the sitting room, get ourselves a drink and you can tell me all about it.'
Charles listened while Agatha talked on and on about Sharon's death and then about her trip to Philadelphia. 'You did well,' he said when she had finished talking. 'I thought Courtney was weird. As for Sharon? Well, that was always going to be a disaster, but you couldn't seem to see it.'
'Why didn't you say something?'
'Would you have listened?'
'Perhaps not.'
'Did you tell her to go undercover and find out about these bikers?'
'No.'
'Well, there you are. It's a damned shame. There's nothing we can do tonight. Let's get some sleep. I'll just get my bag out of the car.'
But when Charles returned, Agatha was fast asleep. He lifted her legs up and stretched her out on the sofa, went upstairs and came back with a duvet to cover her, and then took himself off to bed in the spare room.
Agatha was awakened early the next morning by the shrilling of the doorbell. She struggled up from the sofa and went to answer it.
A policewoman stood there. 'Mrs. Raisin, I'm to take you to headquarters to go over your statement.'
'Give me a few minutes to wash and change,' groaned Agatha. 'Don't you want to come in?'
'I'll wait in the car.'
Agatha had a quick shower and change of clothes. Then she went into the spare room, where Charles lay peacefully sleeping. She shook him awake. 'I've got to go to headquarters. Are you coming?'
He yawned and turned on his side. 'You'll do fine all by yourself.'
'Story of my life,' muttered Agatha, stomping down the stairs.
Agatha learned that the American police were currently hunting for both Tom Courtney and his sister. Tom had left the United Kingdom the day after Agatha had taken her flight to the States. Harriet Temple had cracked and said that Amy had initially told her she needed an excuse because she was having an affair. After the murder, when Harriet read about it and phoned her, Amy had threatened to kill her if she ever breathed a word. Dr. Bairns was crying and bewildered, saying he did not know where his wife was. The Courtneys had cleared out their bank accounts and disappeared.
Agatha thought they must have moved very fast indeed. It seemed likely that Tom had fled just after Amy had telephoned him to report Agatha's visit.
'So when we get them and have them extradited, Courtney will be charged with the murder of his mother and also of John Sunday.'
'But why on earth would he kill John Sunday?'
'He knew where his mother lived. The killing of Sunday was just setting the scene.'
'But is there any record of him entering the country at that time?'
'No, but we're working on it. He may have played the same trick on someone that his sister played on Harriet and got another passport. He was setting the stage. It turns out that both he and his sister have at various times been hospitalised for drugs and depression. There are psychiatric reports claiming they both suffered from a form of narcissistic psychopathy. They were the children of Mrs. Courtney's first marriage. He thought with one murder already in that village, we wouldn't look at him.'
'Why employ me?'
'Because he felt perfectly sure you wouldn't find anything. He told Bill Wong that perhaps he had made a mistake employing what he called 'a mere village sleuth' but that he was willing to try anything.'
'I don't think the murder of John Sunday had anything to do with it,' said Agatha. 'It's just one elaborate step too far.'
'So you say. But as far as we're concerned, that murder is solved. The American police will get a confession out of him.'
'If they ever catch him,' said Agatha cynically. 'At the moment, I'm going all out to get the bastard who killed Sharon.'
'You needn't bother. It was Jazz Belter. Real name Fred Belter. We've got him in the cells.'
'How did you get him so quickly?'
'Detective Wong interviewed an old lady who lived in the flats overlooking where the dead girl was found. She doesn't sleep much. She saw Belter drag Sharon out of the boot of a car, stuff her mouth with grass, sling a rope over the lamp post--it's one of those old-fashioned kind--and string her up. He was so high on drugs when we picked him up, it took four officers to hold him down and handcuff him.'
Agatha left police headquarters feeling very low. Somehow, if finding out the murderer of poor Sharon had turned out to be a complicated affair, it might have made the girl's death seem less useless, less of such a complete waste of a young life.
She had a sudden vivid memory of looking down from the office window and watching Sharon and Toni going off for the evening, laughing and with their arms around each other.
She went round to the office. Patrick and Toni were out on jobs. Mrs. Freedman had gone off to do some shopping and Phil Marshall was manning the phones. Phil was in his seventies, a quiet man with a shock of white hair. He had retained a good figure. He was an expert cameraman.
'Bad business about Sharon,' said Phil. 'Mrs. Freedman won't be long. Do you want me to give you a run- down on what we are all doing?'
'Not at the moment. I need to get back to thinking about the murder of John Sunday to take my mind off Sharon's death.'
'So you don't think the Courtneys did it?'
'No. It's nagging at the back of my mind that it was someone in that village. You see the trouble with being a town person and not a village person and meeting so many other incomers these days,' said Agatha. 'I can't help feeling that people like me don't really know village life, what really goes on in the minds of the genuine villagers. It's not even like some of those television series you see based on supposed village life. All so politically correct. If the local retired major was in the army, then he's either a fascist or a closet gay. Gypsies are always good people and not understood. I saw one with eight murders and not a pressman in sight.'
'No. I suspect there are undercurrents in an off-the-tourist-map sort of place like Odley Cruesis. Unless it was someone at John's work . . . Oh, Mrs. Freedman, you're back. Would you please look me up the files on John Sunday?'
'No need for that,' said Phil. 'I've got it all on the computer.'
Agatha fetched herself a strong cup of coffee and lit a cigarette. Mrs. Freedman stifled a sigh and opened a window. Agatha sat down in front of the computer and began to read all the reports along with Phil's photographs. Then she said, 'Something's missing.'
'What?' asked Phil.
'Where did John Sunday live?'
'I remember that. A terraced house. Oxford Lane in Mircester. Patrick said the police could not find anything that related to the murder.'
'And who got the house?'
'Wait and I'll get my notebook.'
'Phil, it should be in here with the rest.'
Agatha bit her lip in vexation. What with the murder of Miriam and then her own hip replacement operation, she felt she had often too easily assumed that both murders were connected.
'Let me see.' Phil came back with a notebook and flicked the pages. 'Ah, here we are. I went with Patrick. Number seven, Oxford Lane. Two up, two down terraced house. Small front garden. Neighbourhood slightly run- down. He was never married. His sister inherited. A Mrs. Parker. Probably sold the house.'
