes to the damning fact that he had one daughter called Victoria Ada Hill.

There was a subfolder labeled KNOWN ACCOMPLICES. Two names jumped out at me straightaway—Wayne Henderson and Nigel Keeps, men that Annabel had visited in jail.

I moved the mouse down and opened REWARD.

The good news was that no one knew of Dad’s exact whereabouts other than it was rumored to be in Spain. The bad news was that there was actually a huge hundred-thousand-pound reward “for any information that would secure The Fog’s extradition back to the UK where he was expected to face charges of armed robbery.” A security guard had been accidentally shot during a hold-up in Tif fany’s in Bond Street. He was still in a coma.

I remembered the incident vividly. It had been all over the news but I never connected it to my dad. Days later, my parents fled to Spain.

I felt sick to my stomach. My dad was a loveable rogue: a glamorous Pink Panther-style thief. He wasn’t a killer.

I’d never bothered to read the stories written about my dad in the newspaper—though I suspected Mum kept a scrapbook. I lost count of the number of times she told me how the wrong men were often put in jail and that the British justice system was a travesty. It was one of the reasons that I had wanted to become a professional journalist—to find and report the truth—but there was no time to dwell on that now. I
had
to see Chuffy McSnatch.

Hitting “sleep” on Annabel’s computer, I slipped out of the
Gazette
, through the side entrance, and took the alley to the one private place I knew I couldn’t be overheard.

Huddled under an elder bush in the backyard behind the office and surrounded by piles of rotting newspapers, I dialed Chuffy’s pager “only in an emergency,” and waited. I used to scoff at all the precautions that Chuffy took, but not anymore.

Within minutes, my mobile rang. “It’s Vicky Hill, Harold’s daughter,” I said, suddenly seized by the urge to cry.

There was a long pause and the sound of shallow breathing, then, “Saturday. Seven o’clock. Paddington Station. Clock. Code Columbo.”

“I can’t, I can’t!” I wailed. “It’s urgent. They know about Dad. I’ve got to see you
now
!”

Chuffy didn’t answer. It was all I could do not to scream his name aloud—an absolute no-no. “Please say you’re there.”

“Calm down, luv,” said Chuffy quietly. “I’ve got business in Taunton this afternoon, can you meet me there?” Taunton was an hour and a half up the Penzance-to-London Paddington line.

“Yes.”

“Find your way to the Railway Inn,” Chuffy said. “I’ll see you in three hours.” There was a click, and Chuffy was gone.

Three
hours
. The wait seemed unbearable. Tears stung my eyes. I had to get a grip. I couldn’t fall apart now. There was too much at stake.

Chuffy would demand the details. It was vital I understood how Annabel had found out about my dad.

I’d been tricked. Annabel had deliberately set out to be my new best friend when all the time she’d been intending to betray me.

Retrieving my moped, I made a quick stop at Factory Terrace, relieved that Mrs. Evans was out at work. Chuffy might order me to leave the country immediately. In my bedroom, I lifted up the rug and loose floorboard to retrieve what cash I had, my passport, and the bundle of postcards from Mum and Dad that I kept hidden.

As I stuffed them in a rucksack, I reflected how pathetic it was that my life could fit in such a small bag.

I had to wait for over an hour at Gipping Junction for the next Inter-City 125 to London Paddington. Retreating to the platform café with a cup of tea—no cake, I wasn’t hungry—I took out my notebook and started to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

How had all this begun?

I wrote down,
sapphire blue eyes
. Annabel had made a big deal of them—she’d even photographed them with her mobile. The photo was obviously used as some kind of identification.
But wait!
So did that strange Italian-looking man—Dino—whom Annabel and I had “bumped into” at the Hoe last Saturday night. Hadn’t he done the exact thing? There was something familiar about him that I just couldn’t quite place.

There were Annabel’s visits to Dartmoor and Wormwood Scrubs prisons. Even though I hadn’t had time to look at the PRISONS/TIME SERVED folder, I knew they’d be listed. How foolish was I! How blind! Annabel’s exposé had never been about fake handbags at all!

As for Ronnie Binns—I should have known that she wouldn’t willingly seek him out. Annabel hadn’t been interested in the weather. She was asking about The Fog—two words that were meaningless to Gipping’s garbologist, but promised fame and fortune for wretched Annabel Lake.

It hadn’t taken her long to work it out—the incriminating postcard from M & D, the satellite map of San Feliu on the Costa Brava, and of course the ultimate giveaway, my sapphire blue eyes.

I boarded the train with a heavy heart. My thoughts turned to D.S. Probes. Annabel had been talking to him at the Gala. Hadn’t she said she had friends in the police force?
God!
What if Probes was on my trail, too. Yes, he talked of wanting to pin me down, but perhaps he had a warped sense of humor and meant—in handcuffs!

As I stared out the window at the passing countryside, I thought of poor Olive Larch and felt utterly wretched. I could never protect her now or go to the police.

It looked like we were both doomed.

36

“But I’ve been so careful,” I said miserably to Chuffy. I’d found him tucked in the corner of the Railway Inn public bar nursing a pint of Guinness. He always looked shifty. Dressed in a shabby trench raincoat, Chuffy bore a striking resemblance to Peter Falk from the
Columbo
detective series.

Apart from a mismatched couple—a businessman and a brassy blonde—canoodling in the opposite corner the bar was empty.

This was not surprising.

As its name suggests, the Railway Inn was a mere stone’s throw from the rail tracks. Every few minutes, a train either arrived or departed or just tore through the station at such speed that the walls and grungy furniture literally moved. The sound was so deafening that all conversation had to stop.

“I hide everything under the floorboards,” I went on after the third train had flown by in as many minutes. “I only use cash. How was I to know that Annabel had overheard Dad’s nickname and put it all together? It’s the blasted Internet, too.”

“That’s why you’ve got to be careful, Vicky,” Chuffy scolded.

I pointed both forefingers at my eyes. “These are the culprits! People recognize them!”

“Your dad told you to change your identity,” Chuffy said, “but you wouldn’t have it.”

“I don’t want to live a lie.”

“You already are.”

My protest was lost in the backwash of another Inter-City 125 tearing past, horn blaring. Mutinously, I stared at the canoodling couple. What on earth was a distinguished-looking businessman in suit and tie doing with such a vulgar-looking woman? He had to be at least thirty years her senior.

“Let’s go through this again,” said Chuffy. “You’re positive this Annabel only visited Dartmoor and Wormwood Scrubs?”

“That’s what my informant told me and she’s been tailing her this week,” I said. “Do the names Wayne Henderson and Nigel Keeps ring a bell?”

Chuffy looked startled and muttered what sounded like a curse, under his breath. He nodded gravely. “They worked for your dad in the old days. Used to meet in your kitchen in Riley Lane. You’d have been about fourteen.”

“So they’ll remember me.” Naturally, Annabel would have shown them my photograph. “What about Dino something-or-other?” I said suddenly. “Annabel introduced me to him in Plymouth. Has he been in our kitchen, too?”

“Dino DiMarco,” Chuffy said with distaste. “He owes me a favor.”

“My informant followed him. He deals in handbags and I’m convinced Annabel sells them on eBay out of her house. She’s such a thief.” All too late I realized my huge faux pas and hastily tried to backtrack. Chuffy dealt in stolen merchandise.