Thieves! (34 page)

D
usk was falling as I drove as fast as I could to The Grange.

With Dora out of the way, Barbara must have had a change of heart. I thrust all thoughts of check scams, missing silver, and Dad out of my head. I had to get to Barbara. Probes had warned that Jimmy was a dangerous man. She’d be making a terrible mistake.

As I drew closer to The Grange, I was stunned to find the place heaving with caravans, old wagons, and campers.

Women were setting up communal cooking areas. Some men secured tarpaulins and plastic sheeting to add undercover living space to their caravans, whilst others marked out their own individual pitches with knee-high posts and rails. A group of youths were digging a trench and putting in standpipes. Another large truck was off-loading hardcore directly onto the grass.

News of Dora’s death had traveled fast and was clear evidence of the Romany phone tree—vurma—in action.

To my relief, I saw Jimmy’s and Noah’s painted wagons and Ruby’s VW camper still parked by the hedge.

Leaving my Fiat, I clambered over the fence and set off across the grass. Fortunately my presence was ignored, as the newcomers seemed too absorbed in setting up their own camps.

I half expected to see Barbara’s pink bicycle leaning against the rear.

All three vehicles were deserted. Standing outside Jimmy’s wagon, I began to have second thoughts. What exactly was I hoping to achieve? When had Barbara ever listened to me anyway? Hadn’t I just used Olive’s phone call as an excuse to run away from Probes and the terrifying possibility that he knows who I really am?

Noticing that many gypsies seemed to be heading in the direction of Dora’s Winnebago, I did, too.

No doubt Jimmy would be there—but wait! That didn’t make sense. Even if he and Dora
were
estranged, would Jimmy really flaunt Romany custom and blatantly parade his new woman the very night his wife had died? Something was off.

Up behind the stable block, a candlelight vigil was being held in front of Dora’s Winnebago. Even though her body still lay in Gipping morgue, the Winnebago was slowly being transformed into a shrine, as people laid down flowers, jewelry, and colorful shawls.

There was no sign of Jimmy. Presumably Noah and Ruby were still with Dora’s body, if gypsy custom was anything to go by. Although I’d had my fill of gypsy research recently, I wasn’t clear on what happened if someone had met a sudden and unexpected death and made a mental note to find out.

This scenario was so different from the other Pike, who was still awaiting the Grim Reaper in Trewallyn Woods. It got me thinking: wouldn’t these mourners want to pay their respects to Belcher, too?

A young couple no older than me walked up. He wore a flat cap, jeans, and a denim shirt, and was carrying a small cardboard box full of colorfully painted fir combs; she was heavily pregnant, with beautiful dark hair falling down to her waist. In her hand she cradled a Royal Crown Derby milk jug.

“I was looking for Dora’s husband, Jimmy Kitchen,” I said. “Have you seen him?”

“Why?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not one of us. Go away.”

The woman gently pressed his arm. “Hush, this is no time for anger.” She turned to me with a smile. “I’m Elaine Pike, and this is Seth. Who are you?”

“Vicky Hill. I work for the
Gipping Gazette
—”

“The papers,” said Seth, barely disguising his contempt.

“Dora and I were friends,” I said with exaggerated sadness. “I’ m actually going to write her obituary.” If I played my cards right, perhaps Elaine might help me with the names of the mourners. “She was a wonderful woman.
Wonderful
.”

“She was. Always looking out for her kind,” said Elaine.

Seth, seemingly overcome with emotion, set down the box of fir combs on top of the Winnebago steps. He snatched off his cap, head bowed.

“Dora gave us the fir combs for our first Christmas tree,” said Elaine. “This milk jug was our first wedding anniversary present.” She gave a heavy sigh. “But Dora needs them now to take on her journey to the new world.”

“What happens to all these things?” I said.

“They’ll be put in the Winnebago and burned,” said Elaine. “We do what we can these days to keep our traditions alive. We are put onto caravan sites and told not to light fires, but how can we bury our dead with dignity if we can’t light a fire?”

It must have been difficult for Dora to speak out for gypsy rights and to demand equality yet at the same time insist on the preservation of ancient customs in the face of progress.

I gestured to the growing number of mourners, hoping for a glimpse of Jimmy and Barbara. “Are you all Pikes?”

“For the most part,” said Elaine. “We marry our kind.”

“I suppose you’ll be paying your respects to Belcher, too.” I pointed in the direction of Trewallyn Woods. “His wagon is over there.”

The girl frowned. “Who?”

“Belcher Pike?”

“Belcher?”
said Elaine with surprise. “Are you talking about Dora’s dad? He’s been dead—”

“Elaine!” said Seth sharply as he rejoined us. “Let’s go back to our caravan.” Glowering at me, he took her arm and led her away.

I stood there like a fool. How could I have been so blind—and I called myself my father’s daughter?

Belcher Pike was just a front. The wagon was obviously being used for some other purpose, and I had a jolly good idea what that could be.

Pushing past a group of oncoming mourners, I decided it was best to take the animal track through Trewallyn Woods to Belcher’s wagon. With Ruby and Noah presumably still with Dora’s body at the morgue, it was highly unlikely they’d be there, but it was best to be on the safe side. Ditto Jimmy. And if he were, he’d be with Barbara. And that’s when I got worried. Did this mean that Barbara was going to get swept up in this mess, too?

Three of the six policemen—who I noted weren’t Gipping regulars—and the two German shepherds were hanging around the pigsty. With their riot shields and helmets tossed aside, the coppers were chatting and playing cards, using the top of an oil drum as a makeshift table.

D.C. Bond had been wrong when he said that Dora’s tragic death would result in trouble. With nothing to do, they were just frittering away taxpayer money.

Even if I had been tempted to enlist their support, the sight of those dogs made up my mind. Giving a friendly wave, I hurried on by, acknowledged only by growls from both German shepherds.

When I reached the clearing, the place seemed deserted, the barbed wire had been taken away, and the sign—GORGERS KEEP OUT—removed.

After counting to five hundred, I decided to take a chance and darted across the grass and up the three short steps to the door. Of course it was locked, but when had any lock stopped me?

Deftly using my lock pick, I let myself inside and shut the door behind me. It was dark. I brought out my Mini Maglite and found a light switch.

With a click, the wagon was filled with dazzling overhead fluorescent lighting.

This may have been a traditional wagon at one time, but not anymore. The casement window at the back and the high narrow windows on both sides had been covered with some kind of coating to keep out sunlight.

Two artist’s tables, with a giant magnifying glass on hinged brackets affixed to each, stood side by side, with two three-legged stools. A scanner, laminating machine, laptop computer, and high-end printer were set on one counter, along with various tools—gel pens, box knives, tongs, and rulers. On the other stood various liquid-filled pans, an industrial-sized bottle of acetone marked HIGHLY FLAMMABLE, and a half-eaten ham sandwich on a china plate. Someone had left in a hurry, no doubt on hearing news of Dora’s death.

Above me, three checks were pegged to a piece of washing line that was hooked from corner to opposite corner. I took them down, fairly bursting with excitement.

The account holder of the first was none other than ST. PETER’S PARISH COUNCIL, C/O THE VICARAGE, CHURCH LANE, GIPPING-ON-PLYM. The check was for five thousand pounds, but instead of being made out to Windows of Wonder, the payee was now Danny Stone.

Immediately I thought back to Phil Burrows calling Noah “Danny” in Gipping market square.

How could I have been so naïve? Of course Noah would be involved. He’s family. Even though I understood, I felt a stab of acute disappointment. I’d hoped he was different.

Forcing myself to focus on the matters in hand, I took down the other two checks. Both were made payable to Danny Stone, but I suspected they were intended for poor Mrs. Evans.

One was from Margaret Pierce; the other, from Lady Turberville-Spat with a London address. The latter was for a huge amount—one thousand pounds. Presumably the gypsies had thought she could afford it and wouldn’t notice.

Spying a heap of empty gunnysacks in the corner, I recalled seeing Jimmy with one flung across his handlebars.
Very clever!
I’d thought him off poaching—which in a way he was—yet if I’d really stopped to think about it, poaching goes on at night. Not in broad daylight.

Didn’t Dad always say that the most successful operations were usually carried on right under people’s noses? I was losing my touch and should have known better.

I had to say I was impressed with this scam, which had been brilliantly planned and perfectly executed.

Belcher Pike had proved to be a very effective front, particularly using the “isolated wagon” ruse of a dying gypsy. No one would dare upset the applecart for fear of legal reprisals.

Using Dora’s celebrity-activist status was sheer genius. She’d exploited the Human Rights and Race Relations Acts to the extreme. Even her passion for recycling had presented this small gypsy family as one trying to live in peace and not make waves.

As Probes had said, the gypsies never stayed long, cherry-picked their victims, and didn’t get too greedy. Checks went missing, but not enough to attract media attention. If it hadn’t been for Dora’s unexpected death, no one would have been any the wiser.

The gypsies were pure opportunists, and I had to applaud them. Suddenly the door flew open.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

It was Jimmy Kitchen.

“I
was looking for Barbara,” I said desperately, hoping my friendship with the love of his life might save me. Usually in this kind of situation, I’d either bluster my way out or run. This time I could do neither.

“You shouldn’t be here.” In his hand he carried a heavy gas can and was blocking my escape.

“Where is she?”
Talk of Barbara, Vicky! Focus on Barbara
. “What have you done with her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Barbara,” I said. “Where is she?”

Jimmy all but threw the heavy can onto the ground with a thud. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. “Why would she be here? Tell me.”

“She . . . she . . . told Olive Larch.” My heart gave a sickening jolt. “Aren’t you running away together?”

All the color drained from Jimmy’s face. “Running away? We can’t run away! Not now. Not ever.”

I started to feel frightened. “Then . . . what’s happened to her?”

“Come out with your hands up!” a voice boomed, followed by a chorus of frantic barking. “You are completely surrounded; I repeat; you are completely surrounded!”

“It’s the police!” I said, startled. Those card-playing coppers must have been paying attention after all.

Jimmy seized the gas can and unscrewed the cap. “Get out!” he cried, throwing me aside. He moved swiftly to the back of the wagon, sloshing the liquid over every surface.

“What are you doing?” The stench made me gag. “It’s too late. The police know everything.”

“We’re coming in!” boomed the voice. “We have dogs, and they will attack!”

I thought I’d faint with fear. “We’ve got to leave! Now!”

“No, I must do this.” He turned to me, his voice cracked with emotion. “I think Ruby has my Barbara.”

“
Ruby?
Why? Where?” I grabbed his arm. The sound of dogs barking drew nearer. “Where would Ruby take her?”

Jimmy pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. “Our special place. The kissing bridge in Mudge Lane.” He paused, his face etched with sadness. “Tell her that she’s always been the one.”

I ran out of the door, hands held high in surrender. Twenty yards away stood the three policemen, cowering behind riot shields, with the dogs straining on their leashes, ready to attack.

“Wait! I’m Vicky Hill!” I shrieked. “Run! Stand back, he’s got—”

But it was too late. There was a huge explosion that picked me up off my feet and hurled me to the ground.

The wagon was engulfed in a giant ball of flame. Numb, I watched it burn with such fierce intensity that, within minutes, all that was left was a blackened shell.

“He’s alive,” shouted one of the policemen from behind his riot shield. He pointed to a ragged figure crawling toward the undergrowth. “Clever bugger must have jumped out the rear window.”