Thieves! (33 page)

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.

“We
have
been looking for that Land Rover, Vicky, but can’t find it anywhere.”

“That’s bad luck.” I was still fuming about being kept in the dark. “And why were you wearing your pajamas in Mudge Lane?”

Probes gave a wry smile. “My godfather left me Mudge Cottage in his will. There is a footpath that leads to the ford through the sunken garden.”

“Oh. That’s nice,” was all I could say. How was I to know?

“Carol was a good cop, and she deserves justice,” said Probes. “It’s over. There’s no way to connect her with the gypsies now.”

“There is, actually,” I said slowly. “Didn’t the autopsy report say she had chemical burns on her scalp?”

Probes frowned. “How do you know that?”

“I can’t tell you.” Quickly, I outlined Annabel Lake’s experience at the hands of the fidelity potion.

“
Man-Stay
?” said Probes incredulously. “But why?”

“My guess is that one of the women—Dora or Ruby—didn’t like Carol getting close to their men. It was a warning.”

“What difference does that make now?”

“My landlady bought a bottle from Dora Pike. I have a sample. The lab could analyze it. At least it would connect her with Carol Pryce.”

“Both are dead, Vicky.” He stood up and started pacing around the room. “This is all so hopeless.”

“Why
was
Carol Pryce working undercover?” I said. “Is this anything to do with the check scam?”

Probes jaw dropped. “How did you guess?”

Jeez.
Did I have to do all the work for the Gipping Constabulary?

“I’m very close to the community,” I said modestly. “Not much passes me by.”

“Clearly not,” said Probes, though I detected admiration in his voice. “Dora, Ruby, Noah, and Jimmy—last name Kitchen but still married to a Pike. Ninety-nine percent of gypsy crimes involve the entire family.”

He could say that again. It was the same in Dad’s world—except I was the only one who refused to do it.

Probes filled me in. Apparently it starts with an advance party. He or she moves to a town—usually at least one hundred miles from the last—and studies the local newspapers. The goal is to get a feel for the area, find out what kind of fund-raisers or appeals are going on. A bank account is also set up using a fake ID.

In Gipping, there would have been a lot to choose from, ranging from the stained glass window appeal to the Naked Farmer support fund. The gypsies never stay long—a maximum of three weeks so as to avoid detection.

“I assume you’ve checked Dora’s Winnebago?” I said. “She has a ton of high-end printers and scanners in there.”

“All above board,” said Probes. “We searched all their wagons the first time the silver went missing. The moment Stalk took Ruby and Noah off to the hospital, we made a thorough search and came up with nothing. We’ve looked everywhere—”

“Except Belcher Pike’s wagon, which you can’t touch,” I said. “It’s off-limits. Human rights. Race relations. You name it. Dora certainly knew the law.”

“Our laws are now making it easier than ever to conduct illegal business dealings,” Probes declared. “Hiding behind a front of respectability.”

“Yet they always need help from the inside,” I pointed out. “Like Bill Trenfold.”

“The postman?” Probes nodded slowly. “But how to get him to confess?”

“Legally, he’s doing nothing wrong,” I said. “Forgetting to close the pillar box door is hardly—”

“A criminal offense—”

“Unless we can prove he’s doing it for monetary gain.”

“Have you ever considered becoming a detective?” said Probes dryly.

“I suppose an investigative reporter
is
a detective!” I said.

“Vicky, we need your help,” said Probes. “You seem to get along with them—or should I say, Noah—pretty well.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“We need to get inside Belcher Pike’s wagon. Find some evidence. Anything.”

“Presumably you went through the recycling bins?” I recalled Dora’s wide-eyed panic when Noah dropped the plastic bag containing an empty bottle marked ACETONE. I had assumed he’d had far more sinister reasons—like burning down The Grange.

“We will now,” said Probes. “Will you help us?”

The truth was, I liked Noah. We had much in common, both trying to escape our families. Deliberately befriending Noah would amount to a betrayal, and I didn’t think I could do it, to say nothing of the obvious—a Hill? Helping the police with their inquiries? I didn’t think so. And yet here was a chance to snag one of the biggest scoops of the year—a real undercover exclusive.

I stood up. “Sorry. I’m not a spy.”

“We really need you, Vicky,” said Probes. “A policewoman was murdered. Jimmy Kitchen is a very dangerous man.

“Sorry,” I said again. “I can’t.”

“This isn’t snitching on a rival crime family about some missing Georgian tea urns, Vicky.” Probes’s voice was hard. “This is serious.”

I felt dizzy and had to clutch the edge of the table. “I really don’t know what you mean.” But I did! Probes knows! Oh God! He knows who I really am! He knows about Dad.

My mobile phone suddenly rang. Relieved, I fumbled to get it out of my safari-jacket pocket. “Yes?” I croaked.

It was Olive.

“Barbara’s run off,” she shrieked. “She’s gone with that gypsy, Jimmy Kitchen. You have to stop her!”

“I have to go,” I said to Probes. “This is an emergency.”

“Take this,” Probes handed me his business card. “In case you change your mind.”

“I won’t.”