Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Well, believe it,” said Pete.

  “But even Stalk originally hinted that it was a suspicious death, but then Detective Sergeant Probes turned up—”

  “Oh! Colin is such a cutie-pie,” gushed Annabel.

  “Enough!” Pete slammed his hand down on the table. “The woman drowned. End of story.”

  “The less of those bloody gypsies, the better,” Tony declared. “Thieving beggars.”

  “She’ll still have a funeral,” I persisted. “We still need to know who she is.”

  “We forget, Pete,” said Annabel sweetly. “Vicky takes her job as an obituary writer very seriously.”

  “Why would the ruddy gypsies pick Gipping?” Tony said bitterly. “They’ve never been here before.”

  “Actually, Tony,” said Edward, “my mum told me they used to come here years ago. They camped up at The Grange.”

  “And that’s where they’re going now,” Pete said. “Apparently Belcher Pike has decided to spend his last days on this earth in Gipping-on-Plym. Aren’t we lucky?”

  “They’re sticklers for tradition and highly superstitious,” said Edward. “Apparently the dying gypsy’s wagon must be pitched away from the main camp in an isolated spot. He must never be left alone day or night. Gorgers—that’s the name they give for non-gypsies—are forbidden to cross the threshold, as it’s believed their presence can send the Romany’s soul to hell.”

  “How pathetic!” said Annabel.

  “Did you know that there are between two and three hundred thousand gypsies living in Great Britain at the moment?” Edward went on. “Of course, it’s impossible to be accurate because they are always on the move.”

  “That’s why they’re called travelers,” Annabel insisted. “Because they are always on the move.”

  “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Edward said cheerfully. “Many people make that mistake. Both are legally recognized as distinct ethnic groups and have the protection of the law. Romanies are the real deal. Travelers tend to be dropouts from the seventies, old hippies, and people unwilling to work. Now, the Irish traveler is a different breed all together. He’s disliked by—”

  “Romanies, travelers, who cares!” shouted Pete. “We’ve got a bloody important gyppo about to kick the bucket here in Gipping-on-Plym, and hundreds of the buggers are heading for The Grange just in time for this Saturday’s Morris Dance-a-thon.”

  There was a chorus of dismay, especially from Tony. “Bloody hell. It’ll cause a riot.”

  Pete leaned back in his chair and flung his feet up on his desk. “And that means trouble. And trouble means news, and news means readers!”

  “Why can’t we just evict them?” said Annabel. “The Grange is private land. Surely it’s illegal.”

  “Technically, yes,” said Edward. “I believe there is a public right-of-way from Ponsford Ridge. But even if the site is unauthorized and perceived as an official transit pitch, the law stipulates they can stay put for thirty-five days—actually, it takes a good ten to file an eviction notice, so you’re looking at a minimum of—”

  “A bloody long time,” said Pete. “We get the picture.”

  “And since the old boy is dying, we’ve got the Human Rights Act to deal with,” Edward said. “They can’t be thrown off the land.”

  “It’s true,” I said, taking the flyer out of my safari-jacket pocket. “One of the gypsy women gave this to me today.”

  Pete snatched it from my hands and skimmed the contents with a groan. “Bloody hell!”

  “A gypsy told my fortune once,” said Annabel with a seductive wriggle. “She said men would always fall in love with me and to be careful of the married ones.”

  “They’re all crooks.” Tony stuck his jaw out belligerently. “The bastards mended my roof, and the first time it rained, water poured into the attic and brought the ceiling down. It cost me hundreds of pounds. If it were up to me, I’d set those caravans on fire and burn the lot of them.”

  “Not helpful, Tony,” barked Pete. “Who lives at The Grange now?”

  “It’s supposed to be empty,” I said. “The place belongs to—”

  “Lady Ethel Turberville-Spat,” said Annab.el smoothly. “Inherited it from her aunt and uncle—”

  “She usually lives in London,” I said, wondering why I was continuing Topaz’s lie.

  “Not anymore. My sources tell me she’s back at The Grange.”

  “Good,” Pete nodded, seemingly deep in thought. “Do you still have your contacts with Westward TV?”

  “Why?” Annabel said.

  My heart sank. Shortly before Annabel’s fall from grace, she’d persuaded Westward TV that she had the biggest exposé of the century, namely that she’d located the daughter of one of the most notorious criminals in England—i.e., me. Since Annabel ended up with egg on her face and it all came to nothing, I’d be surprised if they were willing to talk to her again.

  Pete jabbed his finger at Annabel. “Call Westward. Do whatever it takes to get a camera crew. Go and interview the Spat woman—”

  “Omigod!” squealed Annabel. “I’m going to be on camera at last—”

  “Get her reaction. How does she feel about her home being invaded? Is she frightened? You know the deal.”

  I raised my hand. “Actually, I sort of know her ladyship. Why don’t I handle her? She can be a little unpredictable.”

  “No, Vicky,” said Pete. “You’ll have your hands full with Belcher Pike’s funeral if we’re to believe Edward’s prediction.”

  “But he’s still alive,” I protested.

  “So get a head start.”

  “She won’t get very far,” said Edward ruefully. “Gypsies don’t like talking to gorgers—especially the press.”

  “We’ll run the Spat piece on this week’s front page,” Pete declared. “That should get a few angry letters to the editor.”

  Annabel clapped her hands. “How about this for a headline—SPAT’S SPAT WITH THE PIKEYS!”

  “You can’t say pikeys,” said Edward. “Politically incorrect.”

  “But the gypsy’s name is Pike.” Annabel sounded smug. “Belcher Pike. Get it?”

  I cringed. Annabel was appalling at headlines.

  “PIKE’S PLOT IN PERIL,” I said suddenly. “Or, GRIEVING GYPSIES—”

  “Silence!” Pete slammed his hand on the desk. “Just get on with it.”

  “I’ll come with you, Annabel,” said Tony.

  “I don’t need anyone to hold my hand, thanks.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” Tony had asked Annabel out on a date once and still hadn’t gotten over being rejected. “These people can cause a lot of problems with the environment when they leave a site. You know how strict our recycling rules are. I want to take a few photos before they wreck the place.”

  Tony was an avid supporter of Greenpeace and had sympathies with Eco-Warriors, Gipping’s environmental watchdogs.

  “A fly-tipping piece?” Pete nodded eagerly. “I like it.”

  “I thought I’d get a few quotes from Ronnie Binns about the challenges he faces as a garbologist.”

  “Good luck,” Annabel and I chorused. We’d never agreed before—though in this instance, Ronnie Binns’s personal hygiene problem was legendary. His pungent aroma of boiled cabbages could be smelled a mile away.

  Pete’s phone rang. He snatched it up, listened for a brief moment before slamming the receiver back into the cradle. “Vicky, Olive wants you downstairs. Phil Burrows is in reception.”

  “He’s got some nerve showing up here,” said Tony grimly. “Guest appearance! What a bloody cheek.”

  “Get over it, Tony,” said Pete. “You would have done the same. You just weren’t good enough.”

  “Personally, I think Morris dancing’s silly,” Annabel declared. “Grown men in silly hats with bells strapped to their arms and legs, waving sticks around. It’s stupid.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you think it’s stupid,” came the voice we all
knew and dreaded. Everyone leapt to attention. Our illustrious editor—and now Barbara’s fiancé—stood in the doorway.

  “I’ll have you know that Morris dancing has been in existence since the sixteenth century, young lady,” scolded Wilf, who had never liked Annabel at the best of times. “William Kempe, the Shakespearean actor, was one of the first to dance the Morris.”

  “We all dance the Morris,” Edward chipped in. “If you’re local, you dance the Morris. In fact, I only gave up because of my knee injury. Wilf still does the odd event, don’t you, sir?”

  “That’s right.” Wilf removed his trademark Dunhill pipe from the pocket of his brown tweed jacket and clamped it between his teeth, unlit. “It’s a real coup to snag Phil.”

  “Burrows shouldn’t have signed on with the Turpin Terrors,” said Tony stubbornly. “Remember the outcry when David Beckham went to play for the Los Angeles Galaxy?”

  I hardly thought world-famous footballer David Beckham and Morris dancing were in the same league but kept quiet.

  “You’re only jealous because you’re stuck in this boring dump,” said Annabel.

  An awkward silence descended on the room.

  “I didn’t mean the Gazette was boring,” mumbled Annabel.

  “How is Barbara feeling, sir?” I said, neatly changing the subject. “She’s never off work.”

  “That’s very nice of you to ask, young Vicky,” said Wilf. “She’s got a migraine.”

  “Migraines are brought on by stress,” Annabel declared. “She should lie down in a dark room.”

  “I’m sure Barbara knows what to do,” Wilf said stiffly and swung around to face me, his one good eye, sharp and bright. “Were there many people at Ms. Trenfold’s funeral this morning?”

  “I’m afraid it was just the reverend, her brother, and myself, sir,” I said. “Seems she wasn’t very popular.”

  “That’s why the Gazette obituaries are so important,” said Wilf, swelling with pride. “We are recorders of history and keepers of the truth. Another newspaper may not have bothered with Ms. Trenfold. With no husband or children to continue her line, it would have been as if she had never lived at all.”

  “Quite right, sir,” I said. “Which makes me wonder about the dead woman in Mudge Lane last night. No one seems to care about who she was.”

  “Bollocks!” muttered Pete.

  “Pete?” said Wilf sharply. “A word in my office. Now.”

  Pete shot me a filthy look and followed Wilf’s departing figure.

  “That wasn’t very clever,” said Annabel.

  “It was an innocent question,” I protested, but I felt sick. I would never knowingly throw our chief reporter under the bus. “Why am I the only person who cares around here?”

  The phone rang in Pete’s office again. Annabel picked it up. “It sounds like Olive is having a nervous breakdown. You’d better hurry downstairs.”

  7

  Pausing at the reception door, I pulled a comb and small mirror from my safari-jacket pocket and dragged it through my shoulder-length bob. Unlike Annabel, I wasn’t vain, but since I was about to meet a mini celebrity, I wanted to look my best.

  I’d inherited the famous Hill sapphire-blue eyes. They were my best feature but—being so unusually distinctive—had almost brought about my downfall. As a result, I pretended to wear colored contact lenses, which Annabel liked to point out whenever I received a compliment.

  I stepped into reception to find a tall, heavy-set man leaning over the counter.

  Olive heaved a sigh of relief. “Here’s Vicky now.”

  “Hello. You must be Mr. Burrows,” I said. “Vicky Hill.”

  The man turned around and rewarded me with a smile of blinding white Chiclets. Frankly, I’d been expecting a rustic farming type and was taken off guard by his orange fake-tan complexion and designer-spiked dirty-blond hairstyle.

  I guessed he was only a few years older than me, though it was hard to tell. Fake tan can be deceptive. I noticed his hair also sported telltale orange tints, confirming my suspicion that Mr. Burrows had been overzealous with Sun-In hair-care products, too.

  “So! Here is the famous Vicky Hill.” Phil Burrows was dressed in expensive clothes. Designer jeans—something I knew all about thanks to Annabel’s obsession with labels—and a black silk shirt, which was open halfway down his chest, where a fuzz of brown hair exploded over a gold button. “Call me Phil,” he said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “All good, I hope.”

  “Oh yes.” He gave a knowing wink.

  “Shall we go somewhere private?” I was considering the nook in the corner of reception, away from Olive’s adoring gaze. She was already on the phone telling her friends he was here.

  I caught a snatch of “Phil and I had a lovely chat” and “autograph.” It was then that I noticed a stack of professional headshots of Phil Burrows on the counter and—good grief—a Phil Burrows look-alike doll dressed in Morris dancing attire. Bells, ribbons, et al.

  “The nook, eh?” Phil’s brown eyes twinkled. “Not sure if I’ll be able to trust myself in there with someone so beautiful.”

  Stifling a groan, I mumbled a gracious, “Thank you.”

  “Wow,” he said, studying my face. “He told me you had the most incredible sapphire-blue eyes and—”

  “I wear contacts,” I said firmly.

  And then, with a sinking heart, I just knew. There was something extremely familiar about Phil, and his last name was Burrows.

  “You’re not related to Steve Burrows by any chance?” I said.

  “Little Steve’s my baby brother,” said Phil with a laugh. “I know all about the gorgeous Vicky Hill. Let’s take a look at you.” Phil took several steps backward and gave me an admiring once-over. “Very nice.”

  God! He even sounded like Steve. I deliberately slumped over in the hope of looking deformed. “Thanks, but shall we get on?”

  “I meet a lot of girls in my profession,” Phil said. “Fame attracts groupies and, not meaning to brag, I’m never short of a bedfellow or two, but Steve’s right. You’re a catch. He’s a lucky man.”

  “That’s very nice of Steve to say that,” I said, not surprised that Steve continued to regard me as his girlfriend. “But I’m not caught by anyone. I’m too busy with work.”

  “In that case—” Phil took my hand and brought it to his lips. I braced myself for the Burrows tingle, but thankfully, Steve’s brother didn’t have the same electric touch.

  “All’s fair in love and war.” Phil wiggled his eyebrows—he even had Steve’s mannerisms. “I’ve got a suite at Gipping Manor. Why don’t you come over tonight for a drink?”

  How typical. “Working. Sorry.”

  I heard Olive gasp. “Oh, Vicky! You should!”

  Steve’s ardor was easy to manage. If anything, it was rather innocent and touching. Phil was a different animal. Fame had given him a sense of entitlement and an ego to match.

  I gestured to the opened cardboard boxes on the floor. “Presumably all these are yours?”

  One box contained items—tankards, black sweatshirts emblazoned with TURPIN TERRORS, and tricorn hats—sealed in plastic bags. The other box had SILENT AUCTION written on the inside flap. It seemed to contain a mixture of what looked like used clothing and objects normally relegated to a charity shop.

  “All this needs to go in the window today,” said Phil. “Just wait until you see the stuff for the silent auction. Everyone wants a bit of Phil.”

  “What about the horse mascot?” Olive said.

  “That’s Beryl.”

  Given that the Turpin Terrors had a highwayman theme, I said, “I thought Black Bess was the name of Dick Turpin’s horse.”

  “No. She was called Beryl,” said Phil.

  I saw no point in arguing.

  “I was trying to ex-ex-explain to—Phil.” Olive looked uncomfortable. “Our Gipping boys only want their mascot in the window.”

  “Let Barbara sort that out whe
n she gets here.” I sat down in one of the leatherette chairs. “Phil, take a seat.”

  “Is there a problem?” Phil sat down. He leaned back and put his arms behind his head, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight across his chest. Although he and Steve were about the same build, Phil’s thin shirt outlined solid muscle instead of flab. There was even a hint of a six-pack. “My agent told me I’d get full use of the window display.”

  I thought this highly unlikely. “Do you have anything in writing?”

  “My agent handled it.” Phil’s expression hardened. “I waived my appearance fee for this as a favor to the Women’s Institute. I even cut short my training in Brighton. My fans expect to see my stuff in the window, and I’ve already announced it on Facebook.”

  Celebrities! I took a deep breath. Patience, Vicky! “Perhaps one of the members of the Women’s Institute said you could use the window and forgot to tell Barbara?” I suggested. “Since we can’t reach Barbara, can we talk to your agent?”

  Phil looked at his watch. “He’s in Los Angeles and won’t be up yet. They’re eight hours behind.”

  “Los Angeles!” said Olive directly behind me. I hadn’t heard her creep up to eavesdrop. “Hollywood! I bet he knows Paul Newman.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Paul Newman died three years ago.” I remembered it well. My mum cried.

  “I’m working on a deal with an American dance show,” said Phil. “It’s a bit hush-hush at the moment.”

  “I won’t say anything,” Olive said, enthralled. “Is it Dancing with the Stars?”

  “I’m not allowed to say which one,” said Phil, feigning modesty. “But put it this way: the Hoff and I are friends.”

  “The David Hasselhoff?” Olive clung to the back of the chair. For a moment, I thought she might swoon. “How did you meet him?”

  “I was dancing in the Brighton International Folk Festival, David saw our performance and we got talking.” Phil reached for his man-bag and unzipped it. He took out a color photograph of two figures standing arm in arm. The man on the left was definitely David Hasselhoff.