Free A Vicky Hill Exclusive! by Hannah Dennison

be lucky if I could read it myself.
    I heard a floorboard creak behind me, and froze. My heart was pounding. Someone was in the building. Slowly, - I turned to face the closed reception door where a pool of light crept under the door towards me – the tell-tale signs of an intruder.
    I darted upstairs on tiptoe, slipping into the reporters’ room, which was never locked. There had to be
somewhere
I could hide. Annabel’s kneehole desk was ideal. It was pushed against an old fireplace that provided a handy cranny for me to curl into.
    Moments later, the door opened and heavy footsteps followed the flashlight beam. My stomach was in knots. All I could think about was that I should never have had that last cup of tea. Nerves were making me desperate to go to the loo.
    The footsteps approached Annabel’s desk, then turned away and stopped in front of mine. All I could see were expensive black leather shoes peeping from beneath a long, black trench coat. This was no local dressed in corduroys and Dr Martens.
    I wriggled forward to get a better look and was startled to recognize Pierce Brosnan. Seen close at hand, he really did resemble James Bond – in an Italian godfather kind of way.
    Still cowering in my hiding place, I saw him don latex gloves and begin to search systematically through my desk – a true professional! With a jolt of excitement, I realized he must be looking for the coroner’s report! Pierce Brosnan must be Trewallyn’s murderer. He was out to destroy evidence, and nothing would get in his way.
    I clutched the torn and crumpled envelope tighter to my chest, aware that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me, too, if he knew I had it. Somehow, I had to stay alive to tell the truth to the world: MAFIA MOBSTER’S MISTRESS IN MURDER MYSTERY: A VICKY HILL EXCLUSIVE !
    Mesmerized, I watched Pierce Brosnan flip through my reporter notebook. I thought I would expire altogether when he actually copied down some information gleaned from within. Other than a list of mourners at the church, I couldn’t understand what would interest him – other than my address.
    Why would he want to know where I lived? A more horrible thought occurred: what if this
wasn’t
about the Trewallyn family at all? What if – I could hardly dare think – it was connected to
my dad
!?
    All further theories stopped when Pierce Brosnan found the envelope containing Dave’s hedge-jumping photographs and tipped them out. He scrutinized both by flashlight, before slipping them into his top inside pocket. I was stunned. What on earth could he want with Dave’s photographs?
    Recalling Dave’s hasty exit at the mention of the Porsche, it was obvious the two men were connected. Could Lady Trewallyn have
already
taken a new lover? The woman must be a shameless nymphomaniac – poor Sir Hugh was not even cold in his grave – to say nothing of her selfishness in snapping up what looked like the only eligible bachelor in Gipping.
    Suddenly, Pierce Brosnan froze. I’d seen a fox do that once, ears pricked, sniffing the air for danger.
    I shrank from sight, curling myself into the smallest ball possible – and promptly dropped the envelope. In my heightened sensitive state, I may as well have dropped an atom bomb.
    Pierce Brosnan swung the flashlight in my direction. I closed my eyes, hoping in some childish way that if they were shut, I couldn’t see him, so he couldn’t see me. He took a step towards me, playing the beam on my face. I was caught in the spotlight. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth. Any moment now he would be hauling me out from my hiding place by my hair.
    I took a shallow breath to stave off unconsciousness and began to pray silently to God, hoping that the changes I suggested in my behaviour might instil His mercy. I promised I wouldn’t read the coroner’s report because deep down, I knew it did not belong to me. I vowed to be nicer to Annabel, because research showed that overachievers generally had hard, unfeeling