Thieves! (32 page)

“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.

“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.

W
hen 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 stepped 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.

H
alf 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.