‘But you were the only one overheard threatening to murder her. Now describe your movements since arriving in Snoth-on-Sea.’
So in a subdued voice, Agatha did.
‘You and Mr Lacey had separate rooms at the hotel. What is your relationship with Mr Lacey?’
‘He is my ex-husband. We were about to go on holiday together.’
‘Leaving the country?’
‘Yes, but –’
The door opened and a policewoman said, ‘Mrs Raisin’s lawyer is here.’
A well-dressed, elegant man entered the room. ‘If you do not mind, gentlemen, I would like a word with my client.’
Barret told the tape that he was ending the interview and then switched it off. He and Wilkins left the room.
‘I am Jeremy Posselthwaite,’ said the lawyer. ‘I am an old friend of James Lacey. He called me on my mobile and it was fortunate I just happened to be in Brighton at the time. What have they got on you?’
‘This dead woman insulted me in the dining room of the hotel. I said something about wanting to murder her. I lost my scarf. She was evidently found strangled with it. That’s it.’
‘And before you came here, you had never met Mrs Jankers before?’
‘Never.’
‘I gather from James that they not only insulted you and the other hotel guests but that Wayne Weldon, the son, picked a fight with James and came off badly.’
‘Yes.’
‘They are still trying to estimate the time of death. They guess she was murdered sometime last night. Where were you?’
‘We were in Brighton. We wanted some decent food, so we went to a French restaurant called Le Village. It’s in the Lanes.’
‘And when did you return to the hotel?’
‘About eleven in the evening. Look, this Mrs Jankers was found dead on the beach. She detested me as much as I detested her, although we had only met in the dining room the evening before. How on earth could I be able to persuade her to take a walk on the beach with me?’
‘When did you find your scarf was missing?’
‘It was after we left the dining room on our first evening. We couldn’t stand the food, so we went to a Chinese restaurant. That was when I discovered the scarf was missing and I thought I must have left it in the dining room.’
‘Perhaps Mrs Jankers took it. Or whoever murdered her. They haven’t formally charged you with anything, have they?’
‘No, all they are doing is questioning me.’
‘Well, the first thing to do is to get you out of here. If they have further questions, they can check with you at your hotel. They really haven’t got much to hold you on. Back in a minute.’
An hour later Agatha and James walked gloomily along the seafront. They had been told not to leave the town.
‘Oh, look,’ said Agatha, ‘even the seagulls are dirty. Why is that, do you think? There doesn’t seem to be much industry around here.’
‘Bugger the seagulls,’ said James moodily. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I think I’ll ask Patrick and Harry to come down here and help us solve this case.’
‘Let’s leave it to the police for once.’
‘No, I want out of here. Just think. Harry could put on that gothic look of his, or whatever it’s supposed to be – you know, the studs and black leather – and get cosy with the Jankers family and friends. Patrick can work with us. The police always take to Patrick because he used to be one of theirs.’
They had reached a dusty bandstand at the edge of the promenade. ‘Look at that,’ said James. ‘That bandstand used to glitter green and gold and the band played such jolly tunes.’
Agatha glanced sideways at him and realized for the first time that she neither knew nor understood James. The clouds of obsession were clearing away, leaving her looking at a stranger.
They walked up into the bandstand. Litter blew around their feet.
James stood silently, looking out to sea. I never thought he might be an unhappy man, thought Agatha. Surely only an unhappy man would chase after fond memories of childhood.
She took out her mobile phone. ‘Look, James. I’m going to phone them at the office and then we’ll get something to eat, but not at the hotel.’
He did not reply, so she shrugged and phoned Mrs Freedman and asked to speak to Patrick.
‘Hello,’ said Patrick. ‘I’m afraid things here are still quiet. Where are you phoning from?’
‘A dreary dump called Snoth-on-Sea. Let me tell you what’s been happening here.’
Agatha briskly outlined their supposed involvement in the murder of Mrs Jankers. ‘I want you and Harry to come down here and help me solve this murder. Can Phil cope on his own?’
‘I should think so, if we aren’t away too long.’
‘Can you both set out as quickly as possible? I’ll book rooms for you at the hotel. No, on second thoughts, I’ll book your room, Patrick. Tell Harry to book his own and to wear his skinhead black-leather look. I want him to cosy up to the dead woman’s family.’
‘We should both be down there by evening. Food good?’
‘Lousy.’
‘Okay, we’ll eat on the road.’
Agatha felt more cheerful when she had rung off. ‘Harry and Patrick will be here this evening,’ she said.
‘If you think that will do any good.’ James had his shoulders hunched before the increasing wind.
‘Well, it’s better than mooning around here looking for your lost youth,’ snapped Agatha.
‘You really are a bitch.’
‘I know,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s eat.’
After a moderately good pub lunch, they made their way back to the hotel. The manager greeted them with the news that Mr Cyril Hammond, the Jankerses’ family friend, wished to speak to them and was waiting in the bar.
James remembered the bar as having once been an elegant place with white-coated waiters moving around among the palms. Now it was dingy. The long mahogany bar had been replaced by a plastic fake-wood one and the beautiful Victorian mirrors were gone. Low coffee tables had replaced the good old sturdy ones. ‘Probably sold off the contents to an antique dealer,’ said James. ‘Oh, there’s Hammond, over there by the window.’
Cyril Hammond rose to meet them. He had a sallow face and black hair combed straight back from his forehead. His little toothbrush moustache was neatly trimmed over a small thin mouth. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and white trousers with knife-edged pleats.
‘Drink?’ he asked.
He signalled to the solitary fat waitress, who lumbered up and took their orders, sighing heavily as she did so, as if overworked, although they were the only customers in the bar.
‘I’m sorry about the incident,’ said Cyril.
‘Murder is hardly an incident,’ Agatha pointed out.
‘Oh, that. I meant Wayne picking a fight.’
‘Why did you want to see us?’ asked James. He took a sip of his cloudy half-pint of beer, made a face, and put it down on the table.
‘It’s like this. That detective, Barret, he said you, Mrs Raisin, were a private detective.’
He did not tell Agatha that Barret had added a bitter complaint that any weirdo these days could go around calling themselves a private detective.
‘I am very successful,’ said Agatha.
‘I’m worried about the family and I want this cleared up. None of us would have touched her.’
‘What about her husband? She was on her honeymoon?’
‘Oh, Fred? I can’t imagine him strangling anyone or having the strength to do it. It must have been some stranger.’
‘The police don’t know exactly when she was murdered,’ said Agatha. ‘Has anyone any idea why she went out walking on the beach? It’s a peculiar place to go. I mean, there’s hardly any beach left.’ As if to illustrate her point, spray dashed against the windows.
‘High tide,’ commented Cyril. ‘We don’t know why Geraldine went out. Her husband says he was fast as
leep and didn’t hear her leave.’
‘There are houses on either side of this hotel,’ said James. ‘Surely the police have been questioning people.’
‘As far as I can gather,’ said Cyril, ‘nobody saw anything. There are stairs down to the beach right opposite the hotel. Once down there, she couldn’t be seen because of the promenade wall.’
‘Do you want us to try to find out who did it?’ asked Agatha.
‘I wish you would. I don’t have that much money . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ said Agatha grandly. ‘I’ll be working for myself. I want to get out of this place as soon as possible.’
‘Was Mrs Jankers married before?’ asked James.
‘Yes, three times.’
Agatha blinked in surprise. She thought she would never understand men. She had known attractive women who couldn’t even get married once.
‘How did the marriages end?’ James asked.
‘The first one – that would be Jimmy Weldon. He died of a heart attack. Then the second, Charlie Black, is doing time for armed robbery. She divorced him when he was in prison. Before Fred, there was Archie Swale. She divorced him before she met Fred at ballroom dancing classes.’
‘It could be that this Archie Swale was bitter about the divorce. Do you know where he lives?’
‘Brighton, last I heard.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to know his address?’
‘I remember it was some house in Medlow Square. Can’t recall the number.’
Agatha made a note.
‘How long have you known Mrs Jankers?’
‘A long time. We were kids together down the East End of London. Somehow we managed to keep in touch over the years. Geraldine was great fun.’
‘Then why,’ said Agatha, ‘did she give me the distinct impression of being a noisy slag?’
‘Poor Geraldine was having a bad menopause. She was never like that before.’
‘Mr Hammond –’
‘Call me Cyril.’
‘Very well, Cyril it is,’ said Agatha. ‘Do you think you could persuade Wayne to speak to us?’
‘Might be difficult. He’s all broken up about his mother’s death, but I’ll try.’
Half an hour later, feeling they had extracted as much information as they could from Cyril, Agatha and James set out for Brighton to see if they could interview the ex-husband, Archie Swale.
They had bought a map of Brighton. Medlow Square came as a surprise to Agatha. It was a small square of trim Georgian houses. How had Geraldine managed to snare a husband who lived in such elegant surroundings?
After knocking at several doors, they learned that Archie lived at number ten.
‘Let’s hope he’s at home,’ said James, ringing the doorbell.
The door was answered by an elderly grey-haired man. His faded blue eyes looked at them from under heavy grey eyebrows. His face was criss-crossed by broken veins.
‘We’re looking for a Mr Archie Swale,’ said Agatha.
‘That’s me. What do you want?’
‘I am a private detective investigating the death of Geraldine Jankers,’ said Agatha, wondering furiously just how old Archie was. Geraldine had been in her fifties. Archie looked to be somewhere in his eighties.
‘I had nothing to do with the old bitch,’ said Archie. The door began to close.
‘We know you had nothing to do with it,’ said James quickly. ‘But we would like to know what sort of woman Geraldine was. That might give us a clue as to who murdered her.’
He studied them for a few moments and then shrugged. ‘You’d better come in.’
He ushered them in and shut the door. Then he led the way into a living room on the ground floor. It was sparsely furnished with a few good pieces. Persian rugs lay on the floor. Above the marble fireplace was a very good seascape.
Agatha tried to imagine the blowsy Geraldine in such surroundings, and failed.
Agatha and James sat down on a sofa piled with silk-covered cushions faded with age. Archie took a seat in an armchair next to the fireplace.
‘How long were you married?’ asked Agatha.
‘About a year.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘In a pub in Brighton. She was down from London for the day.’
‘And what attracted you to her?’
‘I was pretty lonely. My wife died fifteen years ago. Geraldine came up to my table and asked if she could join me, as all the other tables were taken. She seemed an easy friendly sort.’
‘Have you any photographs of her as she was then?’
He rose stiffly and went to a bureau by the window, opened a drawer and took out a photograph. He handed it to Agatha. ‘That was us on our wedding day. Brighton Registry Office.’
Agatha stared at the photograph in surprise. Geraldine was slimmer and had brown hair.
‘She was blonde when we saw her,’ said Agatha, ‘and fatter.’
‘That was the thing,’ he said. ‘Soon as we were married, she started to change. I’d never met that son of hers before we were married and he came to stay with his wife. Scum they were. Wayne stole a gold cigarette case that had been my father’s. I know he stole it, but Geraldine screamed at me for insulting her precious son. After that, things began to go rapidly downhill. She had seemed a nice, quiet lady before we were married. She liked her drink, but so do I. But she dyed her hair blonde and began to stay out late and wouldn’t tell me where she had been. I thought I was trapped for life when she suddenly asked me for a divorce. I thought she would take me for every penny I had left, but she settled for an amicable divorce. I felt I had got off lightly.
‘I heard she’d married again. It was on the radio when they were announcing the murder. What can I tell you about her? I think she was a bit of an actress. I mean, the difference before our wedding and after was astounding. I inherited this house from an aunt. I now live on my pension. I think the fact that I wasn’t well off upset her. She had a nasty mouth on her. I began to be frightened of her.’
‘Did you know she had been married twice before you?’ asked James.
‘Yes, she said they had both died.’
‘The first one did. The other is doing time for armed robbery.’
They continued to question him for the next quarter of an hour, but Archie did not have much more to tell them and so they left.
‘Let’s go back and brief Patrick and try to have a quiet word with Harry,’ said Agatha. ‘I wonder whether that armed robber ex of hers is still in prison.’
Chapter Three
Patrick was sitting in the hotel bar when they arrived. Agatha often wished he would dress more casually. From his neatly combed grey hair and lugubrious face to his suit, collar and tie and well-polished black shoes, he seemed to scream cop.
They sat down and ordered drinks and then began to tell him the whole story of what they had found out so far in detail. ‘So what we want you to do for a start,’ said Agatha finally, ‘is to use your police contacts and find out if Geraldine’s second husband, Charlie Black, is still doing time in prison.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Patrick.
‘Where’s Harry?’
‘He went out for a look around the town.’
‘Does he look the part?’
‘Oh, God, yes. He even followed me down on his motorbike. Black leather, shaved head, tattoos, studs, the lot.’
‘Do you know what room he’s in?’
‘Two five seven.’
‘We’ll call on him later when the coast is clear.’
‘Excuse me.’
They looked round and saw Cyril Hammond. ‘I can’t get Wayne to speak to you, but Fred Jankers said he would like a word. He wants to see you in his room.’
‘Now?’ asked James.
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
Patrick said he would go round to the police station to make friends with the local force. Agatha and James followed Cyril. Cyril was now wearing a yachting cap.
&
nbsp; ‘Would it be possible,’ said Agatha to Cyril’s back, ‘to have a word with your wife?’
That back stiffened noticeably. He turned round. ‘I don’t know if she can tell you anything that I don’t know.’
Agatha looked at him silently. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said reluctantly. ‘When you’re finished with Fred, I’ll bring Dawn down to the bar.’
‘We would really like to talk to your wife on her own,’ said James.
‘Why?’
‘Wives often find the presence of a husband a bit intimidating.’
As if you would know anything about marriage, thought Agatha bitterly.
‘All right,’ said Cyril with obvious reluctance.
He walked on and they followed him along one of the hotel’s long corridors. He stopped at a door and shouted, ‘It’s me, Cyril.’
A faint voice answered and he opened the door and went in, followed by Agatha and James.
Fred Jankers was sitting in a chair by the window. He was a small man with black hair, which looked as if it had been dyed, combed in sparse lines across his head. He had a small face and small black eyes.
He was wearing a charcoal-grey suit which hung about him in folds, a striped shirt and a black silk tie.
‘Sit down,’ said Fred. His room faced the sea. They could hear the waves pounding the sea wall.
Agatha and James found two hard chairs and Cyril sat on the bed.
‘I want you to find out who killed my Geraldine,’ said Fred. His voice was high and reedy.
‘We’ll do our best,’ said James and Agatha threw him an irritated look. After all, she was the detective.
‘We’d like to know as much as you can tell us about your late wife,’ said Agatha. ‘Where did you meet her?’
‘Ballroom dancing class. I was a bit shy, but she latched on to me right away.’
‘What is your job or profession?’
‘I own a chain of small dress shops. I think that’s what attracted Geraldine to me. She was very fashion-conscious.’
Like hell she was, thought Agatha, remembering Geraldine’s blowsy appearance; it was your money she was after.
Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor Page 3