As the Pig Turns

Chapter Seven



They had decided to set off at two in the morning. As Agatha got ready, wearing a dark blue blouse and black trousers, she wished with all her heart that she had never interfered in Toni’s life. James had been pleasant over lunch, but there was a certain coldness and reserve about him. He had forgiven her a lot in the past. She wondered now if he would ever forgive her for her behaviour that had driven off young Simon. ‘Creepy,’ was James’s comment as they drove into Winter Parva.

‘I think it’s because there are no trees or gardens,’ said Agatha. ‘The houses front straight on to the high street. You have to drive right through the village to the far end. Yes. Now make a right, a left and a right again. It’s that cottage at the end separated from the others by a bit. Patrick gave me directions.’

‘No point in advertising our presence. I’ll park in that field under the trees and walk.’

A FOR SALE sign glimmered whitely outside Beech’s cottage. ‘We could, of course,’ whispered Agatha nervously, ‘have simply gone to the estate agent tomorrow and asked for the keys.’

‘Might not work,’ said James. ‘There’s a recession on and they’re desperate for sales and would probably send someone to show us around. No, we won’t go in the front gate. Go along outside the side of the garden and then we’ll climb over the fence.’

Which Toni could probably have leapt in one bound, thought Agatha.

‘Right,’ said James in a low voice. ‘Over here and we can try to get in through the conservatory at the back.’

Agatha tried to scale the high wooden fence but fell backwards on to the ground.

‘I’ll give you a boost,’ said James. He held out his clasped hands, and Agatha gingerly placed one foot in them. He gave a great heave. Up she went and over, landing, winded, on grass on the other side.

‘That was dangerous,’ grumbled Agatha. ‘What if it had been a greenhouse I landed on?’

‘Stop wittering. We’ve got work to do.’

James went up to the conservatory door. He took out a pencil torch and flashed a beam at the lock. He took out a thin piece of metal and inserted it between the lock and the doorjamb. There was a satisfying click as the door sprang open.

They eased their way quietly inside, and James closed the door behind them. The place had all been cleaned up. Whatever plants there had been in the conservatory had been removed.

They moved from room to room. Agatha could not see any of the expensive pieces of furniture that Bill had mentioned. Amy must have sold them.

‘There are no drawers or anything left to search,’ she muttered dismally. ‘Where could he have hidden something that neither the police nor his killers could find? The garden?’

‘It’s been all dug over. The police will have searched there as well.’

‘I wonder if there’s a loft. People often hide things up in lofts.’

They felt their way up the stairs in the darkness. The upper floor contained two bedrooms, a bathroom and a cupboard with a hot-water boiler. James shone his torch at the ceiling. ‘No evidence of any loft.’

‘Nothing but fake olde world beams on the ceiling. How naff,’ said Agatha.

‘Now there’s an interesting thing.’ James studied the beams. ‘He might have made a hollow in one of those beams to cache something.’

‘I don’t see how he could have done that without leaving some trace,’ said Agatha. ‘Oh, let’s get out of here.’

‘You can go and wait in the car if you like.’

‘Not on my own. I’ll stay here until you are finished. I mean, James, they’re not thick original beams. They’re just really slats made to look like beams.’

‘Wait a minute.’ James got down on his knees and began to delicately run his hands along the skirting board.

Agatha sat on the floor, feeling sore after her crash over the fence. ‘If I wanted to hide something in the skirting board,’ she said wearily, ‘it would probably be behind my bed.’

‘There’s a thought. I wonder which room he slept in.’

‘The bigger of the two, I suppose,’ said Agatha nervously. ‘Can’t we just leave?’

‘Not long now.’

James went into the larger bedroom. There were two closets in the right-hand wall. He was just making for them when they heard a car coming along the road and lights shone across the ceiling. He took a quick look out of the window. ‘It’s the police. Damn it. Someone must have seen us. Let’s get into that closet and hope when they find the doors locked that they’ll go away.’

The closet they crowded into had once been used as a wardrobe. A few steel hangers hung from a rod.

Then they heard the voices of the police outside the house. ‘Looks all locked up,’ said one voice. ‘Try round the back, Harry.’

There was a silence and then Harry’s voice. ‘Locked up round the back. Shall we leave it?’

They were joined by a woman. ‘I was walking my dog and I’ll swear I saw two people going up the side of the house.’

‘What were you doing walking your dog at this time of night?’ demanded the policeman called Harry.

‘I couldn’t sleep right, not after that horrible murder, I couldn’t,’ she said.

‘Better phone it in,’ said Harry’s companion.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Agatha as James switched on his torch.

‘Still desperately trying to find something that might make them forgive us if they find us. There’s something down here on the floor.’

Harry’s voice sounded. ‘They’ve roused the estate agent. He’ll be along in a minute or two with the keys.’

‘Sunk,’ said Agatha.

‘There’s this odd knothole thing. I wonder if I push . . .’

The back of the closet slid open, revealing a small room beyond. ‘It’s like Narnia – The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,’ said James excitedly. ‘We can hide in here until they’re gone.’

They sat down on the floor, huddled together, after he had shut them in. Agatha’s hormones gave a treacherous lurch. Not now, she told them.

After what seemed an age but was only a quarter of an hour, they heard the arrival of the estate agent. Then the unlocking of the front door and the clump of policemen’s boots. Then came the fretful voice of what Agatha guessed was the estate agent. ‘It’s no use looking for fingerprints or footprints,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how many people have been through this house, and believe me, they all turned out to be ghouls, wanted to look at a house where a murder had been committed.’

Footsteps came up the stairs and into the bedroom.

‘Oh, God, I’m going to sneeze,’ said Agatha.

James twisted her face round and kissed her full on the mouth. Her senses reeled. She faintly heard a voice say, ‘Nothing here.’

‘Why, James!’ said Agatha softly.

‘Anything to shut you up,’ he muttered.

Agatha’s hormones packed up their bags and left again.

They waited until the police had left the house, waited while they heard the complaints of the estate agent for having been dragged out in the middle of the night, waited while the dog-walking woman grumbled her way off down the lane, frightened to move until the police car drove off.

‘Now,’ said James, switching on the torch. ‘What have we here?’

‘There’s a light switch,’ said Agatha, ‘and no windows. We could risk switching it on.’

James went to the switch in the wall. A naked light bulb shone down on them.

Both of them looked around. The tiny secret room contained only a crumpled sleeping bag in one corner and, beside it, a ledger. ‘We could take this home and read it in comfort,’ said Agatha.

‘No,’ replied James sharply. ‘Got your gloves on? Good. We take a quick look and then, somehow, we’ve got to let the police know where to look for it.’

James gingerly opened the ledger. ‘It’s in some sort of code or something,’ he said. ‘I should have brought a camera. I know, let’s get out of here and borrow it for a bit. It means we’ll have to sneak back here and replace it. We’ll need to make sure there’s not a trace of a fingerprint or footprint. Damn, that really is messing up any police evidence. Well, we got this far and they didn’t. Might just photograph the thing and post it to them.’

Agatha agreed. She felt it was wrong, but on the other hand, to notify the police meant explaining that they had broken into Gary Beech’s house.

James was wearing a dark leather jerkin and had the ledger zipped up inside it. ‘Don’t you think,’ whispered Agatha plaintively, ‘that there might be a back gate to this garden?’

‘I suppose there might be,’ said James, wondering why on earth he hadn’t thought of it before.

They made their way quietly out of the house. James risked flashing his torch around the garden. ‘There’s a gate at the end over there, but it’s going to be the same problem. It’s solid and it’s as high as the fence. It’s padlocked.’

‘Can’t you pick the lock?’

‘It’ll take a few moments. It’s a pity you’re not more agile. We could just have shinned over it. You should get that hip replacement.’

Agatha remained mulishly quiet while he got to work picking the lock. She did not like anyone, particularly James, knowing that she had been operated on for a hip replacement. Also, she was stiff and sore from getting over the fence. At last the padlock clicked open. James let Agatha out into the lane at the back, relocked the padlock and climbed nimbly over the fence.

‘Now, if we go quietly along this lane at the backs of the houses, we should reach my car. That way there’s no fear of someone in the houses seeing us.’

‘Someone could be looking out of a back window.’

‘Too many trees and bushes at the back, and I can’t see a light in a window anywhere. Come on.’

Agatha was so grateful to be finally back in her cottage kitchen. ‘Coffee would be nice,’ said James.

‘A stiff gin and tonic would be nicer,’ said Agatha.

‘Well, make a strong coffee for me. I’ll nip next door and get my camera. Don’t touch that ledger with your bare hands!’ James was Agatha’s nearest neighbour.

When James returned, Agatha had moved to her living room and was stretched out on the sofa asleep, a glass of gin and tonic perilously balanced on her chest and a smouldering cigarette in one hand.

He gently removed her drink and stubbed out her cigarette. He decided to leave her to sleep while he had a look in the ledger himself.

The entries in the ledger were baffling. There were long lines of columns with cryptic entries such a c.h. b. P.L., t. r. P.L. and so on in the same style. He woke Agatha, who blinked up at him and then came fully awake, crying, ‘What did you find?’

‘Nothing but a lot of gobbledygook. Come and have a look before I photograph the pages. There are only about five pages of entries. If this is what the killers were looking for, then I wonder why they wasted their time.’

Agatha followed him into the kitchen and stared in bafflement at the entries.

‘Now what do we do?’ she asked.

‘I photograph all the entries and then, so help me, I’ve got to take the book back, make sure the place is swept clean so there’s no trace of our visit and then drop an anonymous line to the police.’

Agatha awoke the next morning with the feel of James’s lips burning into her memory. In his way, he had been passionate in bed when they were married, but somehow only during the sex act itself. When it was over, he had rolled over to his side of the bed and gone to sleep as if she didn’t exist. Agatha tried to erase her feelings over the kiss by remembering how awful the marriage had been: all his infuriating pernickety bachelor ways such as complaining about the laundry, trying to forbid her to work. She gave herself a mental shake. She did not want to end up in the miserable depths of an obsession for James again.

But in its way, obsession was as necessary to Agatha Raisin as drink to an alcoholic. In the way that an alcoholic will endlessly chase the dream of when drink brought pleasure and escape, Agatha usually remembered only the beginning of obsessions, when the days were brighter and she felt young again.

She wondered whether to call on James before she went to the office but steeled herself against the urge.

Agatha was just about to leave her cottage after letting her cats out into the back garden for the day when the postman arrived with a large parcel. ‘Grand day,’ said the postman.

Agatha could almost smell the countryside coming to life after the bitter winter. The sky above was pale blue, and somewhere nearby a blackbird poured down its song.

It was on mornings like this that Agatha realized why she loved living in the Cotswolds so much. Perhaps, she thought, there is nowhere more beautiful in Britain than this man-made piece of England with its thatched cottages and gardens crammed with flowers.

The parcel was very heavy. She heaved it in and on to the kitchen table. It was addressed to her in block capitals. There was no return address.

She stared down at it, wondering at the same time if James had been successful in returning the ledger and somehow telling the police about the secret room without revealing their identities.

Agatha took a sharp knife out of the kitchen drawer and sliced the tape that sealed the parcel. Just before she wrenched it open, she paused. What if it were a bomb?

She put her ear to the parcel and then told herself she was being silly. Surely bombs ticked only in old movies.

She was reminded of some old game show on television where people would shout either ‘Don’t open the box!’ or ‘Open the box!’

She tore open the top flaps. Whatever was in there was covered in bubble wrap. She gingerly opened the coverings and then stared down at the revealed contents. Rigid with shock, she looked into the dead eyes of Gary Beech. His face was encrusted with little pellets of ice. The head had been frozen.

She sank down into a chair and grasped her knees to stop them from shaking.

Agatha felt she did not have enough strength to get up and call the police from the phone on the kitchen counter. She reached up and pulled her handbag down from the kitchen table and fished out her mobile and dialled 999.

James looked out of his window and saw police cars and a forensic unit arriving outside. He rushed out of doors in time to see a white-faced Agatha being led out and ushered into a police car.

He tried to get to her but had his way blocked by a policeman. ‘Can’t go there, sir,’ he said.

‘Agatha!’ shouted James. ‘What’s up?’

‘Head!’ screamed Agatha wildly as she was thrust into the car, which then sped off, and the road in front of her cottage was taped off.

Agatha, who had refused offers of treatment for shock and simply wanted to get any interview over with, told Inspector Wilkes about the arrival of the package. While she was making her statement in a weak, faltering voice quite unlike her own, the interview was suddenly suspended as Wilkes was summoned from the room.

She waited, staring blankly into space, reviving only enough to refuse a policewoman’s offer of hot sweet tea.

Wilkes eventually returned. His face was grim. ‘Do you know there was a note for you with the head?’

‘Too much of a shock to look further,’ said Agatha. ‘What did it say?’

‘It says, “You’re next, you nosy bitch, if you keep on interfering.” What have you been up to?’

Agatha thought wildly of her visit to Gary Beech’s home. She said, ‘I was investigating his death at the request of his ex-wife . . .’

‘Who you found murdered?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘That’s all.’

‘Have you found out anything at all you are not telling us? You see, we got an anonymous call at dawn, telling us about a secret room in Gary Beech’s house. You wouldn’t know about that, would you?’

‘A secret room!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘That sounds like something out of Enid Blyton. It would never cross my mind.’ She leaned forward wearily. ‘Do you know yet exactly how Beech was killed?’

‘We are waiting for the pathologist’s report on the head. But the initial report says there is evidence of severe blunt-force trauma to the back of the skull.’

Shocked though she was, Agatha was aware of a heavy atmosphere of suspicion in the room. I’ve got to solve this case, she thought wildly. I’m rapidly becoming the number one suspect. But that’s ridiculous. I would hardly send a severed head to myself. And where is the rest of the body? The feet and legs are missing.

‘Mrs Raisin!’ said Wilkes sharply. ‘Pay attention. I want you to go back to the late Mrs Richards. We must assume that she knew something and that was the reason she was killed.’

‘You have my statement,’ said Agatha. ‘I gave you everything then.’

‘Nonetheless. Go over it again.’

Agatha eventually had to be supported from the interview room by a policewoman. She felt her legs had turned to jelly. James was waiting for her.

‘I rescued your cats from the garden,’ he said, ‘and took them to my place. I suggest you move in with me until things are safer. It’s all right, Officer, I’ll take her home.’

‘Take me for a drink first,’ said Agatha.

‘It’s just a few minutes before eleven in the morning. Too early.’

‘James, I’m sure the sun is over the poop deck or whatever. I need a drink.’

‘Agatha, that is a warning sign. When people start saying they need a drink, they’re on the slippery slope to alcoholism.’

A fit of rage brought the strength back to Agatha’s legs. ‘Goodbye,’ she said abruptly, and left police headquarters, banging the door noisily behind her.

She headed straight for the Dragon pub across the other side of the car park, deaf to the sound of James shouting something from behind her.

There was a light breeze. The pub had tables outside with large glass ashtrays on each one. ‘Civilization at last,’ breathed Agatha.

She sat down, opened her handbag, took out her lighter and a packet of Bensons and lit a cigarette. A shadow fell across her.

‘Gin and tonic?’ asked James.

‘Make it a double,’ said Agatha, squinting up at him out of her bearlike eyes.

When James went into the pub, Agatha pulled out her mobile and dialled Toni. ‘See if you can renew your friendship with Mrs Richards,’ said Agatha after she had finished describing the horrors of the morning. ‘She might know something. I mean, this Richards character strikes me as fishy.’

‘Patrick did a check on him,’ said Toni cautiously. ‘He is what he appears to be – a successful businessman.’

‘Nonetheless, do it,’ said Agatha, ‘and I want Phil following behind you to keep a watch on you, just in case.’

James came back as she rang off, carrying her drink and a coffee for himself. Agatha suddenly found herself missing Charles. She did not want to move in with James. She would not be allowed to smoke. And his fussy bachelor ways would get on her nerves. Her cottage was protected by first-class security.

‘I think I’d be better off in my own home,’ said Agatha after a gulp of her drink. ‘It is secure. Come on, James, you know we’d get on each other’s nerves.’

He gave a reluctant smile. In that moment, Agatha wavered. Oh, those blue eyes of his and that smile which lit up his whole face. That hard, muscular body . . .

She gave herself a mental slap.

For his part, James felt that old pull of attraction towards Agatha. Her hair was shining in the sunlight, and the colour had returned to her face.

‘Can’t you just for once leave this one to the police?’ he asked.

‘No, I can’t,’ said Agatha. ‘I must get to the bottom of things. What knowledge did a common copper like Beech have that was worth a lot of money? That’s what I would like to know. His macabre death was revenge, I think, but also a warning to anyone else.’

‘Leave it for now, anyway,’ said James. ‘Let me take you home.’

Agatha wavered but realized she was still weak from shock. ‘All right,’ she said, finishing her drink. ‘But I don’t think I’ll go home yet. It will still be full of police. I’ll book a room at the George Hotel after I buy myself some cheap clothes.’

Sir Charles Fraith heard the news of the dead head delivered to Agatha on the car radio later the next morning. When he arrived at his Warwickshire mansion, he went straight to the kitchen where he kept the keys to Agatha’s cottage. They were usually hanging on a board along with various other keys to the garage, the cellar and so on. But Agatha’s keys were missing. He called to his manservant, Gustav, ‘Have you taken Mrs Raisin’s keys?’

‘Wouldn’t touch them,’ said Gustav, who disapproved of Agatha.

‘Ask around. The village women were in to clean, weren’t they? And ask my aunt.’

He waited impatiently until Gustav returned. ‘Nothing,’ he said with gloomy relish.

‘Check all the locks. Make sure no one could have broken in.’

‘You probably left them somewhere.’

‘Oh, just do what you’re told for once in your miserable life.’

Gustav eventually found there were faint scratches around the lock on the kitchen door.

‘I’d better get to Agatha quickly,’ said Charles. ‘She isn’t answering her phone.’

A call to Bill Wong elicited the fact that Agatha was staying at the George. Charles got into his car and set off for Mircester.

Toni decided that it would be a mistake to visit Mrs Richards in her home. With Phil in his car parked behind her car a little way away from the Richardses’ villa but with a clear view of the front, Toni settled down to wait.

The news of Gary Beech’s head had been flashed on television. If Fiona Richards saw it and her ex-husband was implicated in any way, she might rush to him – always assuming she knew something.

The day was unusually warm. The sun beat down on Toni’s little car. After an hour, Fiona Richards appeared. She was on her own. Fiona drove off at a sedate pace, and Toni with Phil behind followed her black BMW.

Then Fiona parked in the town square. Toni slid into a parking place a few places away and set out to follow on foot.

To Toni’s dismay, she went into the George Hotel. Agatha had phoned again before Toni had left the office to say that she would be staying at the George.

She heard the receptionist say, ‘Good day, Mrs Richards. Your friend is waiting for you in the dining room.’

Toni had forgotten to take any money out of the petty cash and hoped her own credit card would stand the strain of a lunch at the George. She turned and saw Phil hovering behind her. ‘She’s gone in for lunch to meet someone,’ said Toni. ‘I’d better go into the dining room as well.’

‘Don’t waste your money on an expensive meal,’ said the ever-practical Phil. ‘You can’t get near her when she’s with someone. Go into the dining room and get a look at whoever she is meeting and then join me in the café across the road. We can have a cheap snack and wait until she comes out.’

‘Good idea.’ Phil went off, and Toni made her way through to the dining room.

Mrs Richards was talking to a man, and from his appearance, Toni guessed that the man was her ex-husband. Agatha’s notes on the case included detailed descriptions of all the people she had come across.

She retreated and joined Phil, who was seated at an outside table at the café. ‘It looks as if she’s with her ex-husband,’ said Toni. ‘I’ll try to talk to her again when she’s on her own. I mean, she was friendly enough before.’

‘I’ll go and have a look,’ said Phil. ‘I sneaked a photograph of him.’

He had just gone when Toni’s mobile phone rang. It was Charles. ‘Do you know if Agatha is at the George?’ he demanded. ‘It looks as if someone’s stolen my set of keys to her cottage.’

‘Yes, she’s staying at the George,’ said Toni. ‘I hope you didn’t have the code to the burglar alarm with the keys.’

‘Oh, God, it’s pasted above the hook.’

‘Charles!’

‘Got to go.’

Agatha awoke and blinked groggily. Someone was hammering at her hotel-room door. She heard Charles’s voice shouting, ‘Agatha! Open up!’

She struggled out of bed, shouting back, ‘Give me a minute.’

Her hair was all over the place, and her face looked tired and white. She gathered up the set of cheap clothes she had bought, unlocked the door and dived into the bathroom. ‘Take a seat,’ she called. ‘Getting dressed. What’s up?’

‘I’ll tell you when you come out.’

Charles opened the minibar and helped himself to a whisky.

Agatha quickly showered and put on underwear and the loose cotton dress she had bought. She brushed her hair until it shone and carefully applied a layer of make-up with a hand made expert over the years.

When she emerged, she glared at the glass of whisky in Charles’s hand, noticing from two small empty bottles that it was not his first.

‘Oh, do make yourself at home,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Hear about the head?’

‘Yes, frightful.’

‘Is that why you are here raiding the minibar?’

‘Well, not exactly. It’s like this . . .’

Agatha heard him out and then said, ‘I’ll get on to the security firm and get them round tomorrow. I suppose the police will be at my cottage for most of today. I should charge you. I’ll need to change all the locks and the burglar alarm.’

She sat down suddenly on the bed. ‘I still feel shaky. I went straight to bed when I got here.’

‘You need lunch.’

‘Are you buying?’

‘Of course,’ said Charles reluctantly.

They were about to enter the dining room when Agatha saw Fiona Richards and her husband.

She backed away. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she hissed. ‘The Richards female is in there with her husband. We’ll have lunch somewhere else.’

As they left the hotel, Agatha spotted Phil and Toni in the café opposite and went to join them. ‘I thought I would wait until she leaves and see if I can have a word with her,’ said Toni.

‘But get her on her own.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘We’re off for lunch,’ said Agatha, and added firmly, ‘Charles is buying.’ Charles, predictably, led Agatha to the Dragon, where he knew the set pub meals were cheap at lunchtime.

Bill Wong was just finishing his lunch as they walked in. ‘I’m going back out to your cottage, Agatha,’ he said. ‘I want to see if they’ve found out anything.’

‘I hope I’ll be able to go home tomorrow,’ said Agatha, sitting next to him. ‘Charles, get me a steak and chips and a half of lager.’

As Charles’s well-tailored back moved towards the bar, Agatha whispered, ‘You’ll never guess what the silly ass has done.’ She told him about the missing keys.

‘I know. He did phone us,’ said Bill crossly. ‘Come over to headquarters after lunch. We’ll need to send someone out to Warwickshire to have a look at that kitchen door.’

Bill left them when their food arrived. Agatha poked dismally at her steak. When she was with James, she longed for Charles’s lighter company. Now, she felt she could do with James’s steady reassurance.

Her phone rang. It was Roy Silver, babbling with excitement. ‘I hear you’ve found the head.’

‘Well, it found me.’

‘Look, Aggie, how about me coming down for the weekend and babysitting you?’

‘Yes, sure. Do you want me to pick you up at the station?’

‘No, I’m driving down. See you Friday evening.’

Toni at last saw the Richardses leaving the hotel. Tom Richards kissed his ex-wife on the cheek and strode off. Fiona Richards set off in the opposite direction. Toni had already paid the bill in the café, so she followed in pursuit, with Phil following a discreet distance behind.

Fiona went into a dress shop, and after only a little hesitation, Toni followed her in just as a formidable sales assistant was ushering Fiona into a changing room, saying, ‘I’ve got the very thing for you. Cerise silk.’ She swung a frumpy outfit off its hanger and handed it into the changing room.

Fiona Richards was a contrast to the dead Amy, thought Toni, patiently waiting for her to come out. Amy wouldn’t have been seen dead in a frock like that.

‘How much is that dress you have just given that lady to try on?’ asked Toni.

‘Four hundred and ninety-nine pounds.’

‘Bit steep.’

The assistant looked coldly at Toni. ‘Do you want something?’

‘I just want a word with Mrs Richards.’

The assistant went into the changing room. ‘What do you think?’

‘May as well. I need something for the Woman of the Year banquet.’

‘Ooh, have you been selected?’

‘Hardly. I’m just a housewife. Yes, I’ll take it.’

‘There’s a young lady waiting to speak to you.’

Fiona glanced out of the changing room and then shut the door. ‘I do not wish to speak to her. Tell her to go away. She’s one of those awful detectives.’

The assistant approached Toni. ‘Come into my office, please. I want a word with you. Come along, or I’ll call the police.’

Once in the small office, which smelled of perfume and cloth, the assistant said, ‘Mrs Richards doesn’t want to speak to you, and she has made that perfectly clear. You will leave immediately.’

At that moment, they both heard the shop door bang.

The assistant looked out of the window and saw Fiona scurrying off down the street. ‘You’ve lost me a sale,’ she wailed.

Toni ran out of the shop, looking to right and left, but could see no sign of Fiona.

Phil was remarkably spry for seventy-odd years. He followed Fiona to the car park. She had been moving very quickly, taking a circuitous route through market stalls to the car park.

She was just about to get into her car when Phil approached her. ‘Excuse me!’

Fiona surveyed him. Phil had white hair and a gentle face.

‘What is it?’

‘I think I saw a couple of youths trying to break into your car. They saw me and ran off. Maybe you’d better go to the police station and I’ll help you put in a report.’

‘The police won’t do anything,’ said Fiona. ‘Useless. But thanks all the same.’

Phil gave a charming laugh. ‘I don’t know what they would have done if they had confronted me. Bit long in the tooth. You know, you look a bit shaken. Fancy a cup of tea?’ As she hesitated, he added, ‘With my years, you can hardly think I’m trying to pick you up.’

‘Oh, all right. I could do with a cuppa. I had lunch at the George and there was too much salt in the food.’

‘There’s a new café just next to the abbey,’ said Phil.

‘Lead the way.’

Over a pot of tea and toasted tea cakes in a shady garden at the back of the café, Fiona visibly relaxed as Phil prattled on about the unseasonably warm weather.

‘Are you originally from Mircester?’ asked Phil.

‘No, I’m a London girl. I think when the kids are old enough, I’ll move back. Never really settled here.’

‘But the countryside is so beautiful!’ exclaimed Phil.

‘It’s not even real countryside. Neat little fields. Manicured rubbish to keep rich farmers in their four-wheelers.’

‘I don’t know that the farmers have all that easy a time of it,’ ventured Phil. ‘I mean, they’re so dependent on the weather.’

‘And government subsidies,’ said Fiona.

Phil decided to quickly abandon that subject.

‘Are you married?’ he realized Fiona was asking.

‘No. Are you?’

‘Was. But we have friendly relations because of the children. Do you know his wife was found murdered the other day?’

‘Good heavens!’ said Phil. ‘I read about a murder at Tesco’s in Stow.’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Why her? Is it because she was at one time married to that policeman who was murdered as well?’

‘Probably. I don’t know why she was murdered of all people. She was a silly, common little thing. My ex was married to her.’

‘No wonder you want to leave the countryside,’ exclaimed Phil. ‘You must be frightened to death.’

‘Why?’

‘Some psycho is going around murdering people.’

‘Ah, but I didn’t know the horrible Gary Beech.’

‘If you didn’t know him, how do you know he was horrible?’

‘His penchant for ticketing everyone was legendary. You do ask a lot of questions.’

‘Comes from being retired,’ said Phil. ‘I live a pretty lonely life, and I get curious about people. More tea?’

‘No thanks. I’d better be getting home. Wolfgang’s due back from school, and the younger ones are with the nanny.’

‘How old are they?’

‘Wolfgang’s thirteen, Josie’s five and Carol is four. Carol goes to a kindergarten twice a week. That’s all. She’s not very strong.’

‘What’s the matter with her?’

‘Nobody knows. She seems to be physically healthy, but she cries a lot. Look, I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Give me your card. Maybe we’ll meet up again.’

‘I’d like that.’ Phil carefully extracted a card that had only his home number and address.

‘Carsely.’ Her eyes sharpened. ‘Now why does that ring a bell?’

‘Been in the papers,’ said Phil easily. ‘That woman detective had a head delivered to her.’

‘God, how awful. Agatha Raisin, isn’t it? Well, she’s in a man’s world, so she’ll just have to learn to take it.’

When she had left, Phil thoughtfully ordered more tea and phoned Toni. ‘I’d leave her to me,’ he finished, then asked, ‘What happened in that shop?’

Toni told him. ‘Her ex-husband probably warned her off,’ said Phil. ‘I’ve established some sort of friendship. Why is Agatha so interested? Fiona seems an ordinary housewife.’

‘Agatha is suspicious of Richards despite his clean bill of health from the police. She feels Fiona might know something without being aware of it. She feels there is something seriously wrong with a man who wants women to go and get face-lifts.’

Phil finally finished drinking his tea and made his way out. He had an odd feeling of being watched, so to be on the safe side, he did not go back to the office.

That evening, Agatha was settling down to a solitary meal at the George, wondering bitterly why James had not tried to contact her, when a tall, well-groomed man approached her table. He was dressed in smart casual. He had silver hair and a tanned face, hooded pale eyes and a fleshy mouth.

‘Mrs Raisin?’

‘Yes?’ demanded Agatha suspiciously.

He slid into a chair opposite her. ‘My name is Guy Brandon. I’m the main judge in the Woman of the Year.’

‘I was very flattered to be nominated,’ said Agatha eagerly. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Yes, but I’ll have a coffee and brandy if that’s all right with you.’

Agatha waved the waiter over and gave the order.

‘I really think you should get the prize,’ he said. ‘You’re quite a legend.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, I’m behind you, but the other two judges, well, they favour Cressida Jones-Wilkes.’

‘Who the hell is she? Never heard of her.’

‘She runs a very successful garden centre on the Stow road.’

His brandy and coffee arrived. ‘Of course, the other two judges could be made to change their minds. But it costs money.’

Agatha opened her handbag and surreptitiously switched on a powerful little tape recorder. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I was looking for my cigarettes. I always forget about the smoking ban. You were saying that the other two judges could be bribed?’

He threw his head back and laughed, displaying a mouthful of large, cosmetically whitened teeth.

‘You have the reputation for being blunt, Mrs Raisin. But just think of the boost it would give your detective agency if you were elected. Midlands television are going to cover the event.’

‘How much?’ demanded Agatha.

‘I should think two thousand pounds each should settle the matter.’

‘Who are the other two judges?’

‘Mary Mamble, who runs the Arts Centre, and Sir Jonathan Beery.’

‘You used to be an MP, didn’t you?’ asked Agatha. ‘You lost your seat at the last election. What are you doing now?’

‘This and that. I write articles for the papers and sit on several committees. I am much in demand. In fact, I am a pretty famous public speaker.’

‘I am not going to hand out money until I know I am elected,’ said Agatha. ‘Tell them that as soon as I am, they will get the money.’

‘And two thousand to me,’ said Guy quickly. ‘I have to do all the work of persuading them.’

‘All right,’ said Agatha. ‘Same deal. I get elected and you and the others get paid immediately afterwards. I assume you all want cash?’

‘You are so quick on the uptake.’

‘Aren’t I just,’ said Agatha, her bearlike eyes glinting oddly in the light. ‘But get this. This is a ladies’ agreement. You do not see any cash until the deed is done.’

‘But surely . . . I mean, a little in advance?’

‘Not a penny.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to trust you.’

‘Oh, you’d better. For your own good.’

‘I’ll be in touch.’ He smoothed back his hair with a nervous hand.

Oh, dear, thought Agatha, watching his retreating back. What a wicked world!