Try as I might, I couldn’t grab the mike back. “There have been rumors that the Romany gypsies who are guests on my land are responsible,” Topaz went on in a lofty voice. “However, we now know this is not true, and it’s thought that because these Georgian urns were crafted by Hester Bateman—now dead but frightfully famous—these thefts can only be the work of an international silver thief called The Fog.”
The Fog? I thought I was going to faint. A murmur of excitement mixed with fear swept through the crowd. Topaz thrust the mike back into my hand. “Vicky Hill is going to tell us all about this dangerous person.”
I stood there like an idiot.
“Tell them about The Fog,” came the order through my earpiece.
“Yes, The Fog.” I struggled to think of something to say. “Isn’t he supposed to be in Brazil? I can’t imagine why he’d come to Gipping-on-Plym.”
“We don’t want your opinion,” growled the voice in my ear. My mind literally went blank, and as I searched for something to say, I saw Probes watching me intensely.
“Good question and one I was anticipating,” said Topaz, taking the mike back once more. She seemed to magically produce a photograph out of thin air and held it up to the camera lens. It was a mug shot of Dad looking violent, taken at his last admission to Wormwood Scrubs prison. “This is whom we must be on the lookout for.”
“Is he armed and dangerous?” urged the voice in my ear, but I was speechless with shock.
Suddenly, the music in the background stopped, and apart from a few stray bells, a deathly hush descended on the showground.
A lone voice cried out, “It’s out of control!”
The crowd around Topaz and I now swarmed back to the arena. Someone began to scream.
Rock darted up the steps, camera rolling. I followed and, from our vantage point, witnessed something I hoped never to see again.
The Gordon traction engine came trundling down the slope without a driver. Mary Berry slithered down the bank, having desperately tried to clamber into the empty cab but fallen. A cry of terror swept through the crowd, but luckily, Mary rolled away from the deadly wheels.
The traction engine began to pick up speed; it broke through the rope and bunting and into the arena, heading straight for Phil Burrows’s podium. Phil seemed rooted to the spot.
There were screams for him to “Jump! Jump! For pity’s sake!” and it was only as the giant wheels seemed to be upon him that he dived out of the way. The podium disappeared under the machine, reappearing seconds later as flat as a pancake.
Widespread shrieks switched to an eerie silence as it became apparent where the rogue machine was headed next.
Breaking through a flimsy post and rail fence, The Gordon plowed into Madame Dora’s tent with a sickening crunch. It went straight through and out the other side, continuing on its trail of destruction until it pitched forward into a drainage ditch and stopped.
It began to rain.
37
It had been an hour since Dora Pike had been whisked away in Steve’s ambulance. Having suffered from internal injuries beneath The Gordon’s giant wheels, her condition was described as “critical.” She was not expected to survive.
D.I. Stalk had shown a different side to his usual brusque nature, taking Ruby and Noah—who were completely hysterical—into his own car directly to Gipping Hospital.
I looked everywhere for Jimmy but assumed he must have been left with the awful job of informing Dora’s father, Belcher Pike.
Following their dramatic departure, accompanied by a bevy of sirens and flashing lights, the Morris Dance-a-thon fell flat—no pun intended. Officers from Gipping Constabulary declared the event canceled and sent people home. Tents were struck, merchandize was loaded up into Land Rovers, and there was the general feeling of shock mingled with euphoric fascination that always follows any tragedy. People demanded answers. Who was responsible? Was Mary Berry drunk? Was this an accident or manslaughter?
A rumor began to spread of potential lawsuits and insurance claims. The traffic division moved in with their various tape measures, sticks, and piles of stones to measure the trajectory of the vehicle, depth of tires, and skid marks. Special attention was paid to the condition of the ground.
I joined forces with Tony, jotting down eyewitness accounts. Tony told me that Annabel was seen driving off in her silver BMW with a paper bag over her hair.
Topaz retired to her rooms without even offering me a cup of tea and slice of cake. She seemed particularly unsympathetic to Dora Pike’s accident, simply remarking that “the gypsy woman was told she couldn’t put up her tent in the emergency fire lane, but she wouldn’t listen. It was her own fault.”
From the shelter of an overhanging oak tree, I watched the park empty out and a police minibus move in. Six officers disembarked—wearing riot gear and carrying shields—along with two German shepherds, terrifying dogs for someone like me. The coppers splashed through puddles, trying to keep their balance over fields slick with mud.
I managed to corner D.C. Bond. He was guarding Dora’s partially collapsed tent behind a perimeter of crime scene tape.
“What’s going on, Officer?” I said, gesturing to the riot police. “Are you expecting trouble?”
The young copper’s eyes filled with tears. “We just got word from Steve Burrows. Dora Pike died on the way to the hospital. This place will be heaving with gypsies in the next few hours.”
Poor Steve. He’d taken Dora’s death personally, of that I was sure.
“I am sorry.” I couldn’t help but steal a glimpse at the partially flattened tent where I spied a solitary wooden leg from the same table I’d sat at only days ago. “Have you seen Detective Inspector Probes?”
“He’s down at the station helping take statements,” said D.C. Bond. “We don’t know if it was an accident or manslaughter—”
“It was neither,” said a familiar voice. “It was an attempted murder!”
I turned to find Phil Burrows, still wearing his tricorn hat and highwayman mask, looking surprisingly cheerful. “That engine was meant for me.”
“That’s a very serious accusation, sir,” said D.C. Bond, whipping out his notebook.
“Vicky?” said Phil. “You were there at Gipping Manor. Go on, tell him.”
My mind flew to John Reeves’s threat in the bar on Thursday night and to Jack’s secret meeting at the abandoned factory with the Swamp Dogs. Phil could be right, but why should I support his claim?
Frankly, Phil wasn’t one of my favorite people. He was arrogant and conceited, not to mention the way he had deliberately sabotaged any sort of relationship—if I had wanted one—with Steve.
There was also the matter of alienating my readers. Those very people who had threatened Phil Burrows were also my friends.
“I think a lot of the men here are just jealous,” I said. “I don’t think they meant anything by it.”
“Oh really? Just take a look at this.” Phil retrieved a white envelope from inside his red tatter jacket and withdrew a piece of paper. “Here, read that.”
The letters had been crudely cut from newspaper and stuck on with glue. LEAVE GIPPING OR YOU’RE A DEAD MAN.
“That’s a death threat all right,” said D.C. Bond, peering over our shoulders.
I was shocked. “Where did you get this?” I suddenly thought of TURPIN TERROR TERRORIZED!
“Gipping Manor,” said Phil. “I found it under my hotel room door first thing this morning.”
“Did you ask the night porter?”
“No one saw anything.”
“Do you have any enemies?” D.C. Bond asked.
“A man in my position always has enemies,” boasted Phil.
“Can I look at the envelope?” I gave a start of recognition. EXTREMLY CONFIDENTAL—the exact spelling as that on Barbara’s shoebox. For a moment, I was confused. I was positive that Dora had sent the shoebox to Barbara, but why would she threaten Phil Burrows?
“I saw them do it,
you know,” said Phil.
“Who?” I said sharply.
“Those kids. That gang.” Phil shook his head. “Kids today!” He snorted with disgust. “I even gave them four of my tricorn hats for free.”
I was incredulous. “You can’t mean the Swamp Dogs?”
“I was dancing, and I like to pick a point in the crowd to help me focus—especially on the more difficult numbers,” said Phil. “My spot was the traction engine on the bank. Three of the boys distracted the old biddy in the orange boiler suit, led her away on some pretext, whilst the fourth fiddled with something in the cab. Next thing I know, the thing comes down the bank at a hundred miles an hour.” A slight exaggeration.
“Those kids are a menace to society,” said D.C. Bond.
“Can I just have a word, Officer?” I pulled him to one side. “I know these boys. They’re not bad, just high-spirited, but could be easily led astray. I’d like to talk to them first because I have a feeling that someone put them up to it.”
“Sorry. This is now an official police matter.” He turned back to Phil. “Would you go down to the station to make a statement, sir?”
Phil looked at his watch. “I’ll have to talk to my agent in L.A. first,” he said with a frown. “I’m not sure if attempted murder is good or bad for my image. I’ll be in touch.” And with that, he said good-bye and walked off.
“I’ll speak to my superior officer and issue a warrant for the boys’ arrest.”
“At least give them a chance to explain,” I said.
“No can do.”
With disgust, I left D.C. Bond to it, determined to find the Swamp Dogs first.
In the thirty-five minutes it took me to collect my Fiat and head for home—post-show traffic was terrible—the police were already swarming around the abandoned warehouse.
It would seem that the Swamp Dogs had vanished.
38
The moment I stepped through the front door at 21 Factory Terrace, I heard Annabel’s heartbreaking sobs coming from upstairs.
As I passed her bedroom door—still bearing the traces of angel stencils despite Mrs. Evans’s attempts at removing them with acetone—another wail of grief stopped me in my tracks.
I refused to feel sorry for her. Even though it was hardly likely that Dad would watch the interview—Westward TV was not broadcast in Spain—there were enough of his cronies who lived in England who would. Dad would find out soon enough. He always did.
“Oh, oh, I want to die,” she sobbed.
It was no good. I wasn’t that heartless. Maybe her hair would never grow back.
Gingerly, I tapped on the bedroom door. “Can I come in?”
“Go away,” cried Annabel.
“At least let me take a look,” I said. “And stop being so dramatic. Did you hear that Dora Pike died on the way to the hospital?”
There was a pregnant pause, then, “Good.”
“Phil Burrows thinks the traction engine was meant for him. He said he’s been having death threats.”
“Really?” I detected a glimmer of interest. “Who sent them?”
“Apparently he had a lot of enemies.”
“Wait a minute.” Annabel blew her nose with a violent trumpeting sound and unlocked the door to her Hello Kitty-themed boudoir. “It’s obviously one of the Ranids,” she said with a sniff.
Annabel was wearing a pair of Juicy Couture plum-colored sweatpants and a matching hoodie. Her face was a mass of blotches and streaked with mascara. A cotton bandana was wrapped around her head.
On the dressing table sat clumps of auburn hair.
Annabel’s face crumpled. She sank onto the edge of her bed. “My life is over,” she said miserably. “I’ll never be a Westward TV anchorwoman.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“My head hurts.” Ignoring her feeble protestations, I removed the scarf and gasped. Annabel’s scalp was covered in patchy livid whorls.
“Men will never look at me now.”
A peculiar feeling swept over me. Steve—oh Steve, how I need you now—had mentioned chemical burns caused by sodium hydroxide on Carol Pryce’s head. Even though I’d only caught a glimpse that night in Mudge Lane, I had a feeling these were similar.
“I think it’s something to do with your shampoo,” I said.
“Lenny bought me an expensive bottle especially for long hair.”
And in a flash I just knew! It wasn’t Mr. Evans who had bought the new shampoo but his wife. Hadn’t she mentioned purchasing a “fidelity potion”? Was it possible that Carol Pryce had been the victim of such a potion, too? In which case, the two women were linked. And if Mrs. Evans’s attitude toward Annabel was anything to go by, they were linked by one thing. Jealousy.
“Where is the shampoo bottle?”
“In the bathroom. Why?”
“I want to look at the ingredients.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps you’ve had an allergic reaction?”
“To shampoo?”
“Ask Mr. Evans where he bought it?”
“Oh no! I couldn’t. Just couldn’t.” Annabel looked utterly miserable. “When Lenny got home earlier, I hoped he would comfort me, but instead, he was very unkind. He . . . he . . .” she gulped. A tear trickled down her cheek. “He told me that he’d rather wait until my hair grew back and that we should lie low for a while.”
Men! Annabel had only been attractive to Lenny when she was a potential trophy mistress. Mum says that when a relationship is based on sex—though in this case, I shuddered to think of them reaching that level—the slightest physical deformity can end even the most passionate affair.
“What if it never grows back?” said Annabel. “Or by the time it does, Lenny has found someone else?”
He’s married to Mrs. Evans, I wanted to scream, but instead had one of my clever ideas.
“I bet it’s also the water here,” I said. “A buildup of chlorine reacting with the Nice ’n Easy chemicals in that hair dye you use. Coupled with your new shampoo . . .”
Annabel frowned. “I’ve never heard of that happening before.”
“Perhaps it’s something to do with the factory across the street,” I went on, warming to my theme. “The water is probably filtered through their old system. Copper pipes. Maybe even asbestos poisoning! You should stop coloring your hair.”
“Stop coloring my hair? Are you mad?” Annabel seemed appalled. “I’ve never told you this, but . . . I went prematurely gray at sixteen from the shock of—no, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh dear. Poor you,” I said. “What on earth are you going to do?”
“I don’t have a choice, do I?” Annabel’s bottom lip began to quiver. “I’m going to have to move out.”
“Might be an idea,” I said, barely able to disguise my triumph. “Why don’t I remove that shampoo for now, though—just in case you accidentally use it again.”
I found Mrs. Evans downstairs chopping carrots in the kitchen. She was humming quietly along to the radio, seemingly oblivious to the sounds overhead of drawers opening and slamming shut and the squeak of luggage wheels.
“Recognize this?” I said.
Startled, Mrs. Evans spun around, vegetable knife in hand. Her eyes widened when she saw the shampoo bottle in my hand.
“No,” she said, but a faint flush covered her face. “Whose is it?”
“Come along Mrs. E.,” I chided. “Is this something to do with that fidelity potion?” There was still no answer other than a few clicks of her dentures. “Pity. Because I thought it might be working.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hear that?” I pointed to the ceiling as the banging of drawers continued. “Annabel is moving out.”
Mrs. Evans burst into a grin so wide that I could practically count every single one of her false teeth. “I can’t believe it! I just can’t! Fancy that!”
“Did you buy this shampoo from Dora Pike?”
“That poor woman,” said Mrs.
Evans. “Dreadful. I was close to the ambulance, you know. When Steve loaded her onto the stretcher, her arm flopped out. It didn’t look at all flat. I thought it would—”
“Mrs. E.,” I said sharply. “Where did you buy it? It’s really important.”
“I don’t remember.”
“If you don’t tell me, I might have to mention the shampoo to Mr. Evans.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Mrs. Evans’s dentures clicked into overdrive. “It’s too late. I threw away the bottle.”
“Good.” I marched over to the row of mini recycling containers on the draining board and went straight for the white bin (plastic bottles). “You mean this?” The black plastic bottle was labeled MAN-STAY. I needed to get this analyzed as quickly as possible, but naturally I’d have to ask Steve, and, of course, he’d refuse.
“Please don’t tell my Lenny,” begged Mrs. Evans.
Mr. Evans flung open the kitchen door. “Come quickly! We’re on the telly!”
We hurried into the sitting room just in time to watch The Gordon begin its descent down the slope, accompanied by a ticker-tape warning at the bottom of the screen rolling by on a loop: “What you are about to see might be disturbing to some viewers.”
The camera managed to capture the orange boiler-suited figure of Mary Berry desperately trying to climb aboard the runaway engine; Morris dancers scattering in all directions; and Steve bursting through the crowd, his mouth open in a long drawn-out “Noooooo!”
The lens even zoomed in on a horrified Phil Burrows frozen with fear on his podium with the tagline TURPIN TERROR TERRORIZED.
“Oh bollocks,” muttered Mr. Evans.
As the massive traction engine plowed through the ropes and rolled into Dora’s tent, demolishing everything in its path, Mrs. Evans clung to her husband’s arm, shrieking, “Is that her leg? It’s her leg, isn’t it?”
The last shot cut to Steve loading Dora—arms dangling off the side of the stretcher—into the ambulance.
“You see? She doesn’t look at all flat.” Mrs. Evans sounded disappointed.
WIDESPREAD RIOTING PREDICTED ran the ticker tape as D.I. Stalk warned folk to expect repercussions following Dora Pike’s tragic death. He went on to say that the police had “someone helping with inquiries” and that if she were found guilty, she could expect to face criminal charges of manslaughter.
Thieves! Page 22
