On the floor beside her was a large notepad. She picked up a pencil with a pink fluffy pom-pom stuck on the end, and made a tick against a list.
Were these handbags fakes or the real deal? They looked very similar to the stolen merchandise my dad’s friend, Chuffy McSnatch, distributed from his hideaway in London.
The criminal world was a small one. Even the remotest possibility that Annabel and Chuffy knew each other, filled me with such terror, I began to feel physically ill.
With a supreme effort, I composed myself and knocked on a wooden bookcase covered with a lace mantle. “Anyone home?”
Annabel spun around. Her face was deathly pale.
“Just brought these up,” I said, waving the sandals by way of a greeting.
She looked awful. Dressed in black leggings and a plain white T-shirt, Annabel’s auburn hair was scraped back in a high ponytail. She wore wire-rimmed glasses and, without makeup, it looked as if she had no eyebrows at all.
“Out! Out!” Annabel screamed. She leapt to her feet, snatched the sandals from my hands, and bundled me out of the bedroom.
“I came to borrow a dress,” I protested. “You said I—”
“I know, I know,” said Annabel. “Just wait here.” The door slammed in my face, hard.
Did she seriously think she’d hide all those boxes and pretend I didn’t know what she was up to? I calculated there had to be a street value of hundreds of pounds—if they were fakes—and possibly thousands, if they were real.
I waited outside on the landing thoroughly unsettled. Did Dr. Frost know about Annabel’s business on the side? Given that he had no qualms in distributing a fake aphrodisiac to the vulnerable senior citizens of Gipping-on-Plym, the two of them seemed well suited.
I put my ear to the door, expecting to hear furniture being moved around or even the sound of a hammer banging nails into the floorboards in an attempt to seal a secret compartment. But, all was silent. What on earth could she be doing?
I took in my surroundings. The door next to Annabel’s room was ajar. Quickly, I slipped inside. The curtains weren’t yet drawn and, thanks to the streetlight outside, I could see a double bed flanked by matching lamps and nightstands. One held books, the other magazines. Dad always said you could tell a lot about a person by what they read.
I hurried over to inspect them. One nightstand held
You Are What You Eat,
by Dr. Gillian McKeith, and
The Abolition Of Britain: From Winston Churchill to Princess Diana,
by Peter Hitchens. I’d heard of the latter bemoaning the end of the British Empire and all our traditions from education to immigration. I’d seen a copy on Wilf’s desk, and even my dad—who was more of a John Grisham type and rarely read nonfiction—had urged me to take a look, saying,
“It’s official. England has gone to the dogs.”
“What are you doing in here?” Annabel was watching from the doorway. She flipped on the light.
“I was looking for the loo,” I said quickly.
“It’s at the end of the hall,” she said. “Isn’t this room boring? The decor is so yucky.”
I was about to tactfully agree but was distracted by
Annabel’s new appearance. She had taken off her glasses and put in contact lenses. She’d also completely made-up her face—right down to applying a pale, shimmering lip gloss. Her scruffy jeans and T-shirt had now been replaced by a Juicy Couture sweat suit in a dark shade of plum.
“You didn’t have to change for my benefit.”
“I never allow
anyone
to see me without my makeup,” Annabel said with a sniff.
“Dr. Frost must have seen you tonight,” I pointed out, neatly changing the subject.
“He doesn’t notice anymore, so why bother?” I detected a note of sadness in her voice. “Anyway, I don’t care. Hurry up and go to the loo. I’ve already decided what you can borrow for tomorrow night.”
Back in Annabel’s bedroom, I was surprised—and pleased—to find the boxes of handbags had not been moved after all. It suddenly occurred to me that Annabel had been far more worried about being seen without her makeup.
“Wow!” I said. “What great handbags. Can I have a look?”
“It’s a little business I have on the side.” Annabel gently picked up a cream-colored Louis Vuitton purse with its trademark chocolate-leather-and-gold
LV
monogram. “Isn’t she a beauty?”
I went to take it but she snatched the bag away. “Did you wash your hands?”
“Of course I did.” I held them palm up for her scrutiny. “Where did you get all this?”
“A secret.” She smiled, then sat down on the bed. “Come sit.”
I moved aside a red heart-shaped cushion with huggable arms. “You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?” I unzipped the Louis Vuitton bag to inspect the lining inside. Relief washed over me. This was definitely a fake—and not even a good one at that.
Annabel laughed. “Don’t be silly. There’s nothing wrong with a little harmless copying.”
She gestured to a small pink-painted desk where her laptop lay open. “I put them up for auction on eBay. Pick one and I’ll give you a good price.”
“I don’t need one.” I refused to touch dodgy property. It was a matter of principle.
“You can’t keep everything shoved in that tatty, old jacket pocket.”
“Why not?” I happened to be very fond of my Christiane Amanpour safari jacket. “You should be careful, Annabel.”
“Everyone who buys them knows they’re fake,” she said.
“Those handbags are made in sweatshops using child labor,” I said. “The profits are used to finance terrorism and organized crime.”
“Nonsense. My contact said a percentage of the profits goes to charity.”
“And you believed him?” Annabel could be so naïve! “There’s a huge clampdown on counterfeit goods,” I went on. “Haven’t you heard of the Anti-Counterfeiting Group?”
Annabel shrugged. “Maybe.”
“The A.C.G. works closely with law enforcement and H.M. Revenue and Customs. They watch UK ports. There’s also the Border Agency, too. I’m warning you. You’re playing with fire.”
“How come you know so much about it?” said Annabel suspiciously.
Of course I did!
I made it my business to know. Even though Dad dealt primarily in silver and jewelry, he had many friends in the import-export business.
“It’s part of being an investigative reporter,” I said sternly. “I make a point of keeping up-to-date on current issues.”
“Yes. You’re right, and I’m wrong,” Annabel sighed.
“If money is going into your bank account, you’re effectively receiving money for counterfeit goods. You could go to prison.”
“Prison!” Annabel’s eyes widened. She smiled. “Of course!
Prison!
”
“It’s not funny,” I scolded. “I know people say that serving time these days is easy, but that’s not true.”
“I read somewhere that being in prison was like being in a hotel,” said Annabel. “You can even take a degree.”
“It depends on what category it is.”
“What are categories?” Annabel cocked her head.
“There are four—A, B, C, and D. Category A is for prisoners whose escape is highly dangerous to the public or national security; B is for those who do not require maximum security, but for whom escape needs to be made very difficult.” Dad had been in a category B.
“And C? Go on,” said Annabel. “This is fascinating.”
“C is for prisoners who cannot be trusted in open conditions, but who are unlikely to escape. Category D is more of an open prison. Some can even work in the community if they have an R.O.T.L.”
“A what?”
“A Release on Temporary License.”
“I had no idea you knew so much,” said Annabel. “What category is Wormwood Scrubs?”
“Why?” I began to feel uncomfortable. Wormwood Scrubs in London was one of several prisons where Dad had done time.
“Just wondered. It’s always on the telly,” said Annabel. “What about our local prison in Dartmoor?”
Dad had been in Dartmoor, too. I didn’t want to discuss prisons. It was too close to home. “Gosh. Is that the time?” I stood up. “I’d better go. I’m keeping you up.”
“I thought you wanted to borrow a dress?”
“I do. Yes. Thanks. I almost forgot.” I sat back down again.
Annabel got off the bed and sauntered over to a mirrored built-in wardrobe. She opened the sliding doors. It was stuffed with clothes. There were shelves stacked with brightly colored tops and racks of shoes. I had a small, old-fashioned freestanding wardrobe that made my meager selection of clothes smell of mothballs.
“Jack put in extra shelves just for me,” said Annabel.
“Do you sleep in here?” I was glad to change the subject.
“Sometimes. But really, I just keep all my lovely things here,” Annabel said. “Jack doesn’t like clutter. He says this room is mine to do whatever I want with. It’s like my own boudoir.”
Annabel brought out two dresses and laid them out on the bed.
“This is a lovely color,” I said, picking up a cobalt blue halter-neck, floor-length dress. It still had the price tag on it—though I noted it had been heavily reduced.
“I’ve never worn it,” said Annabel. “I don’t know why I bought it. Its price was knocked down because of a stain on the hem.”
I inspected the hem. There was a tiny black mark. “You can’t really see it.” I held the gown up to my face and looked in the mirror. The blue really emphasized the color of my eyes. It was a magnificent dress and, with the low cut back, I could just imagine Robin’s hands itching to wander over my bare flesh.
“I’m not sure it will suit you after all.” Annabel snatched the dress away. “Frankly, you need to have bosoms to really carry off a halter-neck. Try on the black sheath instead.”
“I’ll change in the bathroom.” My undies were still drying in Mrs. Evans’s airing cupboard and I was wearing my emergency underwear.
“Don’t be silly. I won’t look.”
The dress was strapless and held in place by an elasticized smocked bodice. It dropped to the floor, ending in a pool of excess material around my ankles. I felt swamped by the dress and disappointed.
I knew I was being childish, but Robin would have loved me in the cobalt blue dress.
I fiddled with the bodice. “It’ll never stay up.”
Annabel slapped my hand away. “Use a safety pin.”
“It’s too long,” I whined. “You’re so much taller than me.”
“Wear high heels.”
“I really liked the blue—”
“Dress it up with jewelry.” Annabel went over to the pink painted chest of drawers and opened one. She retrieved an Egyptian-looking disk-shaped necklace and matching earrings. “Try these. Now, this is where your short hair will look good. People will see the earrings.” She leaned in closer. “What funny little ears you have.”
I caught sight of both of us standing side by side in the mirror—Annabel was actually pouting at her own reflection—and felt a wave of insecurity. She was a tall, voluptuous, beautiful redhead—even if she did have large feet—and next to her, I looked like a boy in drag.
“Are you disappointed that Dr. Frost isn’t coming?” I said.
“He doesn’t like big social events. I think it’s because men hit on me and he gets jealous.” Annabel gave a heavy sigh. “I can’t help being attractive to men, Vicky. You don’t realize how lucky you are.”
“Speaking of all your admirers,” I said, ignoring the backhanded compliment. “Did you get the message that Ronnie Binns expected to have lunch with you today?”
“Ronnie Binns?” Annabel’s eyes widened. “The
dustman
? Wanted to have
lunch
? With
me
?” She started to laugh. It was the fake kind I’d heard many times in theater pantomimes. I was instantly suspicious.
“No. He didn’t
want
to have lunch,” I said coldly. “He was adamant you’d invited him. He even brought you flowers.
Those
flowers!” I pointed to the pink carnations on her desk.
“Jack bought me those.” Annabel turned red. “For heaven’s sake, does it matter? Do you want the dress or not? I’ve got things to do this evening.”
“Yes. Please.” An uneasy silence fell between us. I knew she was lying about meeting Ronnie Binns. I
knew
those were his flowers, but couldn’t think why.
Annabel shoved the dress into a plastic bag, and I followed her downstairs where we found Dr. Frost—wearing his white coat—checking his reflection in the hall mirror. A black leather doctor’s bag stood on the floor by the front door.
Annabel’s face fell. “You’re not going out, are you?”
“Olive Larch,” he said. “She called in a frightful state. She can hear someone moving about the back garden.”
“It’s probably a fox,” Annabel said, exasperated. “That’s
twice
this week. Can’t she phone a friend or something?”
“It’s my job, dear.” Dr. Frost put his arm around Annabel and gave her a hug. “With her father dead and gone, she’s all alone.”
“But, I’m alone.” Annabel scowled.
“I can’t risk her having another of her episodes.”
Annabel folded her arms across her ample breasts. “What time will you be back?”
“I’m not sure.” He kissed her gently on the forehead. “Don’t wait up.”
Annabel and I watched Dr. Frost get into his Saab and drive away. When I turned to say my goodbyes, too, I was surprised to see Annabel’s eyes had filled with tears. She wiped them away angrily. “Honestly, sometimes I think he loves his patients more than he loves me.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
“I’m used to it.” Annabel sighed. “Men! Sometimes I think you did the right thing choosing to be celibate.”
Celibate?
I knew Pete and Annabel called me the Ice Maiden of Gipping behind my back, but now I was
celibate
, too?
“According to
Cosmopolitan
,” Annabel went on. “It’s quite fashionable these days to wait until marriage.”
“
Finally
, the world is waking up to the importance of being celibate,” I said dryly. “You should try it.”