Dishing the Dirt

“You must be the only person to still use an address book,” commented Roy.

“Old numbers,” said Agatha curtly. “Now what was his name? Maybe it’s under JIG. Ah, here we are. Duncan Macgregor. Scottish as malt whisky. I’ll phone him.”

She rang a number and waited. Then she said, “No reply. I’ll try his mobile.”

This time Duncan answered. After the preliminary pleasantries, Agatha said, “What can you tell me about Maisie Byles?”

Roy waited impatiently, wishing he could hear what Duncan was saying.

At last, he heard Agatha say, “That’s interesting. I’ll bet Pedman didn’t know anything about that.”

She began to talk about her detective work, obviously in answer to Duncan’s questions. Finally she rang off.

Agatha sat down and took a gulp of her drink and then said, “Maisie Byles left before she was pushed. She was handling Happytot baby formula. The silly cow went on her Facebook page and said that all mothers should be forced to breast-feed. Furious people at Happytot. JIG lost the account. Going to sack her but she cried and cried and said she had an invalid mother to support so instead they suggested she find other employment.”

“Oh, dear,” said Roy. “Do you think she has an invalid mother?”

“Not for a moment,” said Agatha.

“So what do we do?” asked Roy.

“I’ll send Pedman an e-mail and tell him all about it. If I do, are you sure you’ll get the account?”

“Yes, it was initially offered to me but Maisie piped up and said surely it would be better if the account were handled by a woman.”

“Okay, help yourself to another drink while I send this e-mail.”

Agatha typed out an e-mail and sent it off.

“He always checks his e-mails, even at week-ends,” said Roy. “Maybe he’ll contact me.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Agatha.

“So what’s been happening in Murderville?” asked Roy.

“Quiet at the moment. I’m still sure Gwen Simple is behind it. Maybe she confessed to Jill Davent that she had helped her son with those murders.”

“Oh, the Sweeney Todd case?”

“That’s the one. Finish your drink and let’s walk up to the pub and get something to eat. I don’t feel like cooking.”

“When did you ever cook, Agatha? You nuke everything in the microwave.”

“Don’t be rude. Let’s go.”

*

The pub was full inside but the tables and chairs outside had been wiped dry so they sat there and studied the menus, both finally settling for “sea fresh cod in golden crispy batter with hand-cut chips, mange tout and rocket from our own garden.”

“They don’t have a garden,” said Agatha. “I hate rocket. Nasty, spidery vegetable.”

Agatha lit a cigarette and blew smoke up towards the grey sky.

“Still smoking,” said Roy. “It’s so old-fashioned, Agatha.”

“I suppose Maisie will now get the sack,” said Agatha. “I must admit, that’s a bit on my conscience.”

“Don’t worry. The cunning bitch insisted on a year’s contract so Pedman is stuck with her. What if he’s so enamoured of her that he does nothing?”

“He’ll listen to me,” said Agatha. “He’ll be furious. He’ll think the whole PR world is laughing at him. You know how hypersensitive he is.” In the past, after she had sold her agency, Agatha had done PR work on a freelance basis for Pedman.

When their food arrived, Agatha noticed that the chips were the usual frozen ones. Between bites of food, she began to fret about the murders.

Said Roy, “Doris Simpson was one of her clients. Maybe she noticed another client, someone not on your list.”

“I think she would have told me,” said Agatha.

“Let’s go and see her after we eat,” urged Roy. “It’ll take my mind off Pedman.”

*

Doris welcomed them in. But when Agatha asked her if she had seen any other clients while she was there, Doris shook her head. “I did hear, however,” said Doris, “that John Fletcher’s missus had been to see her. You know, Rose Fletcher.”

“And we’ve just come from the pub. Thanks, Doris. It’s someone new.”