“Come in,” said Agatha. “I was just about to have dinner. Want some?”
“No, I’ve had something in the canteen. What have you been up to?”
Agatha told him about Owen Trump. “Clever work,” said Bill. “I never thought of a schoolteacher.”
Agatha felt a little guilty twinge. It had been Phil’s idea.
“What about your end?” she asked. “Her English teacher thinks Jessica may have been in love. English was last period and she said Jessica kept looking out of the window.”
“That doesn’t sound like one of the schoolboys.”
“She also said her work had deteriorated in the last six months, apart from maths.”
“We’ll have a look at this maths teacher. So how are you? Heard from James Lacey?”
“No,” said Agatha curtly.
“No new interesting neighbours?”
“The house is up for sale again. Probably be the middleaged or elderly who’ll buy it. Young people can’t afford the prices around here.”
“So how’s the agency doing?”
“Work’s picking up. I took on a divorce case. I don’t think it’s really a divorce case. I think it’s a neurotic husband who is insanely jealous. His wife is regarded as a saint.”
“There are no saints, Agatha.”
“There’s Mrs. Bloxby.”
“Come on. She’s only human like the rest of us. Oh, listen. There’s the rain at last.”
Agatha surveyed him fondly. Bill, half Chinese and half English, had been her first friend. He was of medium height with black hair and brown almond-shaped eyes.
“Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you,” said Bill, unwinding Hodge from his neck. “I’ve got to go. Why don’t you come for dinner with us one night?”
Agatha repressed a shudder. Much as she loved Bill, she found his parents terrifying. Besides, his mother was a rotten cook and even a lifetime of microwaved meals could not inure Agatha to the overcooked meat and soggy vegetables that made up Mrs. Wong’s favourite cuisine.
“I’d like that,” she lied. “Wait until things have slacked off a bit.”
When Bill had left, she opened the kitchen door and stood under the shelter of the overhanging thatch. She had recently employed a woman gardener and the long strip of garden was a blaze of flowers. She did wish Bill had not mentioned James Lacey. She often passed days at a time now without thinking about him or wondering if he ever thought of her.
Loneliness gripped her again and as she turned to go, indoors, she felt that irritating stabbing pain in her hip. After Roy’s visit, she would make an appointment with Richard Rasdall, the masseur in Stow. All she needed was a bit of limbering up.
FOUR
HARRY Beam entered the disco and looked around.
He had visited it before, but only on Saturday nights, and he was surprised to find it so full on a weekday.
He wondered if the police ever raided the place because there were underage youths and girls drinking Bacardi Breezers at the bar while crowds of them gyrated to deafening music under the strobe lights.
He made his way to the bar and ordered a beer. Then he turned and leaned his back on the bar and studied the dance floor. And then he saw them. They were heavily made up.
Harry finished his beer. Trixie was dancing with Fairy. “Mind if I cut in?” He looked at Trixie. Fairy shrugged and headed off to the bar. Trixie threw herself all over the place, seemingly unaware of his presence. Harry realized it would be impossible to talk to her in the disco because of the noise level. He would need to court her for a boring length of time and then offer to take her home. So he danced with her and bought her drinks and at last she glanced at her watch and said, “Gotta go.”
“I’ll take you home,” shouted Harry.
“Got a car?”
“I’ve got my motorbike tonight.”
“Cool.”
Outside, he gave her his spare helmet. “Where to?” asked Harry. Trixie gave him her home address. He registered that it was two doors away from where Jessica lived. He was just wondering how to manufacture a stop somewhere so that he could talk to her when she said, “Can we go round to where Jessica’s body was found?”
“Sure,” said Harry. She climbed on the back and they roared off.
Harry knew as he sped along the dual carriageway that he would recognize the spot from the police tape. He just hoped there wouldn’t be any police on duty because they would quickly move them on.
He slowed and stopped when he saw the police tape. The earlier rain of the evening had stopped and a dank mist was swirling around the scene.
He parked the bike and he and Trixie got off. She removed her helmet and her eyes gleamed with excitement in the dark. “Let’s do it here,” she said. “Down in the grass.”
“And get my leathers mucky,” said Harry.
“You a poofter or something?”
“Listen, babes. The forensics will be back in the morning and I don’t want my DNA spread over the grass. You’re weird.”
She stared at him sulkily. “Don’t you fancy me?”
“I did but right now I don’t,” said Harry. “What was a nice girl like Jessica Bradley doing having a friend like you?”
“She wasn’t no angel. I could tell you a thing or two.”
“Go on. Bet you know nothing.”
“I tell you, she was having it off with a man old enough to be her father.”
“Who?”
“Kiss and tell.”
Harry repressed a sigh and clamped his mouth over hers. Her tongue went so far down his throat he was frightened he would gag.
When he finally came up for air, he asked again, “Who?”
“Salesman at that electronics factory. Smedleys Electronics. Name’s Burt Haviland.”
“I’d never have believed it,” said Harry. “Now let’s get you home.”
Agatha was awakened at midnight by a call from Harry. He told her about Burt Haviland.
“Good work,” said Agatha.
“Do you want me to come with you when you interview him?”
“I’ll need to think about it. I’m awfully afraid we might have to tell the police.”
“Why?”
“If we go to the factory, we might run into Smedley, who’d get huffy if he thought we weren’t solely on his case. Then this Burt can simply give us a flat denial. The police can take his DNA and compare it to anything they might have found at the autopsy. I’ll ask Patrick and see you first thing at the office.”
Agatha rang Patrick. The former Miss Simms answered the phone. “Wot you doing ringing in the middle of the night, Mrs. Raisin?” she demanded.
“I want to speak to Patrick.”
“I wish you’d left him alone. He’s never here and I’ve got to look after the kids meself. What fun’s that? I think he’s too old for me. I mean, old is all right in gentlemen friends, if you get my meaning. Besides, he’s only got his pension and I’ve had to take a part-time at the supermarket.”
“I never thought you were mercenary,” said Agatha, momentarily diverted.
“Like them men who go out to wars?”
“No, after money.”
“Who isn’t these days? It’s all right for you. I’ll get him.”
