Agatha Raisin Love, Lies and Liquor ar-17

by M C Beaton

  He opened the door and ushered her in.

  It was an old-fashioned tea shop, perhaps a relic of the days when James Lacey was a boy. There were lace covers on the tables and a large central wooden stand with layers of gorgeous-looking cakes.

  Agatha took stock of her new companion. His accent was London, or so she thought. In her youth, each district of London had its separate accent, but now there was just one, if you excluded the Cockneys.

  “Have you been on holiday?” she asked. “That tan never came out of a bottle.”

  “I’ve got a place in Marbella.”

  “Building trade must be good.”

  “I do pretty well.”

  A waitress came up. He ordered a pot of coffee. Agatha refused an offer of cake.

  “So tell me about your job?” he asked.

  “If you’ve read the newspapers, I’m afraid you’ll know as much as I do,” said Agatha. “The police have arrested Charlie Black, the man who robbed the jeweller’s, and now they’ve got Pete Silen, his partner, as well.”

  “I read about Pete Silen. He nearly killed you.”

  Agatha happily launched into a highly exaggerated account of her adventures in Lewisham.

  When she had finished, he asked, “And what about this friend of yours who was with you? Is he back at the hotel?”

  Agatha’s face darkened. “He cleared off sometime during the night.” She shrugged. “I’m afraid he’s like that.”

  “It’s bit boring down here. What about joining me for dinner tonight?”

  “I’d like that,” said Agatha, feeling her spirits soar. Damn Charles and James. She still had pulling power.

  He said he would pick her up at her hotel at eight. “I know a good place well outside of town,” he said.

  Agatha walked back to the hotel with a light heart. She spent the rest of the day on her laptop, writing down everything about the case and then printed everything off on her portable printer to show to Patrick when he arrived.

  Patrick turned up in the late afternoon. He settled down in Agatha’s room and carefully studied her notes. He tapped a page. “Is it possible this old boy, Archie Swale, might have murdered his ex-wife?”

  “I feel doubtful about that. Charles appeared to think so.”

  “We could drive over to Brighton this evening. I’d like to get a look at him.”

  “He wouldn’t see us. Besides, I’ve got a date.”

  “Who?”

  Agatha grinned. “Just a fellow who picked me up.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Not like you to be so curious about my personal life. Oh, well. He bumped into me as I was coming out of M and S in the High Street. He apologized. He then said he recognized me from my photo in the local paper and wanted to hear all about my work. We had coffee and he’s invited me out for dinner.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a builder. But a rich one. He’s got a place in Marbella.”

  “So have a lot of villains.”

  “He’s not a villain,” said Agatha hotly. “Do you mean to say a man can’t be attracted to me?”

  She glared at him.

  “No, no,” mumbled Patrick. “When is he picking you up?”

  “At eight o’clock.”

  Patrick studied her flushed face in silence. Then he said, “I’ll run over to Brighton and wait outside this Swale’s house. I’ll get a better idea about him if I can see him.”

  “How’s Phil Marshall getting on?”

  “He’s amazing for his age. Never stops working. He says there’s a newcomer in the village.”

  “Who?”

  “A widow called Deborah Fanshawe, hell-bent on chasing your ex.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Phil says she’s very attractive.”

  I don’t care any more, Agatha told herself fiercely. I’ve got a date. I’m moving on.

  Agatha had gone out shopping again for her date. The dresses she had brought when she had expected to be going somewhere warm and glamorous were too filmy for this cold British summer. If anyone talks about global warming again, thought Agatha, I’ll strike them.

  She chose a white silk blouse with a plunging neckline and a black skirt cut on the bias. A pink pashmina completed the ensemble.

  Agatha felt rejuvenated when she went down the stairs that evening to find Terry waiting for her. To her surprise, he was dressed in jeans, a donkey jacket and a plaid shirt.

  “I’m overdressed,” said Agatha.

  “You look great,” said Terry. “I’m sorry I look like this, but I had to rush here from work. It’s all right. They know me at the restaurant.”

  Agatha had expected to be stepping into a Mercedes or a Rolls or some car like that, but there was a plain white van parked outside, just like the one Harry Beam used.

  Her excitement about the evening was ebbing fast. If he were really interested, she thought, he would have made more of an effort.

  He drove steadily out of town and up onto the windswept downs. “We’re going a long way,” said Agatha.

  He smiled at her. “It’ll be worth it.”

  Rain began to hammer against the windscreen. The rubber had gone from one of the wipers and it made an irritating noise as it scraped backwards and forwards.

  Finally he stopped. “Here we are. Wait there and I’ll open the door for you.”

  “I should have brought an umbrella,” said Agatha. “I’ll be soaked before I get indoors.”

  He moved round to the front of the car and then opened the passenger door.

  “Out!” he said.

  In the weak interior light of the car Agatha could plainly see he was holding a serviceable-looking revolver.

  “What’s this all about?” asked Agatha. “Is this a joke?”

  “Out!”

  Wind and rain whipped Agatha’s hair about her face. She peered this way and that looking for escape, but that revolver was now pressed into her side and urging her to the door of a low building.

  Terry leaned round her and opened the door and prodded her in. He switched on an overhead light. Agatha found herself in a room empty except for one kitchen chair. Rain dripped through a crack in the ceiling. Despite her fear, she wondered why the electricity was working in such a derelict building.

  “Sit down,” he barked.

  Agatha sank down onto the hard chair. Her knees were trembling.

  “Charlie said that only half the jewels were recovered. Where’s the rest?”

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha. “I really, truly, don’t know. Why don’t you ask Fred Jankers?” She suddenly remembered the items of jewellery Harry had found under the mattress.

  “Charlie told me about you, how he overheard you blabbing.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Charlie worked for me. Why he had to go off on a sideline like armed robbery, I don’t know. But I owe him a favour and I stick by my friends. He wants the rest of that jewellery for his missus.”

  “A sideline? Marbella?” Agatha eyes widened. “You’re into something bigger. Drugs?”

  He stared at her, his face hard and set. “The jewellery,” he said. “To refresh your memory, I’m going to start by shooting your kneecap.”

  “Jankers has it,” said Agatha desperately. “It’s under the mattress in his home. He may not even have known it was there. Geraldine probably stashed it there.”

  He lowered the revolver slightly. “That’s better. What was there?”

  “I c-can’t quite remember,” stammered Agatha. “Two watches, gold chains, a sapphire-and-diamond necklace and I think there was a brooch.”

  The revolver raised again. “Not enough. Where’s the rest?”

  ‘I don’t know!” yelled Agatha, beside herself with fright.

  He levelled the gun at her kneecap. Agatha closed her eyes.

  And then a stentorian voice outside yelled, “The building is surrounded. Come out with your hands up!”

  Terry
switched out the light. She could hear him moving off to the back of the building. Agatha got to her feet. Blue light was now flooding in the window. She crept towards the door, opened it and dashed out into the rain. A policeman seized her and hustled her off to a police car.

  Armed policemen then rushed into the building. Agatha heard a tap on the window of the police car and looked out. Patrick Mulligan stood there. She lowered the window.

  “I thought I’d better follow you,” said Patrick. “I didn’t like the idea of you being picked up by a complete stranger.”

  “Thanks, Patrick. You’ve saved my life.”

  “I’d like to get in out of this rain. I’m soaked.” Agatha moved over and Patrick climbed in beside her. “Did you call them when you saw him with that gun?” asked Agatha. “They got here quickly.”

  “I decided to call them when I saw him heading out into open country. To be on the safe side, I said you had been kidnapped and that he was armed. Good thing for me it turned out to be true.”

  Agatha shivered. “What’s going on out there? Have they got him?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m so wet I’d rather wait in here and find out.”

  The car door opened. “I am Detective Chief Superintendent Willerby of the Sussex CID. It’s time we had a talk, Mrs. Raisin.”

  “Have you got him?”

  “Not yet. There seems to have been some escape route through the cellar. My men are out on the downs and we’ve sent for the dogs. We’ll get him soon. I’d like you to come over to my car. You too, Mr. Mulligan.”

  They went out into the rain and followed him to his car. He got in the front beside his driver. Agatha and Patrick slid into the back. Agatha was grateful that the car engine was on and the heater was running.

  “Tell me from the beginning,” ordered Willerby.

  So Agatha did, feeling sillier by the minute that she had allowed a complete stranger to pick her up in the middle of an investigation.

  When she had finished, he made a phone call. Agatha started to speak again, but he held up his hand for silence. Whoever he had phoned answered, because he said, “I thought that might be the case,” and rang off.

  He turned back to Agatha. “We don’t have the name, Terry Armstrong, on our records, so we’ll take you to headquarters at Lewes and you can look at mug shots and then give the police artist a description. Now, you, Mr. Mulligan. What prompted you to follow her?”

  “Just seemed strange, this chap turning up out of nowhere. I didn’t like it, so I thought I’d follow and see where they went.”

  “But you must have phoned before they got to that derelict cottage because you then phoned back later and gave us the location. Fortunately, we were already on our way.”

  “I couldn’t get close for a while in case he caught on to the fact that someone was following him, so I took a chance and switched off my lights. At one point he stopped,” lied Patrick, “and I saw he was holding a gun to her head.”

  “Wait here,” said Willerby, and he got out of the car.

  And so they did—waited and waited while gusts of wind rocked the car and rain slashed against the windows.

  Agatha fell into an uneasy sleep and soon Patrick fell asleep as well.

  When Agatha awoke, the wind had died down and the rain had stopped. Patrick had woken up as well.

  “I need to pee,” said Agatha. She leaned forward to the driver. “Can I go back into that cottage and see if there’s a loo?”

  “No, the forensics are working there now. You’ll need to find a bush.”

  Agatha got out of the car and looked around in the darkness. She saw a clump of bushes and went behind it, crouched down and lowered the flimsy knickers that she had put on in the hope of a hot date.

  She relieved herself and was reaching for her knickers when she saw two green eyes staring at her. She let out a scream of terror and tried to dart from the bushes, but her knickers were caught round her ankles and she fell headlong. Two policemen appeared with torches. “Was that him?” one cried.

  “Two eyes were staring at me,” gasped Agatha.

  At that moment, a fox slid past them in the light of the torches and disappeared. “There are your green eyes,” said one policeman.

  He helped Agatha to her feet. She bent down and pulled her knickers up. She felt like crying with shame. She, who liked to appear the tough woman detective, had gone out on a date with a man she did not know and nearly got herself killed and now she had been terrified out of her wits by a fox.

  As the policemen moved off, she distinctly heard one mutter to the other, “Silly cow.”

  Agatha got in beside Patrick again. “Don’t ask,” she said.

  She fell asleep again and did not awaken until a pale dawn was streaking the sky.

  Willerby came back at last, looking cross and exhausted. “How he got away is beyond me. Yes, there was an underground route out from the cellar, but we’ve had dogs and men out covering the downs and there’s not a trace of him. We’ll get back to headquarters and get your statement.”

  Next morning, Charles Fraith switched on the television set he kept at the end of the dining table before settling down to his breakfast. His guests, Guy and Cynthia Partington, were still asleep.

  More trouble in Iraq, more suicide bombs, and then the announcer said, “We have a newsflash. Woman detective Agatha Raisin, who is at Snoth-on-Sea investigating the murder of Geraldine Jankers, who was found strangled on the beach, was kidnapped last night by an armed gunman. She was rescued by police. According to police reports, the gunman was using the name Terry Armstrong. More later.”

  Charles sat transfixed, his knife and fork hovering over his plate. Agatha would never forgive him for leaving her in the lurch. He felt he ought to get back to Snoth-on-Sea immediately, but he had a week’s entertainment for his guests lined up.

  Unaware of Agatha’s drama, James Lacey finally switched off his computer that morning and walked along to the general stores. Deborah Fanshawe seemed to appear from nowhere and fell into step beside him.

  “Lovely morning,” she said cheerfully.

  “Where did you spring from?” asked James, because Lilac Lane, where he and Agatha had their cottages, was a dead end.

  “Oh, walking in the fields,” she said vaguely. “We haven’t really had a chance to get properly acquainted.” The sun glinted on her masses of brown hair. Her long legs under a short skirt were much in evidence. “Why don’t you drop round my place, say, at eight this evening, and I’ll cook dinner?”

  James hesitated. Then he smiled. He felt he needed something to take his mind off abandoning Agatha. “That would be nice.”

  “See you, then.” She waggled her fingers at him and strode off.

  James walked on to the village shop. He was just picking up a basket when Miss Simms rushed up to him. “Isn’t it terrible about our Agatha?” she gasped.

  He stared down at her. “What? What’s happened?”

  “It was on the morning news. She was captured by an armed gunman and the police had to rescue her!”

  James dropped the basket and rushed back home. He switched on a twenty-four-hour news service and waited impatiently. At last the news item he wanted came up on the screen. There was a brief account of the kidnapping and the search over the downs for the armed gunman. There was film of Agatha and Patrick leaving the police station. Agatha looked terrible.

  * * *

  “You’re what?” demanded the vicar.

  “I’m just going to take the car and drive down to Snoth-on-Sea. I feel Mrs. Raisin needs me.”

  “I forbid you to go. That woman is trouble, has always been trouble, and I don’t want you involved in it,” raged the vicar.

  Mrs. Bloxby pushed a strand of grey hair from her face. There was an unfamiliar edge in her voice as she said, “I am going, Alf, and that is all there is to it.”

  “What about the parish duties?”

  Mrs. Bloxby had been packing a travelling bag. “The parish
can do without me for a couple of days. When did we last have a holiday?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Just that Mrs. Raisin needs me and I need a change of scene. There is enough food in the deep freeze to keep you going. Stop looming over me, dear.”

  “But I need the car!”

  “There is a perfectly good bicycle in the shed. Stop fussing.”

  Deborah Fanshawe returned later that day with a pile of groceries. As she worked preparing an elaborate meal, she smiled as she thought of Agatha Raisin. From the village gossip she had regarded Agatha as competition. That was until the previous evening, when she had seen a group photo of the Carsely Ladies’ Society and Agatha had been pointed out to her. Really, the woman was no competition at all. She was short and stocky and had funny little eyes.

  Deborah suddenly noticed a red light on her phone was flashing, indicating she had a message.

  She picked up the phone and listened impatiently to the British Telecom voice saying she had one message and if she wanted to hear it, to press one. She pressed one and found herself listening to James Lacey’s voice. “Deborah, I am so sorry I must cancel this evening. My friend Agatha is in trouble and I must go and see if I can help. I’ll phone you when I get back.”

  Deborah slowly put down the phone. Then she ran out of her cottage and down through the village to Lilac Lane. Curtains at cottage windows twitched. Elderly voices marvelled she could run so fast in such high heels.

  She arrived breathless and panting at James’s cottage. She rang the bell and hammered on the door. No reply. Then she turned slowly around. His car had gone. She simply could not understand it. What had this Agatha Raisin got to offer that she hadn’t?

  Agatha, finally released by the police, slept most of the day in her bedroom with the door locked and a chair propped under the handle. If only the police had caught Terry or whatever his name was. She was terrified that he might come back looking for her. She had not thought she would be able to sleep, but when she woke, it was early evening and the phone was ringing.

  It was Patrick. “I’ve just come back from the police station. They got fingerprints from the cottage. Terry Armstrong is actually Brian McNally. He’s wanted by Interpol for drug dealing and for murder.”