Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (7 page)

“Sure,” said Harry. She climbed on the back and they roared off.

Harry knew as he sped along the dual carriageway that he would recognize the spot from the police tape. He just hoped there wouldn’t be any police on duty because they would quickly move them on.

He slowed and stopped when he saw the police tape. The earlier rain of the evening had stopped and a dank mist was swirling around the scene.

He parked the bike and he and Trixie got off. She removed her helmet and her eyes gleamed with excitement in the dark. “Let’s do it here,” she said. “Down in the grass.”

“And get my leathers mucky,” said Harry.

“You a poofter or something?”

“Listen, babes. The forensics will be back in the morning and I don’t want my DNA spread over the grass. You’re weird.”

She stared at him sulkily. “Don’t you fancy me?”

“I did but right now I don’t,” said Harry. “What was a nice girl like Jessica Bradley doing having a friend like you?”

“She wasn’t no angel. I could tell you a thing or two.”

“Go on. Bet you know nothing.”

“I tell you, she was having it off with a man old enough to be her father.”

“Who?”

“Kiss and tell.”

Harry repressed a sigh and clamped his mouth over hers. Her tongue went so far down his throat he was frightened he would gag.

When he finally came up for air, he asked again, “Who?”

“Salesman at that electronics factory. Smedleys Electronics. Name’s Burt Haviland.”

“I’d never have believed it,” said Harry. “Now let’s get you home.”

Agatha was awakened at midnight by a call from Harry. He told her about Burt Haviland.

“Good work,” said Agatha.

“Do you want me to come with you when you interview him?”

“I’ll need to think about it. I’m awfully afraid we might have to tell the police.”

“Why?”

“If we go to the factory, we might run into Smedley, who’d get huffy if he thought we weren’t solely on his case. Then this Burt can simply give us a flat denial. The police can take his DNA and compare it to anything they might have found at the autopsy. I’ll ask Patrick and see you first thing at the office.”

Agatha rang Patrick. The former Miss Simms answered the phone. “Wot you doing ringing in the middle of the night, Mrs. Raisin?” she demanded.

“I want to speak to Patrick.”

“I wish you’d left him alone. He’s never here and I’ve got to look after the kids meself. What fun’s that? I think he’s too old for me. I mean, old is all right in gentlemen friends, if you get my meaning. Besides, he’s only got his pension and I’ve had to take a part-time at the supermarket.”

“I never thought you were mercenary,” said Agatha, momentarily diverted.

“Like them men who go out to wars?”

“No, after money.”

“Who isn’t these days? It’s all right for you. I’ll get him.”

Agatha heard her say, “Wake up. It’s Mrs. Raisin on the line.”

“What does she want?” grumbled Patrick.

“Ask her and find out. I’m going back to sleep.”

When Patrick came on the line, Agatha told him what Harry had found out, ending with, “Should I tell the police?”

“I think you’d better.”

“Any results from the autopsy? Was she raped?”

“Too early to say.”

“I’ll phone Bill Wong.”

Agatha found Bill’s mobile phone number, praying the phone would be switched on, otherwise she would have to call his home number and maybe get one of his frightening parents.

To her relief, Bill answered his mobile. She told him what Harry had found out.

“Oh, good work,” said Bill. “We’ll pull him in first thing tomorrow.”

“You owe me,” said Agatha. “I want you to come round here when you can and let me know the result.”

After two busy following days—two divorce cases had come in and three missing pets—Agatha was glad to see Roy getting off the evening train at Moreton-in-Marsh. His thin hair was jelled up into spikes on his head, revealing, as he bent over the boot to put his travel bag in, that he had a tattoo of entwined snakes on his neck.

“Handling a pop group?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, the Busy Snakes. They’re hot and they think I’m cool.”

“Roy, you’re like a chameleon. You change according to whoever you’re doing public relations for. I never bothered.”

“I’m not as pushy as you, sweetie.”

“But a tattoo? Have you considered the agony of getting that removed once tattoos become unfashionable?”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’s a transfer.”

“I was hoping to discuss a couple of cases with you but how can you go detecting with me when you look like that?”

Roy got into the passenger seat. “Don’t nag. I’ll wash my hair and scrub off the fake tattoo. I hope we’re eating out.”

“No.”

“Aggie, much as I love you, I haven’t got your palate for microwaved meals.”

“It’s all right. It’s a carry-out from a very good Chinese place in Stow.”

As they ate that evening, Agatha told him about the Smedleys and then about finding Jessica’s body.

“That’s amazing,” said Roy. “Imagine you finding her when the police couldn’t.”

Agatha’s conscience gave a twinge. “Well, it was Phil’s idea, really.”

“Who’s Phil?”

“He’s a seventy-six-year-old photographer who lives in the village.”

“There you are. Age does bring wisdom.”

“Not really,” said Agatha. “I’ve found that stupid young people grow up to be stupid old people.”

“You haven’t really softened up after all. Sometimes I wonder why you don’t just chuck it all in and retire gracefully. I would.”

“What! You? Out of all the trendy excitement of London!”

“You know what it’s like. Public relations can be wearing. Being nice to some truly awful people. The Busy Snakes have one hit record and already they’re all prima donnas. They were lucky, that’s all. By next year, no one will have heard of them and they won’t have any money for their drugs and they’ll be out mugging old ladies for a fix.”

“You
are
gloomy.”

“I tell you, a month ago I was driving down one of the motorways. It was a windy day and I saw them erecting a circus tent in a field by the road. I had this sudden fantasy that the wind would blow the tent away, right across my car. I’d make an emergency stop. The circus people would come running and pull the canvas off my car and ask if I was all right. They’d invite me back for tea and I would join the circus and I would never see another pop star again.”

There was a silence.

Then Agatha said, “I suppose you imagined the circus people in full costume.”

“Of course. The horse riders had their scarlet coats and plumed hats and the trapeze artist, she was in sequins. She had long dark hair and it brushed across my face as I sat at the wheel when she leaned in the window.”

“When did you last have a holiday, Roy?”

“Can’t quite remember. I just begin to plan and something else turns up.”

“When you go back,” said Agatha bracingly, “book a holiday right away. Go somewhere where you can lie on the beach and think of nothing.”

“Can’t. The Busy Snakes are booked for Wembley.”

“Didn’t know they were that important.”

“They aren’t. They’re warming up for Elton John.”

“Well, after that…”

“Maybe. So are we detecting this weekend?”

“After having listened to you, I think we both need time off. I know, we’ll motor to Bath on Sunday and have an enormous cream tea and then sit in the gardens and listen to the brass band.”

“That sounds great. Give murder and mayhem a rest.”

The following day was perfect weather with castles of white clouds piled up over a large blue sky.

Anaesthetized by the largest cream tea they had ever eaten—Roy had insisted on two lots of scones, strawberry jam and Cornish cream—they slumped down in deckchairs in the gardens and listened to the band, surrounded by the amiable chatter of families with their children.

Roy had bought a Panama hat and it was now tilted across his eyes. Agatha did not have a hat but she had edged her deckchair under the shade of a tree.

After a few minutes, Roy let out a faint snore. Maybe he was right, thought Agatha. Maybe she should give up the whole business of detecting. But she knew all at once that if she spent too much time alone she would start thinking of James Lacey again. Still, at least she actually cared about poor Jessica and was determined to find out who murdered the girl. Robert Smedley was another matter. And then she blinked rapidly. At first she thought her mind had conjured up an image of him. Then she realized it really was Robert Smedley. He had risen from a deckchair near the bandstand and was helping a young woman to her feet. The woman was vaguely pretty in a vapid kind of way. Lots of red hair but a thin white face and a rabbity mouth.

“Roy!”

Snore.

Agatha leaned over and prodded him in the ribs.

“Hey, what?”

“It’s Smedley,” hissed Agatha, “with another woman.”

“Where?”

“Over there. They’re coming this way. Here!”

Agatha extracted a newspaper from the three she had been holding in her lap. Roy snatched one and opened it up to shield his face. Agatha did the same. They covertly lowered the newspapers a little.

Robert Smedley was dressed in white flannels and a tight blazer with a flashy crest on the pocket. His lady was wearing very high heels and leaning on his arm. They waited until the couple had passed.

“Right!” hissed Agatha. “We follow them.”

But too many junk meals had taken their toll and Agatha’s hips were wedged firmly into the deckchair. She stood up with the chair sticking to her backside. “Help me, Roy.”

He wrenched her free. There was a ripple of laughter from the other people in deckchairs. Agatha looked wildly round. Smedley and his companion had disappeared.

“You need to lose weight,” said Roy.

“I’ve only put on a little. It was that cream tea. They were heading up the hill.”

They hurried up to Pierrepoint Street. “No sign,” panted Agatha. “I’ll go right and you got left.”

“I don’t know what they look like. They were gone by the time I looked!”

“He’s portly with thinning hair, tight blazer, white trousers. She’s rabbity with red hair, lots of it, wearing a blue-and-white-patterned dress and very high heels. She can’t have got far in those heels. We’ll meet back here.”

They split up. Agatha went as far as the Grand Parade on her side and Roy went along Manvers Street, Dorchester Street and then St. James’s Parade.

When they met up again, they were hot and tired. “I know,” said Agatha. “Hotels.”

“There are loads of hotels. Loads!” screeched Roy.

“Let me think. He was so solicitous, I think it must be a new love, so he’d take her somewhere posh.”

“Like where?”

“Like the Granton Crescent Hotel. We’d better get a cab. It’s a long climb up.”

But there did not seem to be any cabs available. By the time they had trudged up to the Royal Crescent, where the hotel was situated, Roy was flushed with heat and cross with Agatha.

They entered the cool hallway of the hotel and approached the reception desk. “Yes, madam?”

The receptionist was cool, slim and foreign.

“I wonder if a friend of mine has checked in?” asked Agatha. “A Mr. Smedley?”

Long painted nails rattled efficiently over the keys of a computer. The receptionist raised her head. “I am afraid we have no one of that name.”

“May I just see the book? Such a rogue. He may have signed in under another name.”

“What book?”

“The book the guests sign,” said Agatha impatiently.

“No, that is so old-fashioned. They sign cards and their bookings are logged on the computer.”

“Oh, if you could just give me a printout.”

“The details are private. Please leave.” The receptionist turned away to where an overdressed woman was waiting. “Mrs. Bentinck, how nice to see you again.”

Agatha saw a bar leading off the hall. “I’m having a nice cold drink.”

“Remember, you’re driving,” cautioned Roy.

“I don’t think one mimsy gin and tonic is going to make a blind bit of difference. Come on.”

The bar was cool and dark. Agatha lowered herself into an armchair with a sigh of relief and wiggled her toes inside her sandals.

A waiter came up and they gave their orders. When they had been served, Roy said, “I know you like to take long shots, but this was a very long one indeed.”

“I know,” conceded Agatha. “Still, I must have lost some weight with all that walking. I’ll tell Patrick about it.” She took out her mobile phone. “He’s supposed to be on the Smedley case and I’m supposed to be finding Jessica’s murderer. Now I feel guilty for having taken time off.”

She spoke to Patrick and then said, “We’ll collect the car and park somewhere on the road out. See if we can catch them leaving. I mean, it’s Sunday. Maybe he wants to get home before the wife suspects anything. Maybe he’s not booked into a hotel.”

“They may not be leaving,” complained Roy as they sat in the sun inside the car by the side of a road leading out of Bath.

“This is the road they’ll take if they’re heading back to the Cotswolds.”

“But they may be shacked up somewhere for another night of mad passion. Isn’t there any air conditioning in this car?”

“No.”

“What happened to the Saab? What happened to the Audi? Why are we sitting in a small hatchback Rover which looks as if it had five hundred previous owners?”

“I wanted an anonymous-looking car. No one notices a cheap car. This is a very good Rover and I got it second-hand. Keep your eyes on the road behind.”

“It’s all right for you. You’ve got the rear-view mirror. I’ve got a crick in the neck from twisting around.”

“Phil’s got the number of the wife’s car,” said Agatha half to herself. “He wouldn’t be driving that. I wonder if he knows the number of Smedley’s car.”

She phoned Phil and asked him. “Yes, I’ve got it,” said Phil. “I went round after dark and photographed both cars in the driveway. It’s a BMW. Dark green.” He gave her the registration number.

Agatha thanked him, rang off, and gave Roy the details. They waited patiently. “This is hopeless …” Roy was beginning to say, when Agatha exclaimed, “Here they come!”