Beating About the Bush Page 4

  Usually, thought Toni, you are as sensitive as a charging rhino. Then, as though to confound her, Agatha proved that she was indeed capable of picking up subtle pointers.

  “That Dinwiddy woman may be intimidating,” she said, “but she didn’t want to have anything to do with the security guard, did she? She couldn’t wait to get out before he came prowling round.”

  “We definitely need to have a word with the guards tomorrow,” said Toni.

  “Agreed,” said Agatha. “Now, you may drive me straight home. I don’t feel like going into the office.”

  “Is James back from his travels?”

  James Lacey, Agatha’s ex-husband, was also her neighbour. “I neither know nor care,” she said. He had left without calling round to say goodbye, which she regarded as a slight, conveniently forgetting all the times she had gone abroad without stopping for a moment to think of even telling him where she was going. And he had not been there when she had needed help during a recent escapade in Bulgaria. What was the point of having an ex-husband who was a former soldier and travel writer if he wasn’t there when you needed him on a foreign mission? James had been fussing over his divorce from his far-too-young, far-too-beautiful, and far-too-dim Croatian wife. It was Charles who had been there for her. Charles was dependable, in his own unpredictable way. He was inconsistently dependable. Could anyone be that? If anyone could, thought Agatha, it was Charles.

  * * *

  The following morning, Agatha and Toni arrived at Morrison’s bright and early and were escorted to the conference room by Mrs. Dinwiddy, wearing her usual unremarkable neutral attire and unremarkable neutral expression. She was polite but made no mention of their conversation the previous evening. Agatha asked to see John Sayer, and Mrs. Dinwiddy assured her that Mr. Sayer was already aware of her request for an interview and would attend the conference room shortly. Just as she left, in came Sayer.

  Energetic and fresh-faced, he exuded confidence in the way that only a youthfully fit man in his mid- twenties can. He was tall and well built, his long legs clad in trousers with a faint open check that suggested they were paired with a hand-tailored suit jacket that he had clearly left in his own office. His crisp white shirt had a square-cut Kent collar and a double-button cuff that Agatha knew was the trademark of a certain tailor in London’s Jermyn Street. The shirt had never known a tie.

  Sayer said good morning, giving Toni an appreciative smile and Agatha a curt nod. He was but a child, she thought, and surely too young for his job, a fact that she could not resist pointing out.

  “Human resources manager,” she said as he settled into his seat. “That’s a big job title. Had we not already met briefly, I should have expected someone a bit more … mature.”

  “I am twenty-eight,” Sayer smiled, “and I have a Ph.D. in human resource management. I am not exactly straight out of kindergarten, Mrs. Raisin.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Toni, getting shakily to her feet, clutching her stomach. “I’m afraid I have to go to the, you know…”

  Agatha nodded and Toni hurried out of the room.

  “I do hope she’s all right,” said Sayer, sounding convincingly concerned.

  “Touch of the Delhi belly,” said Agatha. “Toni is a glutton for punishment when it comes to wolfing down a vindaloo and a few too many pints.”

  “Is that so?” said Sayer, raising his eyebrows. “I mean, she looks so slim and—”

  “Well, let’s get on with it,” said Agatha, slightly distracted by the way that every time the young man leaned forward to the table or relaxed back in his chair, muscles beneath the smooth cotton of his shirt moved like kneecaps under a bed sheet. He also had disturbingly red lips. “There are six executives apart from Mr. Morrison. You have some two dozen staff here, but the bulk of them are at your plant in whatsit. Are you responsible for them too?”

  “Sekiliv. No, a Sekilivian executive does the hiring and firing there. Different language. Different laws. Different culture. However, he takes his orders from head office.”

  “So, for whom are you responsible here?”

  “The packing and dispatch department, the canteen and cleaners, the security guards, and our resident technician, who fixes everything from leaky pipes to computers.”

  “I have to say, I was quite surprised that you had employed the circus girl in the packing department. She’s very fat.”

  “Mrs Raisin! Calling someone fat these days is … well, it’s like spitting in their face. You can’t say things like that.”

  “Nonetheless,” said Agatha with rare patience, “why employ her?”

  He had, she thought, rather wet brown eyes, which now took on a faraway look. “It was her circus background, you see.” He smiled. “A bit of a boyhood dream. I always fancied the flying trapeze … but it’s for gymnasts, really, and I,” he spread his arms wide, “just grew too big. I wasn’t interested in what she looked like. I liked the idea that she’d worked on the trapeze. Anyway, it was only the packing department.”

  “She is very keen on your canteen. The little I have eaten there tells me there is a good cook behind the preparation of the meals.”

  “Yes, old Granny Florence. Mrs. Dinwiddy found her—or rather, she is some sort of family member. I didn’t have much to do with her appointment. One does not say no to Mrs. Dinwiddy.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “She is the power behind the throne. Mr. Albert trusts her implicitly. She even has the final say over staff appointments on his behalf.”

  “That must be rather galling for you,” Agatha noted, “having a middle-aged woman, a secretary, telling you your job.”

  “Not at all,” said Sayer. “Mrs. Dinwiddy is a delight to work with. Mr. Albert is a very busy man and the fact that he delegates to Mrs. Dinwiddy means that we can get things done.”

  “We would like to have a word with your security guards, Bream and…”

  “Angus Bream and Farley Dunster. Angus does days, Farley nights.”

  “Both ex-SAS?” Agatha was leafing through the files.

  “That’s right.”

  “They always are,” she said cynically. “If only half those who claim to have been in the regiment actually did serve, they’d have the world’s biggest Christmas party. Did you check them out?”

  “Not exactly,” Sayer admitted. “I mean, they came with good references and they seemed like decent blokes.”

  That, thought Agatha, did not sound like the attitude that an efficient and ambitious young HR manager should take.

  “As he’s on days,” she said, “I want to talk to Angus Bream next.”

  “Actually, you can probably talk to both of them this afternoon,” Sayer offered. “There’s a party for all the staff up at Mr. Albert’s house. It’s to welcome Mrs. Morrison home. You and your colleague should come along, if she is feeling up to it.”

  “I’m sure she will be.” Agatha smiled. “Hair of the dog and a big greasy fry-up usually sets her straight.”

  “Really?” Sayer could not hide a look of bewilderment. “I wouldn’t have thought … I mean, she looks so—”

  “And what about the former receptionist—Josie, I think she was called? Why did she leave?”

  “You mean Josie Trent? She wanted to travel, see the world. Can’t blame her for that.”

  At that moment, Toni walked back into the room and Sayer took it as his cue to leave, sighing and shaking his head after stealing one final glance at her.

  “What’s up with him?” she asked as the door closed.

  “He’s concerned about your eating habits,” said Agatha.

  “Ah.” Toni nodded. “Delhi belly?”

  “With a few added flourishes. Now, how did you get on?”

  “It was a good idea to make up an excuse for a sneaky look around. I wandered the corridors taking a look into storerooms and offices. Most are standing empty. There was no one around. This place is like a ghost ship. Even in the packing and dispatch department, the s
taff were standing about chatting. There was very little work going on. Nothing is happening here. The trapeze girl was sitting with a couple of others, eating iced buns, and drinking tea. I made myself scarce when I saw one of the security guards prowling the department—Dunster, I think. Doesn’t he work nights?”

  “They’re both here for a homecoming party—Mr. Albert’s wife. We’re invited.”

  “What’s our next move?”

  “Iced buns sound good.”

  “Great,” Toni giggled. “I know the way to Granny Florence’s café—out the back way and across the courtyard. Let’s go!”

  Agatha picked up her handbag and a handy umbrella that had been left in the conference room. It looked like rain outside, and the Dior jacket she was wearing was a mix of wool and silk that really couldn’t tolerate the wet. She and Toni walked along a barren corridor, the tap of their heels on the cold linoleum the only sound to be heard.

  “You were right,” she said as they walked. “The place is dead. It makes the Carsely Ladies’ Society meetings look like party central. The whole thing seems like a front for something else. A huge scam masquerading as a thriving business.”

  “And we’ve become part of the scam,” said Toni. “The detectives hired to make it look like there’s something worth stealing—to convince outsiders that there’s something here to protect.”

  “Something more than Granny Florence’s iced buns, you mean?” Agatha joked. “But we know that the new battery pack, however much delayed, is not here, and … Hold on a moment. Did you hear that?”

  It came again. An unmistakable two-tone honk. Agatha was entranced.

  “It’s a donkey,” she said. “I can hear a donkey.”

  “Sayer told me on our last visit that it’s a pet that’s kept for the boss’s wife,” said Toni. “There’s a stable block on the far side of the old R&D department, on the way up to the manor house.”

  “I want to see it,” said Agatha, suddenly becoming misty-eyed. “I love donkeys.”

  “Forget it,” Toni moaned. “Sticky buns are more fun than a smelly old donkey any day.”

  But Agatha could not simply forget it. Donkeys represented a childhood dream that had never been fulfilled. Donkeys belonged in a traditionally British picture-postcard world of seaside holiday rides on the sands and family fun in the sunshine at resorts like Weston-super-Mare and Llandudno, which had always sounded more desirably exotic than Scarborough or Skegness. Sadly, as a child she had never been taken to any of those places, and as an adult, Biarritz had always held more allure than Bognor. Yet Agatha, who had no time for most pets or animals other than her own two cats, simply adored donkeys. She headed for a door that would take them outside in the direction of the stable block.

  “Okay,” sighed Toni, trotting to catch her up. “Let’s go see the donkey. Its name is Wizz-Wazz. You never told me you had a thing about donkeys…”

  Rounding the corner of the near-derelict R&D building, Agatha could see a path leading up over a sloping meadow towards Albert Morrison’s house. The gables were just visible beyond the rise. Closer to hand, the cobbled courtyard of the stable block opened out. It was deserted save for a mud-spattered Land Rover parked at the far end. Only one of the loose boxes was occupied, and they could hear the donkey braying a welcome when it realised that it had visitors. By the entrance to the stable was a bucket full of carrots. Agatha selected the cleanest one and tiptoed across the cobbles, determined not to wedge the delicate heels of her elegant Christian Louboutin pumps in the booby-trap cracks between the stones. Halfway across, she gave up and took off her shoes, handing the umbrella to Toni. Carrot in one hand, Louboutins in the other, she approached the loose box.

  When she was close enough—and arm’s length seemed close enough—she took a good look over the door at the creature inside. It was very hairy; a kind of reddish-brown hair, with a white patch covering its nose and mouth. White rings highlighted large eyes that were as dark as melted chocolate, and when it blinked, it fluttered the longest, most luxurious eyelashes Agatha had ever seen.

  “He’s really quite … lovely?” she said, taking a step nearer, then wrinkling her nose. “But oh! He has serious issues with personal hygiene.”

  “The loose box badly needs mucking out,” said Toni, peering over the door, “and he is a she—a Jenny. Male donkeys are called Jacks.”

  Agatha gave her a quizzical look.

  “I saw something about them on TV once.” Toni shrugged. “Anyway, I thought you were the donkey lover.”

  “Actually,” said Agatha, “this is the first time I have ever met a donkey. Perhaps I’m not quite as fond of them as I thought I would be.”

  She took a step closer and held out the carrot. Wizz-Wazz bared her teeth and lunged, snatching the carrot just as Toni brought the umbrella down sharply across her nose. The donkey stared at her, as though in disbelief. Agatha did the same.

  “Why…?”

  “I thought it was attacking.”

  Wizz-Wazz appeared to be thinking, her jaw moving in a circular motion, crunching the carrot. Then she backed up inside the loose box, paused, and charged forward, butting the door, which to Agatha and Toni’s shared horror sprang open. Wizz-Wazz crossed the threshold and glowered at Toni, her brown eyes narrowing to sinister slits and turning a disturbingly evil red. Agatha bravely took a sideways step, arms outstretched, one Louboutin stiletto in each hand, putting herself between Toni and the donkey. She immediately wondered why. Wasn’t it Toni who had got them into this mess? Making any other sudden moves, however, now seemed unwise.

  Wizz-Wazz took a few more moments to decide how she felt about being whacked with an umbrella, then finally made up her mind. If ever a donkey was filled with anger, Wizz-Wazz was. Her teeth appeared once more, and she thrust her head forward and let out a roaring bray, spraying Agatha with a shower of spit and chewed carrot.

  As the beast took a deep breath, preparing a second volley, Agatha could think of only one thing to do.

  “RUN!!!”

  The two women sprinted as fast as their legs could carry them, pausing only to catch their breath when they reached the corner of the R&D building. Out of sight of the stables, they leant against the wall, breathing heavily.

  “I don’t think,” gasped Agatha, surveying her spit-and-carrot-spattered clothes, “that I have ever been—”

  “Not now, Agatha!” yelled Toni, squinting round the corner. “She’s coming after us!”

  They took off towards the main building, slamming into the door they had used previously only to find there was no handle on the outside. It was a fire door, and could be opened only from the inside. Wizz-Wazz popped her head round the corner of R&D and glared at them, showing them her fearsome yellow teeth. The top set moved to the left, the bottom set to the right, as though they had minds of their own, and Wizz-Wazz let out a hideous hiss.

  “The car park!” Toni yelled. “It’s our only chance!”

  Dashing to where they had parked by the main entrance to the building, they flopped into the car and Toni fired up the engine, spinning the wheels as she raced for the factory gates.

  “I blame you for this,” Agatha puffed, struggling to catch her breath as she picked gloopy carrot out of her hair and clawed at the orange gunge on her jacket.

  “I wasn’t the one who wanted to see the wretched donkey,” Toni said, defending herself.

  “No, but you were the one who battered it with your brolly like some demented gladiator! Why did you do that?”

  “I was trying to save you—it was communicating hostility and aggression.”

  “Well, thank you, Dr. Dolittle! It might simply have wanted the carrot.”

  “It might simply have bitten your fingers off!”

  “Oh, what are a few fingers compared with a once-in-a-lifetime jacket like this?” Agatha wailed, swiping at the spreading orange stains. “Take me home. I need to get changed. We will talk about this later.”

  They drove in silence thr
ough the centre of Mircester to pick up the Carsely road, the mood in the car as heavy as the dark storm clouds gathering overhead.

  Chapter Three

  Agatha showered, washed the gloop out of her hair, and carefully reapplied her make-up. Rummaging in her wardrobe, she chose a white silk top with a plunging neckline, pairing it with a dusky pink Ted Baker jacket. The tailoring of the jacket flattered her figure whether it was buttoned or left open. She decided to leave it open. The matching trousers finished mid-calf. Coupled with high-heeled grey sandals, the trousers had the effect of making her legs look longer. Pink, thought Agatha, glancing out of her bedroom window at the leaden sky. Too summery? Well, they were going to a party after all, and she would be in competition with Toni, who had emerged unscathed from the carrot fallout, and Mrs. Morrison, who was, according to Sayer, a woman of remarkable beauty.

  Taking one final look in the full-length mirror, Agatha sighed. Could she compete? Should she even try? And compete for what? It wasn’t as if there was any man at the factory she would remotely consider setting her sights on. The muscular Mr. Sayer was intriguing but had barely outgrown his spots. So what was so intriguing about him really? Something odd. Something that wasn’t right. On the other hand, that pretty much summed up everyone she had met at Morrison’s.

  She looked at the sad face staring back at her from the mirror and gave herself a mental shake. Snap out of it, Agatha! You do not have to compete with other women. You are Agatha Raisin and they have to compete with you! She grabbed a favourite jacket from the back of a chair. The deep red fun fur was frivolous and youthful, but why the hell should the young have all the fun?

  Downstairs in her living room, she found Toni sending a text message on her phone.

  “Boyfriend?” she asked.

  “No … I mean, well…” stammered Toni.

  “Never mind that now,” said Agatha. “This morning with that donkey. I’ve decided that we shall say no more about it.” She then proceeded to say a great deal more about it, ending a monologue of several minutes with “… so rash decisions can have dire consequences and … What on earth is the matter?”