Expose! (37 page)

He turned pink with pleasure. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind about the Jacuzzi? I’ve got bubbles.”

Later, as I sank into my own bubble bath I knew that although the Flemings were in custody and Olive was safe, my problems were far from over. Without my mobile, there could be no news from Chuffy. Had he foiled Annabel’s plan? Was the Hill clan safe?

I wasn’t out of the woods. Yet.

The next few days would be crucial.

40

The first sign that Chuffy had succeeded came the very next morning when Gipping police turned up at the
Gazette
and arrested Annabel on suspicion of dealing in stolen merchandise.

Following a tip from a certain Dino DiMarco, police raided her bedroom in Blundells Court and discovered a box full of Birken handbags. Barcodes confirmed these items had been taken from a Hermes factory break-in several weeks before.

“I swear I only sell fakes on eBay,” Annabel sobbed. “I don’t know where those handbags came from, I swear it.”

Only too willing to help police with their inquiries, a tearful Annabel produced the address of a warehouse in Plymouth. Astonishingly, by the time the cops arrived, it had been cleared out. According to Barbara, Annabel had appealed to Probes for help but he “regretfully” declared that “stolen property was not within his jurisdiction” and urged her to “come clean.”

If that weren’t bad enough, Annabel’s biggest blow came when her so-called witnesses—Wayne Henderson and Nigel Keeps at Dartmoor Prison and Wormwood Scrubs respectively—suddenly changed their tune. Claiming they’d never heard of The Fog, they admitted they’d do anything for money and that the “lady reporter told them what to say.”

Since it was only their word against hers—tape recorders and mobiles were banned during prison visiting hours—Wilf was predictably furious and demanded Annabel explain herself.

She did—by insisting I was the daughter of a notorious wanted criminal called Harold Hill, nicknamed The Fog. Everyone laughed.

Luckily they believed my staunch denial and feigned outrage that she should accuse me of faking my poor parents’ death. Of course, the newly purchased contact lenses in several different colors certainly helped. Barbara said she always thought my sapphire blue eyes were “too blue” to be real.

When the
Plymouth Bugle
found its way onto Pete’s desk, it would seem heaven would not be smiling on Annabel Lake for some time to come.

Chuffy had demanded I made sure Blundells Court was empty that fateful night and I had obliged. Splashed across the front page was the headline FROST BY NAME NOT FROST BY NATURE. A photograph taken inside the Imperial Hotel showed Dr. Frost lying on the lobby floor as Annabel beat him over the head with her handbag.

The article went on to say that Edwina’s Escorts insisted that Dr. Frost had been a client but naturally, he denied it.

True, I did feel a twinge of guilt at impersonating the concierge at the Imperial Hotel. The suggestion that personal items had been left in his room was hardly a crime but I had never expected the ruse to go public. The scandalous scoop bore the stamp of Topaz Potter but since The Copper Kettle had been closed for days, I wasn’t able to confront her.

Deep down I was devastated by Annabel’s betrayal but threw myself into work—and there was plenty of it. Apart from catching up on a huge backlog of funerals, Gipping-on-Plym was gripped by a fever of disbelief on learning that Scarlett Fleming was very much alive and kicking.

I detected a certain admiration from the members of the Gipping Bards who could talk of nothing else—“I never guessed in a million years” and “If anyone could pull off being dead, Scarlett could do it.”

The duo faced a long list of charges ranging from theft (captured on CCTV), bigamy (Fleming now had two wives), and first-degree murder. Thanks to the urging of D.S. Probes and Steve producing the acrylic nails he’d found in Sammy Larch’s woolen cardigan, the old boy’s body was immediately exhumed. The autopsy revealed that he had Scarlett’s DNA under his fingernails. Case proven and closed.

Scarlett pleaded temporary insanity. She insisted she had not been herself since being prescribed a new form of HRT, which was suspected to have been the cause of two domestic stabbings in Wales.

Unfortunately, Dr. Frost could not back up her claim, having taken a leave of absence due to personal reasons.

For a third time, I basked in the glow of being the
Gazette
’s star reporter. My phone was on fire with curious readers filled with questions on how I unraveled the Fleming’s elaborate plan. I was happy to tell them.

The four-page exposé that followed included a first-hand account of my escape from Headcellars. Photographs of the priest hole and a publicity shot of me emerging from the wishing well, provoked several visits from the Gipping Spiritualist Society all eager to know if Father Gregory had telepathically shown me the way out. I said “no comment” although admittedly, I had sensed
some
kind of presence that night.

Naturally I gave Mary Berry the credit she was due—PLUCKY PENSIONER SAVES THE DAY. Without her courage and quick thinking, we may never have trapped Fleming into making a confession. Mary became a mini-celebrity and was deluged with invitations to speak of her experiences to the Women’s Institute nationwide, all of which she declined, stating, “My cows are more important.”

Eunice slept for four days straight. There was a nasty moment when she visited Olive in hospital but it turned out she wanted to discuss the Beast of Bodmin. According to hospital staff, the two women bonded and all assault charges were dropped prompting a flurry of phone calls from HMS
Dauntless
—all of which I ignored.

Olive made good progress. She revealed that while she lay close to death on the cellar floor, her father had come to her in a vision to insist the Larch Legacy continue.

To Dave’s joy, Olive confirmed that the note was indeed written in her father’s hand and the wrong team had won. Rather than remove the Legacy from Jack Webster’s cutters, Olive created an honorary award called DARING TO DREAM along with a check for three thousand pounds, enabling Dave to build an Olympic training course at Pennymoor Jump. In a rush of generosity, Olive also settled an “undisclosed” sum of money on Gipping Manor in compensation for the damage caused at the GSRF Gala.

As for Go-Go Gothic—true to my promise Neil got far more free publicity than even he dreamed possible. With quotes on the front page, “The coffin
had
felt a bit light,” and a short day-in-the-life feature on page 8, Neil showed his gratitude by giving me a one-year free pass to the Banana Club.

By late Saturday afternoon and with still no sign of Topaz I was beginning to think she might have gone away for good. I felt a pang of loneliness. I realized I missed my strange little friend.

Marching to the rear of the café, I rapped smartly on the door. The kitchen curtain moved. I caught a glimpse of a face.

Moments later Topaz stood before me dressed in a smart tweed skirt, twinset, and pearls, looking every inch a lady of the manor. Her own dark hair was pulled back from her face and secured with a tortoiseshell barrette.

“Where have you been?” I demanded.

“I’ve just got back from London,” she said with a sniff. “I do have another life, you know.”

“So I see, your ladyship. Mind if I come in for five minutes?”

“If you have to.”

Inside the kitchen I showed her the
Bugle
. “It looks like you’ve been busy.”

Topaz turned red. “The
Bugle
pays,” she said defensively. “I’ve got my ancestral home to support. I’ve got responsibilities.”

“The
Gazette
would never have printed that story anyway,” I said. “How did you find out?”

“You told me to follow Annabel, so I did.” Topaz scowled. “It’s so annoying. While I was at the Imperial Hotel, someone must have tipped off her dealer. All the handbags were moved out of that warehouse. We’ll never catch her now.”

Knowing full well that all charges would be dropped against Annabel eventually, I decided against telling Topaz about her arrest.

“Actually, I’m frightfully busy. Can we talk another time?” Topaz said. “I’m working tonight.”

“I thought you might have given up this idea of being a journalist.”

“Are you kidding? Actually”—Topaz took a deep breath—“If I tell you something will you promise you won’t be cross?”

“I’ll try.”

“The
Bugle
is offering a reward for anyone who has seen the Beast of Bodmin. They want photos of the big cat. I told them I had first-hand experience and you’ll never guess what”—she started to hoot with laughter. “They’re going to
pay
me!”

I was incredulous. “For taking photographs of
yourself
?”

“Yes!” she shrieked. “That’s why I’m off to Bodmin tonight. I need to be authentic. I say—do you want to come?”

“Maybe another time,” I said.

“Wait!” Topaz stepped closer. “You’re wearing contact lenses.”

“Of course,” I said quickly. “You didn’t think sapphire blue was my real eye color, did you?”

“I much prefer the sapphire blue,” she said. “Where did you buy them?”

“The Internet.”

“Really? I wonder if they do a red werewolf version?”

Leaving Topaz to her nighttime plans, I left the café. A FedEx truck was parked outside the
Gazette
.

“I’m afraid we’re closed,” I said to the young driver who was trying to peer through the blinds at the front door. He held a slim envelope in his hands.

“I work there. I can sign for it.” I flashed him my press card. “Here’s my ID.”

With a quick glance he said, “It’s for you, anyway.”

My stomach turned over. Even though the return address was fictional, I knew it was from Chuffy. For some stupid reason, I’d assumed all was forgotten and that life would just go on.

I let myself into the side door and went through to reception to find some scissors. As I snipped open the tamper-free package, I realized my hands were shaking.

Inside, was a one-way airline ticket from Plymouth to Barcelona—the irony of which did not escape me—with the following Monday as my departure date. There was also a fake passport in the name of Laura Fort James.

I stared at the new me—a photograph taken at Mum’s birthday dinner one carefree day last year. My eye color was noted as brown. There was no note.

I had to sit down. The reception walls were filled with framed “exclusives,” some dated back to the Second World War. Mine were on there, too.

I’d grown to love Gipping-on-Plym and its citizens. I even enjoyed writing obituaries. I knew I’d leave one day, but not like this.

Resentment flared in my breast. I had dreamed of being a reporter ever since I was a child. I was doing what I loved. Why should my life be ruined because of what my parents had done? I needed to think. If only I had someone to talk to. If only I had a sign as to what I should do? Stay—or go.

Tucking my passport and ticket inside my tattered safari jacket, I headed back to Factory Terrace with a heavy heart, which plunged even deeper when I saw Annabel’s BMW parked outside number four. The few words we’d spoken since she accused me of being Harold Hill’s daughter—wait, I
was
his daughter—were terse and unfriendly. The last person I wanted to see was Annabel yet what could she be doing here?

In the hallway a pink suitcase stood on the floor alongside a red cushion with huggable arms.
Thank you God!
Annabel must be leaving Gipping for good! She must have come to say good-bye!

Annabel and Mrs. Evans were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea and eating a Victoria sponge cake. A pink business card lay on the table. I recognized it instantly—Edwina’s Escorts.

“Here she is,” said Mrs. Evans. “Annabel is going to stay here with us until all this business is sorted out.”

“She’s
what
?” I said with horror.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Annabel coldly.

I gave a bright smile. “Of course not. It’ll be lovely.”
Blast! Goddamit! Bugger!

“I’ve made room for her in the sewing room,” Mrs. Evans chattered on. “She and Dr. Frost are having a trial separation after that . . . incident.”

Annabel fingered the Edwina’s Escorts business card. “I just don’t believe he’d pay someone.”

“What’s that?” I said innocently.

“I found this tucked under my windshield wipers.” Annabel gave a shudder. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Of course I knew what the card said because I’d written it.
Wonder where your boyfriend goes at night? Try the Imperial Hotel.
I’d signed it
, A Friend.

“Do you think it was Jack Webster?” I said.

“He’s no friend to anyone,” Mrs. Evans chipped in.