Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
PRAISE FOR
Exposé!
“Spend an afternoon with Vicky in Gipping-on-Plym—you’ll enjoy your visit and be back for more!”
—Reader to Reader Reviews
“Dennison provides plenty of laughs in this third installment in the series—and a tricky plot, too. Miss Marple might not recognize Gipping-on-Plym, but it’s guaranteed to make you smile.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“Her heroine is charmingly gullible and gets herself into a lot of tight spots. The plot is very Agatha Christie-like and Vicky Hill is delightful and very amusing. Don’t miss this cozy English mystery—you’ll love it.”
—Once Upon a Romance Reviews
Scoop!
“Vicky’s story is a cozy mystery with a dash of Bridget Jones-type humor thrown in. Fans who enjoy a mystery yarn without the violence should check this one out.”
—NewsandSentinel.com
A Vicky Hill Exclusive!
“A dizzy romp with an endearingly gullible investigator and a plot twist on every page.”
—Ann Purser, author of the Lois Meade Mysteries
“Hannah Dennison rings up a laugh a page . . . a racy romp and hilarious debut.”
—Carolyn Hart, author of Dare to Die
“A smashing debut! Yes, Vicky is more Lucy Ricardo than Christiane Amanpour, but CNN’s loss is Gipping-on-Plym’s gain—and ours. Hannah Dennison writes a delightfully clever mystery with wit and warmth to spare. May the dead bodies abound.”
—Harley Jane Kozak, award-winning author of Dead Ex
“Vicky Hill is a delightful heroine who would be right at home in a Jane Austen novel. When author Hannah Dennison plunges her into an Agatha Christie-like plot, she gives readers the best of both worlds.”
—Linda Palmer, author of the Daytime Mysteries
“An intriguing journalist investigative mystery because the heroine has such a vivid imagination that is not always anchored in just the facts . . . Fans will enjoy Hannah Dennison’s front page whodunit.”
—The Best Reviews
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Hannah Dennison
A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE!
SCOOP!
EXPOSÉ!
THIEVES!
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THIEVES!
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2011
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eISBN : 978-1-101-47689-5
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
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For Brenda Dennison, the best mum in the world
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing can be a lonely labor of love, which is why treasured company, helpful guidance, selfless encouragement, and endless snacks fed by family and friends make each book a team effort.
I’d like to continue to acknowledge my wonderful friend and mentor, Claire Carmichael.
My IOU tally has gone beyond the purchase of a small island to an entire galaxy.
Mark Davis, chairman of Davis Elen Advertising and my long-suffering boss, whose constant refrain is “this is your last book, isn’t it?” but who continues to give me paid days off to meet my deadlines.
Linda Palmer, who finds time in her own busy writing and teaching life to boost my morale and provided the spark that inspired the plot in this, Vicky’s fourth adventure.
Credit and a special thanks go to my daughter Sarah and her sister Emily for creating a new character for Gipping-on-Plym. May Phil Burrows live on.
A huge thank-you to kindred spirits Carolyn Hart, Rhys Bowen, and Marcia Talley, who are all inspiration personified. Thanks to Gail Elen for her innovative spirit and creative PR strategies, and to Cam Galano’s friendship and endless generosity.
Heartfelt thanks to Natalee Rosenstein, my wonderful editor at Berkley, along with Michelle Vega, a multitasking superwoman, and to my amazing agent, Betsy Amster. Thank you for everything you do.
And last, but foremost in my heart, my husband, Jason, who had no idea what he was letting himself in for when he encouraged me to follow my dream. Jason—without you, none of this would be possible.
1
“You can’t leave now!” Barbara Meadows crie
d as I drifted nonchalantly toward her front door to make my escape.
“It’s nearly one in the morning,” I protested. How many more hen parties can the human body take? “I’m really tired.”
“You’ll miss all the excitement.” Barbara readjusted her glittering tiara—HERE COMES THE BRIDE—that had slipped rakishly over one ear. “You youngsters have no stamina.”
It wasn’t that I begrudged our receptionist her newfound happiness at the grand age of sixty-plus. This was the third hen party of Barbara’s that I’d been to in the last two weeks, and I knew of at least three more in the works.
“Olive bought the director’s cut of The Full Monty on eBay,” Barbara burbled on. “We’re in for a real treat.”
That settled it. There are some things a young woman should never be subjected to—and full-frontal nudity in a room filled with members of the Graying Tigers Society was definitely one.
I grabbed my safari jacket from the hall coat stand and pulled it on. “Sorry, I’ve got to be at St. Peter’s the Martyr Church at eight tomorrow.” It was only a tiny white lie. The service didn’t start until nine thirty.
“Why bother? No one will go to Gladys Trenfold’s funeral,” Barbara said with scorn. “She was a horrid old bag.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But the Gipping Gazette does have a reputation to keep up.”
Obituaries were my area of expertise, and it was my responsibility to make sure that no funeral went unreported and no mourner was left out. “Unless you’d like to have a word with your fiancé and ask for an exception?”
“Oh no, dear,” said Barbara quickly. “Wilf is a stickler for tradition.” She stretched out her left hand and gazed rapturously at the solitaire diamond ring on her finger. “I still can’t believe he proposed.”
I couldn’t either! I was still grappling with the idea that after years of working together, Barbara was marrying our illustrious—and intimidating—editor, Wilf Veysey.
It had all happened so suddenly—but at least it gave me hope. It was never too late to find love.
Olive Larch emerged from the kitchen accompanied by the raunchy sounds of Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff” starting up for the fourth time. Perched atop her sleek gray bob was a pair of striped cat’s ears. She carried a silver tray of tumblers decorated with slices of fruit and was moving toward us at glacial speed.
“Good grief, Olive,” said Barbara. “We’re all dying of thirst. What took you so long?” She turned to me and mouthed, “She’s always so slow.”
“Vicky, you’re not leaving, are you?” said Olive aghast. “You can’t!”
“Sorry, I hate to go, but I really must.”
“Well, you shouldn’t—” Olive started to titter nervously. “Tell her, Barbara.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” Barbara declared.
“Tell me what?”
“Someone—and we won’t say who—added a teensy weensy bit of vodka to the fruit punch,” said Olive.
“The punch was spiked?” I was flabbergasted, particularly as I’d had five glasses. “I could lose my job!”
Spearheaded by the odious Detective Inspector Stalk, Gipping Constabulary was in the midst of an aggressive campaign to clamp down on driving while intoxicated. What’s more, he was working closely with the Gazette. Every week, names of Gipping citizens who had been stopped by the police and ordered to take a Breathalyzer test—often in broad daylight and without due cause—were listed in MOTORIST MENACE OF THE WEEK.
“So you’ll stay?” said Barbara hopefully. “We’d love a youngster’s opinion.”
Opinion on what? “I’ll take the back road via Mudge Lane,” I said firmly. “We haven’t had that much rain, so the ford won’t be deep.” As a shortcut linking Lower Gipping to Middle Gipping, access was through a shallow stream that could be unpredictable at times.
“Don’t you mean Smooch Lane?” Olive tittered again. It was a notorious place for romantic trysts. “Are you having a secret rendezvous?”
“Not tonight.” Or any other night for that matter.
Realizing that I meant business and after promising to attend Olive’s Butler-in-the-Buff buffet on Friday in Barbara’s honor, I said my good-byes and left.
As the cool night air of summer hit me, I had to admit to feeling a little light-headed.
I made it a rule to never drink alcohol and drive. The risk was too high. Besides, you wouldn’t catch my heroine Christiane Amanpour arriving at the front line tipsy in a taxi.
I’d recently traded in my moped for an old but nippy blue Fiat Panda Sisley 4x4. It was hardly a flashy silver BMW like that of fellow reporter, roommate, and bane of my life, Annabel Lake—but it was mine, and not a gift for services rendered, like hers.
The Fiat’s engine started the first time. Apart from a bit of rust on the doorsills and a juddering clutch, I was thrilled with my purchase for which I paid cash, naturally. As the daughter of a notorious silver thief—nicknamed The Fog—I never used bank accounts or credit cards in case they could be traced. Old habits die hard.
Moments later, I headed for open countryside, leaving the sounds of Donna Summer and the comforting lights of The Marshes housing estate behind me. The night was black as pitch—rather like the sudden wave of depression that hit me hard.
Barbara was getting married. Even coy Olive Larch was living in sin—a thought I didn’t want to dwell on too long given the man in question—and here was I, an ancient twenty-three years old with no boyfriend and no prospect of finding Mr. Right, either. Gipping-on-Plym was rather sparse on the bachelor front.
I reached the entrance to Mudge Lane, marked by two triangular road-warning signs. They were both graphically clear. One showed a vehicle being submerged in water; the other, a cyclist being knocked over by a car. The first didn’t concern me because my Fiat had four-wheel drive, and the latter was highly unlikely given the hour of the night.
Mudge Lane wasn’t one of my favorite shortcuts. The narrow, high hedge-banked road was twisty, steep, and impassable in winter.
My mood darkened. What if the ford was running high? My Fiat would be swept downriver and my bloated body—when it was finally discovered somewhere in the English Channel—impossible to identify. And who would notice? I had no real friends to speak of. Even my parents seemed to have disowned me.
Get a grip, Vicky! I hated it when I got maudlin and administered a sharp pinch to my inside thigh. It really hurt but always did the trick. Who cares about love! Who has time for love anyway? What I needed was a front-page scoop to cheer me up. A nice juicy murder would do nicely and—blast!
I slammed my foot on the brakes and swung the steering wheel sharply to the left as a vehicle, blazing with a row of white lights atop a safari roof, flew around a blind corner and came barreling toward me. I managed to pull into a concealed farm entrance signposted MUDGE COTTAGE and flashed my headlights, but the vehicle didn’t even attempt to slow down.
There was a hard thud. My right wing mirror was torn off, followed by the sickening sound of metal screeching on metal as a green Land Rover scraped by. I caught just a glimpse of a figure in a woolen hat fly past without so much as a second glance.
Furious, I leapt out just as the Land Rover’s taillights were swallowed up in the darkness. Pulling my Mini Maglite from my safari-jacket pocket, I braced myself for the worst and went to inspect the damage.
I was gutted. The wing mirror could be repaired, but a deep gouge along the entire length of the driver’s side would need an expensive trip to the body shop.
Damn and blast! I was absolutely trembling with rage. I’d used every last penny to buy my car and intended to hunt down the driver—no doubt a farmer, given the make of vehicle—and make him pay for the damage. I couldn’t even report the incident to the police because of that wretched “fruit punch.”
I set off in the Fiat once more, drawing to a stop at the brow of a hill where a third triangular road sign warned of the almost-vertical drop below. Among the many skills I
learned under Dad’s “advanced driving course,” which I eventually realized focused on handling a getaway car, was navigating obstacles. These included railway lines, ditches, and small rivers. The key to success, Dad said, was in the approach.
Engaging the four-wheel drive, I took a deep breath and began a slow descent, stopping only when I reached the edge of the water at the base of the hill.
I couldn’t believe it! That wretched Land Rover had dumped a pile of household rubbish in the middle of the ford and—good grief—was that a bicycle?
Fly-tipping was illegal and culprits faced huge fines of thousands of pounds. It was also on the increase thanks to Gipping-on-Plym County Council’s ridiculous “bonsai bin system”—supposedly to encourage homeowners to cut the amount of rubbish they put out. People drove miles to dispose of old refrigerators or mattresses. I made a mental note of talking to our chief reporter, Pete Chambers, first thing in the morning. I even had a headline—BABY BINS BALLS-UP: FLY-TIPPING FIASCO!
Since I could hardly turn around, I’d have to move the stuff aside.
I cut the engine but left the headlights on so I could keep both hands free to see what I was doing. According to the wooden-posted depth reader peeping above the water line, the water was seven inches deep. I always kept a pair of Wellingtons in the boot of my car and swiftly switched footwear.
I passed the short flight of steps up to the “kissing bridge,” which was basically a wooden walkway on stilts that straddled the stream for pedestrians. The drop had to be about eight feet. There was no handrail, and I would imagine if things got hot and heavy, it could prove quite dangerous for lovers. I could think of much better locations to steal a kiss—on a cliff top overlooking the ocean, or perhaps around a campfire deep in the woods under a sky filled with stars. He’d be playing a guitar and—focus Vicky!
A gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the surrounding trees. I waded into the ford, making for the bicycle, but almost fell over. My feet were caught up in some kind of debris. I pulled out my Mini Maglite for a closer look.
Thieves! Page 1
