(17/30 Love, Lies and Liquor Read online

  “There’s a great old pub along here,” said James, shouting against the gale. “The Green Man. My parents used to rave about it.”

  He turned up one of the narrow lanes that led away from the seafront. The Green Man was still there. “Come on, Agatha. You’re going to love this place.”

  James pushed open the door and ushered Agatha in. Then he stood behind her, blinking in dismay. What had once been three bars, lounge, private and public, had been knocked into one large room. Music was blaring out. On a raised platform at the end of the room, a girl wearing nothing but a G-string undulated round a pole to the cheers and leers of crowds of white, pasty-faced youth.

  They backed out into the rain. “When I was in the main street buying warm clothes,” said Agatha, “I saw an Indian restaurant.”

  “Won’t do,” said James sadly. “Nothing the British drunk loves more than a curry.”

  “And a Chinese.”

  “We’ll try the Chinese.”

  To their relief the Chinese restaurant only contained a few quiet couples. Agatha took off her coat and then exclaimed, “I’ve lost my scarf. I must have dropped it in the dining room.”

  “We’ll get it when we go back. Let’s order.”

  Put in a good mood by what turned out to be an excellent meal, they discussed travel plans, Agatha at last agreeing to James’s suggestion that they should take the ferry to France and motor down to the Mediterranean.

  Outside her hotel room, Agatha hesitated slightly, wondering whether to invite James in, and then decided against it. Let any romance wait until the sunny beaches of the Mediterranean.

  The sun shone the next day, but that only made the town look shabbier. James trudged around various places he remembered from his youth, only to find they had been built over or had changed for the worse. Even the wide sandy beach had been eroded by the rising seas and was now only a thin strip of shingle at the bottom of the sea wall. Every high tide, waves crashed over the wall, sending huge plumes of spray like ghostly arms towards the houses and hotel. James thought that unless they built a proper barrier, it would not be long before the sea engulfed the front of the town.

  “What’s causing it?” asked Agatha. “Melting ice caps? But it’s so cold for June. Where’s all this global warming?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be off to the sunshine tomorrow. Did you find your scarf?”

  “No. The manager said no one had handed it in. Maybe I was wearing it and it blew away.”

  Agatha felt they were walking and talking like two bachelors. She cheered herself with the thought of balmy evenings on the Mediterranean. They drove over to Brighton that evening and had an excellent meal.

  By the following morning, Agatha was in high spirits as they said goodbye to Snoth-on-Sea. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever return to this dump, she told herself.

  They were approaching Dover when James suddenly said, “I’d better pull over. There’s a police car racing along behind us.” He drew to the side of the road. To their amazement, the police car stopped in front of them. Then another police car coming out of Dover joined them.

  James let down the window as two policemen and a man in plain clothes approached the car. The plain-clothes man flashed a badge and asked, “Are you Mr. James Lacey and Mrs. Agatha Raisin?”

  “Yes,” said James. “But look here—”

  “Get out of the car. Both of you. We don’t want any trouble.”

  Bewildered, they got out and stood in the sunshine. Cars slowed down as they passed; curious eyes stared from car windows.

  “I am Detective Inspector Barret of the Snoth-on-Sea CID,” said the plain-clothes man. “Mrs. Raisin, we are taking you in for questioning over the murder of Geraldine Jankers …”

  “What!” screeched Agatha.

  Agatha was taken off in a police car. James followed, driving his own car and accompanied by a policeman.

  The police station at Snoth-on-Sea was a Victorian one. Cameras went off in Agatha’s face as she was ushered in. She shouted over her shoulder at James, “Get a lawyer.”

  The police station smelt of urine, disinfectant and strong tea. Agatha was led to an interview room and locked in. She sat at a scarred table. The only light was from a barred window, which looked as if it had not been cleaned since the police station had been built.

  Agatha was later to regret that she had not waited for the arrival of the lawyer before she was questioned. She was so confident that it was all a silly mistake and angry at the interruption of her journey with James that she decided to adopt a lofty tone.

  After ten minutes the door opened and the arresting detectives entered. A tape was put in. Inspector Barret and a Detective Sergeant Wilkins began the questioning. Agatha agreed that, yes, she was Mrs. Agatha Raisin and added that she ran her own detective agency.

  Barret pushed a plastic evidence bag across the table. “Do you recognise this scarf?”

  “Yes, it’s mine,” said Agatha. “I lost it.”

  “When exactly did you lose it?”

  “I don’t know. The night before last, maybe. Look, what is all this about?”

  “I explained when I took you in for questioning,” said Barret.

  “I was too shocked and angry to listen to you. Explain again.”

  “You are being questioned about the murder of Geraldine Jankers.”

  “That fat bitch at the hotel?”

  “You were heard threatening to murder her.”

  “Oh, you silly man,” said Agatha contemptuously, “a lot of people threaten to murder people when they get angry. I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  “You have identified your scarf. Mrs. Jankers was found dead on the beach. She had been strangled with your scarf.”

  Agatha looked at him in horror. He stared back with a look of dislike on his normally impassive face. He was a thickset man in need of a new suit because the grey one he was wearing was stretched at the seams. He had a heavy, open-pored face with shaggy eyebrows over grey eyes. His sergeant was younger, with a narrow face, pointed nose and long thin mouth. Agatha realized in that moment that she should have waited for a lawyer. She had badly antagonized both of them. But in the hope of remedying the situation, she smiled and said, “Anyone could have used my scarf.”

  “But you were the only one overheard threatening to murder her. Now describe your movements since arriving in Snoth-on-Sea.”

  So in a subdued voice, Agatha did.

  “You and Mr. Lacey have separate rooms at the hotel. What is your relationship with Mr. Lacey?”

  “He is my ex-husband. We were about to go on holiday together.”

  “Leaving the country?”

  “Yes, but—”

  The door opened and a policewoman said, “Mrs. Raisin’s lawyer is here.”

  A well-dressed, elegant man entered the room. “If you do not mind, gentlemen, I would like a word with my client.”

  Barret told the tape that he was ending the interview and then switched it off. He and Wilkins left the room.

  “I am Jeremy Posselthwaite,” said the lawyer. “I am an old friend of James Lacey. He called me on my mobile and it was fortunate I just happened to be in Brighton at the time. What have they got on you?”

  “This dead woman insulted me in the dining room of the hotel. I said something about wanting to murder her. I lost my scarf. She was evidently found strangled with it. That’s it.”

  “And before you came here, you had never met Mrs. Jankers before?”

  “Never.”

  “I gather from James that they not only insulted you and the other hotel guests but that Wayne Weldon, the son, picked a fight with James and came off badly.”

  “Yes.”

  “They are still trying to estimate the time of death. They guess she was murdered sometime last night. Where were you?”

  “We were in Brighton. We wanted some decent food, so we went to a French restaurant called Le Village. It’s in the Lanes.”
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  “And when did you return to the hotel?”

  “About eleven in the evening. Look, this Mrs. Jankers was found dead on the beach. She detested me as much as I detested her, although we had only met in the dining room the evening before. How on earth could I be able to persuade her to take a walk on the beach with me?”

  “When did you find your scarf was missing?”

  “It was after we left the dining room on our first evening. We couldn’t stand the food, so we went to a Chinese restaurant. That was when I discovered the scarf was missing and I thought I must have left it in the dining room.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Jankers took it. Or whoever murdered her, They haven’t formally charged you with anything, have they?”

  “No, all they are doing is questioning me.”

  “Well, the first thing to do is to get you out of here. If they have further questions, they can check with you at your hotel. They really haven’t got much to hold you on. Back in a minute.”

  * * *

  An hour later Agatha and James walked gloomily along the seafront. They had been told not to leave the town.

  “Oh, look,” said Agatha, “even the seagulls are dirty. Why is that, do you think? There doesn’t seem to be much industry around here.”

  “Bugger the seagulls,” said James moodily. “What are we going to do?”

  “I think I’ll ask Patrick and Harry to come down here and help us solve this case.”

  “Let’s leave it to the police for once.”

  “No, I want out of here. Just think. Harry could put on that gothic look of his, or whatever it’s supposed to be—you know, the studs and black leather—and get cosy with the Jankers family and friends. Patrick can work with us. The police always take to Patrick because he used to be one of theirs.”

  They had reached a dusty bandstand at the edge of the promenade. “Look at that,” said James. “That bandstand used to glitter green and gold and the band played such jolly tunes.”

  Agatha glanced sideways at him and realized for the first time that she neither knew nor understood James. The clouds of obsession were clearing away, leaving her looking at a stranger.

  They walked up into the bandstand. Litter blew around their feet.

  James stood silently, looking out to sea. I never thought he might be an unhappy man, thought Agatha. Surely only an unhappy man would chase after fond memories of childhood.

  She took out her mobile phone. “Look, James. I’m going to phone them at the office and then we’ll get something to eat, but not at the hotel.”

  He did not reply, so she shrugged and phoned Mrs. Freedman and asked to speak to Patrick.

  “Hullo,” said Patrick. “I’m afraid things here are still quiet. Where are you phoning from?”

  “A dreary dump called Snoth-on-Sea. Let me tell you what’s been happening here.”

  Briskly Agatha outlined their supposed involvement in the murder of Mrs. Jankers. “I want you and Harry to come down here and help me solve this murder. Can Phil cope on his own?”

  “I should think so, if we aren’t away too long.”

  “Can you both set out as quickly as possible? I’ll book rooms for you at the hotel. No, on second thought, I’ll book your room, Patrick. Tell Harry to book his own and wear his skinhead black-leather look. I want him to cosy up to the dead woman’s family.”

  “We should both be down there by evening. Food good?”

  “Lousy.”

  “Okay, we’ll eat on the road.”

  Agatha felt more cheerful when she had rung off. “Harry and Patrick will be here this evening,” she said.

  “If you think that will do any good.” James had his shoulders hunched before the increasing wind.

  “Well, it’s better than mooning around here looking for your lost youth,” snapped Agatha.

  “You really are a bitch.”

  “I know,” said Agatha. “Let’s eat.”

  After a moderately good pub lunch, they made their way back to the hotel. The manager greeted them with the news that Mr. Cyril Hammond, the Jankerses’ family friend, wished to speak to them and was waiting in the bar.

  James remembered the bar as having once been an elegant place with white-coated waiters moving around among the palms. Now it was dingy. The long mahogany bar had been replaced by a plastic fake-wood one and the beautiful Victorian mirrors were gone. Low coffee tables had replaced the good old sturdy ones. “Probably sold off the contents to an antique dealer,” said James. ‘Oh, there’s Hammond, over there by the window.”

  Cyril Hammond rose to meet them. He had a sallow face and black hair combed straight back from his forehead. His little toothbrush moustache was neatly trimmed over a small thin mouth. He was wearing a dark blue blazer and white trousers with knife-edged pleats.

  “Drink?” he asked.

  He signalled to the solitary fat waitress, who lumbered up and took their orders, sighing heavily as she did so, as if overworked, although they were the only customers in the bar.

  “I’m sorry about the incident,” said Cyril.

  “Murder is hardly an incident,” Agatha pointed out.

  “Oh, that. I meant Wayne picking a fight.”

  “Why did you want to see us?” asked James. He took a sip of his cloudy half pint of beer, made a face, and put it down on the table.

  “It’s like this. That detective, Barret, he said you, Mrs. Raisin, were a private detective.”

  He did not tell Agatha that Barret had added a bitter complaint that any weirdo these days could go around calling themselves a private detective.

  “I am very successful,” said Agatha.

  “I’m worried about the family and I want this cleared up. None of us would have touched her.”

  “What about her husband? She was on her honeymoon?”

  “Oh, Fred? I can’t imagine him strangling anyone or having the strength to do it. It must have been some stranger.”

  “The police don’t know exactly when she was murdered,” said Agatha. “Has anyone any idea why she went out walking on the beach? It’s a peculiar place to go. I mean, there’s hardly any beach left.” As if to illustrate her point, spray dashed against the windows.

  “High tide,” commented Cyril. “We don’t know why Geraldine went out. Her husband says he was fast asleep and didn’t hear her leave.”

  “There are houses on either side of this hotel,” said James. “Surely the police have been questioning people.”

  “As far as I can gather,” said Cyril, “nobody saw anything. There are stairs down to the beach right opposite the hotel. Once down there, she couldn’t be seen because of the promenade wall.”

  “Do you want us to try to find out who did it?” asked Agatha.

  “I wish you would. I don’t have that much money…”

  “It’s all right,” said Agatha grandly. “I’ll be working for myself. I want to get out of this place as soon as possible.”

  “Was Mrs. Jankers married before?” asked James.

  “Yes, three times.”

  Agatha blinked in surprise. She thought she would never understand men. She had known attractive women who couldn’t even get married once.

  “How did the marriages end?” James asked.

  “The first one—that would be Jimmy Weldon. He died of a heart attack. Then the second, Charlie Black, is doing time for armed robbery. She divorced him when he was in prison. Before Fred, there was Archie Swale. She divorced him after she met Fred at ballroom dancing classes.”

  “It could be that this Archie Swale was bitter about the divorce. Do you know where he lives?”

  “Brighton, last I heard.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know his address?”

  “I remember it was some house in Medlow Square. Can’t recall the number.”

  Agatha made a note.

  “How long have you known Mrs. Jankers?”

  “A long time. We were kids together down the East End of London. Somehow we managed
to keep in touch over the years. Geraldine was great fun.”

  “Then why,” said Agatha, “did she give me the distinct impression of being a noisy slag?”

  “Poor Geraldine was having a bad menopause. She was never like that before.”

  “Mr. Hammond …”

  “Call me Cyril.”

  “Very well, Cyril it is,” said Agatha. “Do you think you could persuade Wayne to speak to us?”

  “Might be difficult. He’s all broken up about his mother’s death, but I’ll try.”

  Half an hour later, feeling they had extracted as much information as they could from Cyril, Agatha and James set out for Brighton to see if they could interview the ex-husband, Archie Swale.

  They had bought a map of Brighton. Medlow Square came as a surprise to Agatha. It was a small square of trim Georgian houses. How had Geraldine managed to snare a husband who lived in such elegant surroundings?

  After knocking at several doors, they learned that Archie lived at number ten.

  “Let’s hope he’s at home,” said James, ringing the doorbell.

  The door was answered by an elderly grey-haired man. His faded blue eyes looked at them from under heavy grey eyebrows. His face was criss-crossed by broken veins.

  “We’re looking for a Mr. Archie Swale,” said Agatha.

  “That’s me. What do you want?”

  “I am a private detective investigating the death of Geraldine Jankers,” said Agatha, wondering furiously just how old Archie was. Geraldine had been in her fifties. Archie looked to be somewhere in his eighties.

  “I had nothing to do with the old bitch,” said Archie. The door began to close.

  “We know you had nothing to do with it,” said James quickly. “But we would like to know what sort of woman Geraldine was. That might give us a clue as to who murdered her.”

  He studied them for a few moments and then shrugged. “You’d better come in.”

  He ushered them in and shut the door. Then he led the way into a living room on the ground floor. It was sparsely furnished with a few good pieces. Persian rugs lay on the floor. Above the marble fireplace was a very good seascape.