Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came (7 page)

BOOK: Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
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‘Thank you,’ said Agatha meekly.

After they had left, Agatha turned over what he had said and then her face cleared. They weren’t going to stop her.

Agatha was admiring a splendid blond wig which had arrived by special delivery from Roy when the doorbell rang again. She found a woman she did not know standing on the step.

‘Mrs Raisin,’ she said. ‘I am Freda Stokes, Kylie’s mother.’

‘Come in,’ said Agatha. ‘Come through to the kitchen. Would you like a cup of tea? I am very sorry about your sad loss.’

Freda Stokes was a sturdy woman with round apple cheeks with a high colour. Her grizzled hair was frizzy and her hands rough and red. She had large eyes of an indeterminate colour.

She refused the offer of tea and settled her battered handbag firmly on her capacious lap and studied Agatha. ‘I’ve heard you’re a sort of detective.’

‘In a way,’ said Agatha.

‘I’ll pay you to find out who killed my daughter. Won’t be much. I’ve a stall at the market. Glass animals. Don’t make much.’

‘I’ll do it for nothing,’ said Agatha.

‘I won’t take charity.’

‘I’m fairly well off and you aren’t,’ said Agatha bluntly. ‘I’ll do it. Wait till I get some paper. I’ll need to ask you questions. Do you feel up to it?’

‘I’m up to anything,’ said Freda grimly, ‘if it’ll nail the bastard who killed my daughter.’

Agatha darted through to her desk and returned with a sheaf of papers.

‘So tell me when you last saw her?’

‘It was two days before she died. She’d been to some sort of hen party with the girls in her office. She was a bit tiddly when she came home, that would be around midnight. I told her to get straight to bed. She said she’d had a good time. She said that girl, Phyllis Heger, who was always picking on her, wasn’t there. As she was off work, I thought I’d let her have a long lie-in. My husband’s dead. There was only me and Kylie.’ A fat tear slid down her cheek. Agatha handed her a box of tissues and waited until she had composed herself.

‘I went to the market early as usual. I came back at dinnertime.’ Agatha knew she meant lunchtime. They still had dinner in the middle of the day in Evesham. ‘The house was quiet. Lazy girl, I thought, and went to wake her. Her bed was empty. Hadn’t been slept in. I called Zak, I called her work, I called her friends, then I called the police. They didn’t take it seriously. They said brides always got nervous before a wedding and she’d turn up. Then I found her wedding dress was missing. I phoned them again. But again they wouldn’t take me seriously. That was until she turned up dead.’

‘What about Zak?’ asked Agatha. ‘Could he possibly have done it?’

‘No, he adored her, and he and his father have been marvellous to me. I couldn’t have got through the last few days without them. Zak’s broken up.’

‘And you never had any suspicion that Kylie might be on drugs?’

‘My Kylie? Never! She was part of a youth group at the church. They’re very down on drugs.’

‘So why do you think she took her wedding dress?’

‘Like I said, she’d had a bit to drink. I think one of them girls said she wanted to see the dress. Kylie was ever so proud of it. I think she took it round to one of their houses. She might have been attacked on the road home. It’s hard to get a cab.’

‘She’d change back into her ordinary clothes, surely,’ said Agatha. ‘And whoever she had been visiting, if they had nothing to hide, then why wouldn’t they come forward?’

‘Maybe whoever it was might be frightened of being suspected.’

‘What about Phyllis Heger?’

‘She wasn’t at the office party, like I said.’

‘I don’t know if you know this, Mrs Stokes –’

‘Freda.’

‘Right, then, Freda. I don’t know if you know that Zak, according to Phyllis, was dating her.’

‘Oh, Kylie told me about that. She said Phyllis hated her. Do you think it could have been her?’

‘I’d like to think so,’ said Agatha. ‘I don’t like her. But just think of the organization! Could Phyllis have injected her with heroin and then dumped her body in a freezer chest, and then somehow got it into the river? Was Kylie dating anyone before Zak?’

‘She was engaged once before, to Harry McCoy.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘He’s a machine-tool operator at Barrington’s. Steady chap. I liked him.’

‘What’s his address?’

Freda gave it to her and Agatha wrote it down.

Agatha leaned forward. ‘I’d better tell you something in confidence. I’ve already been investigating your daughter’s murder. I’ve been going around masquerading as someone from television, wearing a disguise of blond wig and glasses. If you hear about such a person, you’ll know it’s me.’ Agatha thought about Brudge. Had he really been encouraging her to go ahead?

‘Worcester police are very good,’ she said cautiously. ‘They’ll probably get to the bottom of it eventually. What about drugs? I didn’t think they’d be that much of a problem in a quiet place like Evesham. You work at the market. You must hear things.’

‘Evesham’s like everywhere else, riddled with the stuff,’ said Freda bitterly. ‘They found a pub dealing in drugs and closed it down. Nobody knows where it’s all coming from now.’

‘The people who take drugs must know,’ said Agatha. ‘Ever hear of anything connected to the club?’

‘Not even one Ecstasy tablet. It’s been raided at least once. A few under-age drinkers, that’s all.’

‘Give me your phone number,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll let you know anything I find out.’

‘Bless you,’ said Freda, tears now coursing freely down her cheeks. ‘I’ve been feeling so helpless.’

Agatha handed her a wad of tissues. When Freda had recovered, Agatha saw her out and then returned to the kitchen and sat down, feeling guilty. After all, she did not deserve Freda’s blessing for pursuing an investigation out of no higher motive than curiosity and a desire to allay the boredom of retirement in a country village. Mrs Bloxby was the one with pure motives. Or was she?

By omission, she had deliberately led Agatha to believe the new neighbour wasn’t worth bothering about. She had some explaining to do.

Some ten minutes later, Mrs Bloxby found herself facing a truculent Agatha in the vicarage drawing-room.

‘I shouldn’t try to manipulate your life,’ said Mrs Bloxby ruefully. ‘But I did not want to see you fall enamoured of another neighbour and get hurt.’

‘Do you know what I did?’ demanded Agatha wrathfully. ‘He came to my door carrying a Bible, and I thought he was a Mormon and slammed the door in his face.’

Mrs Bloxby snorted with laughter.

‘It’s not funny!’ howled Agatha. ‘What was he carrying a Bible for anyway?’

‘He left it with me,’ said Mrs Bloxby when she had stopped laughing. ‘It was James’s Bible. He found it in a closet. I’ll get it for you.’

She went out and then returned carrying the Bible. Agatha opened it and noticed James’s name written in his familiar handwriting inside. A wave of love and loss engulfed her and she clutched the Bible and stared at Mrs Bloxby with miserable eyes.

‘It’ll pass,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘All things pass.’

Agatha firmly put the Bible away from her. ‘So tell me about John Armitage.’

‘I know very little. Just that he’s a successful writer. He seems very pleasant. I gather he was once married and is divorced. I think the Anstruther-Jones woman has been bothering him. I told him not to answer the door to her and she would soon get tired of calling on him.’ Mrs Bloxby looked at Agatha ruefully. ‘I’m afraid I told him not to answer the door to any of the women. They have all been pestering him, taking him cakes and home-made jam or copies of his books for him to autograph.’

So I can’t do any of those things, thought Agatha. Rats.

‘I wish you had told me the truth,’ she said severely. ‘I am not a child.’

‘No, I shouldn’t have misled you, but the temptation was irresistible. I won’t do it again.’

‘Sometimes I wonder about you,’ said Agatha. ‘Anyway, that dead girl’s mother has just called on me. She wants me to investigate her daughter’s death. She even offered to pay me.’

‘It must have made you feel like a real detective.’

‘I am a real detective,’ snapped Agatha, who had not quite forgiven the vicar’s wife for misleading her about John Armitage.

‘Of course. How are you getting on?’

Agatha outlined her findings. Mrs Bloxby listened carefully. Then she said, ‘Someone’s dealing drugs in Evesham. Could it be possible that Kylie stumbled across the source?’

‘Then that would suggest the club.’

‘Not necessarily. One of those girls could have said something, let something slip. They must all have had a bit too much to drink at that hen party. Maybe one of them panicked and told her supplier.’

‘Far-fetched,’ said Agatha grumpily because she had not considered such a possibility herself.

‘Possibly. Would you like some tea?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘You’ll need to forgive me sometime.’

‘I have forgiven you,’ lied Agatha and stumped out.

When she got home, she went over her notes and then logged everything she had in the computer. Whom should she approach that evening? Perhaps she should start with Harry McCoy before going on to one of the other girls. She looked at her watch and remembered she had a Pilates class and rushed to change into tights and a T-shirt before driving fast to Evesham. By the time she returned home, she was feeling relaxed and refreshed. Still no sign of John Armitage in residence, she noted.

Later that day, she put on the new blond wig, tying it in a neat pony-tail. It looked much more natural than the old one, and the spectacles with the plain glass lenses really did make her look different. She hesitated before leaving. Was the disguise really necessary? Mrs Stokes had asked her to investigate, so she could surely go as herself. But, then, Harry McCoy might be friendly with the girls. He might even be the villain!

So Agatha set off, feeling very lonely. She missed Roy’s chattering company. When she parked in Merstow Green, she took out a street map of Evesham and checked on Harry McCoy’s address. He lived not far from the car park in Horres Street. She decided to walk. The streets away from the High Street seemed strangely deserted. No children played outside. Televisions flickered behind lace-curtained windows. The wind had risen, and fallen cherry blossoms swirled in front of Agatha. It had turned unseasonably cold. She located the small red-brick terraced house in which he lived. It looked dark and empty. There were two bells, one for upstairs and one for downstairs, but no one answered the summons of either.

Agatha retreated. She decided to go back to the car park and then call back at the house from time to time. She had forgotten her clipboard with the addresses of the other girls and was reluctant to go all the way home to get it. She sat in her car, smoking and listening to the radio, venturing out once more to take the long walk back to Harry’s house. She wished she had decided to park outside, but there was not a single parking space left in the street and to double-park would draw unwelcome attention to herself.

By ten o’clock, she got wearily out of her car again. Just one more time. To her relief, there was a light shining in the upstairs window. She pressed the bell and waited.

No reply.

She pressed it again and stepped back and looked up. No curtain twitched. No face looked down at her. Should she try the neighbours? No, scrub that. She didn’t want him to know she was looking for him or to start lying to neighbours about some fictitious television programme.

Agatha wearily turned away. A wasted evening. Why not just forget the whole thing and leave it to the police? She began to walk slowly along the deserted street.

And then she sensed danger.

Afterwards, she could not say why or what had alerted her or where the sudden feeling of menace had come from. She heard a car approaching. She twisted her head, saw headlights blazing, and in one split second realized the car was rushing at her at full speed.

She threw herself over the garden hedge next to her, hearing the car roar past as it mounted the pavement where she had been standing and then hearing it lurch back on to the road. She lay in someone’s front garden, shivering and panting. A door opened.

The next thing she knew was that someone was standing over her. She straightened up, ridiculously relieved to find that her wig was still in place.

‘What the ’ell do you think you’re doing?’ demanded a small, thin woman angrily.

Agatha struggled up. ‘I’m sorry. I must have had a fainting fit and fallen over your hedge.’

She swayed and then regained her balance. Despite her shock and fright, she did not want to say she had been nearly killed. Questions would be asked. The police called. And this time Brudge would really tell her to leave the whole thing alone.

‘I know your sort,’ said the woman wrathfully. ‘Drunk, that’s what you are. And at your age. You oughter be ashamed of yourself.’

Agatha made for the garden gate. One of her high-heeled shoes got caught in a loose brick on the path and she stumbled and nearly fell. ‘Get out o’ here,’ shouted the woman. ‘And sober up!’

Agatha felt that the walk to her car was the longest she had ever taken. She did not even feel safe when she was in her car. She accelerated out of the car park at speed.

John Armitage had cut short his stay in London and was making his way leisurely down the road into Carsely when a car he recognized as his neighbour’s shot past him and hurtled off in front of him. ‘Crazy driver,’ he muttered.

He proceeded at a reasonable rate and then parked in front of his cottage. Before he switched off his headlights, he saw his neighbour’s car and that she was still in it, hunched over the wheel.

He was about to open the gate and go in when he hesitated. Maybe she was ill.

John approached Agatha’s car cautiously and then looked in the window. She had her face in her hands and her shoulders were heaving. He rapped on the glass.

Agatha straightened up and gave him a look of wild terror.

He opened the car door. ‘I’m John Armitage. Your neighbour. We haven’t really met. Is there anything I can do?’

Agatha took a tissue out of a box on the seat beside her and blew her nose. ‘I had a fright,’ she blurted out. ‘They tried to kill me.’

BOOK: Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
7.48Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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