“Have you heard anything about that disco, Hollywood Nights?”
“Not a thing, but then I don’t live in Evesham.”
Agatha thanked her and left. She stood outside, irresolute. As if to mock the recent suffering of the inhabitants, the weather had turned balmy and warm. She suddenly missed both James and Charles. They would have been every bit as interested as she was in finding out what had happened to Kylie. Then she thought of Roy Silver, who had once worked for her. She would invite him down for the weekend.
¦
Roy descended from the London train at Moreton-in-Marsh wearing a black, sort of Gandhi-style collarless business suit and fake crocodile boots with very pointed toes. He came off the train talking rapidly into his mobile phone.
“You’re impressing no one,” said Agatha as she went to met him and he tucked his phone away. “Every nerd in the country has a mobile phone.”
“You haven’t changed,” said Roy huffily. “I do have a stressful job, you know.”
He still had the white-faced, rather weedy look of an East End of London urchin. He deposited a damp kiss on her cheek and then followed her to her car where he stowed his luggage in the back.
“So tell me all about this murder,” he said as Agatha drove off.
Agatha told him what she knew, ending with, “If it wasn’t for the fact that the body had been placed in a deep freeze somewhere, the police might have let it go as death by misadventure.”
“Still could be.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Well, say the fiance knew about her drug habit. She doesn’t need track marks. She could have been sniffing the stuff. She finally takes to the needle, drops dead. This Zak is alarmed. Doesn’t know what to do. Panics. Puts the body in a freezer somewhere. The police can’t find all the freezers in Evesham. Could be one in a shed in someone’s back garden. A lot of these chest freezers are too big to keep in the house. Panic subsides. Realizes he should have left the body as is. Can’t call the police. Floods start. Great opportunity. Dump it in the river.”
“But in her wedding dress.”
“Well, people in a panic will do anything. Where do we start, Sherlock?”
“I thought we might go to that disco tonight.”
“We’d stick out like a pair of sore thumbs. I can pass, but you’re too old, sweetie.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
“So we need an excuse. I tell you what, I had a friend who was a researcher for the BBC. He said half his time was going places and asking people all sorts of questions. I’ll be the researcher and you can be someone who’s writing a script on the life of young people in middle England. Except for one thing: Hasn’t your photo been in the local papers in the past?”
“Yes, but I can disguise myself.”
“Try and I’ll see if you’ll pass.”
¦
Agatha called on Mrs. Bloxby accompanied by Roy because there was a box of theatrical wigs and costumes at the vicarage, used for the various church amateur dramatic shows. Agatha selected a blond wig and a pair of spectacles with plain glass lenses. Once she had tied the wig back with a black ribbon, it looked less false.
“You’ll do,” said Roy.
“I don’t suppose you’ll come to any harm,” said Mrs. Bloxby doubtfully, who had been told all the latest news about the death of Kylie.
“Just going for a recce,” said Agatha cheerfully.
“Have you met your new neighbour yet?”
“No, but I’ve seen him and he’s everything I imagined him to be.”
“Without talking to him?”
“I don’t need to. I saw the beard and the beer belly.” Roy noticed a look of almost unholy glee in Mrs. Bloxby’s usually mild eyes. At that moment, the vicar called from the study. “That Anstruther-Jones woman is coming up the path. Has the Agatha creature left yet?”
“Excuse me,” said Mrs. Bloxby, flushing pink. She hurried I off to the study.
“The vicar doesn’t seem to like you,” said Roy as the doorbell went.
“Oh, I don’t think he likes anyone,” said Agatha huffily. “In my opinion, he shouldn’t be a vicar at all.”
The doorbell rang again.
“Should we answer it?” said Roy.
“Leave it to them,” retorted Agatha.
The vicar appeared, looking flustered, followed by his wife. “My dear Mrs. Raisin,” he said, “I gather from my wife that you overheard me referring to some Agatha creature. I am so sorry. We have a mangy stray cat around the churchyard called Agatha and my wife will feed it.”
Roy reflected that he had just heard one of the lamest excuses ever, but Agatha seemed mollified. The doorbell went again. “I suppose I’d better answer it,” said Mrs. Bloxby. The vicar hurried back to his study.
Mrs. Anstruther-Jones bustled in. “Oh, Mrs. Raisin,” she fluted, “and who do we have here? Your son?”
“No,” said Roy, straight-faced. “I’m her lover.”
“Let’s go,” said Agatha, gathering up her disguise.
“Well, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Anstruther-Jones after the door had closed behind Agatha and Roy. “Disgraceful. A woman of her age! I hope, as a lady of the church, Mrs. Bloxby, you told her what you think of her liaison.”
“Mrs. Raisin is not having an affair with that young man.”
“But he said – ”
“When confronted with someone who appears to be in a perpetual state of outrage, it is tempting for other people to wind them up. Besides, I have always found the most vociferous guardians of morality on matters of sex are those who aren’t getting any. Some tea?”
¦
Agatha recognized Zak, standing at the door of the disco. Whatever distress he might feel over the odd death of his bride-to-be did not show. He smiled and said, “You sure you want to come in here? It’s all young folks.”
“We’re doing some research for a television programme on provincial entertainment,” said Agatha.
“Well, then.” Zak beamed and flexed his muscles under his dinner jacket. “You’ve come to the right place. You’d better have a word with my dad. He owns the place.” He turned and shouted, “Take over the door, Wayne.”
A thuggish young man came out. His beady eyes raked over Agatha and Roy. “Police, again?”
“No, television,” said Zak proudly. “Come along.”
The disco had the usual revolving crystal ball with strobe lights shooting at it from different corners of the room. Kylie must have thought she had won the jackpot getting Zak, thought Agatha. Some of the girls were pretty, but the youths were of the thin, white-faced, round-shouldered type, as if they had spent their formative years hunched up in front of the television set eating junk food. There was a bar over in the corner to which Zak led them. The music was so loud, it beat upon the ears, it reverberated through the floor under their feet, and it assaulted every sense. The air was hot and filled with the smell of sweat and cheap perfume. Zak’s father was standing at the bar. Zak mouthed something in his ear and he looked at Agatha and Roy and then jerked his head. They followed him up a staircase at the corner of the room and then through a thick padded door and into an office. Agatha sighed with relief as the dreadful sound of the music became muted to a thud-thud-thud on the downbeat.
“I’m Terry Jensen,” said Zak’s father. “Sit down. Drink?”
Agatha asked for a gin and tonic and Roy ordered the same.
Terry went to a glass-and-wrought-iron bar in the corner and began to pour drinks. He was a powerfully built man; his shirt stretched over his back muscles. He had the same thick head of black hair as his son. His legs were very short and rather bandy. He was wearing a white nylon shirt over a string vest, grey trousers, and black lace-up shoes, very shiny, like the type of shoes an off-duty policeman wears. He handed them their drinks. His face showed no trace of the good looks with which his son had been blessed. His skin was swarthy, his mouth thick-lipped, and his eyes were large and pale and slightly protuberant.
Agatha and Roy were seated on a fake leather sofa facing a large desk behind which Terry sat. Zak sat on a
