Dishing the Dirt

She swung off into the Gloucester Green car park and then made her way on foot to the barrier. “I must get past,” she said to a policeman on duty. “My train’s about to leave,” she lied, quickly thinking of an excuse to find out what had happened.

“All right. But keep clear of the police activity on the canal bridge. There are enough rubberneckers there already.”

Agatha hurried down Worcester Street to Hythe Bridge Street. “What’s up?” Agatha asked a man.

“Body in the canal,” he said.

With a feeling of dread, Agatha elbowed her way to the front, ignoring angry protests. A weak sun was gilding the black waters of the canal. As Agatha watched, the sun shone down on the dead face of Clive Tremund as his body was dragged from the water.

She realised that if she was spotted by any detectives who had been at Clive’s house, then there would be more questions, and so she shoved her way back through the crowd.

*

Agatha felt miserable as she drove to Mircester. Clive had been her one hope of getting a break in the case. Once she got to Mircester and before she went into police headquarters, she phoned Patrick Mulligan and briefed him on what had been happening. “See if your old police contacts can tell you anything,” said Agatha.

As the long interview progressed, Agatha realised to her horror that Wilkes was beginning to regard her as the number-one suspect. He seemed to believe that Agatha had searched Tremund’s offices herself, because there was something in her past she did not want anyone to know.

After fifteen minutes, Agatha lost her temper. “I want a lawyer,” she shouted.

She was escorted to a waiting room where she phoned criminal lawyer Sir David Herythe. She had met David at a party on one of her brief visits to London the year before. Agatha had found him very attractive, so, she thought, why not kill two birds with one stone. She knew he commuted to London from Oxford.

He listened patiently to her furious tirade and then to her relief, he said he was actually in Oxford and would be right over. David knew that Agatha had a knack of getting into situations which drew in a lot of publicity and David loved to see his own photograph in the newspapers.

He arrived half an hour later and walked with Agatha to the interview room. He was a tall man with silver hair and a high-bridged nose. He was famous for his waspish remarks in court.

He quickly established that Agatha had not been charged with anything, that she had already made a full statement to the Oxford police, suggested they read the report and stop wasting his client’s time, smiled all round and ushered Agatha out.

“Let’s have dinner,” he said. “The George?” And without waiting for a reply, he set off with long rangy strides. Agatha raced to keep up with him.

*

As the evening was fine and warm, the earlier miserable weather having cleared, they found a table on the terrace overlooking the hotel gardens.

Agatha lit a cigarette and studied her companion’s face. He was examining the menu as if reading a brief. His face was lightly tanned.

“Been on holiday?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, Monaco, at a friend’s place. Be with you in a minute. Food is a serious business. I’m going to be very conventional. I’ll have the lobster salad followed by tournedos Rossini. Oh, how grand. They have a bottle of Chateau Montelena Sauvignon 2010.”

Agatha blinked rapidly, recognising the wine as the most expensive on the menu.

Not another cheapskate, she thought. He’s going to stiff me with the bill. She realised she was very tired and that her make-up needed repair. But what did it all matter, she grumbled to herself, with dead bodies following me around like wasps?

“I’ll have the same,” she said.

He waved an imperious hand to summon the waiter and gave the order.

Agatha could only be thankful that he had not ordered another bottle of wine to accompany the first course.

“Now,” he said, “tell me all about it.”