Read Thieves! for Free Online

for non-gypsies—are forbidden to cross the threshold, as it’s believed their presence can send the Romany’s soul to hell.”
    “How pathetic!” said Annabel.
    “Did you know that there are between two and three hundred thousand gypsies living in Great Britain at the moment?” Edward went on. “Of course, it’s impossible to be accurate because they are always on the move.”
    “That’s why they’re called travelers,” Annabel insisted. “Because they are always on the move.”
    “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Edward said cheerfully. “Many people make that mistake. Both are legally recognized as distinct ethnic groups and have the protection of the law. Romanies are the real deal. Travelers tend to be dropouts from the seventies, old hippies, and people unwilling to work. Now, the Irish traveler is a different breed all together. He’s disliked by—”
    “Romanies, travelers, who cares!” shouted Pete. “We’ve got a bloody important gyppo about to kick the bucket here in Gipping-on-Plym, and hundreds of the buggers are heading for The Grange just in time for this Saturday’s Morris Dance-a-thon.”
    There was a chorus of dismay, especially from Tony. “Bloody hell. It’ll cause a riot.”
    Pete leaned back in his chair and flung his feet up on his desk. “And that means trouble . And trouble means news, and news means readers !”
    “Why can’t we just evict them?” said Annabel. “The Grange is private land. Surely it’s illegal.”
    “Technically, yes,” said Edward. “I believe there is a public right-of-way from Ponsford Ridge. But even if the site is unauthorized and perceived as an official transit pitch, the law stipulates they can stay put for thirty-five days—actually, it takes a good ten to file an eviction notice, so you’re looking at a minimum of—”
    “A bloody long time,” said Pete. “We get the picture.”
    “And since the old boy is dying, we’ve got the Human Rights Act to deal with,” Edward said. “They can’t be thrown off the land.”
    “It’s true,” I said, taking the flyer out of my safari-jacket pocket. “One of the gypsy women gave this to me today.”
    Pete snatched it from my hands and skimmed the contents with a groan. “Bloody hell!”
    “A gypsy told my fortune once,” said Annabel with a seductive wriggle. “She said men would always fall in love with me and to be careful of the married ones.”
    “They’re all crooks.” Tony stuck his jaw out belligerently. “The bastards mended my roof, and the first time it rained, water poured into the attic and brought the ceiling down. It cost me hundreds of pounds. If it were up to me, I’d set those caravans on fire and burn the lot of them.”
    “Not helpful, Tony,” barked Pete. “Who lives at The Grange now?”
    “It’s supposed to be empty,” I said. “The place belongs to—”
    “Lady Ethel Turberville-Spat,” said Annab.el smoothly. “Inherited it from her aunt and uncle—”
    “She usually lives in London,” I said, wondering why I was continuing Topaz’s lie.
    “Not anymore. My sources tell me she’s back at The Grange.”
    “Good,” Pete nodded, seemingly deep in thought. “Do you still have your contacts with Westward TV?”
    “Why?” Annabel said.
    My heart sank. Shortly before Annabel’s fall from grace, she’d persuaded Westward TV that she had the biggest exposé of the century, namely that she’d located the daughter of one of the most notorious criminals in England—i.e., me. Since Annabel ended up with egg on her face and it all came to nothing, I’d be surprised if they were willing to talk to her again.
    Pete jabbed his finger at Annabel. “Call Westward. Do whatever it takes to get a camera crew. Go and interview the Spat woman—”
    “Omigod!” squealed Annabel. “I’m going to be on camera at last—”
    “Get her reaction. How does she feel about her home being invaded? Is she frightened? You know the deal.”
    I raised