Hannah Dennison - Thieves!

Chapter One

"You can't leave now!" Barbara Meadows cried as I drifted nonchalantly toward her front door to make my escape.

"It's nearly one in the morning," I protested. How many more hen parties can the human body take? "I'm really tired."

"You'll miss all the excitement." Barbara readjusted her glittering tiara - HERE COMES THE BRIDE - that had slipped rakishly over one ear. "You youngsters have no stamina."

It wasn't that I begrudged our receptionist her newfound happiness at the grand age of sixty-plus. This was the third hen party of Barbara's that I'd been to in the last two weeks and I knew of at least three more in the works.

"Olive bought the director's cut of The Full Monty on eBay," Barbara burbled on. "We're in for a real treat."

That settled it. There are some things a young woman should never be subjected to - and full-frontal nudity in a room filled with members of the Graying Tigers Society was definitely one.

I grabbed my safari jacket from the hall coat stand and pulled it on. "Sorry, I've got to be at St. Peter's the Martyr Church at eight tomorrow." It was only a tiny white lie. The service didn't start until nine thirty.

"Why bother? No one will go to Gladys Trenfold's funeral," Barbara said with scorn. "She was a horrid old bag."

"Maybe not," I said. "But the Gipping Gazette does have a reputation to keep up."

Obituaries were my area of expertise and it was my responsibility to make sure that no funeral went unreported and no mourner was left out. "Unless you'd like to have a word with your fiancé and ask for an exception?"

"Oh no, dear," said Barbara quickly. "Wilf is a stickler for tradition." She stretched out her left hand and gazed rapturously at the solitaire diamond ring on her finger. "I still can't believe he proposed."

I couldn't either! I was still grappling with the idea that after years of working together, Barbara was marrying our illustrious - and intimidating - editor, Wilf Veysey.

It had all happened so suddenly - but at least it gave me hope. It was never too late to find love.

Olive Larch emerged from the kitchen accompanied by the raunchy sounds of Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff" starting up for the fourth time. Perched atop her sleek, gray bob was a pair of striped cat's ears. She carried a silver tray of tumblers decorated with slices of fruit and was moving toward us at glacial speed.

"Good grief, Olive," said Barbara. "We're all dying of thirst. What took you so long?" She turned to me and mouthed, "She's always so slow."

"Vicky, you're not leaving are you?" said Olive aghast. "You can't!"

"Sorry, I hate to go, but I really must."

"Well, you shouldn't - " Olive started to titter nervously. "Tell her, Barbara."

"It wasn't my idea," Barbara declared.

"Tell me what?"

"Someone - and we won't say who - added a teensy weensy bit of vodka to the fruit punch," said Olive.

"The punch was spiked?" I was flabbergasted, particularly as I'd had five glasses. "I could lose my job!"

Spearheaded by the odious Detective Inspector Stalk, Gipping Constabulary was in the midst of an aggressive campaign to clamp down on driving while intoxicated. What's more, he was working closely with the Gazette. Every week, names of Gipping citizens who had been stopped by the police and ordered to take a Breathalyzer test - often in broad daylight and without due cause - were listed in MOTORIST MENACE OF THE WEEK.

"So you'll stay?" said Barbara hopefully. "We'd love a youngster's opinion."

Opinion on what? "I'll take the back road via Mudge Lane," I said firmly. "We haven't had that much rain, so the ford won't be deep." As a shortcut linking Lower Gipping to Middle Gipping, access was through a shallow stream that could be unpredictable at times.

"Don't you mean Smooch Lane?" Olive tittered again. It was a notorious place for romantic trysts. "Are you having a secret rendezvous?"

"Not tonight." Or any other night for that matter.

Realizing that I meant business and after promising to attend Olive's Butler-in-the-Buff buffet on Friday in Barbara's honor, I said my good-byes and left. As the cool night air of summer hit me, I had to admit to feeling a little light-headed.

I made it a rule to never drink alcohol and drive. The risk was too high. Besides, you wouldn't catch my heroine Christiane Amanpour arriving at the front line tipsy in a taxi.

I'd recently traded in my moped for an old, but nippy, blue Fiat Panda Sisley 4x4. It was hardly a flashy silver BMW like my fellow reporter, roommate, and the bane of my life, Annabel Lake's - but it was mine, and not a gift for services rendered, like hers.

The Fiat's engine started the first time. Apart from a bit of rust on the doorsills and a juddering clutch, I was thrilled with my purchase for which I paid cash, naturally. As the daughter of notorious silver thief - nicknamed The Fog - the Hill family never used bank accounts or credit cards in case they could be traced. Old habits die hard.

Moments later, I headed for open countryside leaving the sounds of Donna Summer and the comforting lights of The Marshes housing estate behind me. The night was black as pitch - rather like the sudden wave of depression that hit me hard.

Barbara was getting married. Even coy Olive Larch was living in sin - a thought I didn't want to dwell on too long given the man in question - and here was I, an ancient twenty-three years old with no boyfriend and no prospect of finding Mr. Right either. Gipping-on-Plym was rather sparse on the bachelor front. I reached the entrance to Mudge Lane, marked by two triangular road-warning signs. They were both graphically clear. One showed a vehicle being submerged in water; the other, a cyclist being knocked over by a car. The first didn't concern me since my Fiat had four-wheel drive and the latter was highly unlikely given the hour of the night.

Mudge Lane wasn't one of my favorite shortcuts. The narrow, high hedge-banked road was twisty, steep, and impassable in winter.

My mood darkened. The ford was probably running high. My Fiat would be swept downriver and my bloated body - when it was finally discovered somewhere in the English Channel - impossible to identify. And who would notice? I had no real friends to speak of. Even my parents seemed to have disowned me.

Get a grip, Vicky! I hated it when I got maudlin and administered a sharp pinch to my inside thigh. It really hurt but always did the trick. Who cares about love! Who has time for love anyway? What I needed was a front-page scoop to cheer me up. A nice juicy murder would do nicely and - blast!

I slammed my foot on the brakes and swung the steering wheel sharply to the left as a vehicle, blazing with a row of white lights atop a safari roof, flew around a blind corner and came barreling toward me. I managed to pull into a concealed farm entrance signposted MUDGE COTTAGE and flashed my headlights but the vehicle didn't even attempt to slow down.

There was a hard thud. My right wing mirror was torn off, followed by the sickening sound of metal screeching on metal as a green Land Rover scraped by. I caught just a glimpse of a figure in a woolen hat fly past without so much as a second glance.

Furious, I leapt out just as the Land Rover's taillights were swallowed up in the darkness. Pulling my Mini Maglite from my safari-jacket pocket, I braced myself for the worst and went to inspect the damage.

I was gutted. The wing mirror could be repaired but a deep gouge along the entire length of the driver's side would need an expensive trip to the body shop. Damn and blast! I was absolutely trembling with rage. I'd used every last penny to buy my car and intended to hunt down the driver - no doubt a farmer, given the make of vehicle - and make him pay for the damage. I couldn't even report the incident to the police because of that wretched "fruit punch."

I set off in the Fiat once more, drawing to a stop at the brow of a hill where a third triangular road sign warned of the almost-vertical drop below. Among the many skills I learned under Dad's "advanced driving course," which I eventually realized focused on handling a getaway car, was navigating obstacles. These included railway lines, ditches, and small rivers. The key to success, Dad said, was in the approach.

Engaging the four-wheel drive, I took a deep breath and began a slow descent, stopping only when I reached the edge of the water at the base of the hill. I couldn't believe it! That wretched Land Rover had dumped a pile of household rubbish in the middle of the ford¬¬ and - good grief - was that a bicycle? Fly-tipping was illegal and culprits faced huge fines of thousands of pounds. It was also on the increase thanks to Gipping-on-Plym County Council's ridiculous "bonsai bin system" - supposedly to encourage homeowners to cut the amount of rubbish they put out. People drove miles to dispose of old refrigerators or mattresses. I made a mental note of talking to our chief reporter, Pete Chambers, first thing in the morning. I even had a headline - BABY BINS BALLS-UP: FLY-TIPPING FIASCO!

Since I could hardly turn around, I'd have to move the stuff aside.

I cut the engine but left the headlights on so I could keep both hands free to see what I was doing. According to the wooden posted depth reader peeping above the water line , the water was seven inches deep. I always kept a pair of Wellingtons in the boot of my car and swiftly switched footwear.

I passed the short flight of steps up to the "kissing bridge," which was basically a wooden walkway on stilts that straddled the stream for pedestrians. The drop had to be about eight feet. There was no handrail, and I would imagine if things got hot and heavy, it could prove quite dangerous for lovers. I could think of much better locations to steal a kiss - on a cliff top overlooking the ocean, or perhaps around a campfire deep in the woods under a sky filled with stars. He'd be playing a guitar and - focus Vicky!

A gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the surrounding trees. I waded into the ford, making for the bicycle but almost fell over. My feet were caught up in some kind of debris. I pulled out my Mini Maglite for a closer look.

Wrapped around my Wellingtons was an octopus-like creature with long, thick black tentacles. Puzzled, I gingerly poked at it and, to my surprise, realized it was a wig.

My heart began to thump. Something felt wrong down here. I trained the flashlight over the rubbish just a few feet away. Were those curtains? The wind suddenly picked up and tore through the trees above making my skin prickle. Edging closer, I lifted my foot and nudged the mound of material. It toppled over heavily with a loud splash.

Captured in the harsh white light was the gray face of a partially bald woman. Her eyes were wide open, caught in an expression of horrified surprise. I would have screamed but there was no one - no one alive - to hear. Instead I gave a muffled whimper and began to back away, falling heavily in the water with the sudden thought. Mum was right when she said, "Be careful what you wish for."