Accused!

  Hannah Dennison was born and raised in Hampshire, but on leaving school landed a job as an obituary writer/amateur dramatic reviewer for a Devon newspaper. The urge to travel was too strong, however, and she became an air stewardess, first with British Caledonian and then on private planes. Many adventures later she ended up in Los Angeles, where she met her future husband; she still lives there with him and their cat.

  Also in the Vicky Hill series

  A Vicky Hill Exclusive!

  Scoop!

  Expose!

  Thieves!

  Also by Hannah Dennison

  Murder at Honeychurch Hall

  Accused!

  A Vicky Hill Mystery

  Hannah Dennison

  Constable • Londan

  CONSTABLE

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Constable

  Copyright © Hannah Dennison, 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-47211-866-0 (ebook)

  Constable

  is an imprint of

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK Company

  www.hachette.co.uk

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  For Claire Carmichael

  Mentor and treasured friend

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter One

  ‘Vicky! Help, help!’ Dave Randall yelled on the other end of the line. ‘Jack Webster is trying to kill me!’

  ‘Call the police,’ I said wearily. ‘I'm busy.’ And I was. In fact, I was sitting in my car on a mission of vital importance, namely a lunchtime stakeout. ‘I've got to go.’

  ‘Don't hang up!’ Dave sounded desperate. ‘Wait! Get away from there, you bastard! Vicky – don't hang up, please.’

  ‘Fine.’ I hit speakerphone. ‘I'm listening but it had better be worth it.’

  Was I becoming jaded already? In the old days, Dave's pleas for help would have turned my reporter instincts onto high alert – a murder always made headlines – but not any more. Experience had shown that Dave Randall, hedge-jumping champion extraordinaire, was crying wolf. Again.

  ‘Don't go in there!’ Dave's voice shot up an octave. ‘No!’ There was the sound of breaking glass followed by an ominous silence.

  ‘Nice try, Dave.’ He'd used the broken-glass ploy before – an empty milk bottle thrown against a dry stone wall – but to quote another cliché, once bitten, twice shy.

  ‘Oh Vicky!’ There was an anguished sob. ‘Jack's gone mental. It's different this time, I swear to God. You've got to come quickly.’

  ‘Do you want me to call the police?’ Of course I had no intention of doing such a thing. As the daughter of The Fog – one of the top ten most-wanted criminals in the world – I'd rather die than phone a copper.

  ‘No! No police!’

  This didn't surprise me. The police were just as fed up with Dave and his ongoing feud with hedge-cutter Jack Webster as I was.

  ‘Please come. Please.’

  ‘Nope,’ I said firmly. ‘This time you boys will have to sort it out yourselves.’

  I disconnected the line and checked my watch.

  Why hadn't he called? The suspense was killing me. I stared at the old red telephone box – one of the few working and untraceable payphones in the whole town of Gipping-on-Plym – and willed it to ring.

  As per my orders from Chuffy McSnatch, Dad's right-hand man, I was to wait at Ponsford Cross to receive ‘further instructions’ on Operation George. For the last seven days I'd done just that, but to no avail.

  At least the priceless ‘Spat’ Georgian urns that had been mysteriously thrust into my safekeeping were safely buried in my landlady's vegetable garden, where they were unlikely to be discovered, but people – namely my co-workers – were beginning to talk. My disappearance between the hours of twelve thirty and two fifteen was being noticed.

  I pushed Dave and his drama out of my mind and turned my attention to this afternoon's ‘Day in the Life’ assignment. This week's guest was champion worm-charmer Ruth M. Reeves. For the past nine years she had taken home the Trewallyn Charmer's Chalice, and she was due to defend her title this coming Sunday.

  Frankly, I thought my readers would be far more interested in hearing about her husband's unexpected inheritance, but when I'd called to set up an interview, Ruth had made it clear that the topic was off-limits because she didn't want to get ‘begging letters’ or ‘make people jealous’ about their new-found good fortune.

  My iPhone rang again.

  The caller ID flashed up the name ‘Pete Chambers’ and my stomach turned over. Our chief reporter never called me unless there was an emergency.

  ‘Where are you?’ he barked.

  ‘Just on my way to do the worm-charming feature with—’

  ‘Ruth Reeves will have to wait,’ said Pete. ‘Got a call about a fight between Dave Randall and Jack Webster.’

  ‘Oh that,’ I said airily. ‘It's nothing. You know what they're like.’

  ‘This time it's serious,’ said Pete.

  ‘It's always serious,’ I protested. ‘I'm seeing Ruth Reeves at two thirty and I'm nowhere near Pennymoor Jump. Can't someone else go?’

  ‘Randall and Webster aren't at Pennymoor Jump,’ said Pete. ‘Cut the crap, Vicky. Where are you?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Where?’ Pete demanded again.

  ‘I thought this was a free country.’

  ‘Do I have to put a tracker on your phone?’

  I hesitated but decided to come clean. ‘I'm at Ponsford Cross.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing up there?’

  ‘Eating my lunch and enjoying the view.’ And waiting for the phone to ring. Although the view was spectacular: Ponsford Cross sat at one end of Ponsford Ridge, one of the highest points in Devon. On a clear day, you could even see the English Channel!

  ‘Good because you're just minutes away,’ said Pete. ‘Those idiots were seen scrapping on Grange land by Hugh's Folly.’

  ‘Jack Webster is on Grange land?’ I stifled a rush of annoyance. This put a totally different spin on things. If Dave had thought to tell me that Jack was trespassing on Grange land, I might have taken his plea for help a little more seriously.

  I had just broken one of the golden rules of journalism. Never assume!

  ‘How did you find out?’ I asked.

  ‘That old biddy with the purple hair – ’ said Pete, ‘the one doing the turbine petition – called it in.’

  I knew exactly who that ‘old biddy’ was. The odious Eunice W. Pratt, who lived in Dairy Cottage and who, for all of five minutes, could have been my aunt-in-law.

  ‘Webster is banned from going anywhere near Randall,’ Pete went on.

  ‘And vice versa,’ I pointed out.

  Dave was the resident gamekeeper at The Grange, while Jack Webster lived on neighbouring Brooke Farm. The last time the two men had gone up before the local magistrate for disturbing the peace they'd been ordered to keep off each other's property.

  ‘It takes balls to defy a court order,’ said Pete.

  And those I didn't think Dave had.

  I checked my watch. It was just gone two. ‘OK. I'll be there in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Twenty?’ Pete shouted. ‘You're only minutes away. And don't forget—’

  ‘I know: facts, photos, evidence.’

  ‘And Vicky …’ There was a pause. ‘What the hell are you up to? Really?’

  ‘Aren't I entitled to a lunch hour?’

  There was another pause and then Pete gave a dirty laugh. ‘Well, well, well. So the rumour's true. Our Vicky is having a bit of lunchtime nooky.’

  I wanted to say that if anyone knew about lunchtime nooky it was my lascivious boss, but instead I fell back on my usual trick: telephone static. ‘Hello? Can't. Hear. You. Weird.
Line,’ and rang off.

  Lunchtime nooky? Nothing could be further from the truth. I despaired of ever having any nooky at lunchtime, or ever for that matter.

  Suddenly, a sleek red Audi TT Quattro with the personalized number plate GRN RPR pulled up in front of the telephone box just yards from where I was parked, and a tall, thin woman got out.

  She was somewhere in her mid-fifties and sported a stylish pixie cut that had been gelled to within an inch of its life. Dressed in a tailored tweed jacket over navy jeans and tan leather boots, she oozed money, which meant she was probably a tourist.

  Somewhere a phone began to ring, and I realized with a sickening sensation that it was coming from the telephone box.

  I leapt out of the car shouting, ‘Wait! That's for me!’ but it was too late. The stranger had beaten me to it.

  Time stood still.

  Everything happened in slow motion as I watched her expression through the glass and saw her mouth the words, ‘Hel-lo? Hel-lo? Whoooooo?’

  Then time speeded up and I watched, horrified, as she banged the receiver on the metal shelf three times and slammed it back into the cradle.

  Her eyes met mine but I swiftly turned on my heel and trotted back to my Fiat Sisley Panda.

  Blast! Blast! Blast!

  Chuffy McSnatch would never call me now. Our one and only form of communication, via the old payphone, had been compromised and it was my fault. I was furious. It had taken me weeks to make contact with the ridiculously over-cautious Chuffy using a system worthy of MI5.

  I turned on the ignition and was about to pull away when the woman materialized alongside my car and rapped on my window, gesturing for me to open up.

  ‘Hello,’ I said politely. ‘Are you lost?’

  She was much older than I'd first thought, with a heavily tanned face and deep lines, especially around her mouth – the signs of a heavy smoker.

  ‘I think that phone call was meant for you, dear. I am sorry.’

  ‘Phone call?’ I acted surprised. ‘Me? I wasn't waiting for a phone call. I pointed to the empty Tupperware box on the passenger seat. ‘I always come up here to enjoy my lunch.’

  ‘If you say so.’ To my astonishment, she winked. ‘Married is he? Don't worry. We were all young once. I'm Elaine Tully. I've just moved back to Gipping-on-Plym with my son Keith. I've been away for over forty years and this place hasn't changed a bit – wait!’ Elaine snapped her fingers. ‘Gipping Gazette. I thought I recognized you. You're Vicky Hill, the obit girl.’

  ‘I'm not just the obituary writer,’ I said. ‘I do other things, too.’ I wanted to add that I'd had four front-page exclusives in the past year, but I was never one to brag.

  ‘You write that column: ‘On the Cemetery Circuit with Vicky’. My son is one of your biggest fans.’

  ‘One can never have enough fans,’ I joked.

  It was true that my weekly column was becoming popular – so much so that Wilf Veysey, our illustrious editor, had finally moved into the twenty-first century and given the column it's own Facebook Page, where mourners could ‘like’ posts and upload photographs of their favourite funerals. At the moment I had forty-nine ‘likes’.

  ‘Herman speaks very highly of you,’ Elaine went on.

  ‘That's nice of Herman.’ I wracked my brains. Herman. Herman? I knew every single citizen in Gipping-on-Plym, but there was definitely no Herman.

  ‘The vicar.’ Elaine gave a laugh tinged with scorn. ‘You don't know the name of your own vicar and you're the obituary writer?’

  ‘Oh, that Herman!’ I laughed but felt my face redden with embarrassment. The truth was that the Reverend Whittler always said, ‘Just call me Whittler,’ so we did.

  Seeing my confusion, Elaine added. ‘Herman and I go back decades. We bumped into each other in Disney World. I'd just lost Carlos, my fifth husband—’

  ‘I'm sorry for your loss,’ I said automatically. Good grief! Fifth husband? ‘Well, nice to meet you. Must go. Bye.’

  ‘Wait!’ Elaine thrust a coloured photograph through the window. ‘Can you tell me if this picture was taken around here?’

  The photograph showed a birds-eye view of a sparkling river running through a field of wild flowers, flanked by blossoming almond trees. Its beauty was marred, however, by five enormous wind turbines on the horizon. Eunice Pratt was right to conduct her petitions to stop these monstrosities from being built.

  I shook my head. ‘No. Sorry. That's not from around here.’

  A flash of annoyance crossed Elaine's features. ‘I see. Then perhaps you can tell me if Jack Webster has moved?’

  ‘Jack Webster?’ I said, surprised. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ She reached in and snatched back the photograph, shoving it savagely back into her handbag.

  ‘Did you try calling him?’

  ‘I just tried using that old phone,’ said Elaine. ‘I lost my iPhone and I'm waiting for a replacement.’

  Now my curiosity was piqued. ‘Brooke Farm is only at the end of Honeysuckle Lane.’ I pointed to one of the four roads that converged at Ponsford Cross.

  ‘I know where it is,’ she said.

  ‘Although Jack might be out,’ I added, knowing full well that he was probably beating Dave Randall to a pulp at that very minute. ‘But I'm sure his wife Amelia is home.’

  Elaine's eyes widened. ‘Seriously? They're still married?’

  ‘It would seem so,’ I said.

  ‘Well, thanks anyway.’

  And with that, Elaine gave a curt nod and strode back to her fancy car.

  I felt uneasy as I watched the Audi roar away. Who was this newcomer to Gipping-on-Plym? Was she on the hunt for husband number six? And what could she possibly want with Jack Webster, the most obnoxious person in the whole of Devonshire?

  At least Elaine had mistaken Chuffy McSnatch's real reason for calling. In fact, she had given me a brilliant idea. Why not invent an affair? I was weary of being teased mercilessly about my virginal status.

  Why on earth hadn't I thought of it before! It could come in handy, to say nothing of being a bit of a laugh. I might even give my imaginary lover a Ferrari, just to make my frenemy Annabel Lake pea-green with envy.

  Buoyed up by my new plan, I set off for Hugh's Folly to attend to some bruised male egos.

  Chapter Two

  Flanked by high Devon hedges, Honeysuckle Lane marked the northern perimeter of the vast Grange estate, the seat of the ancient Trewallyn dynasty.

  The current owner of The Grange, Lady Ethel Turberville-Spat – or Topaz Potter, aspiring undercover reporter to yours truly – was eccentric and paranoid at the best of times, but today it would appear her paranoia had reached new heights. Even I was surprised at the number of hand-painted signs liberally daubed with skull and crossbones saying, ‘Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’, which were dotted along the boundary. But before I could dwell further on what went through Topaz's peculiar mind, Eunice Pratt leapt in front of my car, waving a clipboard.

  With a yelp, I hit the brakes, fishtailing dangerously on the mud-slicked road and pulling up within a millimeter of Eunice's outstretched hand as she stood there, without so much as a quiver.

  ‘Finally!’ she shouted and slammed her clipboard onto the bonnet of my car with a deafening crash.

  Here we go, I thought as Eunice stormed over to my window. She was wearing her usual headscarf over a lavender-coloured perm and brown tweed coat with a dozen badges marking her numerous causes and petitions. I noted two new ones: ‘Say No to Turbines!’ and another sporting the recently formed Citizens’ Patrol slogan, ‘I'm Watching You!’

  The whole Citizens’ Patrol thing was silly given that there were precisely three houses in the vicinity – one being Dairy Cottage, which Eunice shared with her sister-in-law Mary F. Berry. The other two properties were Brooke Farm, home to the infamous man of the hour, Jack Webster, and his wife, Amelia, and John and Ruth Reeves of Reeves Roost.

  I opened my window a crack and braced myself for Eunice's usual spite.

  ‘I've been waiting for you for hours!’ she snapped. ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘Where's the action, Mrs P?’ I said mildly. Now that I was no longer interested in having a romantic future with her nautical nephew, I didn't feel the need to go out of my way to curry favour with the old bag.

  ‘How are you Mrs P?’ I said warmly.