of a reason why she was murdered.”
“The reason,” said Luke, “is that she was messing around with James Lacey.”
“Humour me,” said Charles. “What was she like?”
Luke’s accents, which were a sort of refined Midlands, suddenly coarsened. “She was a bloody actress, that’s what she was. She lived in a private soap opera. In fact, she watched as many soap operas as she could. I went to see her about a month before she was killed. She wanted more money. God knows why. She had enough of her own. I pointed out that when we divorced, she’d settled for a lump sum. She was playing at being the perfect villager, rambling on about recipes and plants and how to make loose covers. She was even wearing an apron!”
“So why did you marry her?” asked Agatha.
“Because the act she was playing when I met her was lady-tart. She promised everything.” He nudged Charles. “Know what I mean?”
“And she wasn’t?”
“She thought she was good in bed and she was lousy.”
So what did James see in her? wondered Agatha.
“Doesn’t help us a bit,” mourned Charles. “Just because a woman’s a bit of an amateur actress doesn’t mean she would necessarily inspire someone to murder her.”
Agatha covertly studied Luke Sheppard. She did not like him, and yet she had to admit he exuded a strong air of animal sexuality.
“I’ve got to get back to work,” said Luke, draining his glass. “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Here’s my card,” said Agatha.
He stood up and then said, “Why don’t you pair let the police do the work?”
“I’ve managed to solve cases in the past,” said Agatha.
He gave a bark of laughter. “Melissa did that as well. When she wasn’t watching the soaps, she was watching Miss Marple or Morse on the telly. Another of her fantasies.” He strode off before the fulminating Agatha could answer him.
“So that’s put you in your place,” said Charles. “Let’s grab a bite to eat Give me some money, Aggie, and I’ll get it.”
“No,” said Agatha. “
“I told you, I forgot my wallet.”
She leaned across quickly, thrust her hand inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “There you are.”
“Bless me, I was sure I had forgotten it.”
“Good try, Charles. Get food.”
He came back with two ploughman’s, those bread-and-cheese rolls which are the cheapest thing on a pub menu.
“So we haven’t got very far,” said Charles. “Except maybe for the Miss Marple bit. I mean, what if Melissa, fancying herself a detective, had dug up something that someone didn’t want her to know?”
“Could be,” said Agatha, opening up her roll and looking gloomily at a piece of sweating cheese and a leaf of limp lettuce. “It all seems hopeless, but I’ve got to go on. Somehow, if I stop ferreting around, I’ll sink back into misery again.”
“I know,” said Charles. “When we finish this, we’ll call in at police headquarters and ask for Bill. Maybe he’s heard something.”
Agatha ate what she could. Charles finished his and then ate what she had left on her plate.
“Getting hot,” he said as they emerged into the sunlight.
They walked to police headquarters, asked for Bill Wong and were told to wait. Some attempt had been made a long time ago to brighten up the reception area, but various potted plants were dying or dead and the magazines on the scarred table in front of them were years old.
Finally the desk sergeant called them over and pressed a buzzer so they could go through to the back. Bill was waiting for them in the corridor. “We’ll use this room,” he said, pushing open the door of an interview room. When they were seated, he asked, “What’s new?”
“We came to ask you that,” said Agatha.
He spread his hands. “Nothing. No news of James at all. His photo’s been in all the newspapers and on television. We’ve checked the ports and airports. Nothing.”
“Are you concentrating solely on him?” asked Agatha. “I mean, if you do that, you’ll be letting the real murderer escape.”
“We’ve interviewed everyone we can think of. I mean, we don’t understand it. Those villages like Carsely are gossip shops. Yet, we get this murder, Lacey is attacked, no one sees a thing. Agatha, are you sure you didn’t just have one of your rows with James and throw something at him?”
“No, I did not. And I was away all that evening.”
“So you were.”
“You bugging my phone?”
“If we were, I wouldn’t tell you. But I don’t know. I’m still too low down the ranks to know that sort of thing. If someone’s phone is bugged, they need to get permission from the Home Office.”
“We’ve got a likely suspect,” said Agatha.
“I thought I told you pair not to interfere. Anyway, who is it?”
“Luke Sheppard.”
“Oh, him. He’s got an alibi for the time James was attacked. We cannot exactly pin-point the time of Melissa’s death, but it was sometime during the night five days before her body was found.”
“And what was Luke Sheppard’s alibi for the evening James disappeared?”
“He was at a Rotary Club meeting all that evening.”
“And the night Melissa was killed?”
“He and his missus were having a romantic night in the Randolph Hotel in Oxford. It was her birthday celebration.”
“Rats!” Agatha stared at him moodily.
“We were trying to build up a picture of Melissa,” said Charles. “You know, trying to find out if there was anything in her character or behaviour that would cause someone to murder her. Did you find out anything?”
“Only that she was regarded as the perfect village lady. Divorced two times and both amicable divorces.”
“What we did find,” said Charles, “was that, according to Sheppard, she was a fantasist, acted out roles she saw on television. She was addicted to soaps and detective series, and fancied herself as bit of a Miss Marple. She may just have dug up something that someone didn’t want her to find out.”
“It’s a possibility, but a remote one. If only we could find James Lacey, we might have a clearer picture. But we are trying. We haven’t given up on the case. So keep out of it.”
“You didn’t used to be like this before,” said Agatha mournfully. “You used to be glad of my help.”
“That was before you nearly got yourself killed on several occasions. You may not realize it, but I am fond of you, Agatha.”
“Now you’ve done it,” said Charles, as fat tears began to spill down Agatha’s cheeks.
“What did I say?” asked Bill, as Agatha mopped her face.
“She’s a bit fragile. Come on, Aggie, let’s get going.” Charles put a hand under her arm and helped her to her feet.
¦
Turnpike Lane, Worcester, where Melissa’s first husband lived, turned out to lie in the outskirts of the town in a modern housing development. “You want to go on with this?” asked Charles, as he parked outside number 5.
“Yes, I’m all right.”
“You’ve got a soft centre after all, Aggie.”
“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Aggie? My husband may be dead, he is suspected of murder, and that’s enough to upset anyone. Now are we going to talk to this man or not?”
They got out of the car and stood looking at the house. It was raw-looking, the stone a harsh yellowish colour, and was surrounded by identical houses. “He hasn’t bothered much about the garden,” commented Charles,
