Dishing the Dirt

Agatha decided to motor to Oxford and treat herself to a decent lunch. Her cats, Boswell and Hodge, twisted around her ankles, and she wished she could take them with her.

She parked in Gloucester Green car park, wincing at the steep price and began to walk up to Cornmarket. This was Oxford’s main shopping street and one ignored in the Morse series, the producers correctly guessing that viewers wanted dreaming spires and colleges and not crowds of shoppers and chain stores.

Agatha had initially planned to treat herself to lunch at the Randolph Hotel, but instead she walked into McDonald’s, ignoring the cry from a wild-eyed woman of, “Capitalist swine.” Agatha ordered a burger, fries and a black coffee and secured a table by looming over two students and driving them away. She wished she had gone to the Randolph instead. It was all the fault of the politically correct and people like that woman who had shouted at her, she reflected. It was the sort of thing that made you want to buy a mink coat, smoke twenty a day and eat in McDonald’s out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

She became aware that she was being studied by a small, grey-haired man on the other side of the restaurant. When he saw Agatha looking at him, he gave a half smile and raised a hand in greeting.

Agatha finished her meal, and, on her road out, stopped at his table. “Do I know you?” she asked.

“No, but we’re in the same profession,” he said. “I’m Clive Tremund. I’d like to compare notes. Would you like to get out of here and go for a drink? What about the Randolph? I could do with a bit of posh.”

Along Cornmarket, he talked about how he had recently moved to Oxford from Bristol to set up his agency.

In the bar of the Randolph, Agatha, who had taken note of his cheap suit, said, “I’ll get the drinks.”

“I’ll be able to get you on my expenses,” he said.

Agatha waited until the waiter had taken their order and come back with their drinks, and asked him what he had meant. “Never tell me I am one of your cases!”

“The only reason I am breaking the confidentiality of a client,” said Clive, “is because the bitch hasn’t paid anything so far and it looks as if she isn’t going to.”

“Would that bitch be a therapist called Jill Davent?”

“The same. I was supposed to ferret out everything I could about you. Got your birth certificate and took it from there.”

“I’ll kill her! Did she give a reason?”

“She said she was about to be married to a James Lacey, your ex. Said if you had got him to marry you, she might learn something by knowing all about you.”

“I think it’s because she’s hiding something and wants to keep me away,” said Agatha.

“Don’t tell her I told you,” said Clive. “She may yet pay me, although I’ll probably have to take her to the Small Claims Court. She was one of my first clients.”

“Why did you leave Bristol?”

“Got a divorce. Didn’t want to see her with her new bloke. It hurts. Then I had to get my private detective’s licence.”

“I’ve just got one of those,” said Agatha. “How’s business?”

“Picking up. Missing students, students on drugs, anxious parents, that sort of thing.”

“What did you make of the Davent woman?”

“She seemed pretty straightforward, until I gave her the report on you, and then she was sort of gleeful in a spiteful way. I asked for my fee and she demanded more. She told me your first husband had been murdered and maybe the police had got it wrong and you did it yourself. I haven’t done anything about it. I sent her an e-mail, saying until she paid something, I couldn’t go on. She had an office in Mircester before she moved to Carsely.”

“I’ll pay you instead,” said Agatha. “Send me a written statement about the reasons she gave for employing you.” Agatha took out her cheque book. “I will pay you now.” She scribbled a cheque and handed it over.

“This is generous,” said Clive. “I’ll be glad not to see her again, except maybe in court. She gave me the creeps.”