by M C Beaton
‘But the countryside is so beautiful!’ exclaimed Phil.
‘It’s not even real countryside. Neat little fields. Manicured rubbish to keep rich farmers in their four-wheelers.’
‘I don’t know that the farmers have all that easy a time of it,’ ventured Phil. ‘I mean, they’re so dependent on the weather.’
‘And government subsidies,’ said Fiona.
Phil decided to quickly abandon that subject.
‘Are you married?’ he realized Fiona was asking.
‘No. Are you?’
‘Was. But we have friendly relations because of the children. Do you know his wife was found murdered the other day?’
‘Good heavens!’ said Phil. ‘I read about a murder at Tesco’s in Stow.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Why her? Is it because she was at one time married to that policeman who was murdered as well?’
‘Probably. I don’t know why she was murdered of all people. She was a silly, common little thing. My ex was married to her.’
‘No wonder you want to leave the countryside,’ exclaimed Phil. ‘You must be frightened to death.’
‘Why?’
‘Some psycho is going around murdering people.’
‘Ah, but I didn’t know the horrible Gary Beech.’
‘If you didn’t know him, how do you know he was horrible?’
‘His penchant for ticketing everyone was legendary. You do ask a lot of questions.’
‘Comes from being retired,’ said Phil. ‘I live a pretty lonely life, and I get curious about people. More tea?’
‘No thanks. I’d better be getting home. Wolfgang’s due back from school, and the younger ones are with the nanny.’
‘How old are they?’
‘Wolfgang’s thirteen, Josie’s five and Carol is four. Carol goes to a kindergarten twice a week. That’s all. She’s not very strong.’
‘What’s the matter with her?’
‘Nobody knows. She seems to be physically healthy, but she cries a lot. Look, I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Give me your card. Maybe we’ll meet up again.’
‘I’d like that.’ Phil carefully extracted a card that had only his home number and address.
‘Carsely.’ Her eyes sharpened. ‘Now why does that ring a bell?’
‘Been in the papers,’ said Phil easily. ‘That woman detective had a head delivered to her.’
‘God, how awful. Agatha Raisin, isn’t it? Well, she’s in a man’s world, so she’ll just have to learn to take it.’
When she had left, Phil thoughtfully ordered more tea and phoned Toni. ‘I’d leave her to me,’ he finished, then asked, ‘What happened in that shop?’
Toni told him. ‘Her ex-husband probably warned her off,’ said Phil. ‘I’ve established some sort of friendship. Why is Agatha so interested? Fiona seems an ordinary housewife.’
‘Agatha is suspicious of Richards despite his clean bill of health from the police. She feels Fiona might know something without being aware of it. She feels there is something seriously wrong with a man who wants women to go and get face-lifts.’
Phil finally finished drinking his tea and made his way out. He had an odd feeling of being watched, so to be on the safe side, he did not go back to the office.
That evening, Agatha was settling down to a solitary meal at the George, wondering bitterly why James had not tried to contact her, when a tall, well-groomed man approached her table. He was dressed in smart casual. He had silver hair and a tanned face, hooded pale eyes and a fleshy mouth.
‘Mrs Raisin?’
‘Yes?’ demanded Agatha suspiciously.
He slid into a chair opposite her. ‘My name is Guy Brandon. I’m the main judge in the Woman of the Year.’
‘I was very flattered to be nominated,’ said Agatha eagerly. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Yes, but I’ll have a coffee and brandy if that’s all right with you.’
Agatha waved the waiter over and gave the order.
‘I really think you should get the prize,’ he said. ‘You’re quite a legend.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, I’m behind you, but the other two judges, well, they favour Cressida Jones-Wilkes.’
‘Who the hell is she? Never heard of her.’
‘She runs a very successful garden centre on the Stow road.’
His brandy and coffee arrived. ‘Of course, the other two judges could be made to change their minds. But it costs money.’
Agatha opened her handbag and surreptitiously switched on a powerful little tape recorder. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I was looking for my cigarettes. I always forget about the smoking ban. You were saying that the other two judges could be bribed?’
He threw his head back and laughed, displaying a mouthful of large, cosmetically whitened teeth.
‘You have the reputation for being blunt, Mrs Raisin. But just think of the boost it would give your detective agency if you were elected. Midlands television are going to cover the event.’
‘How much?’ demanded Agatha.
‘I should think two thousand pounds each should settle the matter.’
‘Who are the other two judges?’
‘Mary Mamble, who runs the Arts Centre, and Sir Jonathan Beery.’
‘You used to be an MP, didn’t you?’ asked Agatha. ‘You lost your seat at the last election. What are you doing now?’
‘This and that. I write articles for the papers and sit on several committees. I am much in demand. In fact, I am a pretty famous public speaker.’
‘I am not going to hand out money until I know I am elected,’ said Agatha. ‘Tell them that as soon as I am, they will get the money.’
‘And two thousand to me,’ said Guy quickly. ‘I have to do all the work of persuading them.’
‘All right,’ said Agatha. ‘Same deal. I get elected and you and the others get paid immediately afterwards. I assume you all want cash?’
‘You are so quick on the uptake.’
‘Aren’t I just,’ said Agatha, her bearlike eyes glinting oddly in the light. ‘But get this. This is a ladies’ agreement. You do not see any cash until the deed is done.’
‘But surely . . . I mean, a little in advance?’
‘Not a penny.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to trust you.’
‘Oh, you’d better. For your own good.’
‘I’ll be in touch.’ He smoothed back his hair with a nervous hand.
Oh, dear, thought Agatha, watching his retreating back. What a wicked world!
Chapter Eight
Roy Silver drove happily down into Carsely early on Friday evening. He wondered whether Agatha would admire his new appearance. His hair had started to grow again, so he had gelled it into spikes. Very much taken with his punk appearance, he had decided to go for the retro look and was wearing flares and an open-necked shirt, displaying a gold medallion on his skinny, hairless chest.
He parked behind Agatha’s car and got out. He was opening the boot to take out his small suitcase when he was seized from behind and something cold and hard was thrust against his neck.
‘One squeak out of you and you’re dead,’ growled a voice.
Terrified, Roy felt himself being dragged into a van and thrown in the back. The van took off with a roar. Where was Agatha? wondered Roy, trembling uncontrollably. A man wearing a balaclava sat in the back of the van, holding a gun on him. He searched Roy’s pockets and took away his wallet and mobile phone.
‘Why are you doing this?’ pleaded Roy.
‘If the Raisin woman does as she’s told, then you’ve nothing to fear,’ said the man. ‘So shut up and stop whimpering or I will shoot you.’
As the evening dragged on without any sign of Roy, Agatha tried his mobile phone but did not get any reply. Then there was a ring at the doorbell. Roy, at last. She opened it and found James on the doorstep.
‘I thought you were Roy,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m expecting him.’
&n
bsp; ‘His car’s parked outside. Maybe he’s gone for a walk round the village, although it looks as if a storm is coming.’
Agatha felt fear clutch at her heart. ‘But he wouldn’t go for a walk after a long drive from London. Oh, God, what if something’s happened to him?’
‘Calm down. What could anyone want with Roy?’
‘Blackmail,’ whispered Agatha. ‘They tried to frighten me off with that head.’
‘I never saw anything. I’ve only just got home.’
Agatha took a deep breath. ‘I’m calling the police.’
Roy was taken out of the van and thrust into a half-derelict cottage. At gunpoint, he was shoved into a small room and the door was shut and locked behind him.
He looked around wildly. There came a great crack of thunder, and then a flash of lightning lit up the room. He caught a glimpse of a mattress on the floor and a bucket in the corner. The window was barred.
He sank down into the floor and burst into tears.
The police refused to let Agatha go out hunting for Roy. They said it would be better if she stayed by the phone in case there was a ransom demand. Toni, Phil and Patrick all set off in their cars to scour the countryside.
Roy had been taken at dinnertime – teatime for the elderly residents – and everyone in the village had been indoors, or that was the way it seemed, because the police received the same reply as they went from door to door – no one had seen anything.
Roy scrubbed his eyes dry with the sleeve of his shirt as the cottage seemed to rock under the ferocity of the storm breaking overhead.
In all his misery and fear, there was one little nugget of comfort – he had not fouled himself. He had read in books that people did that under duress.
He tried to be calm and search the room for any possible means of escape, but his legs were trembling too much and he sat down on the floor and began to sob. He had never believed in God, had been almost proud of the fact, but now, in extremis, he prayed for deliverance as he had never prayed before as the storm roared in ferocity.
Then, as his sobbing subsided, he suddenly felt exhausted and weary.
His eyes were just closing as he sat with his back to the wall when there was a tremendous explosion. He was to find out later that a thunderbolt had hit the roof. The door to his room was blown open as if by dynamite.
He staggered to his feet, his only thought one of escape. He no longer cared if his captors were lurking around. He ran through a wrecked, smouldering kitchen and out into the driving rain.
Roy looked around wildly. A jagged flash of lightning lit up his surroundings. Nothing but fields on either side. But far in the distance, he could see headlights of cars on a road.
He half ran, half stumbled, across fields, soaked to the skin, as the thunder rumbled off in the distance, and on the horizon, he could see one small pale star in the sky.
He finally reached the main road and stood waving his arms frantically at cars. He looked a weird figure, and at first, it seemed as if no one was going to stop. At last a small Volkswagen pulled up. A man in a dog collar got out and asked, ‘Are you in trouble?’
‘Take me to the nearest police station,’ begged Roy.
Agatha sat by the phone in her cottage. Her friend Mrs Bloxby held her hand. Equipment had been set up to record any calls. Two men crouched over it. Alice Peterson, the pretty detective constable, was making another pot of tea.
‘I’ll never forgive myself,’ said Agatha for the umpteenth time. ‘The whole horror of finding that head is beginning to get to me. I should never have let Roy come on a visit.’
‘You weren’t to know. Where is Mr Lacey?’
‘Out searching for Roy.’
‘And Sir Charles?’
‘Haven’t even tried to reach him. I’ll put on the television.’ There was a small set on the kitchen counter.
Agatha switched it on to the 24-hour BBC News. Alice said, ‘If he had been found, he would have phoned you.’
‘Not if it’s his dead body that’s been found,’ said Agatha.
The evening dragged on into the early hours of the morning. Agatha fell asleep with her head on the table. Mrs Bloxby quietly left.
Alice, seated on a chair next to Agatha, felt her eyes begin to close. Suddenly, the voice of the news presenter crashed into her thoughts: ‘Breaking news. Public relations officer Roy Silver, friend of detective Agatha Raisin, who claims he was kidnapped, is at Chipping Norton Police Station, and we are just awaiting his comments.’
‘Wake up!’ cried Alice, shaking Agatha.
‘What?’
‘Roy’s been found. He’s in Chipping Norton Police Station and about to emerge and make a statement.’
The camera showed the outside of the police station, where a large number of press and television reporters and cameramen were gathered.
‘The bastard!’ hissed Agatha. ‘Do you know what he’s done? Somehow he got free and got help, and instead of phoning me or the police at Mircester, he must have got hold of someone’s phone and called Associated Press and every television company he could think of. I’d better phone Mrs Bloxby. No, on second thought better not. The vicar would be furious if I woke them up in the middle of the night for any reason.’
‘Would you like to go over to Chipping Norton?’
‘No,’ said Agatha grumpily. ‘I’m going to bed.’
Roy had forgotten about the miracle of his deliverance. He was addicted to appearing on television.
He had begged the vicar for use of his mobile ‘to phone his mother’. Roy’s mother had died when he was still a child. Clutching the phone, and as soon as he was in the police station, Roy begged to use the lavatory, and once in there, he began assiduously to phone the press.
He then emerged, thanked the vicar, handed over the mobile and was examined by a police doctor before the questioning began. To his fury, after only half an hour, he was rushed out of the back of the police station and into a waiting car to take him to Mircester. Frantic, Roy could see his moment of fame slipping away.
He tried to reassure himself with the thought that the press would no doubt guess where he had gone. But to his dismay, he was taken to a safe house, told to rest and put under guard.
For the first time, he thought of Agatha and realized how furious she would be. He slept uneasily and woke in the morning to the sound of a policeman delivering his overnight bag. ‘May I use the phone?’ asked Roy.
‘No, you may not,’ said the policeman heavily. ‘The vicar, Mr Prentice, who rescued you, checked his mobile and found you had made ten phone calls, most of them to London. He will send you a bill.’
Roy flushed miserably. He dressed and was served two soggy croissants and a cup of instant coffee before being taken off to police headquarters to endure hours of questioning.
He had planned to give a highly embroidered account, but faced with Wilkes’s severe face and Bill Wong’s admonitory stare, he told nothing but the truth. He omitted only his frantic prayer. In the light of day, praying to God seemed such a wimpish thing to have done. I don’t want to lose my street cred, thought Roy.
At last the questioning was over. Now to face the cameras, thought Roy. But he waited over an hour before being hustled out of a back door where Alice was waiting to drive him to Carsely.
‘The press are following us,’ said Alice. ‘Do you want me to shake them off?’
‘No, no!’ screeched Roy. ‘I can handle them.’
To his delight, just after Alice drove off after leaving him outside Agatha’s cottage, he saw the vanguard of the press arrive. He had changed into jeans and a T-shirt because his retro clothes were a wreck.
He was standing on Agatha’s doorstep, clearing his throat and waiting for his big moment to begin, when the door behind him opened and Agatha Raisin said, ‘You horrible little man,’ in a loud, clear voice.
‘But Aggie,’ pleaded Roy, ‘I’ve been kidnapped and could have been murdered.’
James appeared behind A
gatha and drew her back into the house. ‘He’s been through a lot. Let him have his bit of fame.’
Roy rallied but gave a plainer statement than he would have otherwise done and therefore a more impressive one.
When he finally joined Agatha and James in the kitchen, it was to find Mrs Bloxby there as well.
Agatha gave him a cup of coffee. They had heard his story through the open front door.
‘That was a miraculous thing to happen,’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘I mean that thunderbolt.’
Roy glanced at Mrs Bloxby and blushed to the roots of his newly gelled hair. To Alice’s annoyance, Roy had insisted on stopping at a chemist’s on the road to Carsely to buy an extra tub of gel and then had gone through contortions in the front seat of the police car, trying to peer in the driving mirror.
‘Why are you blushing?’ demanded Agatha suspiciously.
‘It must really have been a divine deliverance,’ said Mrs Bloxby gently. ‘Were you praying, Roy?’
‘Ever so hard,’ said Roy, and began to sob, dry sobs like a child who has nearly cried itself out.
‘There, now,’ said Agatha, visibly softening towards him. ‘I think it would be best if you had something to eat and a lie-down. Phone your boss and say you won’t be in on Monday.’
‘What if they come for me again?’ asked Roy.
‘You come to the vicarage with me,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I won’t tell anyone except the police where you are.’
Roy meekly and gratefully allowed himself to be led away.
Agatha and James were joined by Bill Wong and Alice just after Roy had left. Agatha told them that Roy was at the vicarage.
When they were all seated round the table, Bill began. ‘This is obviously not the work of some lone psycho. It’s not someone who thought they got a parking ticket too many. This looks like a gang, and that usually means drugs or prostitution.
‘But there has been no evidence of drug dealing on a large scale in Mircester, or of any prostitution ring. What use could a market-town copper like Gary Beech be to a criminal gang? It must be something so good and so profitable that they have been driven to murder, intimidation and kidnap.’
‘Terrorism?’ suggested James.
‘The intelligence services have not found anything.’