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didn’t fancy that dour old battle-axe? Yet who am I to cast judgment? My mum always says, ‘There’s someone for everyone.’
    ‘Mrs Poultry says you’re reliable,’ I said.
    ‘
Reliable
, see?’ Ronnie thumped his chest. ‘
She’d
never accuse me of crying wolf!
She’d
believe me!’ With that, he spun on his heel and stormed back to the open gates shouting, ‘The devil’s at work here in Gipping, and I’m going to prove it!’
    What if he was right? I couldn’t risk Annabel snagging a front-page scoop beneath my very eyes. I trotted after Ronnie, positive that Christiane Amanpour would have done the same in similar circumstances.
    The stench of rotting garbage was overpowering. How could anyone work here? The rain of the past few weeks had turned the narrow muddy paths between the towering stacks of rubbish into a quagmire.
    We sloshed past piles of abandoned household articles – mattresses, dozens of rusting prams, and old refrigerators.
    ‘Over there,’ said Ronnie, pointing to a rough clearing among the debris. I could make out a small shape under a piece of black plastic.
    My heart began to pound faster with the wildest hope that even if it wasn’t a body, it could be part of one. I steeled myself. A head, though shocking, would look terrific on page one.
    ‘Wait!’ I heard a shout and looked around. Annabel was attempting to catch up in kitten-heel shoes. Mud was spattering up her bare legs and she was slipping all over the place.
    ‘Vicky! Wait for me!’ she screamed. ‘This is
my
story.’
    Ronnie bent down and whipped off the plastic.
    Three white fluffy birds lay in a heap.
    ‘Chickens.’ I felt a stab of disappointment. All that fuss for nothing. ‘Just chickens.’
    ‘They’re not just any old chickens.’ Ronnie poked at the pile with the toe of his boot and flipped one of the unfortunate creatures over. ‘Blood’s been completely drained out, see?’
    I knelt down to take a closer look. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
    ‘Their throats have been cut, see?’ said Ronnie. ‘Usually you just chop their heads off, but someone’s gone to a lot of trouble here. If you ask me, that’s not normal.’
    He was right. Each fragile neck had a neat slice, yet there wasn’t even a speck of blood on their snowy white feathers.
    Apparently, Ronnie Binns had some expertise in chicken killing. ‘First, you take your chicken,’ he began, ‘and you string it up by the legs—’
    ‘Where
are
their legs?’ I said alarmed. Each chicken was minus vital limbs. Ronnie was right to describe this spectacle as macabre. It reminded me of the curse scene in chapter four of
Voodoo Vixens
– with one vital ingredient missing: a voodoo doll. The Vixens’s trademark signature.
    ‘You’re right to bring this to our attention, Mr Binns.’ I reached for my camera.
    ‘No, stop!’ Annabel stumbled towards us and stood staring at the pathetic wretches in silence.
    At last, she gestured for Ronnie to replace the plastic. ‘Sorry to waste your time, Mr Binns.’
    ‘What?’ I was astonished.
    Ronnie scratched his head – he seemed to often do this – dandruff, possibly, or worse. Head lice?
‘She
doesn’t think so.’
    ‘Vicky doesn’t know what she’s talking about.’ Annabel’s tone was crisp. ‘The
Gazette
appreciates you calling, but there is no story here.’ Annabel turned on her heel and began to slosh her way back towards the car. ‘Come along, Vicky.’
    ‘I’ll walk,’ I said, anxious to have another word with Ronnie. Obviously Annabel had not read
Voodoo Vixens
.
    ‘Nonsense, it’s going to rain. I’ll give you a lift,’ she demanded, adding darkly, ‘And besides, I want a word with you.’
    The last thing I wanted to do was be trapped in Annabel’s car getting a lecture. But a glance at my watch – Dad said it was a genuine Christian Dior – told me I needed a lift back to Middle Gipping.
    ‘I’ll be back later,’ I whispered to Ronnie, fighting the urge