Agatha heard her say, “Wake up. It’s Mrs. Raisin on the line.”
“What does she want?” grumbled Patrick.
“Ask her and find out. I’m going back to sleep.”
When Patrick came on the line, Agatha told him what Harry had found out, ending with, “Should I tell the police?”
“I think you’d better.”
“Any results from the autopsy? Was she raped?”
“Too early to say.”
“I’ll phone Bill Wong.”
Agatha found Bill’s mobile phone number, praying the phone would be switched on, otherwise she would have to call his home number and maybe get one of his frightening parents.
To her relief, Bill answered his mobile. She told him what Harry had found out.
“Oh, good work,” said Bill. “We’ll pull him in first thing tomorrow.”
“You owe me,” said Agatha. “I want you to come round here when you can and let me know the result.”
After two busy following days—two divorce cases had come in and three missing pets—Agatha was glad to see Roy getting off the evening train at Moreton-in-Marsh. His thin hair was jelled up into spikes on his head, revealing, as he bent over the boot to put his travel bag in, that he had a tattoo of entwined snakes on his neck.
“Handling a pop group?” asked Agatha.
“Yes, the Busy Snakes. They’re hot and they think I’m cool.”
“Roy, you’re like a chameleon. You change according to whoever you’re doing public relations for. I never bothered.”
“I’m not as pushy as you, sweetie.”
“But a tattoo? Have you considered the agony of getting that removed once tattoos become unfashionable?”
“Don’t tell anyone. It’s a transfer.”
“I was hoping to discuss a couple of cases with you but how can you go detecting with me when you look like that?”
Roy got into the passenger seat. “Don’t nag. I’ll wash my hair and scrub off the fake tattoo. I hope we’re eating out.”
“No.”
“Aggie, much as I love you, I haven’t got your palate for microwaved meals.”
“It’s all right. It’s a carry-out from a very good Chinese place in Stow.”
As they ate that evening, Agatha told him about the Smedleys and then about finding Jessica’s body.
“That’s amazing,” said Roy. “Imagine you finding her when the police couldn’t.”
Agatha’s conscience gave a twinge. “Well, it was Phil’s idea, really.”
“Who’s Phil?”
“He’s a seventy-six-year-old photographer who lives in the village.”
“There you are. Age does bring wisdom.”
“Not really,” said Agatha. “I’ve found that stupid young people grow up to be stupid old people.”
“You haven’t really softened up after all. Sometimes I wonder why you don’t just chuck it all in and retire gracefully. I would.”
“What! You? Out of all the trendy excitement of London!”
“You know what it’s like. Public relations can be wearing. Being nice to some truly awful people. The Busy Snakes have one hit record and already they’re all prima donnas. They were lucky, that’s all. By next year, no one will have heard of them and they won’t have any money for their drugs and they’ll be out mugging old ladies for a fix.”
“You are gloomy.”
“I tell you, a month ago I was driving down one of the motorways. It was a windy day and I saw them erecting a circus tent in a field by the road. I had this sudden fantasy that the wind would blow the tent away, right across my car. I’d make an emergency stop. The circus people would come running and pull the canvas off my car and ask if I was all right. They’d invite me back for tea and I would join the circus and I would never see another pop star again.”
There was a silence.
Then Agatha said, “I suppose you imagined the circus people in full costume.”
“Of course. The horse riders had their scarlet coats and plumed hats and the trapeze artist, she was in sequins. She had long dark hair and it brushed across my face as I sat at the wheel when she leaned in the window.”
“When did you last have a holiday, Roy?”
“Can’t quite remember. I just begin to plan and something else turns up.”
“When you go back,” said Agatha bracingly, “book a holiday right away. Go somewhere where you can lie on the beach and think of nothing.”
“Can’t. The Busy Snakes are booked for Wembley.”
“Didn’t know they were that important.”
“They aren’t. They’re warming up for Elton John.”
“Well, after that…”
“Maybe. So are we detecting this weekend?”
“After having listened to you, I think we both need time off. I know, we’ll motor to Bath on Sunday and have an enormous cream tea and then sit in the gardens and listen to the brass band.”
“That sounds great. Give murder and mayhem a rest.”
The following day was perfect weather with castles of white clouds piled up over a large blue sky.
Anaesthetized by the largest cream tea they had ever eaten—Roy had insisted on two lots of scones, strawberry jam and Cornish cream—they slumped down in deckchairs in the gardens and listened to the band, surrounded by the amiable chatter of families with their children.
Roy had bought a Panama hat and it was now tilted across his eyes. Agatha did not have a hat but she had edged her deckchair under the shade of a tree.
After a few minutes, Roy let out a faint snore. Maybe he was right, thought Agatha. Maybe she should give up the whole business of detecting. But she knew all at once that if she spent too much time alone she would start thinking of James Lacey again. Still, at least she actually cared about poor Jessica and was determined to find out who murdered the girl. Robert Smedley was another matter. And then she blinked rapidly. At first she thought her mind had conjured up an image of him. Then she realized it really was Robert Smedley. He had risen from a deckchair near the bandstand and was helping a young woman to her feet. The woman was vaguely pretty in a vapid kind of way. Lots of red hair but a thin white face and a rabbity mouth.
“Roy!”
Snore.
Agatha leaned over and prodded him in the ribs.
“Hey, what?”
“It’s Smedley,” hissed Agatha, “with another woman.”
“Where?”
“Over there. They’re coming this way. Here!”
Agatha extracted a newspaper from the three she had been holding in her lap. Roy snatched one and opened it up to shield his face. Agatha did the same. They covertly lowered the newspapers a little.
Robert Smedley was dressed in white flannels and a tight blazer with a flashy crest on the pocket. His lady was wearing very high heels and leaning on his arm. They waited until the couple had passed.
“Right!” hissed Agatha. “We follow them.”
But too many junk meals had taken their toll and Agatha’s hips were wedged firmly into the deckchair. She stood up with the chair sticking to her backside. “Help me, Roy.”
He wrenched her free. There was a ripple of laughter from the other people in deckchairs. Agatha looked wildly round. Smedley and his companion had disappeared.
