Expose!

by Hannah Dennison

  “Can’t stop. I’ve only got a few minutes. What kind of information were you hoping to get from him?”

  Topaz shrugged. “Just snippets really. In my new role as the Caped Kitten it’s frightfully important that I’m ahead of the game.”

  “What game?”

  “Being in the loop,” said Topaz. “Steve hears lots of snippets but he said he’d only tell a real reporter.” She slumped back in her chair and scowled. “I told him I worked for the Gazette but he didn’t believe me.”

  “I’m sure if it’s a life-or-death situation, we’ll soon know about it.”

  “Aren’t you a tiny bit curious?”

  “About snippets? No,” I said. “But I am curious about what really happened in the ladies’ loo last night.”

  Topaz fell silent. She began to twiddle with the lock of hair that always seemed to dangle out of the front of her mop cap.

  “Look, I don’t mean to be rude,” I said. “But I really have to go upstairs.”

  “I was trying to think,” she snapped. “All right. I’ll tell you what happened in the ladies’ loo if you tell Steve that I’m a real reporter.”

  “An undercover reporter,” I corrected her.

  “Sssh.” Topaz jabbed her finger at the brown-spangled curtains. “I bet Barbara is listening.”

  “Barbara already knows.” I sat down at the table and took out my notebook and pencil. “Start from the beginning.”

  “You promise, you swear you’ll tell Steve?” Topaz extended her hand. “Shake on it.”

  “I promise.” I took it—taking care to keep my other hand hidden behind my back with my fingers crossed. Where Topaz was concerned, I didn’t want to promise anything. “You’ve got five minutes to tell me what happened in the ladies’ loo.”

  “Well, it all started with Annabel.”

  “Annabel? What’s she got to do with it?”

  “You think she’s your best friend, but she isn’t.”

  “Go on.”

  “Remember when that sailor was in such a fizz over his missing aunt?”

  How could I forget? “Yes. Go on.”

  “Well, I thought I’d go and look for her, too,” Topaz said. “I’m not just a vigilante, I like to do nice things for old people.”

  “So you went to the bathroom . . .”

  “That was afterward. On my way to the ladies, I overheard Annabel talking to you’ll never guess who.”

  “Topaz . . .” I said in a threatening voice. One of my pet peeves was her insistence on playing childish guess-who games.

  “Ronnie Binns.” Topaz beamed.

  “I’m sure she wasn’t happy about that.” I already knew that Ronnie had been trying to corner Annabel for days.

  “But she was!” Topaz said triumphantly. “There was a funny alcove covered by a heavy dark blue curtain outside the gents. I saw her drag him behind there.”

  “Drag him.” I laughed. “Behind a curtain?” Like everyone who’d experienced Ronnie’s personal hygiene problem, the idea was ludicrous.

  “So I crept up to the curtain to listen and you’ll never guess—”

  “Topaz!”

  “Sorry. They were talking about you.”

  I went very still. Why would Annabel be talking to Ronnie Binns about me? “What were they saying?”

  Topaz shrugged. “I only heard snatches because her mobile phone rang and she said something about Plymouth and a photograph tomorrow night—that must mean, tonight. They both came out and I had to dart around the corner and that’s when I saw Eunice going into the ladies.”

  I’d lost interest in Eunice and the ladies’ loo. “Why didn’t you find out who Annabel was talking to?”

  Topaz frowned. “Don’t be silly. I could hardly go up and ask her.” But all I could think was why Plymouth? What photograph? “I hear lots of gossip at the café,” Topaz went on. “Everyone knows that Eunice was frightfully in love with Douglas Fleming. My vigilante instincts knew she was going to pick a fight with Olive. And I was right!”

  “How did you know that Olive was in the ladies’ loo?”

  “I saw her go in.”

  “So you set off the fire alarm.”

  “Of course I didn’t,” Topaz said. “I heard the two women screaming at each other and knew it was a case for the Caped Kitten, which was why I never go anywhere now without my equipment.” She pointed to her orange rucksack under her chair.

  “Tell me exactly what you saw in the bathroom.”

  “I came in through the bathroom window.”

  “How?”

  “I’d opened it earlier in case I needed a getaway plan. The Caped Kitten always plans ahead,” said Topaz. “That awful Pratt woman was sitting on top of Olive Larch holding a brown paper bag over her face,” Topaz said. “It was frightfully exciting. Olive was thrashing about trying to stab her with a pair of scissors.”

  “Couldn’t you have just separated them?”

  “In my line of business, you have to act fast,” Topaz said. “I just pulled the Pratt woman off Olive—incidentally, I have been weight training—bundled her into a stall and then you turned up.”

  “You are going to have to tell this to the police,” I said, closing my notepad.

  “No way.” Topaz shook her head vehemently. “Are you kidding? The Caped Kitten never deals with the cops.”

  “Then, I’m not telling Steve you are an undercover reporter.”

  “But you promised!” Topaz wailed. “All right. All right. I’ll tell Colin—but no one else.”

  Barbara’s head poked in between the curtains. “Wilf is asking for you, Vicky.”

  “I have to go,” I said to Topaz, and got to my feet. My heart began to thump disconcertingly in my chest at what lay ahead.

  “Just one more thing. . . .” Topaz paused at the entrance to the nook. Was everyone stealing my Columbo technique? “You absolutely swear that you’re no longer friends with Annabel?”

  “We just work together, Topaz. Okay?” Frankly, I couldn’t be bothered to argue. I had far more important matters on my mind.

  “Goody.”

  Leaving Topaz seated in the nook to write up her report, I approached Barbara behind the counter in reception.

  “What sort of mood did Wilf sound in?” I said.

  Barbara shrugged. “It’s hard to say, but remember, follow your instincts, dear. That’s what I always do.”

  And with that in mind, I thrust back my shoulders, held my head high, and mounted the steps to the scaffold.

  21

  “Dave was just as shocked as we were, sir.” I’d been standing at Wilf ’s desk watching him clean out his Dunhill pipe for a full three minutes and he hadn’t even acknowledged my presence.

  The front page of the Gazette lay accusingly before me. In the bottom left-hand corner was a photograph of Scarlett Fleming dressed as Cleopatra holding a Victoria sponge cake with the caption: ON THE STAGE OR BEHIND THE STOVE: GIPPING MOURNS LOCAL CELEBRITY and, TURN TO PAGE 11 FOR THE FULL STORY.

  I hated being in Wilf ’s office even more than Pete’s. It was so claustrophobic. That was the problem with these old Queen Anne buildings with their small, square rooms and high ceilings.

  Piles of newspapers towered on every available surface—floors, filing cabinets, and even under Wilf ’s desk. The only reason there were none on the windowsill was because when the stacks got too high, Wilf would open the window and toss them into the backyard below where they slowly decomposed over time.

  I glanced over at Pete who was lounging against a dry-erase board that was divided into fourteen sections—each representing a page in the newspaper. Since today marked the start of a new week, it was currently blank.

  “Dave really was shocked,” I said again.

  Pete yawned. He looked tired. “Shocked doesn’t cut it.”

  Wilf still said nothing. He just carried on scraping the bowl with a small penknife, tipping the caked tobacco onto a small mackintosh square on his desk. Finally, he l
ooked up. “I’m disappointed in you, Vicky. Taking Randall’s claim at face value without checking the facts smacks of amateurism at the lowest level.”

  I cringed with embarrassment. I knew Wilf was right. “Perhaps someone forced Sammy Larch to change his mind?”

  “In the spirit world?” Pete sneered. “Larch died weeks ago—in case you forgot.”

  “The decision was made before he died, Pete.”

  “But can you prove it?”

  Of course I couldn’t! It was just a feeling I had and Barbara felt the same way, too. “There’s too much at stake for Dave to make it all up,” I said. “We need to save Dave’s Olympic dream, not get on the bandwagon with everyone else.”

  “It’s too late for that.” Pete handed me a copy of the Plymouth Bugle. “Seen this?”

  I hadn’t. My heart sank.

  “The GSRF is a laughing stock,” muttered Wilf, savagely thrusting a pipe cleaner into the stem.

  Splattered on the front page of the tackiest tabloid in the West Country were photographs of the Gala fiasco with the headline GARCON! THERE’S A SNAIL IN MY TRIFLE!

  Several hand-drawn cartoons of garden snails accompanied snaps of various brawling tuxedo-clad gents covered in various delicacies from the buffet table. Another photograph showed Gillian Briggs screaming under a water sprinkler—OH LA LA! FUN AND FROLICS AT THE MANOR. Her white dress had become indecently transparent and clung to her ample form in unattractive folds.

  But nothing was as bad as Dave Randall being bundled into a waiting custody van: HEDGEROW HOOLIGAN: DO YOU WANT THIS MAN IN OUR OLYMPICS? A telephone hotline number followed so readers could call in and vote.

  I threw the newspaper down in fury. “No wonder Ronnie Binns can afford a new camera. This is his doing.”

  “Ronnie Binns?” Wilf ’s jaw dropped. “Well, I’ll be damned.” His one good eye zeroed in on Pete. “I thought he was one of ours?”

  “Defected, sir,” said Pete. “We can’t afford his prices.”

  Wilf grunted and began to pack fresh tobacco into his pipe—Sir Walter Raleigh’s—It smokes as sweet as it smells. “The Gazette doesn’t give in to paparazzi terrorists and we’re not starting now.”

  “Do we care about this drivel anyway?” I cried, leafing through the paper. “I mean . . .” Good grief! A blurred out-of-focus shot of a catlike creature was caught behind the kitchen dustbins in Gipping Manor car park—BEAST OF BODMIN HUNTS FOR NEXT VICTIM. Of course it was Topaz. I stifled a snort of laughter.

  “This is hardly a laughing matter,” Pete scolded.

  “You have to laugh,” I said quickly. “Anyone who takes the Bugle seriously is beneath our contempt. It’s sensationalism. Not journalism!” Wilf looked up in surprise. “As a journalist, my mission is to tell the truth!” I was actually getting quite heated about it all. “If there is a conspiracy, we should expose it.”

  “Conspiracy?” Pete seemed to perk up. “Bloody hell.”

  “Please let me make some inquiries before printing apologies, sir,” I appealed to Wilf then turned to Pete. “Honestly, if I’m wrong, I’ll take full responsibility. You can blame it all on me.”

  “We would,” said Pete.

  “All right.” Wilf nodded. “I must say you’ve always proved to be thorough in the past. Not every trainee reporter snags two national scoops in her first year on the job. You’d better make a start. Off you go.”

  “I thought I’d go to the snail meeting at the Tuns tomorrow,” I said. “See what I can find out.”

  “Isn’t tomorrow your day off?” said Pete.

  “It’ll give me a chance to have a word with Ronnie Binns, too. See why he defected to the Bugle.”

  “I was going to go to the Tuns to cover the first snail meeting,” said Pete. “Thing is, Emily’s parents are in town and—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” I said. “Oh, and tonight I’ve got a meeting with one of those guerrilla undertakers. Go-Go Gothic.”

  “I like your enthusiasm, young Vicky.” Wilf made a strangled chuckling noise before adding, “You’d better watch out, Pete, or she’ll have your job.”

  I left Wilf’s office feeling euphoric. Sauntering over to Tony’s desk I leaned over his shoulder and whispered, “Thought you’d like to know that Wilf and Pete are backing up Dave’s story.”

  “Those bloody jumpers are environmental barbarians,” Tony snapped. “The sport should be banned. Oh! Someone looks in a bad mood this morning.”

  I spun around. Annabel was standing at the door dressed in jeans and a baby blue sweater dress with a face like thunder. “You’ve got some nerve,” she said. “Call yourself my friend?”

  “I could ask you the same,” I said hotly. “Thanks for leaving me stranded.”

  “You stranded? Where the hell were you?” I noted that Annabel’s eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Had she been crying?

  Tony made a silly woooh noise and said, “Now, then, children.”

  “Oh shut up,” we chorused.

  “I want to talk to you,” said Annabel. “In private.”

  22

  I followed Annabel to the usual venue for private conversations—the ladies’ loo. Her face was flushed an ugly red. “I looked for you everywhere last night!”

  “Was that after your little assignation with Ronnie Binns?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Annabel fumed. “I told you, I’ve got nothing to say to the wretched dustman.”

  I couldn’t believe why she still persisted in lying to me. “You were seen going behind a curtain with him.”

  “That’s utter rubbish. Whoever said that is blind!” Annabel sank onto the wooden chair and wailed, “If you must know, it’s a miracle that I’m not lying dead in the gutter.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Annabel’s bottom lip began to quiver. “It was after the fire alarm went off,” she said. “I’d gone somewhere private to make a phone call—” At least that part of her story was true—“Suddenly Christine Rawlings and her friends appear out of nowhere and wouldn’t let me pass.”

  “Oh, dear.” I’d always assumed Christine Rawlings’s threats to be just that—threats.

  “It was more than ‘oh, dear.’ ” Annabel’s eyes began to water. “They started calling me horrible names and were rude about my contact lenses. I have to wear contacts. I can’t see without them. And then they attacked me. Look!” She pushed the sleeve of her sweater dress up to the elbow. There was a nasty purple bruise. “And here, too.” Annabel bent over and rolled up the bottom of her jeans to reveal more bruises. “Quentin Goss’s wife kicked me with her Prada shoes. Why are they so cruel? It’s not my fault their husbands fancy me.”

  “How did you manage to get away?”

  “The fire exit was open.”

  A light went on in my head. “You mean, the one behind the curtain where you had that rendezvous with Ronnie—?”

  “I don’t remember where!” Annabel shouted. “I had to get out. They were going to kill me.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said again. “Dr. Frost must have been furious.”

  Annabel burst into tears. “Jack didn’t come home last night. Again. I called the police station and the hospital in case he had an accident but . . .” She shook her head in despair. “I found him at the surgery this morning.” She looked at me with such misery in her eyes I actually felt sorry for her. “Jack told me he had to pick something up from his office last night and must have fallen asleep.”

  “Perhaps he had.” If she couldn’t see the obvious, I certainly wasn’t going to tell her.

  “I know Jack can’t be having an affair.” Annabel pulled a tissue out of a fake Coach handbag and blew her nose. “I’m young and beautiful. Aren’t I? I mean, look at me, Vicky. Aren’t I?”

  “Yes. Of course you are.” I was more concerned about why she wasn’t coming clean about Ronnie Binns. Unless . . . Good grief! It came to me in a flash. Hadn’t Topaz heard Annabel talk about “Plymout
h” and “photographs”? Was Annabel in cahoots with Ronnie and flogging pictures to the Bugle? “You’re not working with Ronnie on the side, are you?”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Annabel said crossly. “Of course I’m not. I’m a serious investigative journalist and besides, he stinks and gives me the creeps. Oh, Vicky.” She let out another wail. “What am I going to do about Jack? Maybe he was punishing me for going out?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m going to make him jealous.”

  “That kind of thing never works.” At least, that’s what Mum always says.

  “What do you know about relationships?” Annabel said with scorn. “No. You and I are going clubbing tonight in Plymouth and I’m going to collect lots of telephone numbers.”

  “I’m working tonight.” I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be out with Annabel in her current reckless mood. What if she went off with a sailor and abandoned me down at the docks?

  “On a Saturday night?”

  “A reporter never sleeps.”

  “Neither does Plymouth. Never mind, I’ll pick you up after whatever it is you’re doing,” said Annabel. “Where is it?”

  “Actually, I have to go to Plymouth,” I said reluctantly. “I’m meeting the chap who drove the rented hearse for Scarlett Fleming’s funeral at nine.”

  “You can’t go all the way to Plymouth on your funny little moped.”

  “I’ve done it before.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Annabel went to inspect her reflection in the mirror, all tears forgotten. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  I returned to the reporters’ room with mixed feelings. I was pleased we’d cleared up last night’s misunderstanding. I did feel a little guilty about Annabel’s run-in with the wives—though it was hardly my fault.

  Driving to Plymouth with Annabel would give me another chance to try to find out why she was fascinated with Ronnie Binns. Annabel was already flogging fake handbags on eBay to make some extra money. Why not cash in on Ronnie’s sideline, too? If she still wouldn’t come clean, I fully intended to corner him—figuratively speaking—at the Tuns on Sunday.