It was midnight when they reached the hotel. They were confronted by a policeman on duty. “Mrs. Raisin? Sir Charles Fraith? You are to report to the police station immediately.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” wailed Agatha.
“Those are my orders.”
“Come on,” said Charles wearily. “May as well get it over with.”
* * *
Detective Inspector Barret and Detective Sergeant Wilkins were waiting for them in an interview room. Barret looked angry.
“You had important information about this case that you did not report to the police. You should have told us about Pete Silen.”
“It was only a guess,” said Agatha. “We were only checking up on one of Mrs. Jankers’s old dancing partners. How were we to know he’d turn out to be a villain?”
“In the future, I want you to report anything significant to us before you set out to investigate it. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, yes. Stop shouting at me. I’m tired and I was nearly killed.” To Agatha’s horror a tear slid down her cheek.
“Leave her alone,” said Charles angrily. “All this could have waited until the morning.”
“Very well,” said Barret. “I’ll let you go. But remember, your amateur efforts are impeding a police investigation.”
“How?” yelled Agatha. “If it hadn’t been for us, the police would never have got Pete Silen.”
“Come on, Aggie,” said Charles. “Let’s get out of here.”
When Agatha finally said goodnight to Charles and was undressing, the phone rang. “Now what?” she muttered, picking up the receiver. It was Harry Beam. “I’ve been trying you all evening,” he said. “It was on television about Pete Silen.”
“Couldn’t this call have waited until the morning?”
“It was just this. Did you know that Fred Jankers and his late missus lived in Lewisham? In fact, I think Fred still has a house there.”
“So?”
“It’s quiet at the agency. Why don’t I go to Lewisham and make some enquiries. Maybe the neighbours know a bit about the late Geraldine. There might be some other man in the picture. Do the police think Pete killed Geraldine?”
“I gather he has an alibi. All right, Harry. Go to Lewisham but keep in touch.”
Agatha rang off and got out of the rest of her clothes. She cleaned off her make-up but was too tired to take a shower. She crawled into bed and lay there shivering.
She could hear the sound of the waves pounding against the promenade outside.
There was a knock at the door and she let out a whimper of terror. “Who’s there?” she called.
“It’s me. Charles.”
Agatha crawled out of bed and unlocked the door. “I brought some brandy,” said Charles. “Funnily enough, I can’t sleep. Thought you might need a nightcap.”
“I could do with something,” said Agatha. “I think I’m suffering from delayed shock. Aren’t we supposed to be drinking hot sweet tea?”
“Probably. But brandy is cheerier.”
Charles found two tooth mugs in the bathroom and poured generous measures of brandy. He was wrapped in a brightly coloured dressing gown. Agatha had got back into bed. He handed her a glass of brandy and then sat on the bed beside her.
“Cheers, Aggie.”
“Cheers,” echoed Agatha.
After two glasses of brandy she began to feel warm and sleepy. She placed the empty glass on the bedside table, leaned back against the pillows, closed her eyes and fell instantly asleep.
Charles did not feel like going back to his own room. He got under the blankets next to her in the double bed and was soon asleep as well.
The ringing of the telephone on the bedside table next to him woke him in the morning. Charles picked it up. “Hullo?”
“This is James Lacey. I want to speak to Agatha. Is that you, Charles? What are you doing in her room?”
“What do you think?” said Charles cheerfully.
The phone at the other end was slammed down.
“Who was that?” asked Agatha sleepily.
“Some idiot wanting to know if we want breakfast. Go back to sleep. It’s only seven in the morning.”
Harry Beam arrived in Lewisham the following morning armed with Fred Jankers’s address, which had appeared in several of the newspapers after the murder of his wife.
The address was on the outskirts of Lewisham in a builder’s development called Rosedown, where all the two-storied houses were identical and had a raw, recently built look. Harry had hoped to break in, but the gardens had no concealing trees or bushes. He was driving his white van.
He had with him a series of lock picks, but he knew it would take some time to open one of the doors and did not want to be observed by any of the neighbours as he fumbled with the lock.
He also did not want to spend all day waiting for darkness. He drove off until he found a quiet stretch outside an industrial estate. He stopped and got a pair of workman’s overalls out of the van and a toolbox.
Then he returned to the house, stopped the van, and walked confidently up to the house and round to the back door. To his relief, there was a high hedge screening the back garden. He pulled on a pair of thin latex gloves and got to work with the lock picks. After a quarter of an hour, he managed to get the door open.
He found himself in the kitchen. It was a mess; Geraldine Jankers had obviously not bothered to clean up before she and her husband left. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink and there were the remains of a breakfast on the table.
He moved quietly through to the living room. A low coffee table was covered with glasses and bottles. Newspapers and magazines were scattered about. A set of bookshelves did not hold any books but various photographs of Geraldine. He went across a small square hall and opened a door on the other side, which revealed a dining room that looked as
This, he judged, had been Fred’s study. Unlike the other rooms, it was neat and tidy. Here were shelves of well-read books and a desk by the window had neatly arranged papers on it. He debated whether to pull the curtains, but decided against it. No one was moving on the street outside. He sat down and began to go through the papers. There was nothing of interest on the top of the desk except bills due to be paid. He opened the drawers. In a deep left-hand drawer he found clearly marked files—tax, VAT, insurance, bank—and decided it would not be worth going through them. He opened the right-hand drawer and found a file marked “Personal Correspondence” and lifted it out.
At first, the contents seemed disappointing. Fred belonged to a bowling club and there were letters inviting him to various functions connected with it. There was one from Wayne saying he was looking forward to the holiday at Snoth-on-Sea. Modern Harry was amazed that people still wrote letters instead of texting messages, but he had noticed that Fred did not appear to own a computer. There was one from a ballroom dancing class, querying Fred’s non-attendance. Then he found a small square envelope and opened it up.
It was written in block capitals and simply said, IF YOU MARRY GERALDINE IT WILL BE THE WORSE FOR YOU. It was signed ARCHIE SWALE.
Harry whistled under his breath. Here was something at last. Archie Swale was the old geezer who lived in Brighton and who had been married to Geraldine. He carefully replaced the letter in the file and put everything back in the desk.
He then proceeded to search the rest of the house. In the main bedroom, he searched through the bedside tables without finding anything of significance. He ripped the duvet and sheets off the bed and lifted up the mattress.
