“No disguise?”
“Rats! Won’t be a minute.” Agatha ran back up the stairs and put on the blond wig and glasses.
“I meant to advise you to put on your disguise in the car,” said John when she reappeared. “No, leave it now,” he added as Agatha reached up a hand to pull the wig off again. “We’ll take my car.”
He drove out of the village, smoothly and competently, while Agatha tried to think of things to say but felt unusually shy. At last she said, “I hope he’s at home.”
“We’ll try anyway. How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right now. Things are never so scary in daylight.”
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” said John. “In fact, I’ve never lived in a village before. Always been in cities.”
“Like Birmingham? I read one of yours books and it was based in Birmingham.”
“I only did research there. No, I lived in London until my divorce.”
“And when was that?”
“Two years ago.”
“An amicable divorce?”
“Had to be done without fuss on her part. She had been unfaithful to me too many times.”
“Did that hurt?” asked Agatha curiously.
“Not now. I’m glad it’s all over. What about you?”
“He left me for the church. Last heard, he’s in some monastery in France.”
“That must have been difficult.”
Agatha sighed. “I never really had him. It was an odd marriage. We were like two bachelors rather than a married couple.”
“That wasn’t the man I heard you shouting at a few days ago?”
“No, that was someone else. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
“Why do you set your stories in inner cities?” asked Agatha. “You don’t look like an inner-city person.”
He had a pleasant, cultured voice, no trace of accent.
“I wanted to write about real people.”
“Sordid surroundings don’t make people real,” said Agatha with sudden passion as she remembered her own impoverished upbringing. “Their minds are often twisted with drink or drugs and their bodies old before their time with cheap junk food.”
“You sound as if you are speaking from personal experience.”
Agatha was a snob, and Agatha was not going to admit she had been brought up in a Birmingham slum. “I’m a good observer,” she said quickly.
“I thought I was, too. We must talk some more about this.”
When they got to Evesham, Agatha instructed him to park in Merstow Green. They left the car and were soon walking along the road that Agatha had so recently fled along in terror. People were walking along, women pushing babies in prams, men talking in groups; it all looked so harmless.
They arrived at the house. “Which bell?” he asked. “There aren’t any names.”
“The light was on in the upstairs before I was attacked.”
“We’ll try that.”
He rang the bell.
They waited a few minutes. Then John said, “May as well try the bottom one,” and rang it.
The door was opened by a young man, a very clean young man. He had neat light brown hair, a round face, a gleaming white short-sleeved shirt and jeans with creases like knife-edges. “Mr. McCoy?” asked Agatha.
“Yes, but if you’re selling anything – ”
“No, we represent a television company. We can’t cover the young people of Evesham without mentioning Kylie’s death. We would, of course, like to know what sort of amusements young people enjoy in a town like this. May we come in?”
“I’ve got someone with me at the moment,” he said. “Can we go somewhere? There’s a cafe along towards the river.”
“That’ll do fine.”
“I’ll get my jacket.”
He closed the door. “Seems a nice-enough fellow,” said John.
“Shhh!” said Agatha.
“Why can’t I come, too?” demanded a shrill female voice. Harry McCoy mumbled something in return and then the door opened. His face was red with embarrassment.
They walked along the road together until they came to a cafe, the kind that sold light snacks. They took a table at the window. Outside, the river Avon slid along on its green-black way. A launch cruised past, sending waves of water to either bank.
“I’m surprised this place is still open,” said Agatha. “I thought it would have been flooded out.”
“It came right up to the doors,” said Harry. “Mrs. Joyce, that’s her behind the counter, who owns the place, had piles of sandbags at the front. Also the cafe’s higher up on a sort of mound than the houses on either side. They got the worst of it.”
John returned from the counter, where he had gone to fetch cups of coffee.
Agatha started by asking him questions about how young people amused themselves. Harry said sometimes they went up to Birmingham, a few of them sharing a car and taking turns at staying sober.
“And what about Hollywood Nights, the disco?”
“I wouldn’t be seen dead there,” said Harry. “Lot of layabouts.”
“You were engaged to Kylie?”
“Yes.”
“What went wrong with the engagement?”
“Zak’s what went wrong,” said Harry moodily. “Have you seen that car of his?” Agatha shook her head. “It’s a Jag. It turned her head. He took to waiting outside Barrington’s for her when she finished work and offering her a lift home. Phyllis Heger, she was engaged to Zak at the time, had told him Kylie was a virgin, and he said something like he would soon see to that. I tried to warn her. I couldn’t believe it when she broke off her engagement to me and became engaged to him.”
“I thought Phyllis would be here any moment,” said Agatha.
“Why?”
“That was her with you this morning. I recognized her voice.”
“I told her we were going to Butler’s in the High Street,” said Harry and flushed under Agatha’s curious gaze.
“And are you and Phyllis an item?”
He flushed again. “Naw. Phyllis is…Well, she’s just a girl. Not the kind you get serious about.”
“So was Kylie really in love with Zak?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think she could see beyond the wedding. Zak’s father insisted on paying for a grand wedding. And they were going to spend their honeymoon in the Maldives. Kylie had never been abroad before, never been on an aeroplane, never even been up to London. She couldn’t talk about anything else.”
“Bit insensitive of her to talk about it to you.”
“She talked to the other girls in the office and they told me.”
“Who lives upstairs from you?” asked John, speaking for the first time.
“Marilyn Josh.”
Agatha consulted her notes. “She works at Barrington’s?”
“That’s right.”
Was it Marilyn who had seen her the other night and alerted whoever it was who had tried to run her down? wondered Agatha.
“We might have a word with her afterwards,” said John. “Is she away? She didn’t answer the doorbell.”
“She sleeps late on Saturdays and nothing usually wakes her.”
“So,” pursued Agatha, “what kind of girl was Kylie?”
