“I’d like a word with him. What’s his address?”
“I’m not supposed to give you information like that, Agatha.”
“You know I can find it. No one needs to know you told me.”
“Oh, all right. He lives at number ten Bascombe Way in Mircester out on that council estate.”
“All roads seem to lead to Smedleys Electronics,” said Agatha. She told Bill about spotting Smedley with a woman in Bath and ended by saying, “Maybe all that stuff about his wife is guff. Maybe he wanted his wife to find out to throw her off the scent.”
“If Smedley spotted you following him, he’ll be in the office tomorrow to cancel your investigation.”
Not only Robert Smedley turned up in Agatha’s office the following morning but his wife, Mabel, as well.
FIVE
THEY came in, holding hands, and beaming all around. Agatha wished in that moment that Harry Beam was out. The young man was slumped on the sofa with a can of Diet Coke in his hand. He was wearing a denim jacket and jeans torn at the knees.
“I have happy news,” said Smedley. “I no longer need your services. It was all a mistake. I am afraid I am so in love with Mabel that I am inclined to be stupidly jealous.”
As if he saw, hovering on Agatha’s lips, the question, “What were you doing in Bath with a young lady?” he added quickly, “Of course, I wouldn’t dream of asking you for a refund and please bill me for any expenses.”
“Thank you,” said Agatha, wondering whether to bill him for expenses for a trip to Bath and then rejecting the idea. He had already paid a great deal of money. She was supposed to have been spying on Mrs. Smedley, not Mr. Then she wondered why he was not asking for any of his money back.
“I am very pleased that things have worked out for you, Mr. and Mrs. Smedley. May I offer you some coffee?”
“No, we must be off,” he said jovially.
Harry Beam appeared to rouse himself from some sort of torpor. “That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got on your arm, Mrs. Smedley.”
She was carrying a light jacket and immediately put it on. For one moment, something unpleasant flicked at the back of Smedley’s eyes as he surveyed Harry.
“And who are you, might I ask?”
“Harry Beam, detective. I’m on undercover work.”
“From your appearance, it must be something really unsavoury. Come, Mabel.”
When they had left, Agatha asked, “Was there really a bruise? I wasn’t looking.”
“A whopping great one, as if someone had grabbed her arm and twisted it.”
“If he’s hurting her, she should go to the police.” Patrick came in and Agatha told him the Smedley case was over. He was followed by Phil, who said he had good photos of Trixie and Fairy.
“Right, Phil,” said Agatha. “We’ll get down to the mall. Patrick, the latest is that Jessica was not raped but it was made to look that way. This boyfriend appears to have a clear alibi, but go and see if you can talk to him. He might have something interesting to say about Jessica that he’s forgotten.”
“This murder looks like the work of an amateur,” said Patrick. ‘These days most people would know that with DNA they’d soon find out she hadn’t been raped.”
“Maybe not. They might assume the police would think a condom had been used. Whoever did it didn’t know she was a virgin.”
“What about me?” asked Harry.
“There are two outstanding divorce cases, both well-to-do people, so you’ll need to blend in. Different clothes and no studs.”
She expected him to protest, but he gave a laconic “Okay.”
“Mrs. Freedman will give you the files.”
“You’ve got the photographer,” said Harry. “You want me to take a camera?”
Agatha was reluctant to surrender Phil. He was proving to have a good insight into things.
“Come down to my car,” said Phil, “and I’ll fix you up with a proper camera and a telescopic lens.”
“Cool.”
“What should I be working on?” asked Patrick.
“See if you can have a chat with Burt Haviland.”
Agatha and Phil set out for the mall. The recent rain had left the skies grey and the air muggy and stifling.
They went back to the clock and, armed with the pictures of Trixie, Fairy and Jessica, began to quiz the shopkeepers round about, but although four of them recognized the girls, it was always the same story. They had seen them waiting but after that had not noticed anything else.
“I think it’s time we went back and saw the parents,” said Agatha. “The body won’t have been released for burial yet, so they’ll probably just be sitting around. I’d like to ask them about Burt Haviland. That sounds like a name out of a romance. Be interesting to find out if he changed his name at any time.”
Mrs. Bradley opened the door to them, looking like a zombie. Agatha guessed she had probably been prescribed tranquillizers.
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin. So kind of you to still offer to find Jessica’s murderer. Do come in.”
Her voice had a soft Gloucestershire burr.
They went into a pleasant living room. There was a large photograph of Jessica on the sideboard, looking every inch the correct English schoolgirl.
Pretty net curtains fluttered at the open windows and the room was full of domestic clutter: books and magazines, videos, and a discarded piece of knitting.
“Is your husband home?” asked Agatha.
“He’s gone back to work at the ice cream factory. He says it keeps his mind off the horror of it all.”
“You should try one of those bereavement counselling classes,” said Agatha gently. “Tranquillizers only keep the grief damped down and it can erupt worse later on. I’ll find out where the nearest one is for you.”
“Thank you.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, rolling down silently, one after the other.
“I’ll make tea,” said Phil.
Mrs. Bradley mopped her eyes with a tissue.
“Did you know Jessica had a boyfriend?”
She looked at Agatha in amazement. “No, was it one of the boys at school?”
“It was a man of thirty-five called Burt Haviland. Works in sales at Smedleys Electronics.”
“She said nothing of this to us.”
“It appears Jessica may have been frightened you’d stop him seeing her because he was so much older. He appears to have been very much in love with her. He has an alibi. Mrs. Bradley, your daughter was not raped. The police will no doubt inform you. Jessica was a virgin.”
“My poor little girl.” She began to cry again.
Agatha suddenly wished she was the type of woman who would find it easy to cross the room and give Mrs. Bradley a comforting hug, but she wasn’t, so she made what she hoped were sympathetic noises.
Phil came in with the tea things. “I’ve made yours very sweet,” he said to Mrs. Bradley. “Good for shock.”
She gave him a weak smile and sipped her tea.
Seeing she was once more composed, Agatha asked, “May we see Jessica’s room?”
“Please go upstairs. It’s at the top on the left. I won’t go up with you. I can’t.”
Agatha and Phil went up the stairs and pushed open the door of Jessica’s room. They each pulled on a pair of latex gloves. It looked the usual teenager’s room with posters of pop stars on the walls, but with more books than usual. There was a computer desk against the wall but no computer. Agatha guessed the police must have taken it away to find out if she had been communicating with anyone on the Internet.
She pulled open the drawer on the desk. “I suppose if she had a diary, the police will have that as well. Unless she hid it. Where would a teenager hide a diary?”
“Don’t know,” said Phil. “Let’s search.”
