Dishing the Dirt

“What sort of man is Oran?”


“Powerful and belligerent. Strong Irish accent except when he forgets to use it and bits of Cockney start creeping in. Suspected a few years ago of selling remote control devices to the Iranians, but the intelligence services couldn’t find anything to charge him with.”

“I’ll go and call on him now,” said Agatha.

“I’d better go with you,” said James. “I gather you were rude to the trophy wives one evening.”

“Well, let’s hope Bunty wasn’t one of them. I’ll pay for this wine. Charles has me well trained.”

But the landlord told her that Mark had paid for the wine. When she thought of him, a rosy, warm feeling enveloped her.

James suggested they take his car as Agatha confessed to having drunk two glasses of wine.

*

To Agatha’s dismay, James had just bought a white Morgan sports car, difficult to get in and out of. James turned in past the deserted lodge and cruised up a long drive bordered on either side by tall pine trees. The house finally came into view. It was a large white fairly modern house which resembled a bathing lido. “Looks like something out of Poirot,” said James. “I would guess it was built in the thirties by some architect trying to copy Lutyens. Funny, isn’t it, that anything round here built in the thirties we think of as modern.”

James parked the car beside a large Bentley and a Porsche. “At least they don’t seem to have guests,” he said.

Agatha tried to get out of the low-slung sports car and ended up landing on her bottom on the gravel.

“Bloody car,” she grumbled as James helped her to her feet.

“There is nothing up with my car,” said James. “If you would stop wearing tight skirts and those ridiculously high heels, you wouldn’t have any trouble.”

“That was what was up with our marriage,” said Agatha furiously. “Always running me down and criticising my clothes.”

“Oh, shut up,” snapped James. “Do you want to visit this man or not?”

He marched towards the front door and rang the bell, not looking round to see if Agatha was following.

Agatha tottered after him, the thin heels of her sandals finding it difficult to cope with the gravel.

James turned round when she caught up with him. “Maybe there’s nobody home.”

A female voice suddenly sounded tinnily over the intercom beside the door. “Who is it?”

“James Lacey.”

“Oh, darling James. Wait a moment.”

The sun beat down. Looking up at the building, Agatha noticed that it consisted of a lot of curved balconies and many plate glass windows.

The door swung open and a butler stood there in a black suit, black tie and white shirt. He looked thuggish, what Agatha privately damned as a knuckle dragger. “They’re at the pool,” he said in a raspy voice. “Follow me.”