one thing, there’s nowhere really to hide out. And is this Tom Richards squeaky clean? Seems a bit of an odd fish wanting two women to have plastic surgery.’
‘It’s not as odd as you think. The divorce cases we handle are usually instigated by the women. The husband sees all these sexual fantasies on television and wants to try some of them out at home. The woman says no. Fights ensue. Divorce follows. I suppose wanting the wife to have plastic surgery is another part of the fantasy. Agatha’s told us not to go near anything to do with the murders.’
‘Not like her.’
‘Well, getting a dead head through the post was enough to frighten even Agatha Raisin. I’d better be getting back, Simon. I won’t be seeing you again.’
‘You’ll come to my wedding?’
‘No thanks.’
‘But I’ve invited the whole agency. They’re all coming.’
‘Well, in that case, I might drop along.’
Chapter Nine
When Toni reached her car, she had a sudden urge to watch Mrs Fiona Richards. Phil had told her that Fiona had not called him, and when he had called her, she’d said she was too busy. Amy Richards might have said something to her husband, and he might have told Fiona. It might be he was too afraid to pass any information along to the police in case something happened to him. In her car, she put on a baseball cap and pulled it down over her face and put on a pair of dark glasses. Satisfied she looked like any other anonymous teenager, she set out for Fiona Richards’s house. Fiona’s car was not in the drive.
Toni set off for the centre of town. Perhaps Fiona had gone to do some shopping. It was market day. Toni walked up and down between the stalls. As lunchtime approached, she decided to try the George. She checked the hotel’s private parking place and recognized Fiona’s car. Toni decided to sit in an armchair in reception and say she was waiting for someone.
Armed with a newspaper, she glanced round it occasionally as people entered the hotel.
She found to her surprise as she waited that she no longer felt anything for Simon at all. He had only been a dream. If Agatha had not interfered, then the dream would not have been kept alive.
‘Excuse me, are you Toni Gilmour?’
Toni lowered her newspaper. A man was standing there, smiling down at her. She registered that he was very expensively dressed and immaculately barbered. He smelled faintly of cologne. He had a wide, pleasant face, and although his body was broad, it looked sturdy. His eyes were brown with little flecks of gold.
‘I am Toni Gilmour,’ said Toni, thinking her baseball cap and dark glasses had turned out to be a pretty poor disguise.
He sat down beside her. ‘It’s cheeky of me to come right up to you. I wanted your advice. It’s really Mrs Raisin I want to meet. Here’s my card. I’m Peter Powell, estate agent.’
‘And what did you want with Mrs Raisin?’ asked Toni suspiciously.
‘It’s like this. I’ve got this client who wants a cottage in the Cotswolds. He was driving with me around the villages and we ended up in Carsely. He fell in love with Mrs Raisin’s cottage.’
‘Odd that he should spot it,’ said Toni suspiciously. ‘It’s in a cul-de-sac.’
‘He spotted it from the end of Lilac Lane. We drove up. He said he must have it.’
‘Agatha won’t sell, I can tell you that.’
‘Ah, but wait to hear what he’s offering.’
‘Who is this man?’
‘At the moment he prefers to remain anonymous.’
‘Mr . . .’
‘Peter. Call me Peter.’
‘Peter, then. Agatha Raisin is a detective who has, until recently, been involved in two grizzly murders. She is going to be highly suspicious, as I am, of this mysterious buyer. In fact, I am going to have to report your interest to the police.’
‘You can check up on me anytime. I’m well known in the estate-agency business. I have a good reputation.’
‘I think, then, they will be more interested in your client. Look at it this way. A prospective buyer would expect access to the house, would he not?’
‘Well, of course.’
‘So the police will naturally want to know who and why.’
‘That’s understandable. Go ahead.’
After he had left, Toni crossed the hotel lobby and took a quick look inside the dining room. There was no sign of Fiona. She boldly asked at the desk whether a Mrs Fiona Richards was in the hotel and learned to her dismay that she had left.
It must have happened while I was talking to that estate agent, thought Toni. I’m suspicious of everyone and everything. Does this estate agent really exist?
She was just crossing the square to police headquarters when she saw Bill Wong about to get into his car and hailed him. Toni decided it would be better to say nothing about watching Fiona, as they had all been warned off.
She told him about the estate agent and the prospective client for Agatha’s cottage.
‘I’d better look into it,’ said Bill. ‘Leave it with me. I mean, why did this estate agent approach you? Why not phone Agatha?’
Toni then phoned Agatha on her mobile and gave her a report. ‘Where were you when this man accosted you?’ asked Agatha.
‘I didn’t tell Bill, but I happened to see Fiona’s car parked at the George, so I waited in reception. Then this estate agent distracted me, and after he had gone, so had she.’
Agatha’s voice was sharp with anxiety. ‘Toni, you are not to have anything to do with the murders. It’s too dangerous. You’ve got that divorce case. Get on with it.’
After Toni had left, Bill went back into the police station and typed out a short report on the estate agent and handed it to Wilkes.
‘I see his firm is Powell, Slerry and Card,’ said Wilkes. ‘I’ve seen their FOR SALE boards. Get round there and have a word with him and insist on getting the name of his client.’
The estate agent’s offices were situated in the Glebe, one of the twisting mediaeval lanes around the abbey. He went in and asked for Mr Powell. A girl disappeared into a back office and then indicated that he should go in. Powell rose from behind his desk and extended a large hand.
‘Why am I being honoured with a visit from the police?’ he asked.
‘We are interested in your client who wishes to buy Agatha Raisin’s cottage. May I have his name, please?’
‘We do not give out names unless authorized to do so,’ said Powell.
‘Oh, do be sensible,’ said Bill. ‘Do you want me to get a warrant and have your files thoroughly searched?’
‘Would you mind stepping outside while I phone him? Just a courtesy to a client.’
Bill waited impatiently, knowing he had little chance of getting a warrant without having any solid proof of criminal activity.
Powell came out of his office and handed him a slip of paper. ‘His name is Bogdan Staikov. You’ll find him at the George right now.’
‘What nationality?’
Powell smiled. ‘You’ll need to ask him.’
At the George, Bill was told that Mr Staikov was taking coffee on the terrace.
He walked through the hotel and on to the terrace overlooking the gardens at the back. He had not asked to be conducted to Staikov, feeling sure he would spot the foreigner right away. But there were a good few smokers enjoying their after-lunch coffees, and they all looked very British.
