Down the Hatch Page 3

  “Thank you,” Agatha breathed. “It’s always good to have a friend covering your backside. Let’s pay up and head for my place. I could use a glass of this wine.”

  “That sounds good to me.” Mrs. Bloxby smiled. “I have to admit that I spotted you coming in here and followed you. You see, I have a small favour to ask…”

  They made their way swiftly to Agatha’s cottage in Lilac Lane, Mrs. Bloxby carrying their shopping and Agatha walking with arms folded, clutching the raincoat tightly closed.

  Chapter Two

  The following morning, Agatha arrived at the municipal car park in Mircester bright and early. She bagged her favourite spot behind a birch tree that had spread its silver limbs far enough to provide shade that stopped her car from becoming too hot and stuffy in the sunshine, yet not quite far enough to offer perched birds the chance to use her windscreen for target practice. She flipped down the sun visor, using the illuminated mirror to touch up her lipstick and smooth her sleek bob of brown hair. Then she stepped out of the car, backing past the rear door to check herself out in the driver’s-side mirror. It was a well-tried ritual, but, considering the calamity in Harvey’s the evening before, an essential safeguard.

  Once straightened into place to eradicate any creases picked up on the short journey to work, she judged her grey skirt and jacket, the jacket trimmed with black silk around the lapels and pockets, to be sitting perfectly. The suit was lightweight French wool and far from new, although, Agatha mused, like herself it was managing to hide its age well. In any case, she reassured herself, it had classic lines, and class never went out of fashion. Not that anyone she might meet that day would notice. This was downtown Mircester, after all, not Mayfair, Manhattan or the Avenue Montaigne.

  High heels clicking smartly on the pavement, she made her way swiftly along the high street to where an ancient alleyway dipped down towards the King Charles pub, whose dark latticed windows looked out over the cobbles to a quaint little antiques shop, above which were the offices of Raisin Investigations. Agatha tiptoed across the cobbles to spare her heels, and herself, the indignity of becoming trapped in the crevices between the stones. Worn smooth by more than a century of rumbling cart wheels, iron-clad horse hooves, heavy truck tyres and the pounding of pedestrians, the cobbles were as slippery as oiled glass when it rained. She had taken to crossing them barefoot when they were wet, having once landed on her backside with such a thump that for the next week she had been forced to sit listing to the left.

  Pausing to peruse the antiques shop window, she caught sight of her reflection, and realised that her right hand had drifted down to massage the site of the long-gone bruise. Then she spotted Mr. Tinkler, the antiques dealer, peering at her over his half-moon glasses from behind the sheltering arms of an oversized Spirit of Ecstasy statuette. She returned his bemused stare with a glower from her bear-like eyes, stuck out her tongue in a satisfying display of petulance and moved swiftly to the door leading up to her office.

  At the top of the stairs, she walked into the main open-plan office area and nodded her approval on seeing that, early as she was, all her staff were already in the office. Toni looked up from her computer screen. Slim and blonde with dazzling blue eyes, she was in her early twenties and, Agatha reluctantly admitted to herself, was growing ever more beautiful as she left the gawkiness of her teenage years behind. She had the kind of smooth, pale skin that Agatha could only attempt to achieve nowadays with the painful aid of wax and tweezers. She winced at the thought of her last session in front of the bathroom mirror. Youth had no conception of such agonising indignity, yet age managed to keep the blissful memory of flawless young skin cruelly vivid.

  “Morning, Agatha,” Toni smiled. “I love that jacket. Is it new?”

  “New-ish,” was all Agatha offered. Toni was smart and pretty but she was still a Mircester girl at heart.

  “Hi, boss.” Simon gave Agatha one of his trademark grins as he stirred a mug of coffee. The grin wrinkled his thin features, making his pointed nose and chin seem even more cartoon-like than usual. To Agatha’s eyes, he was a strange-looking young man. His dark blue suit jacket seemed too short, as did the trouser legs, which exposed bright orange socks above scuffed brown shoes that were as pointed as his chin. Despite his odd looks, Simon never seemed short of female admirers, and he had proven to be a valuable asset as a detective, even if his work could be a little slapdash at times. “What’s all this about a body in the park?”

  “Change the socks, Simon,” she instructed. “Discretion is our watchword as detectives, and you’ll never merge into a crowd wearing socks like that.”

  Simon’s grin never wavered, giving Agatha the distinct impression that he’d worn the socks in order to provoke precisely the reaction she had just provided. She looked across to where Patrick Mulligan sat. The retired policeman glowered at Simon, his craggy features set in their customarily disgruntled expression. He reached for his wallet. Clearly there had been a bet. It was the socks. Agatha rolled her eyes and pushed open the door to her office.

  No sooner had she circumnavigated the enormous desk that dominated the small space and dropped her handbag into one of its cavernous drawers than Helen Freedman appeared with a cup of coffee, a document folder and a copy of the Mircester Telegraph. Helen was probably the most organised person Agatha had ever met. Middle-aged and thoroughly efficient, she served as Agatha’s secretary but also handled most of the day-to-day admin chores.

  “Some invoices for your approval,” Helen set the coffee, newspaper and folder down on the desk, “a couple of bills to sign off and some rather interesting expenses from Simon.”

  Noting Helen’s raised eyebrows, Agatha thanked her for the coffee and asked her to let the others know there would be a case catch-up meeting in her office in ten minutes. She then sat down to enjoy her coffee and read the story behind the headline “Man Found Dead on Bowling Green.”

  * * *

  When the others assembled in her office, dragging in chairs, clutching sheaves of papers and balancing mugs of coffee, the chat was all about the dead man in the park. Agatha dismissed their questions by telling them it looked like some kind of tragic accident, which was greeted with moans of disappointment.

  “Agatha Raisin comes across a body and there’s not even a hint of foul play?” Simon clutched a hand to his chest in mock incredulity. “Surely that can’t be?”

  “Well, I found it all more than a bit suspicious,” Agatha admitted, “and I am certainly intrigued, but we should wait to hear what the coroner has to say at the inquest on Friday. Now—down to business.” She flicked through a file and pulled out a sheet of paper, scanning the page as she spoke. “So, Simon, how are you progressing with the Popplewell case? Background and update, please.”

  “Well, I’ve run into a little problem there actually.” Simon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “You might remember that Victor Popplewell has a warehouse—a series of warehouses, actually—from where he runs a distribution business, sending everything from dog food to digital radios all over the country. He sees himself as a good employer, paying his warehouse staff decent wages and generous sick pay.”

  “I remember meeting him.” Agatha nodded. “He treats his staff well so that they will be loyal and there will be no pilfering from shipments.”

  “Correct.” Simon made a clicking noise in his cheek and a little clapping, finger-snapping move that ended with him pointing at her like a game show host awarding the star prize. She hated it when he did that. “One of his warehouse managers, Deirdre Higginbotham, has been taking a lot of time off with a bad back, and even though she has a doctor’s note confirming a long-standing problem, he thinks she’s taking the pi—”

  Agatha scowled at him.

  “—taking advantage of his good nature. He asked us to check up on her and I’ve been keeping her under surveillance.”

  “So why does this expenses sheet,” Agatha held up the paper she had been studying, “have claims on it for
entry fees and drinks at the Mata Hari Lounge, Shirley’s Girlies and Honeybuns?”

  “The strip clubs?” Toni laughed. “You’ve been visiting strip clubs on expenses?”

  Agatha gave her a look of mild surprise.

  “What?” Toni shrugged, still smiling. “I know what those clubs are; who doesn’t? It’s not like I work there.”

  “No,” Simon punctuated his statement with a raised hand, “but I think my subject does. I think Deirdre Higginbotham with the bad back appears on stage as Cindy Snakehips—and there’s nothing wrong with Cindy’s back, believe me.”

  “So you think she’s taking time off to moonlight as a stripper?” Agatha mused. “That’s bad. Not that there’s anything wrong with being an exotic dancer—we all have to earn a living—but she shouldn’t be doing it while she’s claiming sick pay. What proof do you have?”

  “None,” Simon admitted. “She wears a hood on the way to the clubs and goes in through the staff entrance. I can’t follow her in there because there are some very big blokes around to stop you doing that. They’re also very unhappy about you taking any photographs. Pay to get in, and there are some even bigger blokes inside who are even less keen on photos.”

  “But you’ve seen her dance,” said Agatha. “Several times, judging by these drinks bills.”

  “There’s a minimum three-drink charge in those places,” Patrick volunteered, then, seeing Agatha’s quizzical look, added, “I was a cop. We used to meet informants in places like that.”

  “Seems like I’m the only one who doesn’t know about these clubs.” Agatha turned to Simon again. “You saw her on stage, so you can identify her?”

  “Not really. She always wore a snakeskin-pattern mask over most of her face.”

  “She never took it off?”

  “It was the only thing she never took off.”

  “Any distinguishing features?”

  “Yes, the tattoo.” Simon grinned. “She isn’t called Cindy Snakehips only because of how she dances.” He swayed from side to side in his seat in a disturbingly snake-like manner. “She has a rattlesnake tattoo with the head on one hip and the tail on the other. The body kind of disappears at the back and then—”

  “Thank you, Simon,” Agatha cut him short, “but that’s probably not a huge help. We can hardly tell Mr. Popplewell to ask Deirdre Higginbotham to show him her rattler next time he sees her. I need to have a think about how we take this forward.”

  The discussion moved on through a short but busy agenda of cases ranging from the inevitable divorce investigations to disputes between neighbours and the company’s regular, bread-and-butter work for insurance companies and other corporate clients.

  “All very busy as usual,” Agatha commented. “Anything new come in?”

  “I took a phone call from a Miss Featherstone, who claims that a man is spying on her in her sitting room,” said Toni.

  “A peeping Tom?” Agatha asked,

  “Not exactly,” Toni explained. “She says he comes into the room and watches her.”

  “Sounds creepy,” said Agatha, “but whether he’s a peeping Tom or breaking and entering, it’s a job for the police, not us.”

  “She has reported him to the police,” Toni glanced down at her notes, “and they came round to investigate but could find no sign of a break-in and no sign of anyone other than her having been in her flat. I checked with them and they said that because no crime had been committed, there was nothing they could do.”

  “I take it Miss Featherstone is local?” Agatha asked. Toni nodded. “Let’s pay her a visit later today. Anything else?”

  “A contractor who works for the local council has been in touch,” said Patrick in his usual matter-of-fact tone. “They’re employed to carry out domestic refuse collection—they operate the bin lorries that collect from households around Mircester. One of the company directors is an old friend and he wants us to look into rumours that his employees are dealing drugs. If it’s true, he’ll call in the police, of course, but he wants to substantiate the rumours first in order to avoid any unnecessary embarrassment for the company or the council.”

  “You mean the council would sack them if it turns out that the bin men are dealers?” Simon asked.

  “Exactly,” Patrick confirmed. “They want someone to go out on the trucks discreetly to find out what’s going on.”

  “Well, Simon,” Agatha smiled across the desk at the look of dread spreading across the young man’s face, “this is your chance to practise being discreet. Lose the orange socks and sign up as a bin man.”

  “Riding around in a bin lorry?” Simon groaned. “Really?”

  “You’re the only one of us who would be believable as an undercover bin man,” she pointed out. “Patrick’s a bit long in the tooth for that sort of work, and neither Toni nor I really fit the bill. Liaise with Patrick over the details. Are we finished? Good—I need to shift some of this paperwork.”

  Simon and Patrick filed out of the office, Toni following. She allowed them both to leave before turning back to Agatha.

  “There was one more business call,” she said. “Sir Charles Fraith.”

  “What did he want?” Agatha looked up at her suspiciously. “Why didn’t he call me on my mobile?”

  “He was afraid that you might just hang up on him.”

  “He was right to be afraid.”

  “He said that he had a couple of important things to discuss with you. One of them involves a friend of his and a disputed paternity claim.”

  “I’ll see to it, Toni.”

  “Are you sure? I can deal with him if you like.”

  “I can handle him, thank you.” Agatha’s jaw set firm. Could she handle him? The dapper Sir Charles, a former friend and former lover, had played fast and loose with Agatha’s feelings and loyalty once too often when the two clashed during a chance meeting at a vineyard in the Gironde. She had promised herself never to let him back in her life again, and she would not. If he needed the professional services of Raisin Investigations, well, that was different. He would receive the same courteous, efficient service as any other client. Yes, she could handle Sir Charles Fraith.

  “I don’t mean to intrude,” Toni went on, “and whatever happened in France is none of my business, but—”

  “You’re right—it’s none of your business.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to get hurt again,” said Toni. “I’m just concerned that—”

  “Don’t be!” Agatha snapped. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, thank you very much.”

  “Okay, have it your way.” Toni left the office quickly. She had endured too many powder-keg conversations that inevitably ignited both their tempers to push Agatha any further.

  Agatha sighed and turned to the papers on her desk. She knew she had been short with Toni and promised herself she would make it right. Toni was more than just an employee, after all, and it made no sense to fall out with her. Nothing concerning Charles, however, made any sort of sense any more. That relationship was an emotional minefield. She pushed it all out of her mind by picking up the top envelope from the pile. It was marked PERSONAL.

  Opening the envelope, she found a single sheet of paper with a short, typewritten message. She quickly turned the paper over, running her fingertips across the back. It really was typewritten, not a computer-generated, laser-printed pastiche of a typewritten note, the typewriter keys having left indentations on the back of the paper. The message itself was even more intriguing:

  NOT SUICIDE. NOT AN ACCIDENT.

  THE ADMIRAL WAS MURDERED!

  * * *

  Just after midday, Agatha tapped on the glass between her office and the main room, catching Toni’s attention and signalling her to come in. Looking slightly glum, Toni picked up a notepad and dutifully appeared in front of Agatha’s desk.

  “Can Miss Featherstone see us today?” Agatha asked.

  “Yes, I spoke to her earlier. She’s happy for us to
visit any time. She’ll be in all day.”

  “Good. We can leave as soon as you’re ready.” Agatha paused, then added, “Toni, about earlier, I—”

  “Oh, you’re not going to get all mushy, are you?”

  “Mushy?” Agatha tensed and recoiled with a frown. “I do not get ‘mushy,’ whatever that might mean!”

  “Good.” Toni smiled. “I couldn’t stand a mushy Agatha Raisin.”

  “That’s just as well.” Agatha relaxed her shoulders. Normally someone daring to tease her would make her tense and defensive. She hated being teased. Someone making fun of you generally meant that someone had got the better of you—that they had won and you had lost, and she really hated losing. Toni, however, was different. Her gentle teasing was a way of letting Agatha off the hook—no apology required, no awkwardness necessary. “Now, what do you make of this?”

  Agatha handed Toni the envelope marked PERSONAL. Toni turned it over in her hands, examining front and back.

  “It’s correctly addressed,” she noted. “Very neatly done. Looks like it was typed on an old-fashioned typewriter. No stamp or postmark, so it was hand-delivered.” She took the sheet of paper out of the envelope and gasped as she unfolded it. “Wow! Someone clearly wants you to take an interest in the bowling green murder.”

  “Clearly,” Agatha agreed, “and that someone would like to remain anonymous.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Exactly what I’ve intended to do ever since I came across the Admiral’s body—track down a murderer! Let’s deal with Miss Featherstone, then we can head back to the scene of the crime.”

  * * *

  Agatha and Toni left the office together to walk to Miss Featherstone’s apartment block down by the river on the other side of Mircester city centre. It was not quite lunchtime, but there was a throng of shoppers milling around the high street, enjoying the warm weather and the chance to snap up a few bargains in what all the larger stores were advertising as their “Grand Summer Sale.” This latest sale had, in Agatha’s opinion, followed with indecent haste after the “Spring Clearance Sale,” the “Mad March Sale,” the traditional month-long “January Sale,” the “Christmas Special Sale” and a host of other sales that stretched back as far as she could remember. The business to be in, she reasoned, the one obviously making the most profit, was the printer who produced all the sale signs and pamphlets.