“I hate the idea of getting old,” said Agatha. She shifted in her chair. No nasty twinges this morning. “How do you fancy Cyril Hammond for the murder of Geraldine? He seems to have been devoted to her, but that could all be an act.”
“He’s certainly one person who might have persuaded her to leave the hotel. My contact at the station is trying to find out if he has any sort of criminal record. If you get permission to leave, will you really go and leave the murder of Geraldine unsolved?”
“I don’t know. I would like to go home, but at least here there are a lot of police around. Brian McNally has been seen in Carsely. I would be an easier target there.”
“In that case, perhaps James’s idea is sound—get out of the country and disappear for a bit.”
“The trouble is, I don’t really know what James thinks of me. I thought when he suggested a holiday together that perhaps he might want to marry me again. But when I was married to him before, it wasn’t comfortable. It was like being a house guest rather than a wife. He found fault with everything I did. So why should he want to get back together with me?”
“Perhaps he’s thinking of approaching old age and doesn’t want to be alone. Men always like to think there’ll be some woman there to look after them in their dotage.”
“Hardly a romantic picture,” said Agatha drily. “What do you plan to do today?”
“Hang around the police station and see what I can pick up.”
“I need a break from it all,” said Agatha. “I’ll drive off somewhere and spend the day alone.”
“Is that wise? McNally or one of his villains could still be looking for you.”
“But I’ll feel like a sitting duck if I stay in the hotel. Phone me if you find out anything.”
* * *
Agatha drove out of the underground car park experiencing a feeling of freedom. She drove up over the downs and then cruised through small villages. She stopped for lunch at a pub and then returned to her car, still reluctant to return to the hotel.
She went down into Brighton, parked the car, and walked to the Pavilion, that famous folly of the Prince Regent. She walked around the rooms, wearying at last of so much garishness and so much gold leaf.
Then Agatha found a second-hand bookshop in the Lanes, bought herself a chick-lit book, found a cafe and settled down to read.
It was the usual mixture—the good girlfriend, the gay friend, the handsome friend whom the heroine had always regarded as a brother and the usual catalogue of Versace dresses and Jimmy Choo shoes.
But it was undemanding reading and she enjoyed it. When she finally left the cafe, the sky was becoming black overhead and the seagulls, wheeling and screaming, looked startlingly white against the inky backdrop.
A classic cinema was advertising
There were very few customers in the cinema. Agatha settled down in the dark and prepared to enjoy herself.
She found the film very funny indeed, and laughing at Jacques Tati’s antics enabled her to forget about murder.
When she emerged after the film, the wind was blowing in great violent gusts.
Back in the shelter of her car, she still did not feel like returning to Snoth and decided to have dinner in the pub where she had had lunch earlier. She ate a generous helping of roast duck and followed it up with an equally generous helping of sticky toffee pudding covered in double cream.
The waistband of her skirt was uncomfortably tight when she left, but she felt soothed and relaxed.
Gusts of wind buffeted the car as she drove back towards Snoth-on-Sea. When she parked the car and emerged from the underground car park, she could only be glad it was not yet high tide. Already the roar of the waves was deafening.
A pile of sandbags blocked the hotel entrance and she had to climb over them. As she collected her key, Nick Loncar handed her a note. It was from James, typewritten as usual, thought Agatha, as if he considered the written word too intimate.
It read: “Patrick tells me you went off for a drive. Meet me for breakfast at nine o’clock. There is something we need to discuss. James.”
Agatha crumpled it up in disgust. No “Love, James” or “Affectionately yours, James.”
“Bad news.”
Agatha turned and saw Charles standing there. “Where have you been?” he asked.
“Got fed up with the hotel and went off by myself for the day. Why are you still here? Didn’t get permission to leave?”
“I can go tomorrow. Let’s have a talk, Aggie. I’m worried about you.”
“Can’t I just go to bed? I’m tired.”
“Just one drink in the bar.”
“All right. Just the one.”
Charles ordered a whisky for himself and a gin and tonic for Agatha.
“So what’s all this about?” asked Agatha.
“It’s about you and James.”
“What about it?”
“I was talking to James today. He seems confident that you and he will take this holiday together.”
“I’m not confident we will. I just want to get home.”
“I feel somehow sure that James will persuade you at the last minute. Although I behave like a callous rat sometimes, I am your friend. Have you ever seriously considered that the attraction James holds for you is because he is nearly always unavailable in some way? You go on like a battered wife, always returning for another helping of abuse. Maybe you need some form of therapy.”
“There is nothing up with me,” retorted Agatha. “As a matter of fact, I am going to go home as soon as I can.”
“We’ll see. Just don’t go back and after a few weeks start mourning what you might see as a lost opportunity.”
“Charles, I am sure all this lecturing is well meant, but I am tired. That shrieking storm is getting on my nerves.”
“I hope the hotel lasts the night,” said Charles. “But think about what I said.”
At one in the morning, Nick Loncar looked up from the football magazine he was reading and saw a man standing in front of him. Nick could hear the waves thundering over the sea wall and wondered how this man had managed to keep dry.
“Do you want a room, sir?” he asked.
The man smiled. He had a pleasant, tanned face and he was expensively dressed. “I am from Lewes CID,” he said. “I am afraid I’ll need to have another word with Mrs. Raisin. Something’s just happened.”
“May I see some ID?” asked Nick cautiously.
He flashed a card at him.
“We’ll use the bar,” said the man. “What we have to discuss is top secret, so I want you to put on the lights in the bar and make yourself scarce.”
“Will do.” Nick hesitated. “How did you manage to get in here without getting wet?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “You are impeding the police in an investigation,” he said in a voice heavy with menace.
“All right, all right,” said Nick. “I’ll call her.”
He rang from the desk and spoke to Agatha. When he put down the phone he said, “Mrs. Raisin says to give her ten minutes to get dressed.”
“Right. Just put on a couple of lights in the bar and get lost.”
“I’ll be in the manager’s office if you want me.”
Agatha walked down into the reception area and was immediately deafened by the roar of the storm. The wind howled and great waves crashed against the door of the hotel.
She went into the bar. Only two lamps were lit. She saw a man sitting over by the long windows, his back to
