Dishing the Dirt

*

As Agatha was about to enter her cottage, she was hailed by James Lacey, who hurried to join her. “Toni’s just called me,” he said. “She told me to look out for you as someone just tried to kill you.”

“Come in and I’ll tell you all about it. I haven’t had lunch and I must eat something.”

Agatha told him, between bites of a cheese sandwich, everything that had happened, ending up with, “So I think I’ll have to throw myself on Bill’s mercy, but first, I’d like to track down the husband.”

“I’d better come with you.”

Agatha looked at him. There he was, as handsome as ever from his lightly tanned face and bright blue eyes to his tall muscular figure. Why did she no longer feel a thing?

“Right,” said Agatha. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

*

As they turned into the road that led up the side of the Regal Cinema, Agatha said, “I’m glad they restored that old cinema. Must go one day. Now, I’ll put the car in the parking place and we can start knocking on doors.”

When Agatha parked the car and got a parking ticket, she returned to find James searching his iPad. “I’m just checking if there are any Davents in this street. Did she keep her married name?”

“Oh, Lord, I don’t know,” said Agatha crossly, cross because she had been caught out at missing a basic piece of detection.

“Oh, here we are,” said James. “There’s a T. Davent at number 905A. That must be right along at the end. The A probably means it’s a basement flat, or what the estate agents call a garden flat.”

“So it’s not called Douglas. I wonder what she was talking about?”

“Who?

“Tell you later.”

They started to walk. The day had turned hot and humid. Agatha felt uneasily that her make-up was melting and running down her neck.

“Don’t take such long strides,” she complained.

“You shouldn’t wear such high heels the whole time,” commented James. But he slowed his pace. He looked down at the top of Agatha’s glossy hair and felt an odd pang of loss. But surely it was Agatha’s fault that their marriage had not worked out. She would go on smoking and insisted on carrying on working. But what he missed was her old, unquestioning adoration of him.

“Here we are at last,” said Agatha. “Of course, with my bloody luck, he’ll be out working. Let’s try the basement. Yes, the name on the door is Davent.” She rang the bell.

The door was opened by a small, blond woman with a discontented face. Agatha guessed she was in her late thirties.

“I don’t want encyclopaedias, I’ve got double glazing and I don’t believe in God,” she said harshly.

Agatha rapidly introduced herself. “I was hoping to talk to Mr. Davent.”

“I’m his sister, Freda. If you want to ask him about the bitch from hell, you’ll find him at his shop, Computing Plus, on the Four Pools estate.”

“Did you know Jill Davent?” asked James.

“I don’t want to talk about that cow. The day I heard about her murder was like Christmas. Now shove off.”

The door slammed.

“Back to the car,” said James, “and let’s see exactly where we can find Computing Plus.”

*

After circling around the Four Pools business estate, they found the shop, parked the car and walked in. The shop was full of expensive-looking equipment. One young man was serving a couple, while another leaned on the desk, reading a newspaper. Agatha approached the newspaper reader. “Is Mr. Davent available?”

“If it’s a complaint, I can maybe deal with it,” he said in a strong Eastern European accent. Probably Polish, thought Agatha. Evesham was rapidly becoming Little Poland.

Agatha handed him her card. “Tell him I would like to ask him a few questions.”

The young man disappeared into a back office with a frosted-glass door. “Stop eyeing his bottom, Agatha,” admonished James.

“It’s those skintight black jeans,” said Agatha ruefully. “They just scream, ‘look at my bum.’”