“I’ve been thinking about her, too,” I said slowly. “How easy is it to exhume a body?”
28
“Exhuming a body is a very complicated process,” said Probes, offering me a salt-and-vinegar crisp. “There’s a lot of red tape.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
Probes took a sip of shandy. “You’d need Mr. Fleming’s permission, of course.” I could just see myself asking for that! “And all the relatives, naturally. Wasn’t she American?” He took out his notebook. “If I can help, I will.”
“Yes. As far as I know, Mrs. Fleming had one relative in Atlanta.”
Probes duly wrote Relative in Atlanta. Name? on his pad. His writing was small and neat. “You’d have to obtain permission from the coroner’s office or get a license from the Home Office,” he went on. “I take it Mrs. Fleming was buried in sacred ground?”
“St. Peter’s the Martyr.” I frowned as I recalled how Fleming had invited me to step inside the family vault to view the coffin. Surely he wouldn’t have suggested it if he were guilty? I might have said yes! What if I was wrong about everything?
“In that case, you’ll need a Bishop’s Faculty, too,” said Probes. “Permission from the church.”
“Whittler’s away on holiday and not back until Tuesday,” I groaned.
“And of course, official grounds for requesting an exhumation,” Probes said sternly. “A hunch just will not cut it.”
We both fell silent. “What if the actual coffin itself was a bona fide reason for an investigation?” I said suddenly. “Don’t all coffins have to be lined with zinc and hermetically sealed?”
“A danger to public health, you mean?” Probes nodded slowly. “That’s a possibility. The smell would be quite dreadful—”
“And the Fleming vault is above ground. I might even be able to produce a witness—someone who handled the actual coffin.” I wondered if I could persuade Neil Titley to come forward. Wasn’t it said that even bad publicity was good publicity?
“You’ll still need to go through all the official channels,” said Probes. “It would take some weeks. Maybe months.”
Unless I broke into the vault myself!
“You’re not thinking of doing anything rash, are you?”
“Of course not!” Was the man a mind reader? “Like what?”
“It’s a criminal offense to exhume—”
“Everything is a criminal offense to you, Colin,” I laughed. My face burned with embarrassment having never addressed D.S. Probes by his first name before.
“Sorry,” he said ruefully. “I tend to say that a lot, don’t I?” He shot me a boyish smile. I’d always thought his teeth were like sharks but actually they were just small and neat—rather like his handwriting. “Speaking of of fenses,” he went on, “I’m afraid Gipping Manor Hotel is going to press charges on the GSRF because of Friday night’s fiasco.”
I had to admit I wasn’t surprised. I took out my own notebook. This was a story the Gazette had to snag first. “Any details?”
“Thousands of pounds worth of water damage. Broken furniture. Smashed glasses. Someone had vandalized the portrait of our queen by smearing trifle over her crown.” He shook his head. “What’s wrong with people?”
“I knew about the bread rolls being thrown, but not the trifle.”
“It all started with the fire alarm going off,” said Probes. “There was a fire exit behind a curtain next to the ladies’ toilets. The alarm was activated when the door opened and automatically set off the sprinkler system.” Topaz was going to have to come clean. “Mrs. Pratt obviously used the fire alarm as a decoy so she could attack Olive Larch in the bathroom.”
“She said she didn’t,” I said.
“And you believe her?” Probes cocked his head. “Were you aware that the Flemings had filed a restraining order on Mrs. Pratt several weeks ago?”
“Yes. But the two incidents are completely unrelated,” I said. “This is England and everyone is presumed innocent until found guilty.” At least that’s what Dad always says.
Probes looked taken aback. “True. But in this case we have proof.”
“How?”
“The Manor car park has a surprisingly sophisticated CCTV system,” he said. “The footage is being examined as we speak.”
I went completely still. Why hadn’t I thought of that! “The CCTV footage,” I whispered. “Of course!” The Gipping Bards storage unit was on the industrial estate behind Fleming’s office. I had to look at that footage! What’s more, Melanie Carew had it running around the clock. Given I had more than a few questions to ask her about her boss and their relationship, I’d pay her a visit first thing Monday morning.
“Speak of the devil,” said Probes, “Mrs. Pratt’s got some nerve!”
I looked up. Eunice had just entered the lounge. Dressed in her pale lemon suit and pillbox hat, she carried a canvas bag emblazoned with BAN CCTV! NO PRIVACY! She marched purposefully toward the door marked TO ANNEX.
I leapt to my feet. “I’ll go after her.”
“No! Don’t! She could be dangerous,” said Probes. “That handbag looks bulky.”
But I was already halfway across the room shouting, “Eunice! Wait!”
Eunice spun around. To my surprise, her face registered relief. “Vicky! I was coming to find you.”
Probes joined me. “Mrs. Pratt, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask to look inside that bag.”
“Why?” She clutched the bag to her chest. “I know my rights.”
“If you prefer, we can always talk about this down at the station,” said Probes coldly.
“New GSRF policy, Eunice,” I said quickly. “Mind if I have a peep?”
“I don’t mind you looking,” she snapped, passing me the bag. “But not him.”
Probes rolled his eyes and stepped aside. “Please, be my guest.”
I opened it to find a navy collapsible umbrella, a rolled up plastic raincoat, and an envelope. It was addressed to me. “I think I know what this is,” I said with a sinking heart. Eunice’s wretched signed statement. “Why don’t you give it to me later?”
“Robin needs you to read it and make sure it’s in order,” Eunice said, shooting a defiant look at Probes. “Don’t worry, Officer, you’ll see it soon enough.”
Probes opened his mouth and shut it again. Drawing Eunice to one side, I said, “Why don’t we go and have a chat about it?”
“I have to talk to Olive first.”
“Not a good idea,” I said in a low voice. “Not in front of the policeman.”
“I don’t care.”
“I think Robin wouldn’t be very happy if you got into trouble with the police. Again.” Eunice didn’t answer. “Did you drive yourself here today?” She nodded. “Why don’t you wait outside in your car until the officer has gone and then we can go and talk to Olive together?” Of course, I had no intention of doing any such thing.
She scowled and said, “All right,” before tossing Probes one last defiant glare and stomping out of the bar.
“You certainly seem to know how to handle her,” Probes said. “I’m afraid I have to go in a few moments. I’ve got to be back on duty in Plymouth by three.”
“I’d leave by a different exit if I were you,” I said. “As long as Eunice thinks you’re in here, she’ll stay away from Olive Larch.”
“Vicky, there is something I want to ask you.” Probes gave a cough and made a great deal of clearing his throat. “Tuesday is my night off. W-w-would you have dinner with me?”
A frisson of je ne sais quoi passed between us. My mouth went dry. “I might be working.”
“Didn’t you say Whittler was back on Tuesday?” Probes said. “We could talk about exhuming Scarlett Fleming’s body.”
“That sounds romantic.” Blast! What on earth made me say that!
“Did you want to be romantic?” Probes’s eyes twinkled.
“No,” I mumbled but my stomach turned over. I looked down at m
y shoes.
“Why don’t I pick you up at seven?”
“Is she resisting arrest, Officer?” shouted Arthur the barman from behind the counter. “Shall I call for back up?”
“No, need.” Probes whisked out a pair of handcuffs from under his jacket. “I’ve got these.” The two men cracked up with laughter. “Just kidding.”
I turned scarlet as the unwanted vision of Probes hand-cuffing me to a bed flashed through my mind. “I must go,” I said hastily. “Mrs. Pratt is waiting for me outside.”
“Just one more thing,” said Probes.
“No more copper jokes, please,” I begged.
“Can you tell Annabel I don’t have an answer for her yet,” he said. “She’ll know what I mean.”
I nodded, dying to ask exactly what he did mean but far more desperate to make my escape. Leaving the two men talking—no doubt about me—I steeled myself for a strong dose of Eunice Pratt.
29
Eunice’s Ford Fiesta was parked in front of someone’s garage door under a sign that said DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT PARKING HERE.
Putting on my best smile, I strolled over and got into the passenger seat only to be greeted by a curt, “You took your time.”
“Sorry,” I said pleasantly. “I’m covering the snail racing today.”
Eunice handed me the envelope with a scowl. “It’s all in there.”
Bracing myself for the worse, I tore it open and pulled out two typed pages. Skimming the contents, I noted that Robin had obviously done this sort of thing before as he used all sorts of professional jargon like unlawful attack and referred to Olive as the perpetrator. There was no mention of Topaz—or should I say, the Beast of Bodmin. Eunice had signed her name at the bottom stating the contents were “true, so help me God.”
“You’re quite sure it was Olive who locked you in the stall?” I said.
Eunice snapped an indignant “Yes.”
“You didn’t see anything strange, at all?”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“I only ask because of the Bugle, which, by the way is a dreadful newspaper.”
“It’s utter filth. I won’t have it in the house.”
“Glad to hear it. As I was saying, the Bugle carried a photograph of a huge catlike creature stalking the car park on Friday night. Several of the guests claim they saw it, too. Apparently, the newspaper is offering a reward for any further information.”
Eunice was quiet for what seemed like a full two minutes until she asked, “What kind of reward?”
“I can probably find out,” I said, encouraged by the glint of greed I caught in Eunice’s eye. “Olive Larch was convinced she saw something jump in through the ladies’ loo window and we’ll soon find out what it was.”
“How?”
“There are CCTV cameras everywhere.” I pointed to one located under the eaves of the garage roof above us—although I happened to know it was a fake. “Whatever went on in the bathroom was filmed. As a matter of fact, the police are checking it right now.” This was sort of true.
“That was why I was talking to Detective Sergeant Probes earlier.”
Eunice’s face crumpled. “I knew there was something there!” she wailed. “But Robin didn’t believe me.”
“Well, I believe you. Let’s forget about the assault charge for now.” With a huge sigh of relief I took out my notebook. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”
“I really was trying to help that stupid woman but she panicked,” said Eunice. “Even at school she was pathetic claiming she couldn’t do games because of her nerves. Dougie didn’t—”
“You said you were helping her.”
“Something horrible did climb in the window.” Eunice’s eyes grew wide at the memory. “I’ve never seen anyone so frightened before. All the color drained out of Olive’s face. She grabbed a pair of nail scissors from her handbag and started doing this.” Eunice made stabbing motions, mirroring those—rather too well—from the shower scene at the Bates motel in Psycho.
“What happened next?”
Eunice dropped her hand. “Olive started to hyperven tilate. When Robin was little, he used to do that if he didn’t get his own way so I knew what to do.”
Yet another strike against Robin as potential husband material. “Did you actually see the . . . creature?”
“It came in the window behind me but—” Eunice shuddered. “I felt its evil presence.”
“Go on.”
“Olive collapsed. She was gasping for breath.” Eunice began to tremble. “There was a paper bag in the rubbish bin—that always worked on Robin. I got on top of her and tried to hold the bag over her nose and mouth.” Eunice grabbed my arm, her voice urgent. “She fought me. Screaming. Thrashing around with those nail scissors and then—” Eunice licked her lips. “The c-c-creature . . . it picked me up. Shook me and threw me into the stall. I thought it was going to eat me alive.” With another agonizing wail, Eunice let go my arm and slumped forward over the steering wheel.
“How awful,” I said, gently rubbing her back. I know it sounded unkind but I had this urge to laugh my head off. The idea of anyone thinking Topaz was the Beast of Bodmin was ludicrous. “It must have been a dreadful shock.”
“Robin is going to be very angry,” she whimpered.
“He doesn’t need to know for now. Let’s just wait and see what the CCTV cameras reveal.”
“Yes. Good.” Eunice seemed to magically perk up. “Are you ready?”
“For what?” I said warily.
“To talk to Olive,” said Eunice. “I don’t want her getting hurt.”
“The officer will be there all day,” I lied. “Why would Olive get hurt?”
“She needs to know that Dougie loves me,” Eunice said earnestly. “He told me that if anything ever happened to Scarlett we would be together forever. He made me promise that nothing would stand in our way.”
My heart sank. This was seriously alarming. “You haven’t told anyone this, have you?”
“Dougie didn’t even bother with Olive until recently.”
“You said you all went to school together.”
“We were all at the same school. Different years. Everyone had a crush on Dougie but he never gave Olive the time of day. Why now? Why?”
I knew exactly why. Money—the oldest motive for murder in the book. With Sammy Larch dead, Olive had inherited millions of pounds.
“She needs to know he’s mine,” Eunice went on. “She needs to know he’s still calling me every day.”
“I think you should tell her,” I said smoothly “But in private. Not in front of that lot in there.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Eunice nodded. “She’d be embarrassed, wouldn’t she?”
“As for your statement,” I said, changing the subject. “Just tell Robin that we’re waiting to see what turns up in the CCTV footage. I must go now. Bye.”
As I watched the silver Ford Fiesta leave the car park, I realized I was no further forward in my Fleming-has-an-accomplice theory.
My mind returned to Pam Green’s words about Sammy Larch’s death being convenient. Even though Dr. Frost had signed the death certificate, it was Steve who’d arrived first on the scene. I hadn’t thought about it at the time, but maybe he did have a good reason to want to talk to a real reporter.
With Topaz present tonight, too, there would be safety in numbers. I only hoped this wasn’t a case of out of the frying pan, into the fire.
30
Topaz was waiting outside The Copper Kettle. “You’re late.”
“Goodness,” I gawked. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Even though I was used to Topaz’s many disguises, tonight she’d really gone to town. For a start, it looked as if she had used a garden trowel to plaster on her makeup—heavy black eyeliner, thick blue eye shadow, and scarlet lipstick. She wore a black halter-neck top that was practically transparent and no bra. An indecently short black skirt exposed sturdy th
ighs, which were clad in fishnet stockings. The whole effect was somewhat risqué and made me nervous. “Where’s Steve?”
“Change of plan,” she said. “We’re going to Badger Drive.”
The phrase ménage à trois flew instantly to mind. “No. I don’t think so.”
“But you promised!” Topaz stamped her foot. “If you don’t come, I’m going to tell Annabel that you asked me to spy on her.”
“Don’t be childish,” I said, irritated.
“Steve really wants to see us,” said Topaz. “He said he had something very important to talk about and wanted to tell you—me, really—in person.”
The problem was, I really did need to talk to Steve.
While the afternoon had dragged on at the Three Tuns, I’d been able to watch Fleming and Olive for all four heats of the Three-Yard Endurance—and the Finals. It was clear he was fond of her—unless he’d been putting on an act for everyone to see, which was possible. He did perform with the Bards, after all.
Given the fact that Fleming was newly widowed, I was astonished that no one seemed to think his lovey-dovey behavior unusual. But Barbara claimed that, “when you get to our age, you take love when you can.” She certainly wasn’t the only one holding that opinion. Many thought the new couple “sweet” and “darling.”
Olive being worth millions troubled me. If Fleming was capable of knocking off his wife of forty years, I was quite sure he’d have no problem doing the same to Olive.
“All right. I’ll come with you,” I said to Topaz. “But I can only stay an hour and I’m taking my moped.”
“Suits me.” Topaz gestured to her rucksack on the floor in the doorway. “I might end up staying overnight anyway.”
“You probably will—looking like that.”
“Like what?”
“I’m only saying we’re supposed to be professional newspaper reporters. If you want to be taken seriously, you need to dress for the part.”
“I am dressed for the part,” Topaz said, puzzled. “It’s you who isn’t.”
I had deliberately removed what small trace of makeup I usually wore and picked a gray moth-eaten turtleneck sweater and jeans. My plan was to look as unattractive as possible. I wasn’t taking any chances with either of them.
Expose! Page 20