The Day the Floods Came ar-12

by M C Beaton

  “When was this?” asked John.

  “Oh, would be last year.”

  “Was she with Zak then?”

  “No, she was engaged to Harry – Harry McCoy.”

  “Did she ever tell you where she got the joint from?”

  Mary shook her head. “All I knew is that she and Harry had been clubbing in Birmingham. Probably bought some there.”

  “What about heroin?” asked Agatha.

  “Naw. Never a sign of the stuff. What’ll I have to wear for the telly?”

  “We’ll be filming most of it in the disco. So whatever clothes you normally wear to that.”

  “You going to give us a dress allowance?”

  “I don’t even get one myself.”

  “I can see that,” said Mary with all the brutality of the young to the middle-aged and surveying Agatha’s plain skirt, blouse and jacket. “You should get yourself something more trendy. Make you look younger.”

  “I am not in front of the cameras. I merely do the research.”

  “But maybe if you did something with your appearance and got a face-lift, you could make it big-time,” went on Mary with a patronizing kindness. “Look at Joan Collins.”

  “Look at her yourself,” snarled Agatha. “Now let’s get on with this interview.”

  Mary shrugged. “You don’t seem much interested in me. Only Kylie. And she’s dead.”

  John took over and returned to questioning Mary about her life while Agatha stifled a yawn and gazed out of the window at the passing traffic.

  At last, to Agatha’s relief, John smiled at Mary and said, “That will do splendidly for the moment. Coming, Pippa?”

  Agatha hurriedly remembered that was supposed to be her name. “You’d best run me home,” Mary was saying.

  They dropped her off.

  “Back to the village,” said John, “and we’ll talk over what we’ve got. Your place or mine?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” teased Agatha flirtatiously, and then realized from his surprised look that it was a straightforward question and not an invitation to indulge in anything warmer than the murder investigation.

  “Mine,” she said. “I’ve got to feed the cats.”

  ♦

  “We’d better phone Worcester police,” said John, seated in Agatha’s kitchen.

  Agatha, straightened up from petting her cats, and stared at him.

  “Why on earth?”

  “Because we’ve got to tell them about that bank statement.”

  “I think, for the sake of Freda Stokes, we should try to protect her daughter’s reputation. I mean, it may have nothing to do with Barrington.”

  “Even if it has nothing to do with Barrington, it has something to do with someone. The police can ask the bank if the deposit was made by cheque and then they can find out who it was. We really can’t keep this sort of information to ourselves.”

  “But we’ve done all the work!”

  “I still would feel better about it if we told the police.”

  “Just one more day,” pleaded Agatha. “We’ll go and see Barrington tomorrow and then we’ll go to the police.”

  John frowned. “Then we have to explain why we held on to this information.”

  “We’ll tell them we only just found out,” said Agatha impatiently.

  “And then they’ll go to Mrs. Stokes for that bank statement and she’ll say we knew today.”

  “We’ll go to Barrington first thing in the morning and then straight to the police.”

  “Oh, all right. I see you’ve got the newspapers. Let’s have a look through them and see if they’ve got anything.”

  Agatha made coffee and they sat down opposite each other at the kitchen table and began to read. Agatha squinted down at the newsprint and then rose and took a large magnifying glass out of a kitchen drawer and returned to the table.

  “You should get glasses,” said John.

  “I don’t need glasses,” snapped Agatha. “The kitchen’s dark.”

  John shrugged and bent his head over a newspaper again.

  Agatha raised the glass and looked at him through it. She found it hard to admit to herself that her sight was not nearly as good as it used to be. She noticed for the first time the lines on his forehead, down either side of his mouth and round his eyes. He looked up suddenly and she flushed guiltily and lowered the glass.

  “What were you looking for?” he asked. “Blackheads?”

  “You always look so young,” said Agatha. “Now I see you’ve got lines.”

  “Then you do need glasses. Smoking’s a sure way to ruin your eyesight and give you lots of lines around the mouth.”

  Agatha’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. At that moment, the sun came out and the kitchen was flooded with light. “Nonsense,” she said, “I can read perfectly and I haven’t had a cigarette yet today.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she was assailed with a craving for a cigarette. “Although I’ll have one now. Any objections?”

  “Go ahead. I’m not a nicotine Nazi.”

  Agatha lit up a cigarette. Her head swam and it tasted dreadful, but she was addicted and so she continued to smoke until the dizziness passed.

  They read steadily but there was nothing in the papers. John said he would go home and pick her up early in the morning.

  Agatha opened her mouth to ask him to stay, to invite him for dinner, but remembered Mrs. Bloxby’s words. Maybe the vicar’s wife was right and she should play it cool, although what did a mere vicar’s wife know about anything anyway?

  ♦

  Once inside his own cottage, John Armitage looked uneasily at the phone. They should have called the police. But if the police somehow got the information about the bank account today, the fact that they might have withheld information would be irrelevant.

  He went out and got into his car and drove to Evesham, parked and went to a public phone-box in the High Street. He dialled the number of Worcester police. Putting on what he hoped was a Midlands accent, he said quickly, “Check Kylie Stokes’s bank account.” He quickly replaced the receiver, feeling better; feeling that he had not been quite the bad citizen Agatha Raisin wanted him to be.

  On Monday morning, Agatha and John drove back to Evesham. John was silent. He felt he should tell Agatha he had tipped off the police, and yet found he could not. His ex-wife had always been marvellous at making scenes. He had a feeling that Agatha in a really nasty temper might prove to be worse than his ex.

  They asked a man behind a counter who took orders and sold spare parts if they could see Mr. Barrington, explaining they were from a television company. He went through to the back of the premises. It was ten minutes before he returned. “Follow me,” he said, lifting up a flap in the counter.

  They walked along a corridor until he stopped at a door, knocked and then ushered them in.

  Arthur Barrington stood up behind a massive desk and held out his hand. “I’ve heard you were doing research,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sit down.”

  They sat down in two easy chairs facing the desk.

  Barrington was a portly man with thinning black hair combed across his scalp in long strips. He had a fleshy, florid face and small bright eyes. The backs of his thick hands were covered in black hairs.

  “What would you like to know?”

  Agatha glanced at John, wanting him, for once, to take over the questioning, but John was staring straight ahead. She cleared her throat. Better cut to the chase.

  “During our research,” she began, “we became interested in the murder of Kylie Stokes. We gather she had been having an affair with you. Her bank account shows that fifteen thousand pounds was paid into her account a week before she died. Was she blackmailing you?”

  Arthur Barrington got to his feet, his face red with anger. “How dare you! Get out of here or I’ll call the police.”

  “Call them,” said Agatha.

  He pressed a buzzer on his desk. The thickset man t
hey had seen at the front desk came charging through the door. “What is it, boss?”

  “Get them out of here, George. And make sure they don’t come back.”

  Agatha and John got up hurriedly and made for the door. They were followed down the corridor and outside by the menacing bulk of George, who then stood with his hands on his hips until they drove off.

  “Where to now?” asked Agatha.

  “Worcester, Agatha, and I don’t care what you say; we’re going to the police.”

  ♦

  Although Agatha had silently prayed on the road to Worcester that Detective Inspector John Brudge would not be available, her prayers were not answered, and on arrival they were taken straight to see him.

  John, after explaining who he was, outlined what they had found. “We would have come to you yesterday,” he said, “but we thought you might be off work on Sundays.”

  “I’m never off work,” said Brudge. He glared at Agatha. “I thought I told you to keep out of this.”

  “No, you didn’t,” said Agatha, “and you should be grateful to us for bringing you all this information.”

  He eyed them narrowly. “And was it one of you who phoned us anonymously yesterday evening from a public call-box in Evesham to say we ought to look at Kylie Stokes’s bank account?”

  “Not us,” said Agatha vehemently, and then wondered if the culprit had been John.

  “You’ve got to stop masquerading as people from a television company or I’ll need to charge you.”

  “But how can we find out any more information for you if we do?” demanded Agatha.

  “Look here, Mrs. Raisin, we can get at the truth without your interference.”

  “Oh, really? You hadn’t even thought about checking her bank account.”

  “Nonetheless, I can’t have you duping people by pretending to be from some television company. I told you before – ”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I’m telling you now. From now on, leave things to us.” A very chastened pair exited from police headquarters. “You didn’t tell him someone tried to kill you,” said John. “I left it to you to tell him that.”

  “I couldn’t tell him,” wailed Agatha. “That really would have been withholding information. Fortunately, you gave him the idea that we had found out everything yesterday.” She looked at him. “Hey, was that you who gave the anonymous tip-off about Kylie’s bank account?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that was a dirty trick.”

  “It was on my conscience, Agatha.”

  “Your conscience doesn’t matter anymore,” she said gloomily. “We’ve been stopped in our tracks.”

  “Let me think. Let’s go for a drink.”

  Soon, seated in a Worcester pub, they faced each other in silence. What does he think of me? wondered Agatha. Does he see me as a woman? That crack about lines round the mouth, does he find me ugly? Old? He seemed quite taken with Joanna Field. I wonder when he last had sex with anybody. I don’t think I fancy him. It’s just that I don’t like being treated like another fellow.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, “that there is a way we might go on. That wig and glasses really changed your appearance. As long as you don’t appear in any of the same clothes you wore when you were masquerading as Pippa, we could get away with it. Listen to this idea. The television company has dropped the idea, but I became interested in Kylie’s death while helping Pippa. My next-door neighbour is a famous amateur detective. What could be more natural than us continuing the investigations?”

  “Do you really think I look that different without the disguise?”

  “Yes. It was a very heavy, large blonde wig, and the glasses were enormous. I’m sure we could get away with it.”

  “So where do we go from here? I know. I’ve got this friend in Mircester police, Bill Wong. I could ask him to let us know how Worcester police are getting on. He’s got a friend over there.”

  “That’s a start. I don’t think the police will get any further with Kylie’s bank account. I’ve a feeling the money was probably paid in in cash.”

  “But they’ll check Barrington’s bank and see if he withdrew the money.”

  “True. I wish there was some way you could get to know Mrs. Barrington. We can hardly go and interview her now. I wonder what her social life is like.”

  “Let’s go back to Evesham and look up a phone-book at the post office. We can get Barrington’s home address from that.”

  ♦

  Arthur Barrington turned out to live in a large villa in the Greenhill area of Evesham. “We’ll park near his house,” said John, “and watch to see if anyone who could be Mrs. Barrington leaves, follow her and hope she goes somewhere to get her hair done or have a coffee or something.”

  Agatha’s stomach rumbled. “Don’t you ever eat?” she asked.

  “I’m pretty hungry, but let’s do this first.”

  They parked just before Barrington’s villa. It was a quiet, tree-lined street. John opened the glove compartment. “Good, I knew I’d a bar of chocolate in here.”

  “Goodie, let me have it.”

  “You can have half.”

  They sat eating chocolate and looking at the house.

  “What do you think about?” asked Agatha.

  “You mean about Barrington?”

  “No, not Barrington. Things. All we ever talk about is the case.”

  “What d’you want me to talk about?”

  “You, for instance.”

  “What else is there to know?” he demanded impatiently. “I am divorced. I do not have any children. I write detective stories.”

  “There are other things to talk about. Books. Movies.”

  “Ah, books. You read A Cruel Innocence. You said it did not ring true. Take me through that.”

  Agatha bit her lip. She did not want him to know that she had intimate knowledge of Birmingham slums.

  To her relief, she saw a woman driving out of the entrance to Barrington’s villa.

  “Look!” she cried. “That’s probably her.”

  “We’ll follow carefully,” he said, switching on the ignition and letting in the clutch. “Don’t want her to know she’s being followed.”

  “She won’t know she’s being followed,” Agatha pointed out. “It’s only in spy stories that they know they are being followed.”

  Mrs. Barrington, if it was Mrs. Barrington, drove into Evesham and parked in Merstow Green. When she emerged from her car, they saw she was slim and blonde, with long tanned legs ending in trainers. She headed straight for the beauticians.

  “It’s the Pilates class today,” said Agatha. “I forgot. I’ll run around the corner to that cheap shop in the High Street and buy leggings and a T-shirt.”

  “I’ll get something as well,” said John. “Bit of exercise would do me good.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be room for you. But we can try.”

  Ten minutes later, Rosemary welcomed them both. “You’re in luck,” she said to John. “Two of my ladies didn’t turn up. But we’ve done the relaxation bit.”

  ♦

  While they performed knee stirs, hamstring stretches and the diamond press – the last a pretty gruelling exercise – Agatha stole covert looks at Mrs. Barrington. She had dyed blond hair, worn long. She was very slim and had an even tan, that faintly orange tan which comes from a bottle. Her face was only faintly lined, a long face, a Modigliani face. Her concentration was fierce. The other members of the class groaned and chatted and laughed as they performed their exercises, but her face remained throughout a mask of almost narcissistic concentration.

  Hardly the sort of woman to get on chatty terms with, thought Agatha. A lot of money had gone into keeping her slim and fairly unlined. Her leotard was an expensive one.

  After the class was over, John stayed behind in the exercise room while the women went into the other room to change.

  “I feel better after that,” commented Agatha to
Mrs. Barrington. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Agatha Raisin.”

  “Stephanie Barrington,” she replied with a cool look. “Now, I must go.”

  Agatha watched helplessly as Stephanie put on her coat and headed for the stairs. Agatha struggled quickly out of her leggings and T-shirt and put on her street clothes. She rushed to join John in the other room and stopped in surprise. He was chatting to Stephanie, who looked quite animated and was saying, “But I’ve read all your books.”

  Over her shoulder – her slim back was to Agatha – John gave Agatha a dismissive roll of the eyeballs.

  She went reluctantly downstairs. Now what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t sit in the car. John had the keys.

  She stood behind the shelter of the car and finally saw them emerge. They stood talking for a while on the pavement and then, to her relief, John headed towards the car-park.

  “So how did you get on?” demanded Agatha impatiently.

  “I’m giving her dinner tonight,” he said triumphantly.

  “Where?”

  “My place.”

  “Can I come?”

  “Bad idea. She wants to talk to me about writing a book. She won’t talk freely with you around.”

  “When her husband knows who it is she’s meeting, he’ll put a stop to it. He’ll remember you from this morning.”

  “He won’t know. She said he sneers at everything she does, so she’s not going to tell him.”

  “Fancy you, does she?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Wouldn’t fancy her a bit, if I were a man,” said Agatha as they drove off. “Looks a cold fish.”

  He grinned. “I am sure she has hidden passions.”

  ♦

  That evening, Agatha fretted alone. She did not have a crush on John, and yet she resented his interest in other women like Joanna Field and now Stephanie Barrington. Of course, it had all to do with the case. She decided to visit Mrs. Bloxby.

  Mrs. Bloxby listened carefully to Agatha’s adventures and then said, “You are very, very lucky the police did not book you for impersonating a television researcher.”

  “They’ve got enough to do. I found things out for them they wouldn’t have known otherwise and I wasn’t conning anyone out of money.”

  “So he’s with this Stephanie Barrington at the moment?”