Read Agatha Raisin: As The Pig Turns Online
Authors: M.C. Beaton
Agatha Raisin: As The Pig Turns
Also in the Agatha Raisin series
Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death
Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet
Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener
Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage
Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death
Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam
Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate
Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance
Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor
Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye
Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison
Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride
Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body
The Agatha Raisin Companion
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the USA by Minatour Books,
an imprint of St Martin’s Press, 2011
First published in the UK by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2011
Copyright © M. C. Beaton 2011
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-84529-955-2 (hardback)
ISBN: 978-1-84901-958-3 (ebook)
Printed and bound in the EU
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
This book is dedicated to Sinead Goss, with many thanks for all her support for Target Ovarian Cancer.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Agatha Raisin wearily turned on to the road leading down into her home village of Carsely in the Cotswolds and then came to an abrupt halt. Cars stretched out in front of her.
She pulled on the handbrake.
It was the end of January and a very cold month, unusually cold. The tall trees on either side of the country road raised bare branches to a leaden sky as if pleading for the return of spring.
Agatha prayed it would not snow. It seemed as if two centimetres of snow were enough to close down the roads, because the council complained they had run out of salt and all roads leading out of
Carsely were very steep, making driving hazardous.
What on earth was going on? She gave an impatient blast on her horn, and the young man in the battered Ford in front gave her the finger.
Cursing, Agatha got out of her car and marched up to the Ford and rapped on the window. The sallow-faced youth opened the window and demanded, ‘Wot?’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ demanded Agatha.
The youth eyed her up and down, noting the expensively tailored coat and the beady, accusing eyes and marking the ‘posh’ accent. He scowled. ‘Pot’oles,’ he said
with a shrug. ‘They’re repairing pot’oles.’
‘And how long will it take?’
‘Blessed if I know,’ he said, and rolled up the window.
Agatha returned to the warmth of her car, fuming. She herself had complained bitterly to the council about the state of the road. But there were two other roads into the village. They might at
least have put up diversion notices until the road was repaired. She contemplated making a U-turn but knew, considering her lack of driving skills, it would take her an awful lot of manoeuvring on
the narrow road to do so.
A drip began to appear on the end of her nose. She reached into the box of tissues on the seat beside her and blew her nose. Someone rapped at the window.
Agatha looked out. A policeman was bending down looking at her. He was squat and burly, with a squashed-looking nose in his open-pored face and piggy, accusing little eyes.
Lowering the window, Agatha asked, ‘How long is this going to take, Officer?’
‘It’ll take as long as it takes, madam,’ he said in a thick Gloucestershire accent. ‘I am ticketing you for taking your hands off the wheel.’
‘My, what? Are you mad? I was simply blowing my nose. The handbrake’s on, I’m stuck here . . .’
‘Sixty-pound fine.’
‘I’ll see you in hell first before I pay that,’ howled Agatha.
He handed in a ticket. ‘See you in court.’
Agatha sat for a moment, shaking with rage. Then she took a deep breath. She started to negotiate a U-turn, but cars piled up behind her had decided to do the same thing. At last she was clear,
just in time to see in her rearview mirror that the line of cars she had just left had started to move.
By the time she reached her thatched cottage in Lilac Lane, it had begun to snow, fine little pellets of snow. Damn all pundits and their moaning about global warming, thought Agatha. As she
opened the car door to get out, a gust of wind whipped the ticket the policeman had given her and sent it flying up over her cottage.
She let herself into her cottage. Her two cats, Hodge and Boswell, came running forward to give her the welcome they always gave her when they wanted something to eat.
Agatha fed them, poured herself a gin and tonic, and then phoned her friend Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. When he came on the phone, Agatha complained bitterly about the policeman who had given
her a ticket for blowing her nose.
‘That would be Gary Beech,’ said Bill, ‘the target fiend. You know we have to meet certain targets or we don’t get promotion. He goes a bit mad. The other week, a
nine-year-old’s mother who lives in a cul-de-sac in Mircester chalked squares on the pavement for her little boy to play hopscotch. Beech arrested the kid and charged him with the crime of
graffiti. And he charged a toddler with carrying a dangerous weapon even though the kid was holding a water pistol. An old-age pensioner was arrested under the Terrorism Act for carrying a placard
saying, ‘Get our boys out of Afghanistan.’
‘What should I do?’
‘It’ll probably be thrown out of court. Or you could just pay the fine.’
‘Never!’
‘How’s business?’
‘Not good. The recession is really biting. People just don’t have the money.’ Agatha looked out of her kitchen window. ‘Blast! The snow’s getting thicker. I wish
I’d invested in snow tyres or a four-wheel drive. Roy Silver’s coming down for the weekend. I hope the roads clear by then.’
Roy had worked for Agatha when she had run a successful public relations business in London. She had taken early retirement and had sold up to move to the Cotswolds. But after solving several
murders, she had decided to set up her own detective agency.
Bill said he would try to get down to see her at the weekend and rang off.
Agatha then phoned her agency. She had a small staff: Patrick Mulligan, a retired policeman, Phil Marshall, an elderly man from Carsely, young Toni Gilmour and a secretary, Mrs Freedman. A
shrewd businesswoman, Agatha had seen the recession coming long before most people and so had decided not to employ any more staff. But there was one absence from her staff jabbing at her
conscience. A bright young detective, Simon Black, employed by Agatha until a few months earlier, had shown signs of falling in love with Toni. Persuading herself that she was acting in their best
interests, Agatha had told Simon that Toni was too young and to wait three years. But Toni had turned against Simon, feeling he was snubbing her at every turn, and to Agatha’s horror, Simon
had gone off and enlisted in the army and was now fighting in Afghanistan.
Toni answered the phone and said that Mrs Freedman and Phil had gone home, not wanting to wait any longer in case the snow got thicker. Toni, young, blonde and beautiful, often gave Agatha pangs
of envy, but she had to admit that the girl was a brilliant detective.
‘What have we got outstanding?’ asked Agatha.
‘Two adulteries, four missing pets and two missing teenagers.’
Agatha sighed. ‘It seems not so long ago that I swore I would never take on another missing pet. Now we need the money.’
‘It’s easy money,’ said Toni. ‘They hardly ever think of checking the animal shelter. I just go along there with the photos they’ve given me of Tiddles or whatever,
collect the beasts and phone the happy owners and then say, “Pay up”.’
‘Roy’s coming down for the weekend,’ said Agatha, ‘and maybe Bill will come over. Why don’t you join us and maybe I’ll find something interesting for us to
do?’
‘I’ve got a date.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Paul Finlay.’
‘How did you meet him?’
Toni longed to tell the ever-curious Agatha to mind her own business, but she said reluctantly, ‘I’ve been taking French classes in the evenings, now that it’s quiet at work.
He’s the lecturer.’
‘How old is he?’
‘I’ve got to go. The other phone’s ringing.’
After she had rung off, Agatha sat and worried. Toni had a weakness for older men and had run into trouble before.
Agatha’s cleaner, Doris Simpson, had left a local newspaper on the kitchen table. She began to search through it to see if there were any weekend amusements, and then her eye fell on an
event in Winter Parva, a village some twenty miles away. Agatha had been to Winter Parva only once. It was a touristy Cotswold village with gift shops, a mediaeval market hall and thatched
cottages. The article said that as the local shops had not fared as well as usual over the Christmas period, the parish council had planned to generate interest in the village with a special
January event. There was to be a pig roast on Saturday on the village green. The villagers were urged to dress in old-fashioned costumes. The Winter Parva morris dancers would perform along with
the local brass band and the village choir. Two busloads of Chinese tourists were expected to arrive for the event.
That’ll do, thought Agatha, as long as I’m not blocked in the village by the snow.
Feeling hungry, she rummaged in her deep freezer to find something to microwave. Suddenly all the lights went out. A power cut.
