slightly prominent eyes with heavy lids and a small thin mouth, bright red with the sort of lipstick one paints on with a brush. She was tanned with that sun shower treatment that is supposed to look natural but never does. Her figure under a tailored jacket, blouse and short skirt was very good. Her legs were the thin kind that used to be so admired, ending in shoes that looked as if they had been made from crocodile skin. Surely not in these politically correct days, thought Agatha, although Mrs. Benington, radiating pent-up energy, looked perfectly capable of killing a crocodile herself.
“How can I help you?” asked Agatha.
”I think my husband’s cheating on me. I want proof.”
“Yes, we can do that for you. As to charges … ?”
“Mrs. Comfrey has already discussed the charges with me and I have agreed.”
Agatha’s eyes narrowed into slits. Emma rushed forward and put a signed agreement in front of Agatha. Agatha was all prepared to blast Emma until she saw that Emma had charged an extraordinarily high amount along with generous expenses.
“Excellent,” Agatha forced herself to say.
“I have given Mrs. Comfrey a cheque,” said Mrs. Benington, getting to her feet. “I must say, I was reassured. In this nasty business, it is so nice to be dealing with a lady.” And she smiled at Emma.
When she had left, Agatha said, “In future, Emma, do not charge any amount of money without consulting me first.”
Emma could feel her old crushed self about to whimper out an apology. But she felt she had got this far by pretending to be self-confident and she knew that any sign of weakness and the formidable Agatha would have her by the throat.
“In this case,” she said mildly, “what would you have charged?”
Agatha opened her mouth to blast her and then suddenly shut it again. For the first time in her life, she heard a voice in her brain telling her that she was jealous.
She stared for a long moment at Emma and then shrugged. “I really don’t know, Emma, but I certainly would not have dreamt of charging so much. Well done. Now, I’d better phone our photographer, Sammy, and also Douglas for surveillance and get them on the job. Would you like to try your hand at some more detective work?”
“You mean the Johnson boy?”
“Yes, him. The father’s got his car back as good as new, but there’s no sign of Wayne. Wayne has a friend, Jimmy Swithe, who works at Stonebridge petrol station. You could try there first.”
Emma’s face lit up in a smile. “I’ll get on to it right away.”
When the door closed behind her tall, thin figure, Agatha Raisin said ruefully, “I am a bitch, that’s what I am,” and picked up the receiver to start investigating Mrs. Benington’s husband.
Emma Comfrey arrived at the petrol station and asked for Jimmy Swithe. She was told he was working on a car in the garage at the side.
Feeling waves of her usual timidity about to engulf her, Emma took a deep breath. I will act as if I am brave, she told herself. A burly man in stained overalls was bent over a car. “Mr. Swithe?”
He jerked his hand towards the back of the garage. Emma walked forwards into the gloom. A young man was sitting on an upturned oil drum under a “No Smoking” sign lighting a cigarette. He had lank brown hair and an unhealthy white face stained with smears of oil.
“Mr. Swithe?”
“Yes.” He looked at her with contempt. But then, Emma, reminded herself sternly, he probably looked with contempt at anyone over twenty-five.
“I am a detective,” said Emma.
“What? You? Is this a joke?”
Emma coloured. “I have been employed by Mr. Johnson to find his son, Wayne.”
“Don’t have nothing to do with him.”
“Why?”
“He’s gone funny.”
“You mean he’s become a comedian?”
“Naw. He found religion.”
“Which religion?”
“Youth for Jesus Christ.”
“And where might I find them?”
“Out the Stow Road on the industrial estate. One o’ them old Nissen huts. Can’t miss it. They’ve put a cross on the roof. Wankers!”
Emma thanked him and retreated, already beginning to feel a warm glow of achievement. The first little seed of dislike for Agatha was sown. Previously, Emma had not thought herself worthy of disliking anyone.
She got back in her car and drove off in the direction of the industrial estate. At first she thought she had been misdirected as she circled round and round, but then she suddenly saw a golden cross glittering through a stand of trees on a side road she had not noticed before.
Emma drove up to the Nissen hut, one of those corrugated roofed buildings left over from World War II. She could hear the sound of singing. She got out of the car, went up to the hut and opened the door. It was full of mostly young people singing “All Thing Bright and Beautiful.” They were waving their arms in the air and swaying, emulating American Southern Baptist choirs, which was unfortunate, thought Emma, because they lacked the joyful fluidity of movement of the Baptists, their sticklike white arms moving jerkily.
Fortunately, it turned out to be the final hymn. A reedy man with thick glasses who seemed to be the preacher blessed them all.
Emma waited at the door as the congregation shuffled out, slipping the photograph of Wayne out of her handbag.
She nearly missed him because the nose stud and earrings had gone and his hair was newly washed and flopping over his brow, but she took a chance and asked, “Wayne?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Your father. I am a private detective. He has engaged me to find you.”
“He doesn’t want to find me. The silly old bugger only wanted his car back. He’s got it, so that’s it.”
“Are you going home?”
“No, we got a camp here out the back. It’s fun. Tell him I’m okay but J ain’t going home. These people look after me like he never did.”
Emma fished a camera out of her bag. “May I just take a photograph of you to show him you are well?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Religion had not obviously removed vanity. Wayne lounged against a tree with his hands on his hips and his face turned slightly to one side. “My best side,” he said. “If it’s any good, let me have a copy.”
“This is not one of these strange cults?” said Emma. “I mean, you are free to leave if you want?”
“Any time. No one tells me what to do except God.”
Emma decided to call on Mr. Johnson herself. She did not want Agatha to take the credit. Agatha might expect her to hold on to the information a little longer so as to charge for expenses, but then Agatha had not found Wayne—she had.
Mr. Johnson, when told the good news, seemed remarkably underwhelmed. “As long as Eve got the car back,” he said. “Stupid berk, that boy is. I could have saved myself the money.”
Emma felt diminished. Like all bullied people, she often retreated into a fantasy world, and she had built up a picture where Mr. Johnson would fall on her neck, crying with relief, and somehow the local paper would be there to photograph the happy moment.
Agatha was regretting having sent Emma out detecting. She had briefed Sammy Allen and Douglas Ballantine, but fche wanted to be out there herself. Emma had taken extensive notes about where Mr. Benington worked, his hobbies, and the make of his car.
She looked up in relief as the door opened and Emma walked in. “Forget about the Johnson boy for the moment,” said Agatha. “Eve got to go out.”
“I found the Johnson boy,” said Emma. “Eve told the father. Ell bill him for expenses. All he really wanted
