“Nothing for us,” said Agatha. “Where’s Sharon?”
“I’ll just get her.”
Mrs. Heath sailed from the room. Soon her voice came back to them, harsh and angry. “For Pete’s sake, move your arse, girl. They ain’t going to wait all day.”
A few moments later she reappeared, followed by Sharon, who was wearing a blouse of glittery material and a long skirt over a pair of platform-soled boots, the soles so thick they looked like diving boots. She had liberally applied tan make-up which stopped short at her jawline and contrasted sharply with the unhealthy whiteness of her neck.
“Now,” said Agatha, putting her clipboard on her lap. “We’re doing a feature on youth entertainment in the Midlands, but we are also interested in crime. There have been incidents of girls leaving discos late at night and never making it home.”
“I saw about them on the telly, but it ain’t happened in Evesham,” said Sharon, picking nervously at her red nail polish.
“There was that Kylie,” broke in Mrs. Heath eagerly. “‘S in the papers this morning. Says she died of a heroin overdose and the body was frozen first. Did you ever?”
Sharon’s plucked eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. “Drugs! Kylie? Naw.”
“I asked you if she’d had any enemies,” pursued Agatha. “You said something about someone called Phyllis.”
“I dunno. If this goes on the telly, she’ll claw my eyes out.”
“I assure you it won’t,” said Agatha. “I’m just trying to understand how such a thing could have happened.”
“Promise you won’t say anythink.”
“Cross our hearts and hope to die,” said Roy solemnly. As if registering his presence for the first time, Sharon gave him a coquettish smile – although perhaps ‘coquettish’ was the wrong way to describe it, thought Agatha. Given that Sharon’s mouth was heavily painted with deep-purple lipstick, it had more of a vampire look.
“Well,” said Sharon eagerly and leaning forward to enjoy a now-sanctioned piece of gossip, “Zak was dating Phyllis. Phyllis is a big girl and ever so noisy when she’s had a few. What she didn’t know was that Zak was dating Kylie at the same time. One day, Kylie turns up in the office with an engagement ring. Phyllis goes ape-shit and tries to pull Kylie’s hair out and we had to separate them. She said, “You’ll never marry him. I’ll kill you first.” There, what do you think of that?”
“Very interesting,” said Agatha. “Where does this Phyllis live?”
“I can’t tell you that,” said Sharon, alarmed. “She might guess I told you.”
“No reason to,” said Agatha smoothly. “Is there any way I could interview all the girls she worked with at once?”
“There’s McDonald’s on the Four Pools. We mostly go there. ‘Bout one o’clock.”
“But the police will surely have interviewed Phyllis.”
“They come round to speak to all of us, but we’re all so frightened of Phyllis, nobody said a word.”
Feeling that she had got something to go on, Agatha then asked Sharon all about her interests and hobbies – which turned out to be going to the disco and watching soaps on television.
When she had finished, Mrs. Heath saw them out, saying, “You will let us know when the cameras are coming so we can get the place redecorated.”
Agatha, worried at putting the woman to unnecessary expense, said quickly, “We’ll be doing any filming or interviews at the disco.”
¦
John Armitage shifted restlessly in his chair, vowing to lock the cottage door and never leave it open again. For facing him was Mrs. Anstruther-Jones, who had simply walked in without knocking.
She broke off a lecture about her importance in the village as the sound of a car went past the windows of the cottage. “That’ll be your neighbour, Agatha Raisin, and her toy-boy.”
“Really?” he said in a bored voice. “Now, if you will excuse me – ”
“Not that she doesn’t occasionally do Good Work.”
“Like underwater basket weaving for the bewildered?”
She stared at him, her mouth open.
“And I really must get on. Got to write.”
She rose and picked up an enormous, shiny leather handbag. “Ah, your muse,” she said coyly.
“Exactly,” he said, ushering her to the door.
Once she was out, he locked the door behind her. He sat down at his computer and switched it on. He stared at the screen. Agatha Raisin. From village gossip, he gathered she was some sort of amateur detective and had been married to the chap who formerly had this cottage. There was one thing in her favour. She hadn’t come snooping around like almost every other woman in this village. He could only hope that when the novelty of his presence wore off, they would all leave him alone.
¦
Just before noon the following day, he heard the door of his neighbouring cottage slam shut. Suddenly curious to see what this Agatha Raisin looked like, he went to the window on the small landing at the side of his cottage where he could get a view of his neighbour’s front door.
A woman was just getting into her car. She had odd-looking blond hair – it looked like a wig – and ugly glasses. “Well, if that can get herself a toy-boy, good luck to her,” he murmured and went downstairs to start work.
¦
Agatha had run Roy to the London train the evening before, and had to admit she missed his support. She had given him money to buy her a more respectable blond wig, with instructions to post it to her. She could only hope that the excitement of television would stop the young women of Barrington’s from questioning her too closely.
Again, the weather was fine. Sun shone in the car windows and the resultant heat made her wig feel even more uncomfortable. She went to Tesco’s in Evesham to buy groceries and then arrived at McDonald’s at just after one o’clock. Sharon and four other young girls were seated round a table.
Clipboard at the ready, Agatha approached them. “I think I saw some of you at the disco the other night,” she began. “I am working on a television programme on the activities of youth in the Midlands. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?”
They eagerly made room for her. She took down their names as an opening gambit. As well as Sharon, the others were Ann Trump, Mary Webster, Joanna Field, and Phyllis Heger. They said only one, Marilyn Josh, was missing. She had a hair appointment. Agatha studied Phyllis. Everything about her was large, although she was not fat. It all looked like solid muscle. She had large brown eyes, a large full-lipped mouth, thick black hair, and a generous bust. Her eyes glared this way and that, as if she were in a perpetual temper.
Agatha proceeded to ask them the same general questions she had asked Sharon, and noticed that Phyllis mostly butted in with all the answers. They resented Phyllis’s hogging the limelight, Agatha could see that. When she herself had been working her way up, starting with lowly office jobs, Agatha had been amazed to find that each office seemed to contain one bully. She longed to put Phyllis down, but at the moment she was a suspect and Agatha didn’t want to alienate her. She decided not to ask any questions about Kylie, but to try to arrange a meeting with Phyllis and get the girl on her own.
So Agatha wrote and wrote and then said brightly, “You will get tired of all my questions, but this is simply the start. We do an awful lot of research before we actually start filming.”
They all said eagerly it was no trouble at all.
Agatha thanked them and went to her car.
She was about to get in when she heard the rapid clack of high heels behind her. She turned round and found herself confronted by Phyllis. “You should really talk to me,” said Phyllis. “I’ve got more sophistication than what them have.”
“What if I meet you after work?” suggested Agatha.
“That would be ever so nice,” said Phyllis in a sort of strangulated voice she seemed to imagine was upper- class. “Where?”
