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my hand. “Actually, I sort of know her ladyship. Why don’t I handle her? She can be a little unpredictable.”
    “No, Vicky,” said Pete. “You’ll have your hands full with Belcher Pike’s funeral if we’re to believe Edward’s prediction.”
    “But he’s still alive,” I protested.
    “So get a head start.”
    “She won’t get very far,” said Edward ruefully. “Gypsies don’t like talking to gorgers—especially the press.”
    “We’ll run the Spat piece on this week’s front page,” Pete declared. “That should get a few angry letters to the editor.”
    Annabel clapped her hands. “How about this for a headline—SPAT’S SPAT WITH THE PIKEYS!”
    “You can’t say pikeys ,” said Edward. “Politically incorrect.”
    “But the gypsy’s name is Pike.” Annabel sounded smug. “Belcher Pike. Get it?”
    I cringed. Annabel was appalling at headlines.
    “PIKE’S PLOT IN PERIL,” I said suddenly. “Or, GRIEVING GYPSIES—”
    “Silence!” Pete slammed his hand on the desk. “Just get on with it.”
    “I’ll come with you, Annabel,” said Tony.
    “I don’t need anyone to hold my hand, thanks.”
    “Don’t flatter yourself.” Tony had asked Annabel out on a date once and still hadn’t gotten over being rejected. “These people can cause a lot of problems with the environment when they leave a site. You know how strict our recycling rules are. I want to take a few photos before they wreck the place.”
    Tony was an avid supporter of Greenpeace and had sympathies with Eco-Warriors, Gipping’s environmental watchdogs.
    “A fly-tipping piece?” Pete nodded eagerly. “I like it.”
    “I thought I’d get a few quotes from Ronnie Binns about the challenges he faces as a garbologist.”
    “Good luck,” Annabel and I chorused. We’d never agreed before—though in this instance, Ronnie Binns’s personal hygiene problem was legendary. His pungent aroma of boiled cabbages could be smelled a mile away.
    Pete’s phone rang. He snatched it up, listened for a brief moment before slamming the receiver back into the cradle. “Vicky, Olive wants you downstairs. Phil Burrows is in reception.”
    “He’s got some nerve showing up here,” said Tony grimly. “Guest appearance! What a bloody cheek.”
    “Get over it, Tony,” said Pete. “You would have done the same. You just weren’t good enough.”
    “Personally, I think Morris dancing’s silly,” Annabel declared. “Grown men in silly hats with bells strapped to their arms and legs, waving sticks around. It’s stupid.”
    “I’m sorry to hear you think it’s stupid,” came the voice we all knew and dreaded. Everyone leapt to attention. Our illustrious editor—and now Barbara’s fiancé—stood in the doorway.
    “I’ll have you know that Morris dancing has been in existence since the sixteenth century, young lady,” scolded Wilf, who had never liked Annabel at the best of times. “William Kempe, the Shakespearean actor, was one of the first to dance the Morris.”
    “We all dance the Morris,” Edward chipped in. “If you’re local, you dance the Morris. In fact, I only gave up because of my knee injury. Wilf still does the odd event, don’t you, sir?”
    “That’s right.” Wilf removed his trademark Dunhill pipe from the pocket of his brown tweed jacket and clamped it between his teeth, unlit. “It’s a real coup to snag Phil.”
    “Burrows shouldn’t have signed on with the Turpin Terrors,” said Tony stubbornly. “Remember the outcry when David Beckham went to play for the Los Angeles Galaxy?”
    I hardly thought world-famous footballer David Beckham and Morris dancing were in the same league but kept quiet.
    “You’re only jealous because you’re stuck in this boring dump,” said Annabel.
    An awkward silence descended on the room.
    “I didn’t mean the Gazette was boring,” mumbled Annabel.
    “How is Barbara feeling, sir?” I said, neatly changing the subject. “She’s never off