Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came (18 page)

‘I really want to drop the whole thing,’ said Agatha. ‘I hope she doesn’t tell Joanna anything.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m afraid of Joanna. She knows my real identity and she knows where I live.’

‘Were you as taken in by her as John obviously was?’

‘Yes, I really did think she was a cut above the other girls. She certainly fooled me. I think we’d better call on Freda Stokes. She might know if the police have found out anything.’

Freda was at home and pleased to see them. She listened carefully as Agatha told her everything they had found out.

‘The police don’t know about Joanna and Barrington. Should I tell them?’ asked Freda.

‘Not at the moment because they would want to know how you found out and that would land us in trouble. Have they told you what lines they are working on?’

‘No. They came back again and searched her room. They’d already taken a lot of stuff away.’

‘Like what?’

‘Aspirin bottles, cosmetics, stuff like that. They were looking for any trace of drugs. They even took her dolls and stuffed animals.’

‘No point in us looking, then,’ said Agatha. ‘Did Kylie ever say anything about Joanna?’

‘I can’t remember. It was usually Phyllis she was complaining about.’

‘Did she have one particular friend amongst the girls? She took that wedding gown to show someone.’

‘She never seemed to have any of them round the house. Harry McCoy might know.’

Agatha took out her mobile phone. ‘May as well have another chat to him.’ She checked her clipboard and dialled his number. Roy heard her say, ‘Harry? We’re still going ahead with the television programme and wanted to ask you some more questions. Can we meet you at that café where we met before? Good. About fifteen minutes.’

Agatha rang off. ‘May as well keep trying,’ she said.

If only, thought Agatha, I could drop this masquerade of being with a television company and cut to the chase instead of pretending to be interested in this young man’s supremely uninteresting social life. But she patiently took notes and then finally asked him, ‘What did you think of the attack on Joanna Field?’

‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ said Harry. ‘I mean, she was at Kylie’s computer and someone obviously didn’t want her to read what was on there.’

Agatha wondered whether to tell him about Joanna, but dreaded Phyllis’s reaction. And yet, why protect Joanna? But she asked, ‘Kylie, we think, was worried about her wedding gown. We think she wanted to show it to someone. Was she particularly close to any of the girls?’

‘She didn’t seem to be. She would laugh about them, you know, call Joanna stuck-up, and Phyllis ugly, and say she wasn’t going to be tied down doing accounts and sales for a plumbing firm. I know they all occasionally got together for a drink. That’s all. I mean, it would need to be someone pretty special to get her out in the middle of the night. What about Zak?’

‘I don’t think she’d want him to see it before the wedding,’ said Agatha.

‘Have you seen Joanna?’ asked Harry.

‘Yes, she’s out of hospital and is fully recovered.’

‘And did she actually see anything on Kylie’s computer?’

‘No, she says she switched it on and then someone hit her on the head.’

‘Will all this stuff on Kylie’s death be on telly?’

Roy spoke for the first time. ‘We’re doing some background on it because we can hardly do a programme on the youth of Evesham without mentioning her death. It’s been in all the papers.’

Harry laughed. ‘Phyllis won’t like that. Being upstaged by Kylie even when she’s dead.’

Agatha looked at his laughing face. ‘Didn’t you mourn Kylie’s death?’

‘What? Well, of course. In a way. I mean, when she died, it wasn’t as if she was my girl any more.’

‘But you had been intimate with her.’

‘Not for a bit, though.’

He never really knew Kylie, thought Agatha. He had found her decorative and that had been enough.

Agatha saw Roy off at the station that evening. After Harry, they had decided not to see anyone else. They had returned to Agatha’s cottage and had typed out what they had discovered and it seemed to lead absolutely nowhere.

After playing with her cats, Agatha went up to bed, feeling suddenly lonely. She showered and got ready for bed. She tried to read a light romance, but the words could not take her mind off the case. There was one little thing. One dangerous little thing she had missed.

Then she sat bolt upright. Had Joanna found anything among the e-mails on Kylie’s machine before someone hit her? And if she did, would she be stupid enough to try to use it to blackmail the murderer? If Joanna could have an affair with a man like Barrington and all because of money, would she not see incriminating evidence against someone as a golden opportunity to get out of the rut?

Agatha got out of bed and began to pace up and down. There must be some way of letting the police know that Joanna had been involved with Barrington. The silly girl’s life could be in danger. If she phoned, her voice might be recognized and she was hopeless at imitating accents. Then she thought, there was one accent, no longer hers, buried deep down inside her under layers of Mayfair – that of the Birmingham slums.

She went downstairs, picked up the phone and was about to dial Worcester police when she remembered the call could be traced. She pulled a long coat on over her nightgown, drew on a pair of thin gloves, and went out and got into her car. She drove steadily through the dark to Evesham and to the station. She went to the public phone outside and dialled Worcester police. ‘Listen ’ere,’ she said gruffly when a policewoman answered. ‘That Kylie Stokes murder. Joanna Field, her that was hit on the ’ead, was having an affair with Barrington. She saw somethink on that e-mail and is going to blackmail someone.’

‘Who is this?’ demanded the voice sharply.

Agatha dropped the phone, got into her car, and drove off out by the ring road, knowing the police would trace the call to the phone box and send someone there as fast as possible. Her heart lurched as she remembered seeing a forensic-science programme which said they would soon be able to tell who had used a phone by their DNA. Anyone using a phone left a certain amount of their DNA on the receiver. How old had that programme been? Could they do it now? Then her hands relaxed on the steering wheel. Her fingerprints were on record from previous cases but not her DNA and they had no reason to ask for a sample.

She felt sleepy by the time she arrived back home, relaxed now with the comfortable feeling that she had done her best.

In the following days, Agatha put the case of Kylie Stokes out of her mind. It was suddenly a great relief to let go of it. She felt slightly guilty when she thought of Freda Stokes, but assured herself that she had done all that she could do. John Armitage was still in London. She would follow his example and leave well enough alone.

But by the end of the week, she concluded it would be only decent to go and see Freda Stokes and tell her what she had decided.

Accordingly she went to Evesham Market to where Freda was working at her stall. ‘Don’t say anything here,’ said Freda. She called to a woman at the stall opposite. ‘Could you mind things for me, Gladys? Going for a cuppa.’

‘Sure,’ said Gladys. ‘Quiet as the grave today.’

They went to a café at the back of the covered market. Agatha ordered two cups of tea and carried them to a table. Freda’s first words appalled her. ‘I suppose you’re worried about Joanna.’

‘What about Joanna?’ Agatha’s heart gave a lurch.

‘She’s missing. I had the police round. She hadn’t been at work, but that wasn’t why they were worried. They had a mysterious call from someone telling them that Joanna’d had an affair with Barrington and was going to blackmail someone. They kept calling at her flat and when they didn’t get a reply, they finally broke in. No sign of her. No note. No clothes had been packed. Nothing missing. Except Joanna.’

Too late, thought Agatha. I was too late.

‘It’s like a nightmare,’ said Freda. ‘Some murderer’s prowling about. Why can’t the police do anything?’

Maybe because I kept the information to myself for just that bit too long, thought Agatha sadly.

‘I’m not much of a help, Freda,’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying and trying and all I do is dig up more muck without ever finding out who did the murder.’

‘If we never know,’ said Freda miserably, ‘I can never feel that my poor girl is resting easy in her grave.’

‘Have they released the body for burial?’

‘Yes, the funeral’s tomorrow. We’re keeping it quiet. Don’t want the press around.’

‘Where is the funeral to take place?’

‘At Saint Edmund’s up on Greenhill at eleven in the morning. Will you come?’

‘Yes, I’ll be there.’

The funeral of Kylie Stokes took place on a warm sunny Saturday. Zak was there with his father and the girls from the office, minus Joanna. The service was brief and simple. Freda was red-eyed but tearless, as if she had shed so many tears over her daughter’s death that there were none left. Zak was supported by his father. He had lost more weight and was white-faced with grief. Agatha was wearing a large hat and dark glasses in case any of the office girls should recognize her without her disguise. She wished she had not come.

Kylie might not have been the angel her mother had once believed her to be, but she had been so young and pretty – too young and pretty to lie so soon in the warm earth on a sunny day.

I must find out who did it, thought Agatha. But how?

When Agatha returned home, she sat down at her computer to go through her notes. She managed to catch Boswell in mid-air as he was about to leap on the keyboard. She carried the protesting cat out to the garden, followed by Hodge. ‘Stay there,’ she ordered. They both sat side by side on the lawn, staring at her, as if she had committed some outrage. Agatha shut the door on them and returned to the computer.

She printed out what she had written and retreated to the kitchen with the pile of papers. Agatha made a cup of black coffee and lit a cigarette. She sighed. It still tasted like burning rubber. She left it burning in the ashtray but a smell, like smouldering tyres on a used-tyre dump, began to fill the kitchen. She sighed again and stubbed it out. She opened the kitchen door to clear the air. ‘You can come in now,’ she said to her cats. They turned their backs on her and strolled off down the garden.

Agatha shrugged and retreated to her notes. Now, was there anything she had missed?

There was something Mary Webster had said. Where was it? At last she had it. Mary Webster had said that she had caught Kylie in the ladies’ room smoking pot. Now, as pot was still an illegal substance, anyone who wanted it had to go to an illegal source and illegal sources often pushed harder drugs. Why had she, Agatha, let this one slide by? Then there was one other thing nagging at her brain.

She closed her eyes and remembered looking down from the bridge at the flood, seeing Kylie floating underneath, her hair swirling in the water, the white wedding dress, like a shroud, the bouquet clutched in stiff hands. Her eyes snapped open. The bouquet! Yes, she could have gone to show someone the wedding gown. But the bouquet! She glanced at the clock. Freda would be at home. She had surely taken the day off for the funeral.

Agatha phoned Freda and when she got her on the line, she asked, ‘Freda, Kylie was clutching a wedding bouquet when she was found. How did she get it? Did you keep it at home?’

‘No, the police asked me that. I’d ordered it from that florists next to the market. It was to be of red roses and lilies and some maidenhair fern. It hadn’t been collected. It hadn’t even been made. They were sending it round on the morning of the wedding day.’

‘And that was Kylie’s choice?’

‘Well, no. She’d left all the wedding arrangements to me and Terry. Terry was paying for the wedding, but I was paying for the wedding gown and the bouquet and the bridesmaids’ dresses.’

‘Who were the bridesmaids? Anyone from the office?’

‘No, Iris was going to be one bridesmaid, and my brother Frank’s girl, Ruby, the other. And then Iris’s little daughter, Haley, was going to be flower-girl.’

‘Did Kylie object to the bouquet as much as she objected to the wedding gown?’

‘Well, she did. She said she wanted white roses.’

‘Did the police say anything about what the bouquet was like?’

‘No, it was never found. It must have come loose from her hands. They said with so much debris and so much of the floodwater pouring into people’s homes and shops and basements, it could be anywhere.’

Agatha thought furiously. The drowned Kylie had been clutching that bouquet. Hard to tell with the swirling of the water what it had been like. Agatha was sure that bouquet had contained white roses.

‘Do you know if Kylie told anyone about the fact that she didn’t like the bouquet you had chosen for her?’

‘She was angry about it and the dress. I usually gave in to her, but not on this. As I told you, I couldn’t afford a new gown for her, and I didn’t see any reason to. Iris’s gown was beautiful and as good as new. I could have changed the order for the flowers, but to tell the truth, I was so mad because Kylie had taken no interest in the wedding preparations, I dug my heels in and said I’d no intention of changing anything at all.’ Freda began to sob. ‘If only she were alive, she could have anything sh-she w-wanted.’

Agatha tried to comfort her but Freda said she was too upset to talk any longer. Agatha said goodbye and then sat biting her nails, a substitute for nicotine. Those flowers. Now if they had been in the deep freeze with Kylie’s body, they would be frost-blasted and black. So someone must have put the bouquet in the dead girl’s cold frozen hands before putting her in the river. She shuddered. There was something very evil about that macabre touch of the bouquet. It had been done with hate.

She longed to phone Freda again and ask if she told the police about the row over the bouquet. Had the police checked all the florists to see if anyone had ordered a bouquet of white roses?

Then she thought, why not phone the police? She had not found out about the bouquet by any questioning in disguise. She telephoned Worcester police and was put through to Brudge. He listened to her carefully and then said, ‘There were little marks on her hands as if from thorns. Thank you, Mrs Raisin; we’ll look into it.’