Agatha. Mum doesn’t like talking at the table.”
“Yus,” agreed Mr. Wong.
The next course was roast beef, cooked to the consistency of shoe leather, flanked by soggy potatoes, sprouts which had been boiled nearly to extinction and those canned peas which spread green dye all over the place.
Agatha chewed her way through the meal, glancing in amazement at Charles’s plate. He had eaten everything in remarkably quick time.
She was the last to finish, aware the whole time of Mrs. Wong’s beady eyes on her.
Mrs. Wong bustled round, collecting the plates.
“You’re making a lot of extra work for Mother,” commented Mr. Wong.
Agatha remembered her first visit to Bill’s home, imagining delicious Chinese cooking.
Mrs. Wong jerked up the hatch from the kitchen and shouted, “Pudding. Hand round the plates, Bill.”
Pudding turned up to be a piece of sponge cake in lumpy custard. Agatha gave up after a few mouthfuls. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wong. I can’t eat anymore.”
“There’s starving people in this world would be glad of that,” said Mrs. Wong.
Inside Agatha’s head, a voice screamed, “Then wrap it up and send it to them!” But she sat in silence with her head bowed like a child in disgrace.
At last the ordeal was over. “Go into the garden,” said Bill, “and I’ll bring the coffee out to you.”
“It’s raining,” said Agatha, finding her voice.
“I’ve built a little conservatory,” said Bill proudly. “Come and I’ll show you.”
He led the way out through the kitchen. But as he closed the dining room door, Agatha could hear the Wongs breaking into animated speech. Evidently the ban at speaking at the table only extended to visitors. What were they talking about? Probably complaining about me, thought Agatha.
The conservatory was a small room with a few potted plants and an iron table with chairs round it.
“Did you do all this yourself?” asked Charles.
“I did the foundations and the brickwork and then got a firm to do the rest. I’ll go and get coffee. There’s an ashtray on the table, Agatha. You can smoke.”
No sooner had he left than Charles extracted a plastic shopping bag from the inside pocket of his jacket. He opened the door of the conservatory that led into the garden, whirled the bag round his head and sent it sailing into the garden next door.
When he returned, Agatha asked, “Was that lunch?”
“Yes.”
“How did you do it?”
“Apart from Mrs. Wong glaring at you, Bill and his father never raised their eyes from their plates. So when they weren’t looking, I took out the bag, opened it down between my knees and quickly tipped the plateful into it. I couldn’t get rid of the pudding because I knew that wretched custard would stick to the plate. Shh! Here’s Bill.”
Bill came in with a tray of coffee things. Agatha lit a cigarette. “So what’s happening?” she asked.
“We’re checking up on all the men who paid to go into the girls’ Web site. We examined Robert Smedley’s records, just in case he was tied up with Burt in some way other than employer, and there was no sign of any payment.”
“I find it hard to believe that the girls’ parents knew nothing about what was going on.”
“The parents are all pretty lax. We checked with the school. Most of the parents allow their kids too little supervision.”
“There was one picture where Trixie and Fairy were pulling Jessica’s hair and it didn’t look like play. I think she was bullied into it.”
“Probably did it out of love for Burt and was frightened of losing him if she didn’t do what he wanted. How are you getting on with the Smedley case?”
“Nothing. Joyce would seem to be the obvious suspect. I mean, the weedkiller in, probably, the milk bottle. Although someone else could have got to that milk bottle before they packed up work on the Friday. Even though she washed it, couldn’t your forensic people still get something from the empty bottle?”
“We’re still looking for it.”
“What? Wasn’t it in the trash?”
“Joyce said she always scalded out the empties with boiling water.”
“Wait a bit,” said Charles. “This doesn’t add up. She pours his coffee, adds the milk, and takes it in to him. Don’t tell me she then calmly stood in the little office kitchen scalding out the milk bottle while her boss was noisily puking up his guts next door.”
“No. She says that because the kettle had just boiled for the coffee, she used the rest of the water to clean the bottle before taking the coffee in to him and left the bottle upended on the draining board.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about the missing milk bottle before?” asked Agatha.
“Because we didn’t know it was missing. It now turns out that the Friday before, Smedley had a conference with several of the staff and they had coffee and biscuits. A bottle of milk and most of another bottle was used up, because two of the staff refused coffee and said they would each have a glass of milk instead. Joyce put the bottle with the little bit of milk in it in the fridge, scalded out the other one, and left it in the kitchen trash. She could be lying, of course. But we haven’t any proof. We’ve searched all the outside rubbish bins. There were milk bottles in some of them We tested them all. The staff have all been fingerprinted. But we knew we were looking for two that had been cleaned. Couldn’t find one.”
“But who else could have had a chance to take the bottle away?”
“Joyce said when she heard Smedley dying, she screamed and screamed and everyone came running. It would be the one place that still has their milk delivered in bottles. The milk comes from an old-fashioned dairy in Gloucester.”
“Did you tell Mrs. Smedley that her husband was having an affair with Joyce?”
“Yes. She says she knew nothing about it.”
There came a hammering from the front door of the house and then the sounds of an angry altercation.
“I’d better go and see what’s happening,” said Bill.
“The food you threw into the neighbour’s garden,” said Agatha. “I bet that’s what it’s about.”
“Let’s run away.”
“We can’t.”
‘Think of the fury of Mrs. Wong.”
They ran down the garden from the conservatory and out into a field at the back.
“My car’s parked a little way down the road,” panted Agatha. “I think we can reach it without Bill seeing us.”
They climbed over a fence at the side of the field and down a lane which led to the front of the houses.
“Right!” said Agatha. “I’ve got the keys ready. Let’s run for it.”
But as they reached the car, Bill Wong emerged from the other side of it and stood with his arms folded.
“You’re a disgrace!” he said. Agatha had never seen him so angry.
“It’s my fault,” said Charles. “I think I’ve got an ulcer. I didn’t want to hurt your mother’s feelings.”
“You have not only hurt her, you’ve humiliated her.”
“We’ll go back and apologize,” said Agatha.
“No, go on your way. I’m sick of the sight of you.”
Agatha drove off. A tear began to roll down her cheek, followed by another.
“Hey!” said Charles. “Stop the car. I’ll drive.”
They changed places and Charles drove off. “He was my first friend,” sobbed Agatha.
“We’ll stop in Mircester and send the old bat some flowers and a note of apology.”
“Won’t work.” Agatha suddenly brightened. “But I know what might. Stop in the main square outside police headquarters. There’s something in a shop down The Shambles which has something that might do the trick.”
“Surely it won’t be open on Sunday.”
“Some of the shops are open. I think this one will be.”
“You mean that?” asked Charles fifteen minutes later as they both stood looking in a shop window.
