Agatha Raisin 12-The Day the Floods Came

by Beaton, MC

  “It all takes ever so much time,” said Roy brightly. “Just want a few more words.”

  “Can’t you wait till Dad gets here? He won’t be long.”

  “It’s just a chat,” urged Agatha.

  “Okay. Come in.”

  He led them through the stale-smelling disco where the staff were busy clearing up, and up to the office. “Drink?”

  “Too early,” said Agatha. She lit up a cigarette. God, it tasted awful. She stubbed it out.

  “I’ll have one,” said Zak. He poured himself a large glass of vodka and gulped it down, neat.

  Roy waited until he had finished and then began questioning him about the disco. How many did they get? Had there ever been any trouble?

  Zak slumped down in a chair and answered in a dull voice that they had nearly eighty people on a Saturday night, and, no, they’d never had any trouble—a few scuffles, that was all.

  “You must feel you cannot settle to anything, get back to normal, until Kylie’s killer is found,” said Agatha.

  “If I ever get my hands on the bastard, I’ll kill him,” said Zak fiercely. “She was lovely, my Kylie … lovely. And to be snuffed out like that when she was still so young. It don’t bear thinking off.” His hands shook and tears spilled down his cheeks. “The strain of wondering and wondering who did it is wearing me down.”

  The office door opened and his father, Terry, came in. His eyes darted from Agatha to Roy and then to his son.

  “Look here,” he said truculently, “Zak’s had enough to bear. I don’t mind you filming the club, but if you’ve got any questions about Kylie Stokes, you’d better ask me in future. Go downstairs, Zak, and make sure they’re not pinching any booze.”

  Zak left. He looked glad to escape.

  Agatha was glad of Roy’s support. Roy proceeded to question Terry about the club, about the young people, about his life in general, until Agatha could see Terry visibly relax, and even become excited again at the prospect of his club and himself appearing on television.

  At last, Roy said he had enough. They were just about to leave when Terry said, “Wait a minute. Give me your card. If I think of anything, I’ll phone you.”

  To Agatha’s surprise, Roy took out a card case, selected a card and gave it to him. Terry studied it, gave a satisfied grunt, and put it in the pocket of his shirt.

  “What number did you give him?” asked Agatha when they were outside on the street.

  “My private line at the office. I thought someone would ask us for a card, so I got some printed on one of those machines at the railway station.” He held one out. It said, in neat script, “Roy Silver, Executive, Pelman Television,” and then the number.

  “But what if you’re not in your office and the secretary answers?” asked Agatha.

  “I primed her. I told her just to say, ‘Mr. Silver’s secretary,’ and then, if someone started asking about television, to field the query.”

  “Clever you.”

  “Before we try anyone else here, shouldn’t we go up to Redditch and see if that girl’s regained consciousness?”

  “We could phone first. And what if there’s a policeman on duty outside her room?”

  “So what? We’ll say we’re relatives.”

  EIGHT

  AGATHA was silent on the road to Redditch. Her conscience, never usually very active, was beginning to bother her. She felt responsible for the death of Mrs. Ansruther-Jones and for the attack on Joanna. When they were clear of Evesham, she took off the wig and threw it on the back seat and put the glasses in the glove box.

  Should there be a policeman on duty outside Joanna’s room, then she did not want any report of a woman in a blond wig getting back to headquarters.

  “A lot of hospitals don’t bother much about visiting hours,” said Roy. “Let’s hope this is one, or that we arrive at the right time.”

  “Do we ask at the desk? Or do we just walk in and try to find the right ward?” asked Agatha.

  “We’ll suss it out when we get there,” he replied.

  “Well, well, well,” remarked Roy, as they drove into the car-park.

  “What?”

  “Over there. Just getting out of that BMW. That’s John Armitage and carrying a huge bouquet of flowers.”

  “Let’s join him,” said Agatha.

  “No, let’s follow him. I bet he knows where to go.”

  They scrambled out of the car and set off in pursuit of John. The hospital was busy with visitors arriving and leaving. They followed him along corridors until he stopped at a door and spoke to a policeman sitting outside. The policeman went into the room. Agatha and Roy hid behind a trolley full of laundry. The policeman came out again and said something to John. He went in.

  “Let’s go,” urged Roy.

  Agatha pulled him back. “We can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’ll ask our names. If we give our real names, he’ll make a note of it and I might get a rocket from Brudge. If I say I’m Joanna’s aunt, she might start screaming that she hasn’t got an aunt.”

  “Everyone’s got an aunt.”

  “Her parents are dead. She may not have been in touch with her relatives. No, let’s retreat to the car-park and question John when he comes out.”

  As they stood waiting beside John’s car, Roy asked, “Is he keen on her?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s old enough to be her grandfather.”

  “Makes no difference. That was an awfully big bunch of flowers.”

  The inside of Agatha’s head felt like a mess. Guilt was swirling around in there, mixed with apprehension, mixed with jealousy that John Armitage, so indifferent to her, should be presenting Joanna with an expensive bunch of flowers.

  They waited a full hour before John emerged. “Come to see Joanna?” he asked, walking up to them.

  “We decided it would be better to get a report from you. I’m not a favourite with the police at the moment,” said Agatha. “And come to think of it, neither are you.”

  “Oh, I’m all right. Joanna asked to see me.”

  “Why?” demanded Agatha sharply. “Did she remember anything?”

  “Not a thing. The last she knew was a hard blow on the head.”

  “This turns out to have been one wasted journey. What about going back to Evesham, Agatha sweetie, and question some of the others?” said Roy.

  “She can’t do that,” said John. “She’d need to wear her disguise, and apart from the fact that the police have got it, she’s been warned off.”

  “I’ll sit in the car and let Roy do the questioning,” said Agatha quickly. “You were in there for an hour. What did you talk about?”

  “Books, films, things like that.”

  “Come along, Roy. You can drive.” Agatha turned on her heel and headed for her own car without so much as a goodbye.

  John followed them down the road to Evesham. He noticed, as they were approaching the town, that Agatha leaned over to the back seat and picked up a blond wig and began to arrange it on her head. What on earth was she doing, keeping up the masquerade when the police had told her not to?

  But he felt he was being left out. Could Agatha really be having an affair with that young fellow? Roy had implied as much. Roy would need to leave for work on Sunday evening. Better leave things until then and call on Agatha.

  “Who next?” asked Roy.

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha wearily. She suddenly just wanted to go home and forget there was the real world out there, where handsome men, however old, preferred pretty young girls.

  “Buck up, Aggie. You can’t win them all.”

  “It’s your fault. You should never have let him think we were having an affair.”

  “If it makes you feel better to think that … Anyway, turn your mind to the problem at hand. Who have we got?”

  “I think,” said Agatha reluctantly, “that the best person to see next is the horrible Phyllis. She hated Kylie. Kylie took her boy-friend away
. She might let something slip.”

  “Got her phone number?”

  Agatha leaned over to the back seat and picked up a clipboard. “I’ve got all the phone numbers and addresses here.”

  “So let’s phone her. Ask her to meet us. Where?”

  “There’s a good pub round the corner from the car-park. Pub grub.”

  “That’ll do. So phone her.”

  “You do it. I can’t stand her and I need a little more time to psych myself up.”

  Roy phoned Phyllis’s number. Agatha’s thoughts drifted back to John as she dimly heard Roy making arrangements for lunch. He seemed such an asexual man. Could he really be interested in Joanna? And had his ex-wife really been such a monster or was there something wrong with him?

  She jerked away from her thoughts as Roy said, “Come on.

  Stop dreaming about what might have been. Let’s go and meet Phyllis.”

  Although the pub was only a short walk from Phyllis’s flat, it was a good half-hour before she arrived. Agatha, on seeing her, judged that Phyllis must have taken the time to plaster on an extra layer of make-up. Her fleshy features were covered in a thick white foundation cream and blusher. Her eyelashes had so much mascara on them that they stuck out like wires and her lips, already large, had been made larger by a coat of scarlet lipstick.

  When she had ordered her food and drink, Roy said, “I think you’re ever so brave.”

  “Why’s that?” said Phyllis. She moistened her lips and wondered what her chances were of fascinating this television executive.

  “I mean, you’re still working at Barrington’s. You must be wondering if you’ll be next.”

  “Not me,” said Phyllis. “Let me give you the low-down on our little Kylie. She was a nasty little bitch, batting her eyes at anything in trousers. And screwing around with the boss.”

  “How did you learn that” asked Agatha. Phyllis looked mysterious. “Little bird,” she said.

  “But who would kill her?” asked Roy.

  Phyllis leaned forward until her bust was resting on the table. “Shershy loam,” she said.

  “What?” Agatha looked at her, puzzled.

  Phyllis gave a superior laugh. “It means ‘Look for the man.’”

  “You mean, cherchez l’homme?”

  “That’s what I said, didn’t I? Anyway, with a tart like Kylie, there’s bound to have been more than one Mr. Barrington.”

  “Anyone you can think of?”

  “Naw, but the police’ll find him. She got what was coming to her.”

  “You’re an intelligent girl and you’ve certainly given us something to think about,” said Roy.

  Phyllis tried to bat her eyelashes at him, but the wiry upper set got stuck to the lower ones and so there was a silence until she had prised them apart.

  “What about the evening Joanna was attacked?” asked Agatha. “Sharon said she went back for a scarf. Did she join you again? And did she have a scarf?”

  “Didn’t notice.” Phyllis held up her empty glass. “Another of these? I mean, you’re on expenses anyway.”

  Roy went to the bar to get more drinks.

  “Nice bum,” said Phyllis, surveying Roy’s back.

  Agatha reflected that as Roy was so skinny and his jacket hung down over his rear, Phyllis was not in a position to judge. Phyllis was possibly just aping what the women’s magazines told her to say. Did women really admire men’s bottoms? Or had it started as a sort of feminist remark to try to even the sexes?

  Roy came back. “Thanks. Cheers,” said Phyllis. “Where was I? Oh, Joanna. That’s a dark horse. Little Miss Prim. She’s involved somehow. Must have been worried there was something on Kylie’s computer that might incriminate her. Here’s a thing!” Her eyes gleamed. “Harry McCoy, he told me that one evening, he saw Barrington driving past him on Evesham High Street and he could have sworn that Joanna was in the car next to him.”

  I hope that’s true and I wonder what John will make of it, thought Agatha. I’m a bit tired of Saint Joanna.

  Their food arrived. Agatha stared at Phyllis in amazement. She had never seen anyone eat so quickly. One minute her large mouth was bent down over the plate, and it seemed as if the next minute the plate was empty. Like watching a vacuum cleaner sucking up food.

  Phyllis then went on to describe her hopes of becoming a television star. She pointed out that she was the only one of the girls with any looks to qualify for stardom.

  Agatha and Roy ate steadily and tried not to listen as Phyllis’s harsh voice went on and on. They would have liked to escape, but Phyllis demanded more drink and pudding and so they had to wait until she had demolished a large helping of apple pie and custard washed down with a double vodka and Red Bull. Her face flushed with drink and food, she went on and on until at last they were able to make their escape.

  “Phew!” said Roy when they were free of her. “Now what?”

  “I can’t bear listening to any more of these silly girls’ dreams of stardom,” said Agatha. “Let’s ask John if he can find out from Joanna about Barrington.”

  “Harry McCoy could have been mistaken. And you’re jealous of John’s interest in this Joanna.”

  “I am not! It’s too good a lead to ignore.”

  John was at home when they arrived. He listened to them carefully and then said, “He was probably just giving her a lift home.”

  “Along the High Street?” jeered Agatha. “Wrong way.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ve got nothing better to do. I’ll run back up to Redditch and let you know what she says.”

  “What about a visit to your friend, Mrs. Bloxby?” suggested Roy when John had driven off. “We’ll tell her what we’ve got and see what she says. She’s very intelligent.”

  “She may be busy,” protested Agatha, who did not like hearing something that suggested Mrs. Bloxby might have better powers of deduction than she had herself.

  “We can try.”

  Mrs. Bloxby was at home and pleased to see them. Agatha rather sulkily listened as Roy outlined the latest findings.

  “It must have something to do with drugs,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

  “Why?” demanded Agatha. “I think it’s got something to do with blackmail and jealousy.”

  “Just a feeling. Say someone knew about how worried Kylie was about that wedding dress. And that someone phones her up, or if it was one of those office girls, says to her something like ‘Why don’t you nip out of the house with it and let me have a look?’ Kylie had probably drunk a lot at the hen party and so she wouldn’t see anything odd in going out in the middle of the night with it.”

  “Surely the police have thought of that. They must be looking for someone who saw a girl carrying a dress through the streets of Evesham at night.”

  Agatha lit up a cigarette, made a face and stubbed it out again. Why had she even tried? And she had never lit up a cigarette in the rectory before.

  “To turn to parish matters,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “We have a gentleman who is mounting an exhibition of old photographs of the Cotswolds in the school hall a week on Friday. Admission to the exhibition is only twenty pee. But to raise some extra money, we are having teas and cakes. May I rely on your support, Mrs. Raisin?”

  “No use asking her,” crowed Roy. “She can’t bake.”

  Agatha scowled horribly.

  “I meant, could you help with serving the teas? Mrs.

  Anstruther-Jones was one of our helpers, and the poor woman can’t do it now.”

  Guilt over Mrs. Anstruther-Jones’s death prompted Agatha to say gruffly, “Yes, put me down.”

  “Splendid.”

  I wonder how John’s getting on, thought Agatha.

  John entered Joanna’s hospital room quietly. She was lying asleep and looked very young and fragile. He put the box of chocolates he had brought her on the table beside the bed. Joanna’s eyes opened and she looked up at him.

  “John!” she exclaimed, a delicate pink colouring her cheeks. �
�Two visits in one day. I’ve got good news, too. I’m to go home tomorrow.”

  “They’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m completely recovered.” She eased herself up against the pillows and gave him a radiant smile.

  “Joanna, there’s one little thing that made me curious. It’s about the Kylie Stokes business.”

  Her eyes flirted with him. “And I thought you came rushing back to see me.”

  “It’s just that you were seen one evening in Barrington’s car going along Evesham High Street.”

  “He gave me a lift home one evening.” She looked down and plucked at the bedcovers. He noticed she had painted her nails red, and Joanna wasn’t what he would have considered a red-nails sort of person. Oh, really? jeered Agatha Raisin’s voice in his head. And just what is a red-nails sort of person?

  “Joanna,” he persisted, “if he had been driving you home, he wouldn’t have gone by way of the High Street.”

  There was a long silence. Then she asked in a small voice, “Will you be telling the police?”

  “Neither I nor Agatha is particularly popular with the police at the moment. But I think you’d better tell me about it.”

  “He’s not a very nice person,” mumbled Joanna.

  “I know that. I gathered that.” He took a deep breath. “Did you have an affair with him?”

  She blushed as red as her nails.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  John had a sudden mental picture of Barrington with his florid face, thinning hair, and hairy hands. “Why, in God’s name?”

  “It started when he did give me a run home one night and he did go home first to pick up some files. He said there was a new restaurant just opened up in Cirencester, very expensive, and perhaps I would like to go? I’d never been to an expensive restaurant before and I thought it would be a bit of fun. I enjoyed myself. He told me he was planning to get a divorce. He’d made a mistake in his marriage. He said the business was doing well and he could soon afford to take a holiday—maybe the Caribbean—and he wished he could take someone like me. I’ve never been abroad. I’m ambitious. I want to see the world. I thought, why not? He said if I’d go with him, he’d get a divorce and marry me, so it wasn’t as if I would be committing adultery or anything.