by M C Beaton
“Oh, come in and stop complaining,” said Agatha. “It’s too hot. I’ve ordered one of those mobile air conditioning units. Should be here this afternoon.”
“That’ll set you back a bit,” commented Bill, following her into the kitchen where the cats leapt on him in welcome.
“Let’s sit in the garden,” said Agatha.
When they were seated over cups of coffee, Agatha said, “What sort of poison was it?”
“Weedkiller. He vomited most of it up and might have survived but he had a weak heart. He hadn’t drunk all the coffee—just one gulp, but that was enough. Must have tasted bitter.”
“Was there anything on his computer?” asked Charles. “I mean, there might be emails.”
“Now that’s the weird thing,” said Bill. “There was nothing but business affairs on the office computer, but his home computer had been wiped clean. So we took out the hard drive and ran it through that machine forensics has which can print stuff off the hard drive and it had been overwritten. You can buy a programme that overwrites everything.”
“That points to the wife,” said Agatha.
“Mrs. Smedley appears to know nothing about computers and the disc with the overwrite programme had only Smedley’s fingerprints on it. He might have indulged himself by watching porn, maybe kiddie porn, and decided to wipe it out.”
“Does Mrs. Smedley have any weedkiller?”
“None at all.”
“I thought everyone had weedkiller.”
“Not her. She goes in for organic methods. No chemicals. She’s just what she seems, Agatha. She’s a thoroughly nice woman. She even baked a batch of fairy cakes for us at police headquarters. She said that baking took her mind off her grief.”
“You’re a trusting lot,” jeered Agatha. “She could have poisoned every single one of you.”
“We’re trying to find out more about Joyce Wilson,” said Bill. “But I can’t see how it could have been her. I mean, she gave him the coffee. Surely a murderer would not make things look so obvious.”
“We’ve just spoken to her,” said Agatha. “She’d been having an affair with Smedley for six months and he was paying the rent of the house she’s living in. She says he promised to marry her.”
“Could be a bluff. He may have told her it was over.”
“What about the factory?”
“We’re currently interviewing all the staff. Then there’s this Jessica murder. The press are hounding us for a result. I’d better go. Now, don’t hide any clues.”
He was about to leave when he hesitated on the doorstep. “Are you all right, Agatha?”
“Fine. Why?”
“You don’t look your usual self.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Not as groomed as usual. And you aren’t wearing make-up. I’ve never known you not to wear make-up before.”
“Oh, just giving my skin a rest. See you. Bye.”
As soon as he had left, Agatha nipped upstairs to the bathroom and stared in the magnifying mirror. She let out a squawk. Her hair was limp, her skin was shiny and she had a spot on her nose. Worse, she could see the shadow of an incipient moustache on her upper lip.
She went downstairs and out into the garden where Charles was lying on the grass, playing with the cats. “I’ve got to go into Evesham,” she said. “Could you be an angel and wait here and let the air conditioning man in?”
“Why Evesham?”
“Hairdresser.”
Agatha spent a whole afternoon getting a facial, a seaweed wrap, and then her hair styled.
As she drove back to Carsely, she hoped the air conditioner had arrived. The air was like soup.
When she walked into her sitting room, she was greeted by a blast of cold air. “Great, isn’t it?” said Charles from the depth of the sofa. He twisted up and looked at her. “Now, that’s an improvement. What if James came back into your life and found you’d let yourself go?”
“Stop making personal remarks. I’ve an idea. Why don’t we try to see Burt Haviland tomorrow?”
“Who he? Remind me.”
“Jessica’s boyfriend. I’m clutching at straws but he may just want to help us.”
“I thought Patrick and the others were following that case.”
“Yes, but he might know someone at the factory who had it in for Smedley.”
Agatha and Charles carried the mobile air conditioner up to Agatha’s bedroom that night. “I’ll leave my door open and you’ll get the benefit, too,” said Agatha.
Agatha undressed and got into bed. She fell asleep immediately and was awakened in the middle of the night by a crack of thunder. She fell asleep again and dreamed of Robert Smedley pursuing her across the icy wastes of the Antarctic. In her dream, she slipped and fell and awoke with a cry. Rain was lashing down outside and the room was like an icebox. Rain was drumming on the thatch and falling onto the garden in a series of waterfalls. She switched off the air conditioner, climbed back into bed and pulled the duvet over her head.
When she awoke again, it was to find the house was still cold. “Sodding British weather,” muttered Agatha, turning on the central heating. “I should never have bought that air conditioner.”
They set out to interview Burt Haviland after Agatha had called Patrick and found Burt was at home, having taken several days leave. The rain had become a thin drizzle and the day was cold.
“It’s at times like this,” said Agatha, “that I wish I’d never started a detective agency. I want to go somewhere warm and lie on the beach.”
“I thought you’d have had enough of heat.”
“Heat on the beach is different from heat inland.”
They drove on in silence until they reached Burt’s address. “Here we go again,” sighed Agatha.
Burt Haviland was a very handsome man with thick black curly hair and a light tan. He must be paid well, thought Agatha, who had noticed the expensive motorbike outside and now saw that his living room contained a huge flat-screen television and a fancy computer.
Agatha explained that they were looking into the murder of Robert Smedley and asked him if he knew anyone at the factory who might have disliked him.
“Everyone hated him,” said Burt. “But he paid good wages.”
“Why did they hate him?”
“He was a bully. He liked finding out about people, finding their vulnerable spot, and pressing it.”
“And yet they all stayed on?”
“All that I know of. I’ve only been with them two years. Oh, I think Eddie Gibbs left.”
“Why?”
“His wife has muscular dystrophy and she’s in a wheelchair. Smedley said to him with a sort of fake jollity, ‘Must be hard on you not getting your leg over.’ Eddie smacked him on the mouth.”
“When was this?”
“About two months ago.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Joyce‘11 know,” said Charles. “I took a note of her number.”
Agatha’s mobile phone rang. It was Patrick. “You’d better get back here fast, Agatha. Harry’s found something important.”
“We’ve got to go,” said Agatha. She turned in the doorway. “Is your name Burt Haviland? I mean, is that really your name?”
He turned red. “I changed it a few years ago.”
“From what?”
“Bert Smellie. I got sick of people making jokes about my name and my girlfriend at the time picked a new name for me out of a romance she was reading.”
Outside, Agatha said, “We’ve got to get back to the office, fast. Harry’s found something.”
“You mean the one you told me was a troglodyte with studs?”
“Yes, but he’s bright.”
Agatha burst into her office with Charles at her heels. “What is it?” she demanded. “What have you found?”
Harry went over to the computer. “I’ll show you. I was down at the cyber cafe to send an email and this schoolboy was staring at something on one
of the screens. I glanced over his shoulder and this is what I saw.”
He clicked on to the Internet and typed in “hotsugarbabes. com.” A picture flashed up on the screen and Agatha bit back an exclamation. There was a photo of Jessica, Trixie and Fairy in their school uniforms. “Now, you want to see more, you click here and enter your credit card number. What’s yours?”
Agatha took out her card case and read him out her Visa number. Another picture came up.
It showed a film of Fairy, Trixie and Jessica lounging on a bed. They were all wearing lacy teddies and fishnet stockings. They giggled and pouted at the camera. Occasionally they kissed one another and fondled one another’s breasts. “You want me to go on?” asked Harry.
“No, that’s enough for now. Does it get worse?”
“Not really. There’s a lot of them in school uniform—you know, blouses open to the waist and stocking tops.”
“Goodbye, age of innocence,” said Charles.
“I don’t think any of them had the expertise to set up a Web site,” said Harry.
Agatha remembered the expensive equipment in Burt Haviland’s living room. “We’d better call the police on this one,” she said. “I’ll phone Bill.”
Bill said he would be around right away. Agatha turned to Harry. “How does this work?”
“There are men who like looking a pictures of sexy schoolgirls. They pay up. It’s usually safe enough for the girls because they never need to be in contact with their clients. Maybe one of them recognized Jessica at the roadside and got carried away.”
“But it wasn’t a sex crime,” Charles pointed out.
The door opened and Bill Wong came in. “I hope you’re not wasting police time. What have you got?”
Agatha silently pointed to the computer.
Harry flicked through the images for Bill. “Stop there!” said Bill suddenly. Agatha looked over Harry’s shoulder. The three girls were in bikinis, chasing one another around a garden. Jessica seemed to be protesting and the other two pulled her hair and then dragged her to the ground.
“How did you get on to this?” asked Bill.
How Agatha would have loved to take the credit. “Harry,” she said. ‘Tell Bill how you discovered this.”
Harry did while Bill listened intently. Then Agatha said, “Burt Haviland has a lot of expensive equipment in his home. His real name’s not Burt Haviland. It’s Bert Smellie.”
“We’ll run that name through the computer. I’d better get a search warrant for his flat.”
“Bill, remember we found this out for you and let us know how you get on.”
“I’ll try to get round tonight. You, Harry, come with me. I’ll need to take a statement from you.”
Bill and Harry left, and shortly afterwards Phil and Patrick came in. They told them about the computer video.
“Well,” said Phil, “I was wondering why a nice girl like Jessica could go and get herself murdered in such a horrible way. Now we know. Could have been anyone.”
“We’ll get back out there,” said Patrick. “We’ll see Trixie and Fairy and tell them they’ve been found out. If the police have pulled them in, we’ll try the parents.”
When they’d gone, Charles said, “I’m going off for the afternoon, Agatha. Got things to do at home. See you later.”
Agatha slumped down on the sofa. She felt tired and jaded. “Mrs. Freedman,” she said. “You don’t wear make-up? Does your husband ever ask you to?”
“No, m’dear. Doesn’t notice much.”
“Bill noticed when I wasn’t wearing make-up.”
“Could be a way of him saying you haven’t been your usual sparky self lately. Have you eaten anything?”
“Haven’t had time.”
“Go out and get something. I’ll look after things here.”
“You’re a treasure.”
Agatha went out and round to a cafe and ordered sausage and chips, which she doused liberally with ketchup. She wished she could shake off the heavy feeling of nothingness that was beginning to overtake her.
She did not realize that the root of the problem was that she was obsessive when it came to men. Agatha was addicted to falling in love. While she was obsessing about some man, she could dream. But now, with no obsession, when she lay down to sleep at night there seemed to be a black hole left in her head, around the edges of which swirled nagging, petty little worries.
Charles was sitting at his desk going through the farm accounts when his manservant, Gustav, announced, “Chap called Freddy Champion to see you.”
Charles’s face lit up. “Freddy! Haven’t seen him in ages. Show him in.”
A tall, lean, bronzed man with a shock of white hair and dark brown eyes came into the room.
“Out of Africa?” asked Charles.
“Thrown out of Zimbabwe.”
“What will you do now?”
“Nigeria’s offering us farmers land. Might try that.”
“You’re a devil for punishment.” They talked of old friends and old times and then Charles talked about Agatha and the murders.
“What an extraordinary woman she seems to be. I’d like to meet her.”
“If you’re not doing anything this evening, I’ll take you over. Where’s the missus?”
“Gone to South Africa for a break.”
Agatha tried to work in her office at home that evening, writing down everything she knew about the Smedley case. The evening was cold and damp and she wished she’d never gone to the expense of buying an air conditioner. She switched off the computer. She had changed into an old pair of trousers and a sweater. No need to dress up for Bill and Charles.
She fed the cats but was reluctant to prepare anything for herself. Perhaps she and Charles could go to the pub after Bill had left.
The doorbell rang. When Agatha answered it, she found not only Charles standing there but a tall, handsome man. Charles introduced Freddy. Agatha was suddenly acutely aware of her old sweater and trousers.
Any minute now, thought Charles cynically, Agatha’s going to say she’s nipping up to the bathroom and she’s going to come down with her face freshly made up. And that’s exactly what Agatha did.
Agatha began to ask Freddy about his life in Zimbabwe. Charles, watching her animated face and sparkling eyes, suppressed a groan. He was just about to drop some remark about Freddy’s wife when the doorbell rang announcing Bill’s arrival.
“Well?” demanded Agatha eagerly.
Bill sat down at the kitchen table. He looked enquiringly at Freddy and Agatha quickly introduced him.
“We ran the name Bert, or Albert, Smellie through the police computer. I’m amazed he gave you his real name. How did you get on to that?”
“Think of it,” said Agatha. “Burt Haviland is like one of those names in romance books.”
“Anyway, he’s got a record for armed robbery. In prison took his A levels. Left prison and took a degree in electronics engineering. Bright lad. His probation officer was so proud of him. We raided his house. We found the video set-up hidden in a shed in the garden. But we recognized his bedroom and the garden from the video. He blustered and protested that it was just a bit of fun. The girls weren’t doing anything pornographic and it was an easy way to make money out of dirty old men. We’re keeping him in overnight for more questioning and while we double-check his alibi for the night Jessica was killed.”
“Did the parents know about this?”
“They were genuinely horrified,” said Bill.
“Where did three schoolgirls get the time to do all this?”
“Weekends, evenings, school holidays. We’re tracking down all the men who paid for a viewing.”
“I’ve an idea,” said Agatha, suddenly excited. “Maybe these two murders were tied up in some way. Robert Smedley’s computer at home had been overwritten to conceal what he had been logging into.”
“It’s an idea. We’ll check his credit-card details. I don’t suppose we’ll need a search warrant.
Mrs. Smedley is very helpful. In fact, she’s one of the most charming ladies I’ve come across in a long time.”
“Humph,” muttered Agatha. “But what about Burt? Is he still claiming he was madly in love with Jessica?”
“Yes, he is. He said the video thing was a bit of fun. He was saving up to give Jessica a super wedding.”
“And you believe him?”
“I don’t know what to believe and that’s a fact. Thanks for the info, Agatha. We must have dinner sometime when all this is over … if it’s ever over.”
After Bill had left, Charles suggested they all go out for dinner. He watched uneasily as Agatha sparkled and told highly embroidered stories of her cases. He felt he should throw in some remark about Freddy’s wife, but it was so grand to see Agatha once more back on form. Let Freddy tell her.
Freddy didn’t, so Charles consoled himself with the thought that after this evening Agatha would probably never see him again.
But when Charles, predictably, went to the toilet as soon as the bill arrived, Freddy said, as he paid for it, “I have enjoyed this evening. I’m a bit at a loose end at the moment. What about dinner, just the two of us, on Saturday?”
Agatha glowed. “That would be lovely.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Freddy did not tell Charles of the arrangement he had made with Agatha, and Agatha did not tell him in case he volunteered to join them.
She went to bed that night wrapped in rosy dreams.
In the morning, at the office, Agatha said, “The police have talked to the parents, but see what more you can find out about this video business, Patrick, and take Phil with you. Did you see the girls?”
“No, the police chased us away.”
“Harry,” said Agatha, “you keep questioning her schoolmates. If a boy at the cyber cafe came across that Web site, then it stands to reason some of the others must have known what they were up to. Charles and I will try to track down Eddie Gibbs.”
“Who’s he?” asked Patrick.
“Some chap who left Smedleys Electronics. He evidently had every reason to hate Smedley. I know, we’ll start with Joyce. I wonder if she’s still at home.”
Joyce was. Her face was very white against the red of her hair and her hands trembled. “Come in,” she said. “The police asked dreadful things.”
