by M C Beaton
“I will let the police know. They are better equipped to deal with this.” And with that, he walked out.
“Pompous twit,” muttered Agatha. “And vain. Did you notice those contact lenses?”
“No, but a lot of people wear them. How can you tell?”
“It’s that unnatural bright blue. Well, I suppose we’d better get over to the mall. I’ve got a photograph of Jessica. We’ll see if any of the shopkeepers near the clock recognize her, although this photograph makes her look just like a decent schoolgirl, and if she was heavily made-up, they might not remember her. Still, it’s worth a try.”
But the shopkeepers could not remember seeing Jessica. “I took photos of Fairy and Trixie,” said Phil. “I’ll get them printed up and try again tomorrow if you like. If they recognize Fairy and Trixie, they might remember a third girl. What now?”
“We’ll go back to the office and start again tomorrow. I need to get rid of Harry Beam.”
Harry Beam was slouched on the sofa. On the floor in front of him were three cat boxes and a small Jack Russell was sitting on his lap.
“Good heavens!” said Agatha. “You’ve found them all. How did you do it?”
Harry had told Mrs. Freedman not to say he had found them all at the animal refuge. “Just walking miles looking and looking.”
Agatha regarded him suspiciously. “Are you sure you’ve got the right animals? Let me see the photos.”
She studied the photos and the animals.
“Am I hired?” asked Harry.
“I suppose so,” said Agatha ungraciously. Then an idea struck her. “Do you feel like working tonight?”
“Sure. What is it? More cats?”
“No. I would like you to go to that disco Jessica visited on the night she was murdered. You look the part. Get friendly with the young people and see what you can find out. Have you phoned the owners of the cats and that dog?”
“Thought you might like to do that personally and phone the local rag so they can photograph the happy reunion.”
“Right.” Agatha arranged a wage for Harry and an increased wage for Phil with Mrs. Freedman and then phoned the owner of the animals, telling them all to call at the office at six o’clock and then phoned the local paper.
After she had dealt with the delighted owners and posed with them for photographs, Patrick arrived.
“Anything?” asked Agatha.
“I went to the village pub for starters. Smedley is disliked, but everyone thinks his wife is a saint. There’s a rumour he beats her. His electronics factory is out on the industrial estate. They have a showroom, so I went out there and pottered around. I talked to the sales staff, asked them about their boss and all that. Don’t like him. Asked if they’d ever met the wife and they brightened up. Say she’s a gem. He’s so mean that he gets his wife to do all the catering for the Christmas party. They said the food was great and she was absolutely charming. Brick wall so far. But I’ll keep at it.”
Phil said, “Maybe if Harry comes home with me, I can print up the photos of Trixie and Fairy and let him see them. If they’re at the club tonight, maybe he can get into conversation with them.”
“He knows them. Remember? But print them up anyway.”
Agatha was just microwaving her dinner that evening when the doorbell rang. She found Bill Wong on the step. “I couldn’t get round earlier,” he said.
“Come in,” said Agatha. “I was just about to have dinner. Want some?”
“No, I’ve had something in the canteen. What have you been up to?”
Agatha told him about Owen Trump. “Clever work,” said Bill. “I never thought of a schoolteacher.”
Agatha felt a little guilty twinge. It had been Phil’s idea.
“What about your end?” she asked. “Her English teacher thinks Jessica may have been in love. English was last period and she said Jessica kept looking out of the window.”
“That doesn’t sound like one of the schoolboys.”
“She also said her work had deteriorated in the last six months, apart from maths.”
“We’ll have a look at this maths teacher. So how are you? Heard from James Lacey?”
“No,” said Agatha curtly.
“No new interesting neighbours?”
“The house is up for sale again. Probably be the middleaged or elderly who’ll buy it. Young people can’t afford the prices around here.”
“So how’s the agency doing?”
“Work’s picking up. I took on a divorce case. I don’t think it’s really a divorce case. I think it’s a neurotic husband who is insanely jealous. His wife is regarded as a saint.”
“There are no saints, Agatha.”
“There’s Mrs. Bloxby.”
“Come on. She’s only human like the rest of us. Oh, listen. There’s the rain at last.”
Agatha surveyed him fondly. Bill, half Chinese and half English, had been her first friend. He was of medium height with black hair and brown almond-shaped eyes.
“Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you,” said Bill, unwinding Hodge from his neck. “I’ve got to go. Why don’t you come for dinner with us one night?”
Agatha repressed a shudder. Much as she loved Bill, she found his parents terrifying. Besides, his mother was a rotten cook and even a lifetime of microwaved meals could not inure Agatha to the overcooked meat and soggy vegetables that made up Mrs. Wong’s favourite cuisine.
“I’d like that,” she lied. “Wait until things have slacked off a bit.”
When Bill had left, she opened the kitchen door and stood under the shelter of the overhanging thatch. She had recently employed a woman gardener and the long strip of garden was a blaze of flowers. She did wish Bill had not mentioned James Lacey. She often passed days at a time now without thinking about him or wondering if he ever thought of her.
Loneliness gripped her again and as she turned to go, indoors, she felt that irritating stabbing pain in her hip. After Roy’s visit, she would make an appointment with Richard Rasdall, the masseur in Stow. All she needed was a bit of limbering up.
FOUR
HARRY Beam entered the disco and looked around.
He had visited it before, but only on Saturday nights, and he was surprised to find it so full on a weekday.
He wondered if the police ever raided the place because there were underage youths and girls drinking Bacardi Breezers at the bar while crowds of them gyrated to deafening music under the strobe lights.
He made his way to the bar and ordered a beer. Then he turned and leaned his back on the bar and studied the dance floor. And then he saw them. They were heavily made up.
Harry finished his beer. Trixie was dancing with Fairy. “Mind if I cut in?” He looked at Trixie. Fairy shrugged and headed off to the bar. Trixie threw herself all over the place, seemingly unaware of his presence. Harry realized it would be impossible to talk to her in the disco because of the noise level. He would need to court her for a boring length of time and then offer to take her home. So he danced with her and bought her drinks and at last she glanced at her watch and said, “Gotta go.”
“I’ll take you home,” shouted Harry.
“Got a car?”
“I’ve got my motorbike tonight.”
“Cool.”
Outside, he gave her his spare helmet. “Where to?” asked Harry. Trixie gave him her home address. He registered that it was two doors away from where Jessica lived. He was just wondering how to manufacture a stop somewhere so that he could talk to her when she said, “Can we go round to where Jessica’s body was found?”
“Sure,” said Harry. She climbed on the back and they roared off.
Harry knew as he sped along the dual carriageway that he would recognize the spot from the police tape. He just hoped there wouldn’t be any police on duty because they would quickly move them on.
He slowed and stopped when he saw the police tape. The earlier rain of the evening had stopped and a dank mist was
swirling around the scene.
He parked the bike and he and Trixie got off. She removed her helmet and her eyes gleamed with excitement in the dark. “Let’s do it here,” she said. “Down in the grass.”
“And get my leathers mucky,” said Harry.
“You a poofter or something?”
“Listen, babes. The forensics will be back in the morning and I don’t want my DNA spread over the grass. You’re weird.”
She stared at him sulkily. “Don’t you fancy me?”
“I did but right now I don’t,” said Harry. “What was a nice girl like Jessica Bradley doing having a friend like you?”
“She wasn’t no angel. I could tell you a thing or two.”
“Go on. Bet you know nothing.”
“I tell you, she was having it off with a man old enough to be her father.”
“Who?”
“Kiss and tell.”
Harry repressed a sigh and clamped his mouth over hers. Her tongue went so far down his throat he was frightened he would gag.
When he finally came up for air, he asked again, “Who?”
“Salesman at that electronics factory. Smedleys Electronics. Name’s Burt Haviland.”
“I’d never have believed it,” said Harry. “Now let’s get you home.”
Agatha was awakened at midnight by a call from Harry. He told her about Burt Haviland.
“Good work,” said Agatha.
“Do you want me to come with you when you interview him?”
“I’ll need to think about it. I’m awfully afraid we might have to tell the police.”
“Why?”
“If we go to the factory, we might run into Smedley, who’d get huffy if he thought we weren’t solely on his case. Then this Burt can simply give us a flat denial. The police can take his DNA and compare it to anything they might have found at the autopsy. I’ll ask Patrick and see you first thing at the office.”
Agatha rang Patrick. The former Miss Simms answered the phone. “Wot you doing ringing in the middle of the night, Mrs. Raisin?” she demanded.
“I want to speak to Patrick.”
“I wish you’d left him alone. He’s never here and I’ve got to look after the kids meself. What fun’s that? I think he’s too old for me. I mean, old is all right in gentlemen friends, if you get my meaning. Besides, he’s only got his pension and I’ve had to take a part-time at the supermarket.”
“I never thought you were mercenary,” said Agatha, momentarily diverted.
“Like them men who go out to wars?”
“No, after money.”
“Who isn’t these days? It’s all right for you. I’ll get him.”
Agatha heard her say, “Wake up. It’s Mrs. Raisin on the line.”
“What does she want?” grumbled Patrick.
“Ask her and find out. I’m going back to sleep.”
When Patrick came on the line, Agatha told him what Harry had found out, ending with, “Should I tell the police?”
“I think you’d better.”
“Any results from the autopsy? Was she raped?”
“Too early to say.”
“I’ll phone Bill Wong.”
Agatha found Bill’s mobile phone number, praying the phone would be switched on, otherwise she would have to call his home number and maybe get one of his frightening parents.
To her relief, Bill answered his mobile. She told him what Harry had found out.
“Oh, good work,” said Bill. “We’ll pull him in first thing tomorrow.”
“You owe me,” said Agatha. “I want you to come round here when you can and let me know the result.”
After two busy following days—two divorce cases had come in and three missing pets—Agatha was glad to see Roy getting off the evening train at Moreton-in-Marsh. His thin hair was jelled up into spikes on his head, revealing, as he bent over the boot to put his travel bag in, that he had a tattoo of entwined snakes on his neck.
“Handling a pop group?” asked Agatha.
“Yes, the Busy Snakes. They’re hot and they think I’m cool.”
“Roy, you’re like a chameleon. You change according to whoever you’re doing public relations for. I never bothered.”
“I’m not as pushy as you, sweetie.”
“But a tattoo? Have you considered the agony of getting that removed once tattoos become unfashionable?”
“Don’t tell anyone. It’s a transfer.”
“I was hoping to discuss a couple of cases with you but how can you go detecting with me when you look like that?”
Roy got into the passenger seat. “Don’t nag. I’ll wash my hair and scrub off the fake tattoo. I hope we’re eating out.”
“No.”
“Aggie, much as I love you, I haven’t got your palate for microwaved meals.”
“It’s all right. It’s a carry-out from a very good Chinese place in Stow.”
As they ate that evening, Agatha told him about the Smedleys and then about finding Jessica’s body.
“That’s amazing,” said Roy. “Imagine you finding her when the police couldn’t.”
Agatha’s conscience gave a twinge. “Well, it was Phil’s idea, really.”
“Who’s Phil?”
“He’s a seventy-six-year-old photographer who lives in the village.”
“There you are. Age does bring wisdom.”
“Not really,” said Agatha. “I’ve found that stupid young people grow up to be stupid old people.”
“You haven’t really softened up after all. Sometimes I wonder why you don’t just chuck it all in and retire gracefully. I would.”
“What! You? Out of all the trendy excitement of London!”
“You know what it’s like. Public relations can be wearing. Being nice to some truly awful people. The Busy Snakes have one hit record and already they’re all prima donnas. They were lucky, that’s all. By next year, no one will have heard of them and they won’t have any money for their drugs and they’ll be out mugging old ladies for a fix.”
“You are gloomy.”
“I tell you, a month ago I was driving down one of the motorways. It was a windy day and I saw them erecting a circus tent in a field by the road. I had this sudden fantasy that the wind would blow the tent away, right across my car. I’d make an emergency stop. The circus people would come running and pull the canvas off my car and ask if I was all right. They’d invite me back for tea and I would join the circus and I would never see another pop star again.”
There was a silence.
Then Agatha said, “I suppose you imagined the circus people in full costume.”
“Of course. The horse riders had their scarlet coats and plumed hats and the trapeze artist, she was in sequins. She had long dark hair and it brushed across my face as I sat at the wheel when she leaned in the window.”
“When did you last have a holiday, Roy?”
“Can’t quite remember. I just begin to plan and something else turns up.”
“When you go back,” said Agatha bracingly, “book a holiday right away. Go somewhere where you can lie on the beach and think of nothing.”
“Can’t. The Busy Snakes are booked for Wembley.”
“Didn’t know they were that important.”
“They aren’t. They’re warming up for Elton John.”
“Well, after that…”
“Maybe. So are we detecting this weekend?”
“After having listened to you, I think we both need time off. I know, we’ll motor to Bath on Sunday and have an enormous cream tea and then sit in the gardens and listen to the brass band.”
“That sounds great. Give murder and mayhem a rest.”
The following day was perfect weather with castles of white clouds piled up over a large blue sky.
Anaesthetized by the largest cream tea they had ever eaten—Roy had insisted on two lots of scones, strawberry jam and Cornish cream—they slumped down in deckchairs in the gardens and listened to the band, surrounde
d by the amiable chatter of families with their children.
Roy had bought a Panama hat and it was now tilted across his eyes. Agatha did not have a hat but she had edged her deckchair under the shade of a tree.
After a few minutes, Roy let out a faint snore. Maybe he was right, thought Agatha. Maybe she should give up the whole business of detecting. But she knew all at once that if she spent too much time alone she would start thinking of James Lacey again. Still, at least she actually cared about poor Jessica and was determined to find out who murdered the girl. Robert Smedley was another matter. And then she blinked rapidly. At first she thought her mind had conjured up an image of him. Then she realized it really was Robert Smedley. He had risen from a deckchair near the bandstand and was helping a young woman to her feet. The woman was vaguely pretty in a vapid kind of way. Lots of red hair but a thin white face and a rabbity mouth.
“Roy!”
Snore.
Agatha leaned over and prodded him in the ribs.
“Hey, what?”
“It’s Smedley,” hissed Agatha, “with another woman.”
“Where?”
“Over there. They’re coming this way. Here!”
Agatha extracted a newspaper from the three she had been holding in her lap. Roy snatched one and opened it up to shield his face. Agatha did the same. They covertly lowered the newspapers a little.
Robert Smedley was dressed in white flannels and a tight blazer with a flashy crest on the pocket. His lady was wearing very high heels and leaning on his arm. They waited until the couple had passed.
“Right!” hissed Agatha. “We follow them.”
But too many junk meals had taken their toll and Agatha’s hips were wedged firmly into the deckchair. She stood up with the chair sticking to her backside. “Help me, Roy.”
He wrenched her free. There was a ripple of laughter from the other people in deckchairs. Agatha looked wildly round. Smedley and his companion had disappeared.
“You need to lose weight,” said Roy.
“I’ve only put on a little. It was that cream tea. They were heading up the hill.”
They hurried up to Pierrepoint Street. “No sign,” panted Agatha. “I’ll go right and you got left.”
“I don’t know what they look like. They were gone by the time I looked!”
