Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns ar-22 Page 6

  ‘I’m having lunch.’

  ‘No, you are not. You are punishing yourself. You are slim enough. Leave the rabbit food alone and come with me to the nearest pub and we’ll have steak and kidney pie and a good bottle of wine.’

  Mrs Richards poked dismally at her salad. ‘What if he finds out?’

  ‘I won’t tell him, you won’t tell him. Look, I think you’ve been through a lot,’ said Toni, ‘and that no one ever listens to you. But I’m here. Come on. Live a little.’

  Over steak and kidney pies and a good bottle of Merlot, Mrs Richards thawed, unlike the weather outside. As Mrs Richards ate hungrily, Toni talked generally about the weather and told several funny stories of trying to recover lost animals. ‘I was asked to help find a lost cat called Napoleon. I at last found the animal actually up in the branches of a tall horse chestnut tree in the woman’s garden. I climbed up. It was difficult because the wind was blowing strongly and the cat was almost at the top. Just as I was reaching out for it, the wretched animal promptly nipped down to the ground, branch by branch. I followed and chased that cat and finally caught it by taking it in a rugby tackle.’

  Ms Richards giggled, a surprisingly girlish giggle. ‘You can’t rugby tackle a cat.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you can,’ said Toni. ‘What about a brandy with the coffee?’

  ‘Oh, maybe I shouldn’t . . .’

  Toni raised her voice and called for two brandies.

  ‘Did you know the present Mrs Amy Richards?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Look, call me Fiona. We worked in the same supermarket. She was on the till and I stacked the shelves.’

  ‘Seems a rather menial job for you. What about the care of your children?’

  ‘We had . . . have . . . an excellent nanny for the two youngest: that’s Carol, aged four, and Josie, aged five. My eldest, my boy, Wolfgang, is at Mircester High. He’s thirteen.’

  ‘Wolfgang is an odd name for a British child.’

  ‘Tom’s father is German. He insisted the boy was named after him. He’s called Wolf at school, so he doesn’t mind. My husband thought I should understand the workings of his business empire from the ground up. I didn’t mind the shelf stacking. It was a peaceful, mindless job. I got to know Amy. The others knew I was the boss’s wife and thought I had been put there to spy on them, but Amy would chatter away to me.

  ‘I invited her back one afternoon for tea. We both had the same day off. I thought Tom was away on business, but he turned up. He started questioning Amy about how much she thought was being sold and what were the most popular items. Soon they were deep in conversation and seemed to have forgotten I existed.

  ‘A few weeks later, Tom asked me for a divorce. At first I was shattered, but when he explained he would pay maintenance, the thought that I could jack in my job and stay at home with the children suddenly seemed like a road out of hell. Goodness, what a listener you are. I shouldn’t be criticizing Tom.’

  ‘I just wondered,’ said Toni cautiously, ‘whether Tom ever suggested improvements to your appearance.’

  ‘Night and day,’ said Fiona Richards gloomily. ‘He wanted me to go out to LA and get a face-lift. He always chose my clothes, but that was one thing too far. I tried to laugh and say I wanted to reach an elegant old age and . . . and . . . he hit me.’

  ‘Didn’t you go to the police?’

  ‘He would have hired the best lawyers. I felt I wouldn’t have a chance. So I bought a tape recorder and I began to record all the vicious rows and the sound of the beatings. My small salary was paid into an account in my name. I went to that bank and hired a safe-deposit box and put copies of all the tapes into it. Then I told him I was going to the police with the evidence.

  ‘He stormed out of the house, but when he came back, he said that he had fallen in love with Amy and would give me a divorce. I couldn’t believe my luck until he finally moved out. He comes back regularly to see the children. Oh, he’s all right with them. I bumped into Amy before she got her cosmetic alterations. She was very friendly, but she said an odd thing just as she was leaving. She said, “I miss Gary. Gary would have sorted him out.”’

  ‘So it looks as if she was off her new husband before she even went to the States,’ said Toni.

  ‘Now, how am I to get home? I’m over the limit.’

  ‘I’ll get you a cab,’ said Toni. ‘Is there anyone who can come and get your car?’

  ‘Yes, the nanny, Mrs Drufus.’ She leaned forward and looked earnestly at Toni. ‘Do you think Tom killed Gary?’

  ‘If it had just been a blow on the head, I could believe it,’ said Toni. ‘But to kill a man – he was evidently knifed to death – and then to cut off his head and try to get him roasted as a pig – no. It sounds to me like the work of several people.’

  ‘Would you keep in touch with me?’ asked Fiona plaintively. ‘You’re such a good listener. Now, if I had a daughter like you . . . Oh, well.’

  She rose somewhat unsteadily to her feet. Toni found her a taxi and sent her on her way.

  Agatha cursed under her breath. The girl’s report on Fiona Richards was so good. Toni, with her youth and air of innocence, could winkle stories out of people who would otherwise have clammed up when faced with Agatha herself.

  After leaving a note on Toni’s desk thanking her for her work, along with Simon’s letter and wedding invitation, Agatha went out into the freezing cold. The time had come to ask Amy Richards why she had lied. Agatha realized she would need to tell the truth and confess she had never gone to Florida.

  Amy answered the door. She wasn’t wearing her contact lenses, showing her eyes were brown. She looked as if she had been crying.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said bleakly.

  Agatha shivered. ‘Let me in.’

  She pushed past the slim figure of Amy and into the living room. Agatha removed her heavy coat and a shawl that made her feel she looked like Mother Machree, cursing all antifur activists under her breath. Mink were vermin. They should be clothing her back instead of marauding around the countryside, killing off the native species.

  ‘Amy, I haven’t been to Florida.’ Agatha sat down on a sofa, and Amy sat in an armchair facing her. Between them was a glass coffee table holding glossy magazines – OK!, Celebrity, Vogue and colour supplements from various Sunday papers.

  ‘Why?’ asked Amy in a croaky voice.

  ‘I’m sorry to say this, Amy, but I did not believe you. A police contact told me that you have confessed that you were lying, that you were never in Florida and it was Tom Richards who paid for you to go to LA for the transformation. I naturally began to wonder if you wanted me out of the way and why.’

  ‘I told the police the truth this time. I didn’t want them to think I was a gold digger. I mean, it takes an awful lot of money to look like this.’

  Hadn’t Dolly Parton once said something like ‘It takes an awful lot of money to look this cheap,’ thought Agatha, for there was something rather tawdry about Amy that day. She was wearing high-heeled pink shoes, a tight pink sweater and pink pedal pushers.

  ‘So it was not your husband that suggested you have plastic surgery?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘But he suggested it to his previous wife. Is he a bully?’

  ‘Oh, no, my Bunchie’s the sweetest, dearest man.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s get back to Gary. You said he gave you a lot of money for the divorce. A cheque?’

  ‘No, it was cash.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I c-can’t remember.’

  ‘Amy!’

  ‘It was about ten thousand in an envelope. He said, “Take it and come with me to the lawyer’s, but don’t mention the money. Tell him you don’t want anything from me. Get it!” So I went along with it.’

  ‘But you surely had a lawyer of your own.’

  ‘There was one in the same building.’

  ‘Who are these lawyers?’

  ‘Crumley, Fatch and Blinder.’

  ‘A
nd where are they?’

  ‘They’re out in the industrial estate. Lot thirty-one.’

  ‘That’s a damned odd place for lawyers’ offices. But you produced the divorce papers when you went to register your marriage to Tom Richards.’

  ‘That’s the oddest thing. I couldn’t find them anywhere. I asked Gary and he said he gave them to me and I must have lost them. My passport was still in my maiden name and Bunchie said that and my birth certificate would be enough.’

  ‘Didn’t you go to the lawyer and ask for a copy?’

  ‘Bunchie said there was no need to bother.’

  ‘When Gary gave you the ten thousand, where did he get it from? Did he have a safe?’

  ‘Nothing like that. He just produced an envelope. He said he wanted the house for himself.’

  ‘And where did Bunchie really meet you?’

  ‘At the supermarket. I knew the money wouldn’t last all that long these days. I got a room at the Y.’

  ‘Amy, think carefully. Gary did not earn much as a copper. How could he be getting extra money?’

  ‘I dunno. He kept telling me he was doing a lot of overtime.’ Amy waved her slim arm and a heavy silver bracelet with several objects dangling from it flashed in the electric light.

  ‘Here’s an odd thing. May I see your bracelet?’

  ‘Okay. I had a friend make it up for me. She’s ever so clever. She just uses all little odd bits of silver.’

  Agatha studied the bracelet carefully, turning it in her fingers. ‘There’s a key here,’ she said. ‘An odd-shaped key. It looks like my bank deposit key.’

  ‘Well, I never.’

  ‘Where did Gary bank?’

  ‘I think it was at the Mircester and General.’

  ‘Did Gary make a will?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a copy of it somewhere. It’s one of those wills you do yourself. He left everything to me, but under my maiden name, Amy Tubb. He said he made it out just before we got married.’

  ‘And your passport is still in your maiden name?’

  ‘Yes, I never got around to changing it.’

  ‘Right. Get your coat. We’ll try the bank first. Bring the will and the death certificate and your passport.’

  Agatha waited impatiently while Amy teetered about on her high heels, opening and shutting drawers. Eventually she found everything in a file in the bottom drawer of her husband’s desk.

  Chapter Five

  Once in the office, relieved to find it deserted except for Mrs Freedman, Toni turned to the secretary. ‘Mrs Freedman, I’ve given Agatha a month’s notice. Should I type out a letter?’

  ‘Oh, dear. If she knows, then I don’t think you should bother. Where will you go?’

  ‘Probably to another detective agency or maybe to the police.’

  Mrs Freedman peered over her spectacles at Toni. ‘There isn’t another agency around to match this one. If you join one of the lesser ones, it’ll be dogsbody work, you being so young. Then, there’s the police. Off to Hendon or somewhere for training. Maybe refused on the grounds of your colour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of my nephews got turned down. Gloucester police have to take a quota of Asians and Jamaicans and so on. Ethnic diversity, it’s called. He’s with the transport police in London now. Even if you got a job here, don’t judge them by Bill Wong. Lot of chauvinist pigs, that’s what they are. If you keep them off, they’ll damn you as a lesbian and start putting nasty things in your locker.’

  ‘Mrs Freedman, I think your loyalty to Agatha is why you are making things up.’

  ‘Yes, loyalty’s a great thing,’ said Mrs Freedman. She put her glasses back on her small nose and began typing again.

  Agatha rang Toni and told her that she was with Amy and that they would meet her in the square. Although she felt there was no need for the girl to come along, Agatha was determined to involve her whenever anything that looked important came up, in the hope that Toni might change her mind and stay on.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Toni breathlessly as she got into the back seat of Agatha’s car.

  ‘The Mircester and General Bank,’ said Agatha. She explained rapidly about the key.

  They all got out of the car and entered the bank, which stood between two shuttered shops. More failed businesses, thought Agatha. Town high streets are dying and all because we’ve become lazy and prefer to do our shopping in one go at one of the big supermarkets on the outskirts. It was also the fault of various councils who had a penchant for turning high streets into pedestrian areas and then charging high fees for parking at the nearest available car park. No one wanted to walk any more, carrying heavy bags of groceries and moving from little shop to little shop. Maybe in the end, high streets would be turned into museums with people in twentieth-century dress parading up and down.

  Agatha asked to speak to the manager. They were told to wait.

  Snow began to patter against the high windows. I should have bought snow tyres, mourned Agatha, but they’d take so long to arrive at the garage, and surely spring would come soon.

  At last they were summoned to the manager’s office. He was small, balding and fussy.

  After Amy had explained her visit, he examined the will, the passport and the key with maddening slowness, occasionally shaking his head and murmuring, ‘Dear, dear.’

  Agatha, who had been painfully trying to practice tolerance, burst out with, ‘What? What’s taking you so long? How long are we supposed to sit here waiting while you procrastinate?’

  ‘I have tae be sure,’ he said crossly. ‘There are a lot o’ bad, bad people about. Oh, yes.’

  ‘You’re not from Auchtermuchty, or one of these godforsaken places?’

  ‘I am from Stornoway and proud o’ it. I will get Gladys to take ye to the safe-deposit box.’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk.

  A blonde, so pale she looked as if she had been bleached all over, told them to follow her. They descended stairs to a cavernous basement. Gladys opened one of the doors with two keys.

  ‘What is the number of the box?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ wailed Amy.

  Back up the stairs again to wait for the manager, Mr Macleod. Then much humming and hawing and form signing before the number was released. Gladys appeared again like a pale ghost leading them to the nether regions. ‘You just shut the outside door behind you when you leave,’ she said. ‘It will lock automatically.’ She pulled out the box and set it on a metal table in the middle of the room and then left them to it. Agatha drew out three pairs of latex gloves and said they’d better put them on.

  ‘Here, you do it.’ Amy handed Agatha the key.

  Agatha unlocked the box and opened the lid.

  The three women stared down at the contents in amazement. There were four passports, all in different names but all bearing the late Gary Beech’s photograph. A pair of underpants, which Agatha unwrapped, revealed a small pistol. All that was left in the box was a small leather bag with a drawstring top. Toni opened it and peered in and then shook some of the contents out on her hand.

  ‘Pebbles,’ said Amy bitterly. ‘What’s he doing putting nasty dirty stones in a safe-deposit box?’

  ‘Wait a bit,’ said Toni excitedly. ‘I think they’re uncut diamonds. I saw a programme on diamonds, and this is what they look like in the raw. We’d better take them to the police. They could be conflict diamonds.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Agatha crossly, forgetting that she had resolved to be sweetness and light to Toni on every occasion.

  ‘Conflict diamonds or blood diamonds are used to fund rebel groups in places like Sierra Leone or Angola.’

  ‘But what on earth would a village copper be doing getting involved in anything at all going on in Africa?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘Probably nothing,’ said Toni. ‘Maybe just a criminal payoff for something. We’d better take this lot to the police.’

  ‘Must we?’ said Amy. ‘I mean, if they’
re rough, they could be polished up by a jeweller friend of mine.’

  ‘No,’ said Agatha firmly. ‘They’ve got to be examined by the police.’

  Amy’s eyes were suddenly as hard as the uncut diamonds. ‘First, it’s my property, see? I’m taking it and that’s that.’

  ‘We’ll have to report it nonetheless,’ said Toni.

  ‘Don’t rate your lives very high, do you?’ sneered Amy.

  ‘You knew what Gary was up to all along,’ said Agatha. ‘Out with it!’

  ‘Get stuffed. You’re fired.’ Amy swept everything into a capacious handbag and marched out.

  ‘Right,’ said Agatha as Amy flagged down a cab outside the bank. ‘We’d better get to police headquarters.’

  ‘I think we should follow her,’ said Toni.

  ‘Why? She’s got a cosy marriage with a rich husband.’

  ‘I think she only married him because he was rich, and it does appear he’s a bit of a bastard.’

  Agatha wanted to argue but remembered in time that Toni’s value as a detective was often her clear and practical view of things. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what she’s going to do.’

  But when they arrived at Amy’s house, her car had gone and the house had an empty air.

  They waited an hour or so, and then Toni said, ‘I think, after all, we’d better go to the police. My bet is she’s not going near that husband of hers.’

  Agatha was sick and tired of being interrogated by the time she left the police station and dropped Toni off at her flat. The gritters had been out, as a supply of salt had arrived from abroad, so she was able to make it back to her cottage without slipping. There was a note for her on the kitchen table from Charles: ‘Can’t stand this beastly weather. Gone to the South of France. Luv, Charles.’

  Agatha, still worried about Toni, felt lonely. She called the vicarage but was told that Mrs Bloxby was visiting a relative in Bexhill in Sussex. She then phoned Roy Silver to see whether he would like to visit at the weekend, but he said he was going to a simply fabulous party and wouldn’t be free.

  Her cats were sleeping peacefully. The house seemed unnaturally quiet.

  She felt in the need of action. There was a bag of empty cans of various sorts on the kitchen floor, along with a crate of empty bottles. The council had supplied householders with black boxes for the tin cans and the bottles, but Agatha had lost both. She would take them down to Tesco’s supermarket in Stow-on-the-Wold and dump the lot in their special bins and then draw some money from the hole in the wall. The snow was light and looked as if it were about to slacken off. A thin disk of a moon was appearing behind the clouds. The village of Carsely was shrouded in snow, wrapped in snow and wrapped in silence. Agatha glanced at her watch. It was just after midnight.