Dishing the Dirt

“Maybe she really does love me,” said Simon plaintively. “Maybe I’m being too uptight about it all.”


“The woman invites you for dinner,” said Agatha patiently. “Instead, she uses you to come and grill me. She then gives you a quickie to keep you on the leash. That one is walking, talking ambition. Why don’t you use her? We need good police contacts. Did they contact any of the people going into Tremund’s office? Is there CCTV in that street?”

“Okay.” Simon visibly brightened. He had been feeling hunted. Now he could play the role of the hunter.

“What do you feel about her now?” asked Agatha.

“I’m still in shock.”

“Couldn’t you just have held her off and suggested a bed would be a better place?”

“She was all over me. I thought we would move out of the car and into the house. I didn’t expect to be dismissed.”

“Did you use any protection?”

“Ruby had it with her.”

“Cheer up,” said Agatha. “She’s got what she wants for now. But she’ll be back.”

“Another subject,” said Simon. “Toni and I went over to Gwen’s. We felt you had forgotten about her for the moment. We tried to look round her garden but a man chased us off.”

The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Roy back from a publicity hunt,” said Agatha.

As she opened the door to him, she saw, over his shoulder, Charles arriving.

“Does nobody want to go to sleep?” complained Agatha.

“I’m off to London,” said Roy sulkily. “I’ll get my bag.”

“What brings you?” Agatha asked Charles.

“I got a call from Adrian Sommerville. He says I can pick up the keys tomorrow and have a look at Jill’s house. After we’ve had a look, we should call on him again, Agatha. I mean, did he know his sister was hooking in Chicago? What’s her background? What does he think of her ex?”

“I’m tired,” said Agatha. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

*

The day was humid and overcast. They collected the keys from an estate agent in Mircester, saying they did not need anyone to show them over, and then went back to Jill’s cottage in Carsely.

The front garden looked even more neglected than the last time Agatha had seen it. Bits of yellow police tape fluttered amongst the bushes. Down in the village, the church bells rang out. Then came the tenor bell, and then the silence of a country Sunday.

“Here goes,” said Charles, unlocking the door.

“You’d think that brother would have cleaned the place up,” complained Agatha. “I’m surprised the estate agent didn’t suggest it. There’s still fingerprint dust everywhere.”

“Let’s start with the office,” said Charles.

“You do that. I’ll try the other rooms,” said Agatha.

Across from the consulting room, on the other side of the small dark entrance hall, was a living room–cum–dining room. There were the usual things to be expected: television, bookcase, small table with four chairs, sofa and two armchairs, but no desk or chest of drawers. Agatha wondered whether to search through the books, but decided to leave them until later.

The kitchen was in the back. There were signs that the police had been through every food container. Agatha then made her way up the narrow wooden staircase. On the left of the landing was a bathroom. The cupboard over the hand basin was empty. No doubt the police had taken everything away. In the middle was a bedroom. There were no clothes or underwear. No doubt her brother had got rid of them. So no hope of finding anything in pockets. There was one room left, with a massage table and anatomical charts on the wall.

Agatha began to feel wearily that it was all a waste of time. The police would have been thorough in their search. There were three sockets in the house for hands-free phones but the phones were missing.

She trailed back down to the office. “Anything?” she asked Charles.