Bill Wong was Agatha’s oldest and first friend. When she had sold her public relations business and taken early retirement and moved to the Cotswolds, Bill, son of a Chinese father and Gloucestershire mother, had investigated what Agatha remembered as her first case. Before that, grumpy and prickly Agatha had not had any friends.
While Bill was away, Agatha wondered what to do about Emma Comfrey. Mrs. Bloxby was so pleased she had employed Emma and Agatha did not want to disappoint Mrs. Bloxby, but she regarded Emma as a rival.
While she was waiting, her mobile phone rang. It was Emma.
“Mr. Johnson has just called,” she said in those clear upper-class accents which made Agatha feel so diminished. “He says the car has been returned and is outside his house. He says it’s all right—no scratches and a full tank of petrol. He tried to cancel the investigation and get his money back, but I told him that it would look extremely bad for him if anything had happened to his son and he had done nothing to find him. So he agreed.”
“I’d better get round there,” said Agatha.
She rang off just as Bill returned. She told him about the reappearance of the car.
“You’re a waste of time, Agatha,” said Bill. “But there’s one thing I do remember. Wayne had a girl-friend. She hit me with her handbag last time I arrested him.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sophy Grigson. You’ll find her at the check-out at Bran-ford’s supermarket in the square.”
“Thanks, Bill. I owe you.”
Agatha made her way to the supermarket. She asked the manager if she could speak to Sophy Grigson about a missing person. “She’ll be on her break in ten minutes,” he said.
“I’ll wait.”
Agatha sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs at the supermarket entrance, placed there for elderly customers.
In ten minutes’ time, the manager led a surly, plump girl up to Agatha and said, “Sophy Grigson,” and walked off.
“Please sit down, Miss Grigson,” said Agatha.
“What’s this about then?” Sophy asked, moving a wad of chewing gum from one cheek to the other.
She had blonded hair scraped up on top of her head. Although young, her face was prematurely set in an expression of discontent. “It’s about Wayne Johnson.”
“Oh, ‘im. Bastard.”
“He’s missing.”
“ ‘E’s missing his marbles, that’s what.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Naw. Heard ‘e’d gone peculiar.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“ ‘Is pal. Jimmy Swithe, ‘e comes in this mornink, and he says, ‘You’ll never guess what’s ‘appened to our Wayne.’ I asks him what ‘e means and ‘e starts to talk but the Nazi ower there says, ‘You ‘ave customers waiting.’ Cow!”
“Where can I find Jimmy?”
“At Stonebridge services.”
“The petrol station.”
“That’s it.”
Agatha was just leaving the supermarket when her phone rang. Emma again. “Mrs. Raisin,” said Emma formally, “I think you should return to the office. We have a client.”
Agatha hurried back to the office. An expensively dressed woman was sitting in one of the visitors’ chairs, being served coffee by Emma.
“Mrs. Benington,” said Emma, “this is our private investigator, Mrs. Raisin.”
Everything about Mrs. Benington looked hard, from her lacquered hair to her glittering red nails. She had slightly prominent eyes with heavy lids and a small thin mouth, bright red with the sort of lipstick one paints on with a brush. She was tanned with that sun shower treatment that is supposed to look natural but never does. Her figure under a tailored jacket, blouse and short skirt was very good. Her legs were the thin kind that used to be so admired, ending in shoes that looked as if they had been made from crocodile skin. Surely not in these politically correct days, thought Agatha, although Mrs. Benington, radiating pent-up energy, looked perfectly capable of killing a crocodile herself.
“How can I help you?” asked Agatha.
”I think my husband’s cheating on me. I want proof.”
“Yes, we can do that for you. As to charges … ?”
“Mrs. Comfrey has already discussed the charges with me and I have agreed.”
Agatha’s eyes narrowed into slits. Emma rushed forward and put a signed agreement in front of Agatha. Agatha was all prepared to blast Emma until she saw that Emma had charged an extraordinarily high amount along with generous expenses.
“Excellent,” Agatha forced herself to say.
“I have given Mrs. Comfrey a cheque,” said Mrs. Benington, getting to her feet. “I must say, I was reassured. In this nasty business, it is so nice to be dealing with a lady.” And she smiled at Emma.
When she had left, Agatha said, “In future, Emma, do not charge any amount of money without consulting me first.”
Emma could feel her old crushed self about to whimper out an apology. But she felt she had got this far by pretending to be self-confident and she knew that any sign of weakness and the formidable Agatha would have her by the throat.
“In this case,” she said mildly, “what would you have charged?”
Agatha opened her mouth to blast her and then suddenly shut it again. For the first time in her life, she heard a voice in her brain telling her that she was jealous.
She stared for a long moment at Emma and then shrugged. “I really don’t know, Emma, but I certainly would not have dreamt of charging so much. Well done. Now, I’d better phone our photographer, Sammy, and also Douglas for surveillance and get them on the job. Would you like to try your hand at some more detective work?”
“You mean the Johnson boy?”
“Yes, him. The father’s got his car back as good as new, but there’s no sign of Wayne. Wayne has a friend, Jimmy Swithe, who works at Stonebridge petrol station. You could try there first.”
Emma’s face lit up in a smile. “I’ll get on to it right away.”
When the door closed behind her tall, thin figure, Agatha Raisin said ruefully, “I am a bitch, that’s what I am,” and picked up the receiver to start investigating Mrs. Benington’s husband.
Emma Comfrey arrived at the petrol station and asked for Jimmy Swithe. She was told he was working on a car in the garage at the side.
Feeling waves of her usual timidity about to engulf her, Emma took a deep breath. I will act as if I am brave, she told herself. A burly man in stained overalls was bent over a car. “Mr. Swithe?”
He jerked his hand towards the back of the garage. Emma walked forwards into the gloom. A young man was sitting on an upturned oil drum under a “No Smoking” sign lighting a cigarette. He had lank brown hair and an unhealthy white face stained with smears of oil.
“Mr. Swithe?”
“Yes.” He looked at her with contempt. But then, Emma, reminded herself sternly, he probably looked with contempt at anyone over twenty-five.
“I am a detective,” said Emma.
“What? You? Is this a joke?”
Emma coloured. “I have been employed by Mr. Johnson to find his son, Wayne.”
“Don’t have nothing to do with him.”
“Why?”
“He’s gone funny.”
“You mean he’s become a comedian?”
“Naw. He found religion.”
“Which religion?”
“Youth for Jesus Christ.”
“And where might I find them?”
“Out the Stow Road on the industrial estate. One o’ them old Nissen huts. Can’t miss it. They’ve put a cross on the roof. Wankers!”
Emma thanked him and retreated, already beginning to feel a warm glow of achievement. The first little seed of dislike for Agatha was sown. Previously, Emma had not thought herself worthy of disliking anyone.
She got back in her car and drovè off in the direction of the industrial estate. At first she thought she had been misdirected as she circl
ed round and round, but then she suddenly saw a golden cross glittering through a stand of trees on a side road she had not noticed before.
Emma drove up to the Nissen hut, one of those corrugated roofed buildings left over from World War II. She could hear the sound of singing. She got out of the car, went up to the hut and opened the door. It was full of mostly young people singing “All Thing Bright and Beautiful.” They were waving their arms in the air and swaying, emulating American Southern Baptist choirs, which was unfortunate, thought Emma, because they lacked the joyful fluidity of movement of the Baptists, their sticklike white arms moving jerkily.
Fortunately, it turned out to be the final hymn. A reedy man with thick glasses who seemed to be the preacher blessed them all.
Emma waited at the door as the congregation shuffled out, slipping the photograph of Wayne out of her handbag.
She nearly missed him because the nose stud and earrings had gone and his hair was newly washed and flopping over his brow, but she took a chance and asked, “Wayne?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Your father. I am a private detective. He has engaged me to find you.”
“He doesn’t want to find me. The silly old bugger only wanted his car back. He’s got it, so that’s it.”
“Are you going home?”
“No, we got a camp here out the back. It’s fun. Tell him I’m okay but J ain’t going home. These people look after me like he never did.”
Emma fished a camera out of her bag. “May I just take a photograph of you to show him you are well?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Religion had not obviously removed vanity. Wayne lounged against a tree with his hands on his hips and his face turned slightly to one side. “My best side,” he said. “If it’s any good, let me have a copy.”
“This is not one of these strange cults?” said Emma. “I mean, you are free to leave if you want?”
“Any time. No one tells me what to do except God.”
Emma decided to call on Mr. Johnson herself. She did not want Agatha to take the credit. Agatha might expect her to hold on to the information a little longer so as to charge for expenses, but then Agatha had not found Wayne—she had.
Mr. Johnson, when told the good news, seemed remarkably underwhelmed. “As long as Eve got the car back,” he said. “Stupid berk, that boy is. I could have saved myself the money.”
Emma felt diminished. Like all bullied people, she often retreated into a fantasy world, and she had built up a picture where Mr. Johnson would fall on her neck, crying with relief, and somehow the local paper would be there to photograph the happy moment.
Agatha was regretting having sent Emma out detecting. She had briefed Sammy Allen and Douglas Ballantine, but fche wanted to be out there herself. Emma had taken extensive notes about where Mr. Benington worked, his hobbies, and the make of his car.
She looked up in relief as the door opened and Emma walked in. “Forget about the Johnson boy for the moment,” said Agatha. “Eve got to go out.”
“I found the Johnson boy,” said Emma. “Eve told the father. Ell bill him for expenses. All he really wanted was his car back.”
Agatha experienced a pang of unease. Was she really going to be outclassed by this odd female? Recognizing her own jealousy had upset her. Agatha had always maintained that she hadn’t a jealous bone in her body. She glanced at the clock. “Tell you what, it’s lunch-time. I think you deserve lunch. It’ll do no harm to close up for an hour.”
They went to a Chinese restaurant near the agency. Agatha avoided the crispy seaweed, knowing that it had an unfortunate way of sticking to her teeth or finding its way down her clothes.
“Tell me about yourself,” said Agatha, determined to be polite, although she wasn’t very interested in anything Emma might have to say.
Emma described her work at the Ministry of Defence, making it sound much more glamorous that it had actually been. When Emma had finished, Agatha said, “You’ve been doing a great job so far. I think we’ll make a good team.”
After lunch, Emma went back to the office, feeling a warm glow of satisfaction.
Agatha began to feel rather superfluous. Posing as an office phone cleaner, Douglas had bugged Mr. Benington’s phone, and Sammy was waiting outside the offices in his car, armed with camera, ready to follow Benington when he left work.
She returned to the office. “I think, as you’ve proved so useful at detecting,” said Agatha, “I may as well hire a girl just to do the phones.”
“What about Miss Simms?” asked Emma, referring to Carsely’s unmarried mother who was secretary of the ladies’ society.
“Hasn’t she got a gentleman friend?” asked Agatha.
“I think she’s between fellows at the moment. What is her first name? I find it very odd that none of the ladies in the village ever use anyone’s first name.”
“I think it’s Kylie,” said Agatha. “It’s a tradition. Mrs. Bloxby is a great friend, but I always call her Mrs. Bloxby. Tell you what, you go now and see her. Tell her I’ll pay her off the books. No need to get into insurance stamps or social security.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“So what?” said Agatha. “Money is melting away, day in and day out.”
Miss Simms, reflected Emma half an hour later, as she sat in the neat living room of Miss Simms’s council house, favoured a tarty style of old-fashioned dress. No crop tops or studs. Spiky high heels, long hair dyed blonde, short straight skirt rucked up to show a frilly scarlet petticoat, little white blouse with a black shoelace tie at the neck.
“That’s ever so kind of you,” said Miss Simms.
“You can type and take shorthand and ail that?” asked Emma.
“Oh, yes; computers, too.”
“When did you last work?”
Miss Simms creased her smooth brow in thought. “Reckon it was last year. Boss of a soft furnishing business.”
“And how long did you work for him?”
Miss Simms giggled. “Just the one day. He said I was too pretty to work and I’d be better off at home so that he could … er… see me when he wanted.”
“And what happened?”
“Just broke up. He was married, see. I don’t like to keep the married ones away from their wives for too long. How are you getting along with our Mrs. Raisin?”
“Very well”
“Got a heart of gold,” said Miss Simms. “What brought you to Carsely?”
Emma told again her highly embroidered tale, but somehow, although Miss Simms uttered the occasional “dear me,” she did not seem overly impressed. A silly little girl, thought Emma, disappointed. Wish I hadn’t recommended her.
When Emma had finished talking, Miss Simms said, “I’ll just get a jacket and come into the office with you. May as well find out where everything is.”
Agatha fiddled with a paper clip and looked round her new office. There was her own desk, a large pseudo-Georgian affair with two seats in front of it for clients. Against one wall was a sofa facing a low coffee table with neatly arranged magazines. Against the other wall was the desk she had ordered for Emma and two filing cabinets. She had been considering ordering another desk and computer if Miss Simms took the job, but decided it would be better if Miss Simms used Emma’s desk and Emma could wait on the sofa.
It was an old building with thick beams on the ceiling and a mullioned window overlooking the narrow street below.
She had placed advertisements for The Raisin Detective Agency—”all calls discreetly dealt with—video and electronic surveillance”—but hardly anyone seemed to be rushing to employ her services.
Agatha heard footsteps on the stairs. That was quick, she thought. It was not Emma or Miss Simms who tapped at the door and walked in, however, but a tall woman who, despite the heat of the day, was wearing a waxed coat over a blouse and tweed skirt, woollen stockings and thick brogues. She had curly brown hair which looked as if she had set it herself in pin-curls. She had
very large eyes in a thin face. No make-up.
“I am Mrs. Laggat-Brown,” she said, sitting down and facing Agatha across the desk. “I met your friend, Sir Charles Fraith, at a fund-raising event and he told me it would be sensible to apply to you for help.”
Agatha had sent Charles a brochure about the new agency. He had not phoned and she had assumed that he was out of the country. She was used to him dropping in and out of her life. They had been lovers—briefly—in the past, but their relationship never seemed to affect him. They had met years ago when Charles had been in danger of being arrested for murder. After that, he had worked with her on some of her cases. He was ten years younger than Agatha and she was very aware of the age difference.
“How can I help you?” asked Agatha.
“You are not quite what I expected,” said Mrs. Laggat-Brown in a high, fluting voice.
“What did you expect?”
Mrs. Laggat-Brown had expected someone of “our class,” but there was a gleam in Agatha’s eyes that stopped her from even implying such a thing.
“Never mind. The situation is this. I live in the manor-house in Herris Cum Magna. Do you know the village?”
“It’s off the Stow-Burford Road, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Now, listen carefully. I am giving a dinner dance tomorrow for my daughter’s twenty-first birthday. My daughter’s engagement is to be announced. But my daughter, Cassandra, has received a death threat. She has been told in a letter that if she marries Jason Peterson, she will die. The police have been informed and say they will send two officers to the event.”
The door opened and Emma walked in. Agatha introduced them to each other. Mrs. Laggat-Brown surveyed Emma with a flicker of relief in her eyes.
“Sit down, Emma,” said Agatha.
Emma sat down. “Miss Simms is shopping. She will be here presently.” Emma opened her large handbag and drew out a notebook and pen.
Agatha told Emma what Mrs. Laggat-Brown had just said and then asked, “Can you give us some background on your daughter and this Jason Peterson?”
“Certainly.”
It appeared that Jason was a stockbroker from a respectable family. Cassandra had led a sheltered life: Cheltenham Ladies College, followed by a finishing school in Switzerland and then a cordon bleu cookery course in Paris.
(15/30) The Deadly Dance Page 3
