Agatha Raisin: As The Pig Turns (6 page)

After explaining that she had been at police headquarters and why, Agatha asked, ‘Why are you here? Any more questions?’

‘No, I haven’t heard about your latest, but I have heard about Paul Finlay.’

‘What?’

‘He was married until two years ago. His wife divorced him on grounds of cruelty. She got custody of their two children.’

‘Was it mental cruelty, or physical cruelty?’

‘Both.’

Agatha covered her face with her hands. ‘I’m in bad trouble.’

‘You’re in bad trouble? What about Toni? We’ve got to warn her.’

‘Yes, yes. It’s not only that. I’ve done a bad thing.’

‘Again?’

‘It’s not funny. Young Simon Black who worked for me was keen on Toni. She’s too young to get married, Bill!’

‘And you didn’t want to lose a good detective,’ said Bill cynically.

‘I told Simon to wait three years and then I wouldn’t stand in his way. He joined the army and he’s now in Afghanistan.’

‘Agatha, are you sure your jealousy of Toni doesn’t make you think up these horrible plots?’

‘No, no. I care for the girl. There was something unstable about Simon.’

‘Then let’s hope anyway he doesn’t die a hero. Tell me the latest.’

Agatha glanced at her watch. ‘I hope to visit Amy this evening. I’d better go. I want her to think I’m off to Florida and then I’ll go underground.’

‘She’ll see you around.’

‘I’ll disguise myself. But I must get a look at this husband of hers. What are we going to do about Toni?’

‘I’ll go right now and see her. I’ve got the evening off.’

‘Don’t tell her about Simon!’

‘No, I think that’s up to you.’

Paul Finlay mounted the narrow stairs to Toni’s flat with a feeling of excitement. He felt the fact she had asked him for dinner and had said she had something important
to tell him was propitious in the least. Toni was all he desired: young, pretty and surely malleable. A woman’s duty was to support her husband at all times and agree with him.

He had never been in Toni’s flat before and expected dolls on the sofa and posters of pop groups on the walls. But although it was small, it was furnished in excellent taste. Bookshelves
on one wall were full of paperbacks and hardbacks. Two framed prints decorated the opposite wall, a Paul Klee and a Cotswold landscape by an artist he did not recognize. A round table was set at
the window.

‘Hello, Paul,’ said Toni nervously. ‘Want a drink before dinner?’

‘What have you got?’

‘Beer or wine.’

‘Wine will be fine. What’s that?’ He took the bottle from her. ‘My dear innocent – Blockley Merlot!’ Blockley was a village near Moreton-in-Marsh.

‘It’s a local company who imports it and bottles it. Have you been to the village store in Blockley? It’s fabulous, all the things they have there. Charles says this wine is
very good.’

‘I’ll stick to beer,’ said Paul ungraciously.

Toni shrugged. She opened a bottle of beer and poured him a glass. She was wearing cut-off jeans and a faded T-shirt.

‘I thought this was to be an occasion,’ said Paul, surveying her clothes.

‘Rather a sad one,’ said Toni. ‘Do sit down.’

He sat down on a two-seater sofa and patted the space beside him, but Toni drew up a hard chair and sat opposite. Toni had been out on only two dates with him since the murder. On each occasion,
he had lectured her on the dangers of her job when he was not pontificating about the importance of his own. Toni wondered what she had ever seen in him. Maybe a psychiatrist would say she had been
looking for a substitute father.

‘It’s like this, Paul,’ she said. ‘I am devoted to my job and I haven’t got time to go out on dates.’

His face became distorted with fury. ‘Are you
dumping
me?’

‘That’s a pretty harsh way of putting it,’ said Toni. ‘All I’m trying to say – well . . . it’s just that we’re not suited.’

‘Little girls like you need a good slap on the bottom.’ Before Toni quite realized what was happening, he had jerked her off her chair, over his knee, and had begun to spank her. She
reached down between their bodies and grabbed his balls and squeezed as hard as she could. He screamed and threw her off and then rolled on to the floor.

At that very opportune moment, the door opened and Bill Wong walked in.

He helped Toni to her feet. ‘What happened? Did he assault you?’

‘He smacked my bottom because I said I didn’t want to see him any more.’

Bill hauled the still-squirming Paul to his feet and clipped handcuffs on him. He read him his rights and charged him with assault.

‘
She
attacked
me
!’ Paul howled.

‘Let’s just forget it,’ said Toni.

Bill looked at her. ‘He’s done it before and he will do it again. His ex-wife divorced him because of physical and mental cruelty. He broke her ribs on one occasion and her jaw on
another. You know the score, Toni.’

‘Okay,’ said Toni. ‘Just take him away.’

‘Are you going to be all right? Is there anyone you could phone?’

‘No, I’ll be all right now,’ said Toni.

Agatha at that moment was telling Amy that she was going to Florida. ‘Isn’t your husband at home?’ she asked.

‘He should be here at any moment,’ said Amy nervously.

‘You seem on edge,’ said Agatha.

‘I keep wondering if whoever killed poor Gary might come after me.’

‘Only if they think you know something.’

The doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be my Bunchie!’ cried Amy, leaping to her feet.

‘Doesn’t he have a key . . . ?’ began Agatha. But the door to the living room opened and Amy entered, followed by a small, square man. He was expensively dressed in grey
worsted. He had oily brown hair, a florid face and a long clown’s mouth.

‘This is my Bunchie!’ cried Amy. ‘Good luck on your trip. Keep in touch.’

‘If I could just have a few words with your husband, please.’

‘Oh, now is not the time. My poor Bunchie is so tired.’

Somehow Agatha found herself propelled towards the door.

‘It’s all very odd,’ Agatha told the privet hedge outside. She settled into her car and drove off a little way down the street where she could still get a good view of the
entrance to the house from the streetlamp outside. The cold was intense, but she did not feel like switching on the engine. I wonder if this Bunchie really is her husband, she thought. He
didn’t have a door key.

After an hour, the door opened and Bunchie appeared. He scuttled into a black BMW and set off. Agatha followed him. He drove through Mircester and out to the northern end of the town where there
were large villas set back from the road.

Agatha got out of her car and walked slowly along. He walked up the path of one of the villas, took out keys and unlocked the door. A child’s voice could be heard crying shrilly,
‘Mummy, Daddy’s home!’

Now, thought Agatha, retreating to her car, either Amy is on the game or dear Bunchie is a bigamist. If I tell Bill, he’ll put a watch on the house and then call her in for questioning.
Amy’s paying me and I need the money. Expose Amy and I won’t get any. But if I continue to watch Amy, there might be some connection there to her ex-husband’s murder.

Her plans for choosing some disguise to pretend she had actually gone to Florida while keeping a watch on Amy’s house were nearly sabotaged by a letter arriving in the
morning post that declared she had been appointed as one of the nominees for the award of Mircester’s Woman of the Year.

Agatha glowed. She must slim. She must book a series of nonsurgical face-lifts. But after looking more closely at the invitation, she realized it was not due to take place until June. And
usually the nominees for Woman of the Year were announced the year before. The choice of her name looked a bit last minute. She must find out the names of the other nominees.

But in the meantime, it was back to business.

Heavily disguised, Agatha drove into Mircester and checked the electoral roll for the address where she had followed the man who had left Amy’s. To her amazement,
opposite the address was the name Mr T. Richards. So it looked as if he was a bigamist! But she could not confront him. She had phoned Amy earlier and had told her that she was about to board a
flight to Miami.

Agatha called Bill on his mobile. A sleepy voice answered her and said crossly, ‘You woke me up.’

Agatha looked at her watch. ‘It’s ten o’clock in the morning.’

‘And I’ve been working all night,’ said Bill. ‘What is it?’

‘Can I come round and see you? I have some important news.’

‘Okay.’

‘I’m in diguise.’

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs Wong opened the door to a woman with heavy black hair and plump cheeks, wrapped in several layers of clothing and wearing large glasses.

‘We’re not buying,’ she said. The door began to close.

Bill appeared behind his mother, wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown. ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he said. ‘I know who this is. It is you, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on in.’

Mrs Wong retreated, angrily muttering about folks who wouldn’t let her boy sleep.

Bill led the way into the living room. ‘It’s a good disguise, Agatha. Out with it. I’m so tired, your information better be good.’

Agatha told him what she had found out about Richards.

Bill listened in amazement. ‘How did he think he would get away with it in the middle of a murder inquiry? Good work. We’ll pull him in.’

‘And you’ll keep me up to date on anything you find out?’ asked Agatha anxiously.

‘You have my word. Did Toni tell you I arrested Paul Finlay?’

‘No, she never said a word. What happened?’

Bill told her.

‘Why on earth didn’t Toni tell me?’ wondered Agatha.

‘Perhaps she feels you are too interested in her private life, Agatha.’

Agatha thought dismally of Simon in Afghanistan and blushed. Bill surveyed her in amazement. He could not remember ever having seen Agatha blush before.

By the end of another week, Agatha was tired of her surveillance of both Richards and Amy and driving in disguise to wait for long hours at a time outside their respective
houses. Tom Richards spent most of his evenings and nights with Amy and only about two with his children.

It was therefore with relief that she hailed Bill Wong, who was waiting for her at the end of what seemed to Agatha like a very long week of waiting.

‘Come in,’ said Agatha, ‘and tell me, please, that I can get rid of this disguise. The wig’s so heavy, and these pads in my cheeks make me feel like a
chipmunk.’

‘They also make you sound drunk,’ said Bill, following her into the kitchen. ‘Make me a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you all about it.’

Agatha plugged in the percolator after tearing off her wig and clawing the pads out of her cheeks. ‘I can’t wait,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Start talking.’

‘Tom Richards was divorced amicably from his wife a year ago. He married Amy six months later. She begged for a makeover, face-lift, the works, so he sent her to Los Angeles. She was never
in Florida. Asked why she had made up this fairy tale about this Art Mackenzie, it turns out she’s a bit of a fantasist, and it was all in a plot she had seen in some soap opera over there.
Asked why she had lied, she said that if she had said that she had asked poor Bunchie to pay up so much money for her cosmetic surgery, it would make her look grasping and vain. Thanks.’

He took a mug of coffee from Agatha. ‘Richards supports her story, and yes, he did pay for everything.’

Agatha sat down beside him and nursed a cup of coffee. One cat, Hodge, climbed on Bill’s lap, and the other, Boswell, tried to lie across his head. He gently lifted both of them on to the
floor.

‘Something’s wrong here,’ said Agatha. ‘You didn’t tell her that I had spilled the beans?’

‘No, we told her we had been checking up on her marital status, that the FBI in Florida had no records of an Art Mackenzie, and she came out with the truth.’

‘There’s something wrong here.’ Agatha lit a cigarette. ‘It’s like this. The one thing I believe that Amy told me is that Beech abused her. She said her father had
beaten her. She said she liked masterful men. I wonder if the face-lift was really her idea, or was Richards being controlling and manipulating. I wonder whether he tried to get his ex to get a
face-lift. Then the money from the divorce from Beech. She said he paid her a generous amount. I wonder if he paid her in cash. I’d like to speak to the former Mrs Richards.’

‘It’s a bit far-fetched, Agatha. I mean, he may not look like much, but he’s very, very rich. Rich men can usually get themselves arm candy easily enough.’

‘Pig! Pig!’ said Agatha.

‘Are you insulting . . . ?’

‘No, no. The pig whatsit.’

‘Oh, Pygmalion.’

‘That’s the chap.’

‘No, you’re getting a bit carried away. He seems to dote on her.’

‘But she showed me a photo of herself before the face-lift. She wasn’t even pretty.’

‘I’d backpedal for a bit,’ said Bill. ‘Don’t want you blundering around in the middle of a police investigation.’

Agatha bristled. ‘She’s paying me to find out who killed Gary, and I need the money. That’s a point. Money. Beech evidently paid her generously to give him a divorce. Now where
does a mere plod get the money to be generous to anyone?’

‘We’re looking into that. His bank balance only contained a few hundred pounds, but Detective Constable Alice Peterson pointed out when we visited Gary’s home that it held some
expensive antiques. We traced the antiques dealer. Yes, Gary bought several expensive pieces of furniture and paid cash. So he was up to something on the side.’

‘Maybe he targeted people the whole time and charged them with this and that and then took bribes.’

‘No, I don’t think so. He delighted in getting people into court.’

Bill had just left when Toni arrived. ‘I want a word with you, Mrs Raisin,’ she said.

‘Come in,’ said Agatha. ‘What’s up?’

Toni marched straight through to the kitchen and slammed a wedding invitation down on the table. ‘This is what’s up, you interfering old bag.’

Agatha read the invitation. Lance Corporal Simon Black was to wed Sergeant Susan Crispin in Mircester Abbey on June the tenth.