Expose! (27 page)

“Aye. I don’t expect him to win today, but I’ll be happy if he gets placed third.”

“I saw your work in the
Bugle
,” I said. “You really should have offered those photographs to the
Gazette
first.”

“The
Gazett
e doesn’t pay,” Ronnie said flatly.

“I’m surprised—” I gave him a playful nudge. “Given your relationship with Annabel.”

Ronnie turned pink to the tips of his ears. “She told you we had a
relationship
?”

Careful, Vicky
. I could see I’d have another Fleming-Eunice love disaster on my hands if I didn’t watch out.

“She tells me everything,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back. “It sounds like you are quite the romantic.”

Ronnie beamed with pleasure. “She calls me her angel. Said if it hadn’t been for me, she would have died that night.”

I bit back my retort. If it hadn’t been for
me
, both of them would have been burned to a crisp! “How sweet,” I said. “That was a
big
night.”

“She likes to talk about it,” said Ronnie.

“Really?” This was puzzling. The night in question was one I knew Annabel still suffered nightmares over and surely Ronnie Binns was the last person she’d ever want to relive those memories with.

“Aye, she likes to talk about the weather.”

“The
weather
?”

“I hear you want to do some acting with the Bards,” said Pam Green elbowing her way between us. “Barbara mentioned it.”

“Oh! Right.” I was momentarily distracted by Pam’s silly hat—a snail antenna hair band. “Ronnie, wait—” But it was too late. Ronnie had shuffled off in the direction of table three.

“Such a smelly man. Barbara thought you needed rescuing.” Pam pointed to the bleachers and waved at Barbara who gave me the thumbs up. “I’ll be auditioning for our autumn program next month.”

She handed me a Gipping Bards flyer printed in medieval typeface. I glanced at the list. It seemed alarmingly ambitious with productions ranging from Ibsen’s
A Doll’s House
to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s rock musical
Starlight Express
performed entirely on roller skates. “I don’t care what Barbara told you,” she said. “
Antony and Cleopatra
will
not
be in the program this season.”

“Scarlett Fleming’s Cleopatra would be a hard act to follow,” I said.

“Nothing like that. Someone broke into the Bards storage unit on the industrial estate and stole the coffin.”

I swear my heart stopped beating. “Was it an
Egyptian
coffin?”

“Of course. The Bards prides itself on being authentic,” said Pam with a sniff. “Excuse me, I must snag Ruth Reeves. She’d make a perfect Nora if she’d lose ten pounds.”

It all fell into place. I looked over at Douglas Fleming standing with the starter pistol in his hand, wondering how he’d killed his wife. Was it by a single shot to the head? Strangulation? Poison? Suffocation? Electrocution? The methods were endless but would I ever be able to prove it?

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” whispered a voice in my ear.

I came back to earth with a jolt. Dressed in jeans and a teal Guernsey-knit sweater, Probes had a pint of shandy in each hand. “I thought you looked thirsty. Don’t worry. I know you’re driving. Yours is a weak one.”

“Thanks.” Frankly I could have done with a nip of brandy from Barbara’s hip flask.

“I’ve been thinking about Scarlett Fleming,” said Probes. “Maybe she used a pseudonym?”

“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.”

“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 my 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.

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