Thieves!

by Hannah Dennison

  “That would be Mary Berry,” said Mrs. Evans. “I saw her being driven off in a Panda car by young Kelvin.”

  Stalk added that they were hoping that four lads—“you know who you are”—would step forward to answer questions down at the station.

  “Oh bollocks,” said Mr. Evans again. He got up and left the room.

  “Don’t you want to see the rest of it?” shouted Mrs. E.

  “Got to make a phone call,” Mr. Evans shouted back. And I had a very good idea to whom. I was going to have to have a word with Mr. Evans about his rendezvous with Jack Webster.

  There was no mention of Phil Burrows’s death threat, though twice I saw him jumping around in the background, trying to attract the attention of the cameraman. Each time he was dragged away by Cherish and her clapperboard.

  Stalk went on to wax lyrical about the dangers of drunk driving before being cut midsentence to Crispin, standing with Topaz at the bottom of the steps leading up to the patio.

  Crispin looked grave. “And that’s not all that Gipping-on-Plym has had to endure this past week. Let’s hear what reporter Vicky Hill from the Gipping Gazette has to say about one of Britain’s top ten wanted criminals . . .”

  Mrs. Evans congratulatory strike across my back took me by surprise. I watched numbly as Dad’s mug shot—so thoughtfully provided by Topaz—filled the screen.

  As I spoke directly to the camera, the ticker tape switched to running details of Dad’s most spectacular robberies—specifically the botched job in Bond Street, which resulted in a critically injured security guard—and that he was last known to be hiding out in Spain. A revolving slideshow of stolen silver antiquities—mostly Georgian tea urns—flashed to the right of my head along with their value.

  I thought I was going to be sick.

  Mr. Evans returned and hovered behind the sofa. “Got to go out in a tick, Millie.”

  “Be quiet!” she admonished. “Our Vicky’s on the telly.”

  My segment ended abruptly and cut to the studio for an “extended report” on The Fog’s crimes, mentioning the price tag of a hundred thousand pounds on his head.

  A clip with Topaz—clearly taped before the afternoon’s tragedy, since she was filmed sitting on her Knole sofa—claimed that her ladyship was convinced The Fog was responsible for the theft of the “priceless Spat tea urns” because there had been a sighting of him in Gipping. The thought of Dad being here in Gipping was too much to take.

  A short interview followed with criminal psychologist Skip Tanner, who explained how Harold Hill had earned his nickname because of his unique ability to seemingly come from nowhere and just as mysteriously vanish.

  “The Fog’s in Gipping, all right,” declared Mrs. Evans. “They have plastic surgery nowadays. Look at the Great Train Robber, Ronnie Biggs. He’s had it done.”

  “Your name’s Hill,” chuckled Mr. Evans. “Any relation? We could do with a hundred thousand pounds, couldn’t we, Millie?”

  “She’s got relatives in Spain, Lenny.” Mrs. Evans cocked her head. “Marie and Derek, isn’t that right?”

  “Very funny, Mrs. E.,” I said, laughing just a little too heartily until Skip Tanner mentioned the distinctive sapphire blue eyes.

  “Well I never,” she declared. “Just like yours.”

  “You know I wear contact lenses, Mrs. E.,” I protested. “In fact, they’re really bothering me. Will you excuse me? I must go and take them out.”

  I pushed past Mr. Evans and darted from the room and tore upstairs.

  I threw myself onto my bed in shock. Had Mrs. Evans guessed the truth? She often questioned me about my family. When I’d told her that my parents had been eaten by lions in Africa, she was very upset, saying, “poor little mite” over and over again and insisting I regard her and Lenny as my adoptive parents.

  Seeing Dad’s face on the telly and Dora Pike’s body on that stretcher had truly shaken me. I had to get a grip.

  Dora Pike had definitely known Carol Pryce, and it was my belief that her estranged husband had been indulging in a little affair—hence the use of MAN-STAY. Was Carol Pryce murdered because of this—or was it something to do with the check-washing scam? I was beginning to see that perhaps justice was being served in the gypsy community, and I’d never know the truth.

  Even though I knew Steve no longer wanted to talk to me, I left a message for him all the same—mentioning that I physically had the source of Carol Pryce’s chemical burns and desperately needed it analyzed. I was ashamed to admit that I added a quick “I miss you” as I ended the call so that when my phone rang mere minutes later, I felt a tiny grain of triumph.

  But I was wrong. It wasn’t Steve. It was one of the Swamp Dogs.

  “Vicky, it’s Malcolm! We didn’t mean to kill her. You’ve got to help us.”

  Begging me to meet them up at Ponsford Cross phone box, I quietly slipped out of the house.

  There wasn’t a moment to lose.

  39

  When I got to Ponsford Cross telephone box, there was no sign of anyone. The place was deserted. Located high on Ponsford Ridge, the location was bleak.

  I stood around for several minutes until I heard a “Pssst” coming through a hole in the hedge, followed by, “are you alone?”

  “There’s no one here but me,” I called out.

  Moments later I joined them on the other side of the hedge in a field full of sheep.

  They all looked deathly pale apart from Brian, whose face was blotchy, as if he’d been crying.

  “What happened?” I said.

  The boys all talked at once: “accident,” “not our idea,” and “Jack Webster threatened to blackmail us about stealing some cutting equipment—which we never touched!”

  “We only meant to scare him,” finished Mickey.

  “Him?” I was confused. “I thought this was about Dora Pike?”

  “It’s bad luck to kill a gypsy,” wailed Brian.

  “No. Mr. Webster wanted to frighten that celebrity, Phil Burrows.”

  “It was just a trick,” piped up Ben.

  “She wasn’t supposed to be there,” said Mickey. “She refused to move her tent. Least, that’s what I overheard Steve Burrows say. He said she was creating a safety problem blocking the emergency lane.”

  “And Jack Webster put you up to it?” I said. “Did he pay you?”

  “It was supposed to be twenty-five pounds each, but now that the woman is dead, he’s pretending he doesn’t know what we’re talking about.”

  “It’s our word against his,” said Malcolm. “No one will believe us.” He was right. Everyone knew that Jack had a personal vendetta against the Swamp Dogs.

  “Just to be clear,” I said, “one of you released the brake on the traction engine whilst the others distracted Mary Berry?”

  “Yes,” mumbled Mickey. “That’s about it.”

  “But how did you know The Gordon would roll down the hill in the right direction?” I said.

  The boys all looked at one another. “Go on,” Malcolm said, “tell her.”

  “Mr. Webster wanted me—because I’m good at physics—to calculate the basic mechanical units of mass, length, and time,” said Mickey.

  “You’re losing me.” I had never been good at physics.

  “The weight of an object is the force of gravity on the object and may be defined as the mass times the acceleration.”

  I still didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about. “Okay. So what you’re saying is that all those little stones and drawings in the dirt the other day had something to do with this?”

  The boys nodded in unison.

  “That’s really silly,” I said. “Didn’t it occur to you that people would jump out of the way?”

  “The gypsy woman didn’t,” said Malcolm darkly.

  “What about the anonymous letter?” I said. “Did you send that to Phil, too?

  “No!” they chorused.

  “Spell confidential.”

  Brian st
epped forward. “C-o-n-f-i-d-e-n-t-i-a-l. Confidential!”

  “That’s right.”

  “Of course that’s right. Brian’s the best at spelling.”

  If the boys hadn’t sent the note, chances were that Jack Webster had, and he could have left trace evidence. We might at least be able to prove that Jack was involved.

  Ben started to cry. “Dad is going to kill us—”

  “We’re going to jail—”

  “What we’re going to do is go down to the police station,” I said firmly. Ignoring the chorus of protests, I went on, “I saw Jack Webster leave the abandoned factory the other night, remember?” I also remembered seeing Jack Webster call on Mr. Evans and only hoped he hadn’t enlisted him into the bargain.

  “I’m staying here. I’m going back to the Land Rover.” Ben turned on his heel and started walking away toward what looked like a camp built into the corner of the field and covered in a khaki tarpaulin that I hadn’t noticed up until now.

  In a flash, I just knew what was under there.

  Moments later I had pulled the tarpaulin aside to reveal the hood of a green Land Rover. A further inspection revealed a safari rack and overhead lighting. Trembling with excitement, I traced my fingers along the scrapes of blue paint that ran the length of the driver’s side panel.

  I had found the Mudge Lane mysterious Land Rover at last.

  On the front passenger seat was a copy of Romany Ramblings.

  “How long has this been here?” I was euphoric. The fact that it had been hidden away was a sure sign of guilt. The question was, who had been driving?

  “Dunno,” said Ben. “When we saw all the police arrive in that minibus, we got scared and were looking for somewhere to hide.”

  Promising Ben that it was highly unlikely they were going to prison for life, we rejoined the others.

  The day may have started off badly, but—without meaning to sound callous—things were certainly looking up for my next Vicky Hill exclusive!

  But first I had to sort out the Swamp Dogs. I loathed police stations at the best of times, but I wasn’t about to let four young lives be ruined.

  These boys would need all the help they could get.

  40

  Half an hour later the four boys and I were sitting on a hard wooden bench in the waiting room courtesy of Gipping Constabulary. On arrival, the desk sergeant had taken one look at my charges and said, “You lot are going to jail,” which made Ben cry again.

  It was getting late, yet the place was still heaving with people eager to give eyewitness accounts of the afternoon’s tragedy.

  One hour later, we were still sitting there. The boys were fidgeting and had started to pick fights with each other. I was beginning to get irritated myself. This was not how I’d planned my Saturday evening.

  I wanted to return to The Grange and attempt to break into Dora’s empty Winnebago before Ruby and Noah returned from the hospital. I’d been doing a lot of thinking and come to the conclusion that the check-washing equipment had to be in there or in Belcher Pike’s wagon.

  “I’m thirsty,” sniveled Ben. “Can I have a coke?”

  I set off in search of snacks and soon regretted my generous offer. Standing next to a vending machine packed with cans of Coca-Cola, soft drinks, and crisps was Lieutenant Robin Berry.

  Blast! I’d forgotten about his mother being arrested. Of course he’d be here—and most likely his odious aunt, Eunice Pratt, too.

  I darted back around the corner, but Robin had seen me. “I thought that was you. Can you spare three pounds? I don’t have any change, and Auntie is hungry.”

  “Sorry, I need the change myself.”

  He watched whilst I pressed the various letters and numbers and heard the reassuring clunk of four cans of Coca-Cola drop down, one after the other.

  “That’s very kind of you, Vicky,” said Robin. “But I wished you’d checked. Auntie doesn’t drink Coca-Cola. She’d rather have a cold orange juice.”

  “Actually, these are for the Swamp—never mind.”

  “You were going to say Swamp Dogs, weren’t you?” Robin’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe it! They’re the ones responsible for putting my mother in here! My God! Are you actually buying them refreshments?”

  “The police gave me the money,” I lied. “How is your mother?”

  “What do you expect?” snapped Robin. “It’s a blatant case of ageism. Stalk believes no one over the age of sixty should be driving. He even accused her of being drunk! Auntie is going to start one of her petitions. As a matter of fact, perhaps she should write a piece for your newspaper?”

  “Great idea! She should phone our chief reporter, Pete Chambers,” I said. Let him handle her. “Must dash. Bye.”

  When I got back to the boys, D.I. Stalk was waiting for me along with D.C. Bond. The younger twins were now crying hysterically. The elder pair was just looking sullen.

  “I’ve got their parents in interview room two, but they begged me to wait for you,” said Stalk.

  I handed the boys their sodas. “Can I have a quick word, Inspector? In private?”

  Stalk glowered but gave a curt nod. “All right. Two minutes. Officer Bond, take them to their parents.”

  Briefly, I told Stalk about Jack Webster hiring the boys. I mentioned that they were good students at school—well, at least two of the four had brains. Stalk listened but just said he’d “take my comments into consideration” and that the boys were “old enough to know what ‘malicious intent’ meant.”

  I felt disappointed, but what else could I do?

  “You’re saving me a trip,” said a voice I knew all too well. “I heard you were here at the station.”

  D.I. Probes handed me a plastic cup of tea. “Milk and one sugar if I remember correctly?” He was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. “We didn’t really ever finish our conversation behind the pigsty, did we?”

  I felt my face redden as I remembered Noah rushing to my rescue. “I think there was a misunderstanding.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve forgotten about that,” he said. “I really need to talk to you. It’s very important. Follow me.”

  It was an order. Probes set off with his long, quick strides, with me hurrying after him, trying to keep up.

  He ushered me through a door marked INTERVIEW ROOM 3. “Take a seat.”

  It was a stark place with drab green walls and a mirror that I knew disguised a one-way window into an adjoining observation room. Two surveillance cameras were set high in opposing corners. In the center stood the usual metal table and four uncomfortable plastic chairs, with a tape recorder plugged in and ready to go.

  As a young teenager, I’d sat on the wrong side of a table such as this one many times and instantly felt defiant and on the defensive. The cops in Newcastle used to call me Little Vicky Light-Fingers. Perhaps that was why I felt empathy for the Swamp Dogs. Once the police know your name, you get a reputation that is almost impossible to shake off.

  I dragged out a chair and sat down, mentally preparing myself for some kind of interrogation.

  Probes did not sit down. Instead he used his chair to stand on and switched off both surveillance cameras. Then he pulled the blind down over the one-way window.

  My mouth went dry, and my stomach began to churn. What did he want to talk to me about? Topaz? The missing silver—oh God . . . Dad?

  Probes sat down and clasped his hands in front of him on the table. “This is completely off the record,” he said firmly. “This is not for the newspaper.”

  I nodded but, of course, wouldn’t take any notice.

  “Operation Pike has collapsed.” I must have looked puzzled because Probes gave an exasperated sigh. “Come on, Vicky, you can’t really believe that we would deliberately let the murder of one of our own go unreported?”

  “Carol Pryce was a cop?”

  “One of our best undercover policewomen from Scotland Yard,” said Probes grimly.

  How could I have been so blind! It
made perfect sense. My hunch had been right all along. Carol was a gypsy—but not a real one. It explained why the gypsies pretended they didn’t know her and why the police didn’t seem to care.

  “But how did Carol manage to befriend them?” I said. “They’re a close-knit community, naturally suspicious of gorgers.”

  “It took her six months to gain Noah’s trust,” said Probes. “She met him on the road, posing as a scout for a gypsy folk festival.”

  “How old was she?” I asked, surprised to feel a small twinge of jealousy.

  “Why? Is it important?”

  “It will be when I write the story.”

  “I told you, this is off the record, and I will explain why in a moment,” said Probes. “I really felt we could still pull it off until my ridiculous cousin started meddling and stealing her own silver, trying to get them evicted. We had to play it down, keep it quiet—”

  “Which is why you moved Carol Pryce’s body to Plymouth morgue and tried to hush the whole thing up?”

  “Naturally your editor and chief reporter knew,” said Probes.

  “Wilf and Pete knew about all this?” I was stunned and more than a little upset.

  “They had to,” said Probes. “We couldn’t afford for anyone to go digging—but you still did it anyway. When are you going to learn to do as you’re told?”

  “Excuse me?” I said hotly. “I was doing my job! Some poor woman was murdered, my Fiat was hit by a getaway car, and you expect me to ignore it?”

  “Well—”

  “And what were you doing in Mudge Lane anyway?” I asked. “You just materialized from thin air.”

  “Carol was on her way to see me.” Probes’s voice was riddled with anguish. “She left me a message that she’d found something out about Belcher Pike. The autopsy came back saying she was knocked unconscious by a blunt object and drowned—”

  “By the man in the Land Rover fleeing the scene,” I said.