A Vicky Hill Exclusive! by Hannah Dennison Page B

not?’
    ‘I’m sorry?’ I was confused. What was wrong with the stupid girl? She wore a strange expression on her face that I didn’t like one bit.
    ‘Of course, you saw me. Why lie?’ I said, all wide-eyed innocence. ‘I’m not hiding anything.’
    ‘Is that what you want me to say?’ said Topaz. ‘You really,
really
want me to?’
    ‘Why ever not?’ I didn’t feel so sure now. Topaz was a peculiar creature. What had she been doing up all hours of the night spying on the unsuspecting public? Was she looking for material for future blackmail?
    With a sigh, Topaz opened the front door of the cafe. She stepped outside and peered up and down the High Street. ‘The coast is clear. Everyone’s gone home.’
    ‘Which is exactly where I am heading.’
    Topaz quickly put her hand on my arm and leaned in closer. For an awful moment, I thought she was going to try to kiss me. ‘I’m looking forward to our drink tomorrow. Oh! It
is
tomorrow already.’
    ‘Me too,’ I said, anxious to get away and wishing I hadn’t been so forthcoming in accepting her invitation.
    At last I headed for home. It had been an extraordinary night, albeit disturbing. What if Pete found out I’d taken the coroner’s report and fired me? Even worse, what if I were arrested for breaking and entering? Oh God! The repercussions could be
huge
.
    When my parents fled to Spain, I had strict instructions never to call them in case Interpol traced the phone number. If I were interrogated, it would only be a matter of time until the cops found out the truth – unless I pretended to be an orphan. No one knew about my family here in Devon. An orphan, alone in the world, wasn’t such a bad idea. Of course, I’d have to think of a way to kill my parents off – a car accident would do nicely. I wasn’t superstitious. Naturally it would have happened a long time ago – somewhere they couldn’t check, like Africa.
    That decided, I turned my attentions to the night’s revelations. Topaz knew who Pierce Brosnan was. Perhaps she had inside information on his relationship to Lady Trewallyn. Better still, maybe she knew why he was so interested in Dave Randall and his photographs.
    It was probably a good idea to keep our drinks arrangement. Alcohol was good for loosening up inhibitions. I could ply her with cheap sherry – she looked the type – though I wondered if I could trust her. Who was Topaz Potter and how did she know so much? Why take so much interest in my American?
    Glancing at my watch, I realized it was almost 3.30 a.m. but, like Christiane Amanpour, I never gave in to tiredness. It took a certain kind of person to be a successful investigative journalist.
    I was on the brink of a great discovery and even beginning to look forward to the evening ahead with Topaz. But first, another busy day at the
Gazette
beckoned. I was ready.

10
     
    E ven though I expected the police to pay the
Gazette
a morning visit, the sight of the panda parked outside the office with its flashing blue lights still made me feel quite ill. A crowd of nosy bystanders had already begun to assemble in the High Street. How typical of the cops to make a mountain out of a molehill, unless Topaz had already talked and they realized they had a real crime on their hands – breaking and entering. Over at The Copper Kettle the sign on the door said CLOSED .
    I gritted my teeth and eased my way to the
Gazette
entrance through the jostling mob where Barbara, pale and anxious, was holding the door open a crack. I only hoped if I were arrested and taken down to the station, the cops would have mercy and cover my face with a black hood.
    The memory of my poor dad’s sentencing at the Old Bailey came flooding back. How he must have suffered! I was only ten at the time and not allowed to attend the trial. Mum and I watched Dad being taken away on
News at Six
. I was so excited to see him on the telly, unaware that this kind of notoriety was not something to brag about. School