by M C Beaton
‘Peter, then. Agatha Raisin is a detective who has, until recently, been involved in two grizzly murders. She is going to be highly suspicious, as I am, of this mysterious buyer. In fact, I am going to have to report your interest to the police.’
‘You can check up on me anytime. I’m well known in the estate-agency business. I have a good reputation.’
‘I think, then, they will be more interested in your client. Look at it this way. A prospective buyer would expect access to the house, would he not?’
‘Well, of course.’
‘So the police will naturally want to know who and why.’
‘That’s understandable. Go ahead.’
After he had left, Toni crossed the hotel lobby and took a quick look inside the dining room. There was no sign of Fiona. She boldly asked at the desk whether a Mrs Fiona Richards was in the hotel and learned to her dismay that she had left.
It must have happened while I was talking to that estate agent, thought Toni. I’m suspicious of everyone and everything. Does this estate agent really exist?
She was just crossing the square to police headquarters when she saw Bill Wong about to get into his car and hailed him. Toni decided it would be better to say nothing about watching Fiona, as they had all been warned off.
She told him about the estate agent and the prospective client for Agatha’s cottage.
‘I’d better look into it,’ said Bill. ‘Leave it with me. I mean, why did this estate agent approach you? Why not phone Agatha?’
Toni then phoned Agatha on her mobile and gave her a report. ‘Where were you when this man accosted you?’ asked Agatha.
‘I didn’t tell Bill, but I happened to see Fiona’s car parked at the George, so I waited in reception. Then this estate agent distracted me, and after he had gone, so had she.’
Agatha’s voice was sharp with anxiety. ‘Toni, you are not to have anything to do with the murders. It’s too dangerous. You’ve got that divorce case. Get on with it.’
After Toni had left, Bill went back into the police station and typed out a short report on the estate agent and handed it to Wilkes.
‘I see his firm is Powell, Slerry and Card,’ said Wilkes. ‘I’ve seen their FOR SALE boards. Get round there and have a word with him and insist on getting the name of his client.’
The estate agent’s offices were situated in the Glebe, one of the twisting mediaeval lanes around the abbey. He went in and asked for Mr Powell. A girl disappeared into a back office and then indicated that he should go in. Powell rose from behind his desk and extended a large hand.
‘Why am I being honoured with a visit from the police?’ he asked.
‘We are interested in your client who wishes to buy Agatha Raisin’s cottage. May I have his name, please?’
‘We do not give out names unless authorized to do so,’ said Powell.
‘Oh, do be sensible,’ said Bill. ‘Do you want me to get a warrant and have your files thoroughly searched?’
‘Would you mind stepping outside while I phone him? Just a courtesy to a client.’
Bill waited impatiently, knowing he had little chance of getting a warrant without having any solid proof of criminal activity.
Powell came out of his office and handed him a slip of paper. ‘His name is Bogdan Staikov. You’ll find him at the George right now.’
‘What nationality?’
Powell smiled. ‘You’ll need to ask him.’
At the George, Bill was told that Mr Staikov was taking coffee on the terrace.
He walked through the hotel and on to the terrace overlooking the gardens at the back. He had not asked to be conducted to Staikov, feeling sure he would spot the foreigner right away. But there were a good few smokers enjoying their after-lunch coffees, and they all looked very British.
As he hesitated in the doorway, a small, silver-haired man got to his feet and waved him over. ‘Mr Powell said you would be looking for me,’ he said. He had a slight trace of accent. His eyes, like Bill’s, were slightly elongated, but as grey and cold as the North Sea. He was wearing a lightweight cream-coloured suit with a blue shirt and striped silk tie. He had thick grey skin, a small mouth and nose and odd pointed ears.
‘Please sit down,’ he said. ‘Coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Why are you interested in Mrs Raisin’s cottage?’
‘What are you talking about? I have been looking at many properties.’
‘Mrs Raisin’s cottage is in Lilac Lane in Carsely.’
‘Ah, yes, Carsely. I liked it. I want a new home for my daughter. So typically English. What has this to do with the police?’
Bill told him.
Staikov raised well-manicured hands in dismay. ‘I did not know. I do not read the newspapers. I am retired. My son now runs the business. I wish the quiet English life.’
‘What is your nationality?’ asked Bill.
‘I am originally from Bulgaria, but I married a British woman and settled here some twenty years ago.’
‘What was your business?’
‘Clothing. Suede, leather, that sort of thing. My son now runs the business. Country Fashions. Our place is out in the industrial estate.’
‘Would you mind if I had a look around your premises?’
He shrugged. ‘Go ahead. You British have only to hear the word Bulgarian and you think Mafia.’
Toni had waited until Bill had left police headquarters and followed him to the estate agent’s and then to the George. Once again, she went into the George. The restaurant was now empty apart from one couple, but she heard the sound of voices from the terrace, approached it and had a quick look, where she saw Bill talking to a silver-haired man.
Toni found a seat in the reception area, half-shielded by a cheese plant, and waited. Bill was not very long. After ten minutes, the man he had been talking to went out. Toni followed. He got into a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. Toni wished she had brought her car.
She approached the desk. She was just wondering whether to pose as a reporter when the receptionist said, ‘What can I do for you, Miss Gilmour?’
Toni cursed Agatha’s penchant for getting their photos in the newspapers and on television. ‘I just wondered about the identity of that gentleman who just left?’
‘Oh, that would be Mr Staikov.’
‘Film business?’
‘No, clothing business.’
The receptionist turned away to deal with someone else. Toni made her way to the offices of the Mircester Mercury, where she knew an old school friend, John Worthing, had a job as a reporter.
John was delighted to see her. He was an owlish young man with limp brown hair. He had been bullied at school until he had come under the protection of the tough and popular Toni.
‘I haven’t seen you in ages,’ he said. ‘Anytime there’s a story about you, the chief reporter gets it.’
‘I’m here to ask a favour.’
‘Anything.’
‘Could you look up a man called Staikov in your files?’
‘Sure. Hasn’t your voice got posh!’
‘It’s not posh. It’s neutral,’ said Toni. ‘Be a love and get cracking.’
‘Wait till I heat up the computer.’
‘You are on broadband, aren’t you?’
‘Mircester Broadband.’
Toni grinned in sympathy. Mircester Internet connection was rumoured to be the slowest in Gloucestershire.
At last he gave a grunt of triumph. ‘Here he is. We did a story when he retired last year. He has a clothing business out on the industrial estate. Originally from Bulgaria. Imports leather mostly. Rags-to-riches story. Arrived here pretty broke and made a fortune.’
‘I wonder how he got British nationality?’
‘Married an English local. She died four years ago.’
‘What did she die of?’
‘Hang on.’ John clicked away. ‘Ah, here we are. Fell down a flight of stairs.’
‘Did she now,’ remarked Toni, feeling a st
ir of excitement. ‘Got a report of the inquest?’
‘Here we go. Verdict, accident. Pathologist said she was as drunk as a skunk.’
‘What’s the name of this clothing firm?’ asked Toni.
‘Country Fashions.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Toni, wait a minute. Do you think we might meet up one evening?’
He looked at her with pleading eyes, and Toni suddenly remembered a younger John, crying in the corner of the playground.
‘I’m pretty busy,’ she said diplomatically. But as his face fell, she said quickly, ‘I tell you what I’ll do for you. Give me your card, and if I’ve got a big story, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘That would be great. I mean, everyone’s out on some story or another and I’m left here to edit the letters page.’
Outside, Toni phoned Agatha, who said quickly, ‘I’m in the office. Get round here. I want to hear every bit of it.’
When Toni finished her report, Agatha’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘I knew there must be some gang behind it. Must be the Mafia. I’d like to get inside that factory.’
‘I should think that’s impossible,’ said Toni. ‘Anyway, I’m sure that’s the first thing Bill would have done.’
Patrick Mulligan walked in at that moment. Agatha rapidly told him what Toni had found out.
Tall and lugubrious and with the shiniest shoes in Mircester, Patrick looked every bit the retired policeman.
When Agatha had finished, he said, ‘There’s a café out on the estate. Well, it’s just a shack with tables outside. I’ll get out there and see if I can meet any of the workers.’
When Patrick had left, Toni said uneasily, ‘We weren’t going to investigate the murders. Isn’t this a bit dangerous?’
‘Not unless this Bulgarian has anything to do with it,’ said Agatha. ‘Don’t you see? I’ve decided we’re always going to be in danger if we don’t solve these murders.’
Before he went to the industrial estate, Patrick went home and changed out of his suit, collar and tie and shiny shoes. He put on old casual clothes, a scuffed pair of boat shoes and a baseball cap.
It was a glorious day in June. He cycled out to the estate, feeling he needed the exercise. The English are not very used to good summers, and the warm weather appeared to have taken a lot of people by surprise. He could see men and women carrying coats and jackets.
He cycled into the industrial estate and propped his bicycle at the side of the café. He realized he hadn’t had any lunch and ordered a hamburger, chips and tea. He could hear the man and woman who ran the café chattering in Polish. There were Poles everywhere in Gloucestershire. The lunch rush was over. He selected a table where he could get a good look at the entrance to Country Fashions.
Then he saw Bill Wong and Alice Peterson emerging and getting into their unmarked police car and driving off. He jerked down the peak of his baseball cap and turned his face away as the car slowed down opposite the café and then heaved a sigh of relief as it accelerated and drove off. He was served his hamburger, chips and tea. The tea was hot and freshly made. The hamburger was good, and to his amazement, the chips were from real potatoes, not the frozen kind.
He had a sudden longing to be able to sit here, relaxing in the sun, forgetting about detective work. But what would he do if he retired? He did not have any hobbies. Perhaps he and Phil could retire together and take up golf. At last, he decided reluctantly that he’d better get on with it and have a closer look at the factory.
As he approached it, a truck drove up and went round the back of the factory. Patrick paid for his food and pushed his bike in the direction the truck had gone. Men were unloading skins from the back of the truck.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded a sharp voice.
Patrick swung round and found himself confronted by a man in the uniform of a security guard. Fortunately, Patrick had studied the list of businesses on a board as he had entered the industrial park.
‘I think I’m lost,’ he said. ‘I need a pump for the pond in my garden.’
‘You want Aquaria Plus, Lot eleven, over there,’ said the guard. Patrick got on his bicycle and cycled off.
Patrick lived in a flat and didn’t have a garden, but he was always cautious, and some instinct prompted him to cycle to Aquaria Plus, dismount and go inside. As he inspected a selection of pumps, he glanced out of the window. The security guard was standing there. Patrick fell into conversation with a sales assistant, and when he looked up again, the security guard had gone. He waited a few minutes and then said apologetically that he would need to consult ‘the wife’.
He cycled back to the café and ordered a cup of tea and a doughnut, sitting this time with his back to the factory. Perhaps the security guard was simply overzealous. Still, it was something to report.
Early that evening, Charles Fraith was fumbling for his keys to Agatha’s cottage.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’ demanded a Scottish voice. Charles swung round. A police sergeant was standing, glaring at him.
‘I’m a friend of Mrs Raisin,’ he said crossly. ‘I usually have the keys to her cottage, but I forgot that they had been stolen. What are you doing here?’
‘I am Sergeant Tulloch, following orders. A policeman will be along soon to relieve me.’
‘What has she been up to?’ asked Charles, ringing the doorbell.
Agatha answered it. ‘It’s all right, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘Come in, Charles. Sergeant, would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Thanks, missus. Grand. Still hot out here.’
‘You might have given me a new set of keys,’ complained Charles, following Agatha into the kitchen.
‘I like the feeling of not having to find you in residence when I get home,’ said Agatha. ‘Wait till I make that copper a cup of tea and I’ll tell you what’s been happening.’
She made a pot of tea and then arranged it with milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits and carried it outside. She then brought out a canvas chair and told him to make himself comfortable.
When she returned, Agatha explained about the interest in her cottage and Country Fashions. ‘So Bill decided to give me a police guard,’ she ended. ‘I’d love to get inside that factory.’
‘What about James? He was always a dab hand at breaking and entering.’
‘He’s gone off somewhere and left his keys with Mrs Bloxby. Didn’t even have the decency to tell me where he was going.’
‘He’s a travel writer. He has to travel, Aggie.’
‘Don’t call me Aggie.’
‘Heard from Roy?’
Agatha sighed. ‘I did try to talk to him on the phone, but he screeched, “This is dangerous. They could be listening,” and rang off.’
‘He went through a lot, and he is a bit of a rabbit. So you think it might be the vulgar Bulgars?’
‘Patrick’s experience alone makes them look fishy to me. Maybe I could go in disguise and get a job in their factory.’
‘You! A lot of their stuff is hand-stitched. I bought one of their jackets. Mind you, they do fleeces and things like that. Can you work a sewing machine? No, of course you can’t. Forget it.’
‘I can’t send Toni. Too dangerous.’
‘I saw Simon the other day,’ said Charles. ‘The wedding’s tomorrow. Are you going?’
Agatha flushed miserably. ‘If only he’d get out of the army, then I wouldn’t mind. I suppose I’d better go.’
‘Has he been in touch with Toni?’
‘Oh, I hope all that is over. She doesn’t seem heartbroken.’
‘Is Patrick winkling any information out of the police?’ asked Charles.
‘They seem to have clammed up, although Patrick says that it’s probably because they’re not getting anywhere and really do have nothing to tell him. Wait a bit. I wonder if that sergeant outside has any little bits of information. I’ll just see if he wants any more tea.’
Soon Charles faintly heard
Agatha’s voice coming from outside, saying, ‘Hey, wake up! You’re supposed to be on guard.’ And then a wail of ‘Charles!’
He ran out to join her. Tulloch was slumped in his chair, his eyes closed. Charles felt for a pulse and heaved a sigh of relief. ‘He’s not dead. Someone must have put something in his tea. I’ll get the police and ambulance.’
‘Hurry up!’ Agatha looked around wildly. ‘If he’s only drugged, that meant someone wanted access to the house. Let’s go inside and lock the door.’
‘We can’t leave him here baking in the sun. Get me an umbrella and I’ll hold it over him. You phone the police. Do something and don’t stand there like a stuffed fish.’
One hour later, Mrs Bloxby opened the door of the vicarage to a deputation from the Ladies’ Society. Mrs Ada Benson had obviously elected herself as spokeswoman.
‘We are here,’ she boomed, ‘to complain about the mayhem Agatha Raisin is causing in this village. Most of us ladies retired here for a quiet life.’
‘What has happened?’ asked the vicar’s wife.
‘A policeman on guard outside her cottage has been found unconscious. She has brought terror to this village. She should be asked to leave.’
‘Poor Mrs Raisin!’ exclaimed Mrs Bloxby. ‘I must go to her right away.’
‘And you’ll tell her to leave?’
Mrs Bloxby pushed past the women and said over her shoulder, ‘If it hadn’t been for the superb detective activities of Mrs Raisin in the past, then you really would find this a terrifying place. Don’t be silly, Mrs Benson.’
‘I’m resigning from the Ladies’ Society,’ shouted Mrs Benson.
Mrs Bloxby’s voice floated back to her as she turned the corner. ‘Good!’
Agatha’s cottage was a hive of activity. Police cars blocked Lilac Lane, and white-suited men were carefully dusting Agatha’s front door for fingerprints. A policeman volunteered the information that Mrs Raisin and her friend had gone to the pub.
Mrs Bloxby found Agatha and Charles in the pub garden. Agatha was smoking furiously, a carton of Bensons she had bought in the village store in front of her.
Charles explained what had happened. When he had finished, Agatha said, ‘I am the number one suspect. I took him the tea. Nobody saw a soul outside my cottage. Miss Simms, you know, the secretary of the Ladies’ Society, well, her latest gentleman friend had given her a present of a nasty little yappy dog. She walked it along Lilac Lane, called hello to Tulloch, went to the end where it meets the fields, turned back and saw what she thought was Tulloch asleep. She didn’t meet anyone either going or coming. So I’m sitting here, drinking gin and smoking myself to death with nerves. I’m supposed to be on my way to headquarters with Charles to make a complete statement. But I told them I needed a short break first, and do you know what the bastards did? They confiscated my passport. Every time they don’t know what to do with me, they take away my passport and I usually have to hire a lawyer to get it back.’
