have a fascinating life. I say, have you time for a coffee?”
“That would be nice,” said Agatha. “You haven’t introduced yourself.”
“I’m Terry Armstrong.”
They walked together along the street. “What are you doing here?” asked Agatha.
“I’m a builder. My men are working on some new houses here. Here’s a cafe. It’s not too bad.”
He opened the door and ushered her in.
It was an old-fashioned tea shop, perhaps a relic of the days when James Lacey was a boy. There were lace covers on the tables and a large central wooden stand with layers of gorgeous-looking cakes.
Agatha took stock of her new companion. His accent was London, or so she thought. In her youth, each district of London had its separate accent, but now there was just one, if you excluded the Cockneys.
“Have you been on holiday?” she asked. “That tan never came out of a bottle.”
“I’ve got a place in Marbella.”
“Building trade must be good.”
“I do pretty well.”
A waitress came up. He ordered a pot of coffee. Agatha refused an offer of cake.
“So tell me about your job?” he asked.
“If you’ve read the newspapers, I’m afraid you’ll know as much as I do,” said Agatha. “The police have arrested Charlie Black, the man who robbed the jeweller’s, and now they’ve got Pete Silen, his partner, as well.”
“I read about Pete Silen. He nearly killed you.”
Agatha happily launched into a highly exaggerated account of her adventures in Lewisham.
When she had finished, he asked, “And what about this friend of yours who was with you? Is he back at the hotel?”
Agatha’s face darkened. “He cleared off sometime during the night.” She shrugged. “I’m afraid he’s like that.”
“It’s bit boring down here. What about joining me for dinner tonight?”
“I’d like that,” said Agatha, feeling her spirits soar. Damn Charles and James. She still had pulling power.
He said he would pick her up at her hotel at eight. “I know a good place well outside of town,” he said.
Agatha walked back to the hotel with a light heart. She spent the rest of the day on her laptop, writing down everything about the case and then printed everything off on her portable printer to show to Patrick when he arrived.
Patrick turned up in the late afternoon. He settled down in Agatha’s room and carefully studied her notes. He tapped a page. “Is it possible this old boy, Archie Swale, might have murdered his ex-wife?”
“I feel doubtful about that. Charles appeared to think so.”
“We could drive over to Brighton this evening. I’d like to get a look at him.”
“He wouldn’t see us. Besides, I’ve got a date.”
“Who?”
Agatha grinned. “Just a fellow who picked me up.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Not like you to be so curious about my personal life. Oh, well. He bumped into me as I was coming out of M and S in the High Street. He apologized. He then said he recognized me from my photo in the local paper and wanted to hear all about my work. We had coffee and he’s invited me out for dinner.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a builder. But a rich one. He’s got a place in Marbella.”
“So have a lot of villains.”
“He’s not a villain,” said Agatha hotly. “Do you mean to say a man can’t be attracted to me?”
She glared at him.
“No, no,” mumbled Patrick. “When is he picking you up?”
“At eight o’clock.”
Patrick studied her flushed face in silence. Then he said, “I’ll run over to Brighton and wait outside this Swale’s house. I’ll get a better idea about him if I can see him.”
“How’s Phil Marshall getting on?”
“He’s amazing for his age. Never stops working. He says there’s a newcomer in the village.”
“Who?”
“A widow called Deborah Fanshawe, hell-bent on chasing your ex.”
“What does she look like?”
“Phil says she’s very attractive.”
I don’t care any more, Agatha told herself fiercely. I’ve got a date. I’m moving on.
Agatha had gone out shopping again for her date. The dresses she had brought when she had expected to be going somewhere warm and glamorous were too filmy for this cold British summer. If anyone talks about global warming again, thought Agatha, I’ll strike them.
She chose a white silk blouse with a plunging neckline and a black skirt cut on the bias. A pink pashmina completed the ensemble.
Agatha felt rejuvenated when she went down the stairs that evening to find Terry waiting for her. To her surprise, he was dressed in jeans, a donkey jacket and a plaid shirt.
“I’m overdressed,” said Agatha.
“You look great,” said Terry. “I’m sorry I look like this, but I had to rush here from work. It’s all right. They know me at the restaurant.”
Agatha had expected to be stepping into a Mercedes or a Rolls or some car like that, but there was a plain white van parked outside, just like the one Harry Beam used.
Her excitement about the evening was ebbing fast. If he were really interested, she thought, he would have made more of an effort.
He drove steadily out of town and up onto the windswept downs. “We’re going a long way,” said Agatha.
He smiled at her. “It’ll be worth it.”
Rain began to hammer against the windscreen. The rubber had gone from one of the wipers and it made an irritating noise as it scraped backwards and forwards.
Finally he stopped. “Here we are. Wait there and I’ll open the door for you.”
“I should have brought an umbrella,” said Agatha. “I’ll be soaked before I get indoors.”
He moved round to the front of the car and then opened the passenger door.
“Out!” he said.
In the weak interior light of the car Agatha could plainly see he was holding a serviceable-looking revolver.
“What’s this all about?” asked Agatha. “Is this a joke?”
“Out!”
Wind and rain whipped Agatha’s hair about her face. She peered this way and that looking for escape, but that revolver was now pressed into her side and urging her to the door of a low building.
Terry leaned round her and opened the door and prodded her in. He switched on an overhead light. Agatha found herself in a room empty except for one kitchen chair. Rain dripped through a crack in the ceiling. Despite her fear, she wondered why the electricity was working in such a derelict building.
“Sit down,” he barked.
Agatha sank down onto the hard chair. Her knees were trembling.
“Charlie said that only half the jewels were recovered. Where’s the rest?”
“I don’t know,” said Agatha. “I really, truly, don’t know. Why don’t you ask Fred Jankers?” She suddenly remembered the items of jewellery Harry had found under the mattress.
“Charlie told me about you, how he overheard you blabbing.”
“Who are you?”
“Charlie worked for me. Why he had to go off on a sideline like armed robbery, I don’t know. But I owe him a
