Agatha Raisin Love, Lies and Liquor ar-17 Read online

  Agatha retreated to her desk. The doorbell went again. She nervously lit a cigarette.

  Then she faintly heard his footsteps retreating and her shoulders relaxed.

  The phone rang. She stiffened up again, waiting until the ringing stopped. After a few minutes she went and picked up the receiver. She was told there was a message for her, press one. She pressed one. “You have one message,” said the voice of British Telecom. “Message received at ten twenty-five p.m.” James’s voice started to speak. “Agatha, I know you are home. Why …” Agatha held the phone away from her ear so that she could just hear when he had finished speaking without hearing the rest of the words. When he had finished, she pressed button three on the receiver to cancel the message in case she might be tempted to listen to it later.

  Agatha silently cursed James as she and Harry drove off the next morning. He was invading her thoughts, and already part of her brain was wishing she hadn’t cancelled that message.

  “Penny for them,” said Harry.

  “I was just wondering what to ask Fred,” Agatha lied.

  “Maybe ask him about Cyril,” suggested Harry. “That might get him to open up a bit.”

  “Good idea,” said Agatha, just as if she hadn’t thought of it already. “Mind you, it might have been a better idea to phone him first. It’s a long way to Lewisham and now the working week has started, the traffic will be hellish. What if he’s not at home?”

  “Then we’ll just need to hang around until he comes back,” said Harry cheerfully.

  Fred Jankers was not only at home but seemed glad to see them. “Come in,” he hailed them. “I get a bit lonely these days.”

  His house appeared much cleaner than when Harry had last seen it. Fred fussed around, making them tea and producing a plate of biscuits. When they were all settled, Agatha began.

  “We went to see Cyril Hammond yesterday.”

  Fred’s face darkened. “That shyster! Getting all Geraldine’s money.”

  “Just as well you got the insurance,” said Agatha.

  “Geraldine told me she was leaving everything to me. She even showed me the will.”

  “Have you got that will?”

  “No, she took it away again. Said she was leaving it with the solicitor.”

  “Maybe the will leaving everything to Wayne and then to Cyril if Wayne died was an old one?”

  “Can’t be. She drew up that will leaving everything to me right before we went on our honeymoon.”

  Asked Agatha, “Did you never think that Cyril might have murdered her?”

  “No. The police say it must have been one of Brian McNally’s men.”

  Harry said, “We were just wondering, now that it’s all over, if you happened to remember something about that night that might have escaped your memory up until now?”

  “Can’t remember a thing except falling asleep and then waking up to the news that she was dead. I’m a heavy sleeper.”

  Fred looked at them, a glint of suspicion in his eyes. “Why are you two still ferreting around? The case is closed. Geraldine’s murder was the result of clever planning. A pair of amateurs like you will never find out if anyone did it apart from that drug baron.”

  “If you thought we were so amateurs,” said Agatha, “why did you ask me to investigate?”

  “I was in shock and grasping at straws.”

  “How did you feel when you read in the papers that Archie Swale had been arrested?”

  He goggled at her. “What! I haven’t been reading the newspapers.”

  “He had a drawerful of jewellery from that robbery that Charlie Black committed. Thousands of pounds’ worth of stuff. Geraldine had given it to him for safekeeping.”

  Fred jumped to his feet and began to pace up and down the room. “That bitch,” he said savagely. “She told me she was loaded. Why else do you think I married a tart like that? Told me she would see me all right. Then that ghastly so-called honeymoon and I learn I’m to pay for bloody Wayne, creepy Cyril and their wives. Now all I hear is that she was out to see everyone all right except me.”

  Agatha felt suddenly calm. All the bits of the jigsaw seemed to be clicking into place.

  “You murdered her,” said Agatha. “How did you get her down to the beach? Did you suggest a romantic walk in the moonlight because you had a present for her, say, a valuable present?”

  He sat down again, his head drooping, staring at the floor. “You’ll never prove it.”

  Heart beating hard, Agatha said gently, “I know. But you’ll feel better for telling someone. You’re quite right. There’s no proof. You must have been awfully clever.”

  He raised his head. “I was, wasn’t I? I found those bits of jewellery under the mattress and I knew immediately where they must have come from because she actually seemed proud of having been married to a villain. So I told her I knew something that would put her in prison, but I didn’t want to tell her in the hotel. I suggested a walk.

  “When we were down on the beach, I told her I had found those items of jewellery under the mattress and if she didn’t pay me off handsomely and give me a divorce, I would go straight to the police and turn her in for harbouring stolen property.

  “She started to howl insults at me, sexual insults, coarse and horrible. She turned her back on me and said over her shoulder, ‘I’ll tell Cyril and Wayne. You little wimp, by the time they’re finished with you, you won’t dare go near any police station.’

  “That bright scarf was fluttering behind her in the breeze. I seized the ends and twisted them and twisted them, hearing her gurgle. I was mad with rage. I only meant to frighten her or something. I don’t know now. I only know I wanted to shut that awful jeering voice up. She fell silent. I dropped her down onto the beach.

  “I ran back to the hotel. That night receptionist was nowhere in sight. I ran all the way to our room, took strong sleeping pills and went to bed. So now you’ve got what you want, you can leave. Oh, you can tell the police, but I’ll deny every word and they’ve no proof. Get out!”

  Agatha jumped to her feet and backed away. Fred was no longer a pathetic little figure, but a madman capable of anything.

  She and Harry ran to their car and got in. Agatha drove off and stopped round the corner.

  “Who would have thought it? We’ve no proof, he’s right about that, but I’m going to tell the police anyway.”

  Harry grinned. “Oh, we’ve got proof of every word. I’m wired for sound.” He opened his jacket. There was a tape recorder against his chest which he had hung round his neck with two strings.

  “Oh, Harry Beam, I love you!” cried Agatha, giving him a hearty kiss on the mouth.

  “That’s all right,” mumbled Harry, turning away but not quickly enough to hide the fact from Agatha that he was wiping his mouth.

  EPILOGUE

  AGATHA scanned the newspapers during the next few days looking for any reports of an arrest.

  She was just on the point of phoning Barret when Bill Wong arrived. “I’ve got news for you,” he said, settling himself in a kitchen chair with her cats.

  “About time,” said Agatha. “I was just about to phone Barret. Has Jankers been arrested?”

  He shook his head. “After you delivered that tape, they sent Lewisham police to bring him in. There was no reply but his car was parked outside. They broke down the door and found him as dead as a doornail. He had taken an overdose.”

  “Did he leave a letter, a confession?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Okay, so he’s dead. So why was there nothing about him being the murderer in the newspapers?”

  “The case was considered already closed and the police want to keep it that way. So no statement to the newspapers. Barret doesn’t want to look a fool and have to explain how a Gloucestershire detective agency managed to find out what he could not. Anyway, praise from me, Agatha. Good work. There’s something else. Ages ago, a girl accused Jankers of rape, but he managed to get off with it.”
<
br />   “So Mrs. Bloxby was right,” said Agatha. “She said that subconsciously Geraldine would be attracted to villains.

  “I suppose I’m glad it’s all over. But I must give praise where it’s due. If Harry Beam hadn’t continued to research the case, I’d never have got back onto it.”

  Bill looked amused. “Where’s the old Agatha gone who would have taken all the praise herself?”

  “I’m not like that,” said Agatha huffily, “and never was.”

  “Talking about a changed Agatha, how’s James?”

  “He’s in his small corner and I’m in mine.”

  “He isn’t in his corner any more. He’s gone.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You weren’t in earlier, so I knocked at his door for a chat. No reply and no car. So I went to the village stores to get a soft drink and they told me he’d dropped in to buy the papers and said he was going abroad.”

  Now Agatha desperately wished she hadn’t cancelled that message.

  James drove steadily to Heathrow Airport to catch a flight to Istanbul on his way to the holiday resorts of southern Turkey. He had been commissioned to write another travel book. If Agatha hadn’t been so stupid, she could have come with him. Why wouldn’t she answer her phone when he called?

  He had planned to stay overnight in Istanbul. He decided he would write to her from there.

  Cyril Hammond turned up the volume on the television set to drown out the sobs of Lin, whom he had locked in the bedroom after having given her a sound thrashing with a leather belt. The feeling of power and euphoria that the administered beating had given him was fast evaporating. To his relief, the sobbing suddenly stopped.

  In the bedroom, Lin dried her eyes. Cyril would never let her use the phone, but her brother had given her a tiny mobile phone for emergencies just before she had moved in with Cyril. As soon as she was settled in, Cyril had told her she was not to go out without his permission or make any phone calls, and then the beatings had started. She had endured them for too long, hoping always that he would change. Lin fished under the mattress where she had hidden the phone and called her brother at his Chinese restaurant and began to whisper rapidly in Mandarin.

  Half an hour later, Cyril decided it was time to let Lin out. He would caress her and apologize as he had done so many times before.

  He had just risen to his feet when he heard the doorbell ring. The door had thick stained-glass panels and all he could see was a shadowy figure through them.

  He opened the door on the chain. He recognized Lin’s brother, Chang.

  “I’ve come to see my sister,” said Chang politely.

  “What a pity. She’s gone out.”

  “Let me in.”

  “It’s not convenient.”

  “Very well. I will return another time.”

  Cyril closed the door with a sigh of relief.

  He was just walking away when he heard a loud crack. He swung round in alarm. Chang stood there, the crow bar he had used to lever the door open in one hand. Crowding behind him came six Chinese men.

  “Lin!” called Chang.

  She screamed something in Mandarin. While his Chinese followers held Cyril, Chang ran up to the bedroom and cracked the door open.

  Lin flung herself into his arms. Then she stood back and solemnly lifted her T-shirt, showing black, blue and yellow bruises.

  Chang ordered her to wait in the bedroom and went downstairs. On his orders, the Chinese dragged Cyril, crying and howling, into the sitting room.

  “You,” said Chang in English, “are going to get a taste of what you did to my sister.”

  Three weekends later, Agatha decided to brave the roundabouts of Swindon on her own and offer Dawn the services of a lawyer. After about five wrong turns, she eventually found the block of flats.

  But there was no reply when she knocked at the door. A neighbour came out.

  “You looking for Dawn?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s gone back to her husband.”

  “What!”

  “You heard me.”

  Agatha still had Harry’s A to Z in the car. She managed to find her way back to Tullis House, went up and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by Dawn, a Dawn in expensive clothes and with her face heavily made up.

  “How could you go back?” asked Agatha. “I came down to offer you the services of a lawyer. He’ll just hurt you again.”

  “He won’t be hurting anyone. He’s just out of the hospital. Come in and see for yourself.”

  Wondering, Agatha followed her into the sitting room. Cyril was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, his head bandaged and both legs and arms in plaster.

  “What happened?” asked Agatha as Cyril stared at her dully.

  “Come through to the kitchen and I’ll tell you.”

  In the kitchen, Dawn poured herself a stiff measure of Southern Comfort. “Not for me,” said Agatha, waving away the offered bottle. “I’m driving.”

  So Dawn told her between sips of Southern Comfort what had happened to Cyril. “I’ve got a nurse to look after him,” she said, “and a personal therapist comes every day.”

  “Didn’t he report them to the police?”

  “The brother, Chang, said if he did they would kill him next time.”

  “So how did you get back with him?”

  “He phoned me from the hospital. He said he should never have left me.”

  “Dawn, when he’s all mended up, he might start beating you again.”

  She grinned. “I made friends with Lin and she told me to phone her if he ever laid a finger on me again. Oh, it’s great to have all this money.”

  Agatha returned home to find Charles waiting for her. “When did you get here?” she asked.

  “Early this morning.” Charles still had a set of keys to Agatha’s cottage. “I picked up your mail and put it on the kitchen table. Then I cruised around and had some lunch in Moreton.”

  “So what brings you?”

  “Just felt restless. Also, I was wondering about the murder of Geraldine Jankers.”

  “Her husband did it.”

  “Nothing in the papers.”

  “The police are keeping quiet about it. He committed suicide.”

  “So were you the one that found out?”

  Agatha told him about that confession and how Harry had taped it.

  “But how did you suddenly decide to accuse him of the murder?”

  Agatha said, “I could have been wrong. But it was when he admitted that he thought Geraldine had money, and he seemed so viciously furious with her, that it all seemed to click into place. It was bright of Harry. Once I got a confession out of Fred and he said I could never prove it, that’s when Harry told me he had taped the whole thing. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. The university term will be starting soon.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “Cambridge. I had hoped he would go to Oxford and then at least I could have dropped in to see him.”

  “He can always work for you in the holidays. How’s James?”

  “Gone off abroad.”

  “Without a fond goodbye?”

  “He tried. But I don’t want to go back through all that misery again.”

  Charles stretched and yawned. “Don’t know why I’m so tired. I’m off to Cheltenham to do some shopping. Like to come?”

  “I’d better get into the office.”

  “Then I’ll see you this evening. We’ll go out for dinner. Pick you up at eight.”

  When he had left, Agatha went through to the kitchen and flipped through the post which had arrived that morning. She found herself staring down at a letter with a Turkish stamp.

  She ripped it open. It was from James.

  “Dear Agatha,” she read. “I am sorry I could not get a chance to speak to you before I left. I wanted to ask you to come with me. I thought we might have fun touring the southern Turkish holiday resorts together. B
ut I am enclosing my itinerary and the dates when I will be in each place in the hope that you might like to fly out and join me. Love, James.”

  Agatha sat down slowly. She read the letter over and over again. She looked at the attached itinerary. The longing to get the next plane out was fierce. This must be what a drug addict feels, she thought sadly, when she’s craving her next fix.

  Then she carried the letter through to the sitting room and put it in the fireplace and struck a match. She sat back on her heels and watched the letter burn.

  One tear rolled down her cheek.

  She felt she was attending the cremation of a dearly loved friend.

  * * *

  James Lacey sat on the balcony of his hotel in Izmir. He could see the hotel entrance below. Taxis came and went. People got out with luggage. He found himself hoping against hope that a familiar stocky figure would get out of one of those cabs.

  He was due to move on the next day. Would she come? But he felt he no longer knew Agatha.

  He had always been self-sufficient, enjoying his own company. But for the first time in his life, as another taxi drew up and a family got out, he felt lonely.

  Agatha settled into the daily grind of work at the detective agency. There were no dramatic cases; most were from people hoping for a divorce and looking for proof of adultery. But the agency was paying its way at last.

  Charles dropped in and out of her life as he had always done. The evenings were dark early and the branches of the trees were becoming bare.

  She visited Mrs. Bloxby one Saturday evening.

  “If you will forgive me for saying so,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “you are not looking your usual self.”

  “I’ve been working hard on a lot of dreary cases, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps you should take a holiday.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere sunny. The heat would ease that pain in your hip.”

  “What pain?”

  “Mrs. Raisin, arthritis is not just going to go away. Don’t leave a hip replacement to the last minute.”

  “It’s not that bad,” said Agatha. “I’ll think about it.”

  When Agatha had left, Mrs. Bloxby stood at the doorway of the village and watched her walking off slowly down the cobbled street.