Dishing the Dirt Page 6

  “Right,” said Agatha. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

  * * *

  As they turned into the road that led up the side of the Regal Cinema, Agatha said, “I’m glad they restored that old cinema. Must go one day. Now, I’ll put the car in the parking place and we can start knocking on doors.”

  When Agatha parked the car and got a parking ticket, she returned to find James searching his iPad. “I’m just checking if there are any Davents in this street. Did she keep her married name?”

  “Oh, Lord, I don’t know,” said Agatha crossly, cross because she had been caught out at missing a basic piece of detection.

  “Oh, here we are,” said James. “There’s a T. Davent at number 905A. That must be right along at the end. The A probably means it’s a basement flat, or what the estate agents call a garden flat.”

  “So it’s not called Douglas. I wonder what she was talking about?”

  “Who?

  “Tell you later.”

  They started to walk. The day had turned hot and humid. Agatha felt uneasily that her make-up was melting and running down her neck.

  “Don’t take such long strides,” she complained.

  “You shouldn’t wear such high heels the whole time,” commented James. But he slowed his pace. He looked down at the top of Agatha’s glossy hair and felt an odd pang of loss. But surely it was Agatha’s fault that their marriage had not worked out. She would go on smoking and insisted on carrying on working. But what he missed was her old, unquestioning adoration of him.

  “Here we are at last,” said Agatha. “Of course, with my bloody luck, he’ll be out working. Let’s try the basement. Yes, the name on the door is Davent.” She rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a small, blond woman with a discontented face. Agatha guessed she was in her late thirties.

  “I don’t want encyclopaedias, I’ve got double glazing and I don’t believe in God,” she said harshly.

  Agatha rapidly introduced herself. “I was hoping to talk to Mr. Davent.”

  “I’m his sister, Freda. If you want to ask him about the bitch from hell, you’ll find him at his shop, Computing Plus, on the Four Pools estate.”

  “Did you know Jill Davent?” asked James.

  “I don’t want to talk about that cow. The day I heard about her murder was like Christmas. Now shove off.”

  The door slammed.

  “Back to the car,” said James, “and let’s see exactly where we can find Computing Plus.”

  * * *

  After circling around the Four Pools business estate, they found the shop, parked the car and walked in. The shop was full of expensive-looking equipment. One young man was serving a couple, while another leaned on the desk, reading a newspaper. Agatha approached the newspaper reader. “Is Mr. Davent available?”

  “If it’s a complaint, I can maybe deal with it,” he said in a strong Eastern European accent. Probably Polish, thought Agatha. Evesham was rapidly becoming Little Poland.

  Agatha handed him her card. “Tell him I would like to ask him a few questions.”

  The young man disappeared into a back office with a frosted-glass door. “Stop eyeing his bottom, Agatha,” admonished James.

  “It’s those skintight black jeans,” said Agatha ruefully. “They just scream, ‘look at my bum.’”

  “Be your age.”

  “No wonder our marriage didn’t work out,” snarled Agatha. “Always nitpicking and complaining. Furthermore…”

  The office door opened. “You’re to go in,” said the assistant.

  They walked in. Davent stood up to meet them. Agatha introduced herself and James.

  “I don’t know how I can help you,” he said. “I have had so many grillings from the police.”

  “Just a few questions, Mr. Davent.”

  “Call me Tris. It’s short for Tristram.”

  He was a good-looking man in possibly his early forties. He was of moderate height with a thick head of hair with auburn highlights. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit with a striped shirt and blue silk tie. He had neat regular features and a square chin with a dimple in it.

  “Please sit down,” he said. Tris sat behind his desk and Agatha and James took chairs in front of it.

  “It’s like this,” said Agatha. “In order to find out who murdered your late wife, we have to know more about her background. Was she a therapist when you met her?”

  “No, she was a tart.”

  “Why did you marry her?” asked James curiously.

  He sighed. “I’ll begin at the beginning. I went to a computer conference in Chicago, ten years ago. Jill was blond then. She just seemed to be one of the computer crowd. My wife had died of cancer the year before. Jill was a good listener. She was English and I was lonely. We ended up in bed together. In the morning, she said she had an important appointment and had to rush. We arranged to meet in the hotel bar that evening. That’s when I found my wallet was missing.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “I felt I had been conned. I was too ashamed. I still turned up in the bar that evening at the appointed time and wasn’t much surprised when she didn’t turn up. I put it down to experience. Two months later, she turned up at my address in Evesham in tears, saying she was pregnant. I accused her of stealing my wallet and she looked horrified. She denied the whole thing and said someone must have picked my pocket when we were in the bar. She said she was a qualified therapist. My late wife could not have children and I wanted to believe her. So we got married.

  Then after four months, she said she’d had a miscarriage. I had begun to get suspicious of her. She was somehow so … how can I describe it?… glib.

  One day when she was out, I searched her things. I found my wallet. No money, but the cards were there. I taxed her with it and she said that she had been unable to keep her appointment in the bar but had been so worried about the missing wallet that she had got hold of the hotel detective. The wallet had been found in the hotel trash. When I was in my shop, I phoned the hotel and asked to speak to the detective. He said no one had asked him to look for any wallet. He asked for Jill’s name. I told him her maiden name was Jill Sommerville. He told me to phone him the following day, which I did. He said Jill had been working for a high-class escort agency and I had been well and truly conned. I confronted Jill again and said unless she agreed to an immediate and uncontested divorce, I would take her to court. She agreed. She moved out immediately. She was as cold as ice. She jeered at me and called me a boring fool. She said she had been tired of the life.”

  Agatha supressed a groan. Prostitution, however classy, often came with a package of drugs, crime and pimps. Someone could have followed her from America. It could even be some other man she had cheated. Agatha felt deflated and at a complete loss. She could not bring herself to believe that this ex-husband might be a murderer.

  “Are you two an item?” asked Tris.

  “We were married but it didn’t work out,” said Agatha.

  Tris grinned. “Join the club.”

  Outraged, James got to his feet. “I will wait for you outside,” he said coldly to Agatha, and stalked out.

  “I shouldn’t have said that. Should I go after him?” asked Tris.

  “It’s all right. He’s miffed because it was a bit rude to compare your awful marriage to ours.”

  “Let me make it up to you?” said Tris. “What about dinner one night?”

  “All right,” said Agatha. Inside, a little Agatha was jumping around, yelling, “Yipee! I’ve still got pulling power.”

  “What about tomorrow night?” asked Tris.

  “Where and when?” asked Agatha.

  “Would you like to try Polish food? There’s a good restaurant round the corner from where I live called Warsaw Home.”

  “Won’t it be dumplings and red cabbage?”

  “No, the menu’s varied.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” said Agatha. What time?”

 
“Eight o’clock.”

  “You’re on. I better go and soothe James down.”

  * * *

  “I wouldn’t trust that one as far as I could throw him,” raged James. “Cheeky sod.”

  “He apologised very nicely,” said Agatha.

  “Has it crossed your tiny mind that he might be the murderer?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Agatha. “We’ve forgotten about wolfsbane or monkshood. The Carsely gardens are open to the public on Saturday. Let’s go round as many as we can and see if anyone is growing the stuff.”

  “You go,” said James, folding his arms and staring out of the windscreen. “I have work to do. Are you seeing that chap again?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” lied Agatha. “I think he’s told us the lot. I wish someone would pay me to find out the identity of the murderer because a trip to Chicago would be expensive.”

  * * *

  Agatha dropped James and went to search out the soothing presence of her friend Mrs. Bloxby.

  When she had finished telling Mrs. Bloxby all the latest news, the vicar’s wife looked worried.

  “I would almost feel relieved if the murderer were someone from Chicago,” she said.

  “Why?” demanded Agatha.

  “I feel it must be someone Miss Davent was blackmailing.”

  “She’s Mrs.”

  “Oh, well. Her. They are slimy sorts of murders. Someone from Chicago would not necessarily know about you. Are you going to take that blackmailing ledger to Detective Wong?”

  “I suppose I must,” said Agatha. “But I can’t say I stole it from Jenny Harcourt’s desk. I can’t lie and say she gave it to me or they’ll question her and she’s not that daft. Certainly, she wouldn’t have known it was there. For some reason, Jill picked on that as a good hiding place. She must have begun to feel threatened. I know, I’ll say it was shoved through my letter box. Now, to try to get Bill on his own. But first, I’d better go home and copy out what’s written in that book.”

  Chapter Five

  Through Patrick Mulligan’s contacts, Agatha found that Bill was due to finish his shift at seven that evening. Realising she was still very hungry, she stopped in at an all-day breakfast restaurant and demolished a plate of sausage, eggs, bacon and chips, all washed down with coffee. Then she managed to secure an appointment for a facial at a beauty parlour and feeling refreshed and newly made-up, she called in at the George Hotel bar for a double gin and tonic before finally taking up a position in the car park opposite police headquarters, where she could watch for Bill coming out.

  At last she saw him emerging and called to him. “Get in the car,” ordered Agatha. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  “What have you been up to now?” asked Bill.

  “This came through my letter box,” said Agatha. She had carefully wiped the book free of prints other than her own, because she thought that they might have Jenny Harcourt’s fingerprints on file, as the woman was a kleptomaniac. Agatha suddenly wondered if Jill had hidden the book in that desk or if Jenny had stolen it.

  “What do you think it is?” asked Bill.

  “It looks to me of a record of blackmailing payments,” said Agatha. “There is only one initial at each payment.”

  Bill had that sixth sense that a few good detectives are blessed with and he was suddenly sure that Agatha had not just received the book through her letter box.

  “You’d better come back to the station with me and make a statement,” he said. “Are you telling me the truth? This really did come through your letter box?”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Bill. Wilkes will get in on the act and he’ll bully me.”

  “He’s off duty. Come along.”

  * * *

  As Bill carefully took down Agatha’s statement, he seemed to turn from friend to efficient detective. When exactly had she found the book? Why had she taken so long to contact the police? She should have phoned right away.

  Exasperated, Agatha complained, “I wanted to tell you! Right! I did not want Wilkes accusing me of murder or interfering in a police investigation.” At last the ledger was bagged up and she was free to leave. “Coming for a drink?” she asked.

  “No,” said Bill. “I’ll need to get onto this right away, and, sorry, but I’ll need to contact Wilkes at home.”

  “Did you find out who sent me that poisonous bouquet?”

  “Yes. One of the market traders said he found the flowers on his stall with a letter and a fifty-pound note asking him to deliver it to you. He didn’t want to leave his stall, so he gave that little boy the bouquet to take to your office. Just think, Agatha. If he hadn’t been so honest, he could have pocketed the money and taken the flowers home to his wife.”

  * * *

  When Agatha parked outside her cottage, James came hurrying to meet her. “There’s something you should know,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I think Davent gets highlights put in his hair and that dimple on his chin, I’ll bet, was put there by a cosmetic surgeon.”

  “So what?” demanded Agatha. “I’ve just had a facial.”

  “It’s different for men. He’s probably gay.”

  “If he’s gay, why has he asked me out on a date?”

  “Probably to bump you off, you silly woman.”

  “Oh, go and take a running jump, you tiresome bore.”

  James swung round and stomped off.

  Agatha was just about to unlock her door, when a car bearing Wilkes and Bill drove up, followed by a forensic unit. Agatha groaned. Of course, they would want to check her door for fingerprints.

  “Get in the car,” ordered Wilkes. “We’ve got to let the forensic boys do their stuff.”

  “No,” said Agatha. “I don’t want to sit in a stuffy car. You can interview me in the pub.”

  * * *

  It was a warm, humid evening. They sat at a table in the pub garden, away from the other drinkers.

  To Agatha’s relief, Wilkes was less suspicious than Bill. But while she talked, Agatha was aware of Bill’s almond-shaped eyes fastened on her face, those beautiful eyes he had inherited from his Chinese father. Bill Wong had been her first friend after she had moved to the Cotswolds. Agatha was very fond of the young detective and hated lying to him. The tape recorder on the table recorded everything Agatha said.

  Victoria Bannister watched the group through the pub window. From her vantage point, it looked to her as if Agatha were being treated with great respect. She felt a sudden surge of jealousy. The fact that Agatha had promised to keep her name from the police did not seem to count. She was bitterly jealous. She had staked out Jill’s consulting room, watching her clients, trying and failing to summon up courage to plead with Jill to stop blackmailing her. Surely, she had not been the only one blackmailed. But she did not want to find herself in the clutches of a murderer. She did not trust Agatha to keep her name from the police. Victoria suddenly decided that she needed company in her misery. Perhaps if she followed the last likely person she had seen visiting Jill and had followed them home, she might get help.

  * * *

  Although Agatha kept busy the following day and looked forward to her date with Tris, she found she was nervous. Somewhere out there was a murderer trying to kill her. The first attempt had failed but surely the murderer would try again. Usually, she would have fretted about what to wear for her date, but fear of a lurking murderer made her concentrate on her work to try to banish fear.

  She got into her car after work and reversed into a lamppost. Cursing, she got out. There wasn’t much damage. Taking a deep breath, she drove carefully to Evesham, looking all the while in the rearview mirror in case she was being followed. A man driving a BMW appeared to be tailing her closely. Agatha swung into a lay-by and waited but the BMW drove on. She suddenly wanted to forget about her date and get home to the security of her cottage, well protected by burglar alarms. She missed her cat
s. Although they often seemed indifferent to her, there had been occasions when, sensing her distress, they had followed her up to bed and snuggled down beside her. And where was faithless Charles?

  * * *

  At that moment, Charles, who had called on Agatha, and, finding her not at home, knocked on James’s door and asked if he knew where Agatha had gone.

  James let off a diatribe about Agatha’s morals. He ended with, “And I don’t believe her when she says it isn’t a date. Just detecting.”

  “Might check it out,” said Charles. “Where does this Davent live?”

  * * *

  “You’d better order for me,” said Agatha after a look at the menu. “All this is new to me.”

  He signalled the waitress and ordered two vodkas. “This’ll be my limit,” said Agatha. “I don’t want to be charged with drink driving.”

  “By the time you’ve got through this meal,” said Tris, “you’ll be as sober as anything. The food really mops the alcohol up.”

  He ordered a thick mushroom soup to start and then to follow, bigos, a “hunter” stew full of various types of meat and sausages, cooked in sauerkraut, and a pile of potato pancakes. He wanted to order beer, but Agatha said she detested the stuff so he ordered more vodka. They talked idly of this and that, about the decline of the centre of Evesham and what had caused the death of the high streets of Britain, Agatha being lulled by the heavy food and the vodka. When he ordered yet more vodka, she didn’t protest. Agatha was tired of feeling frightened. And he was an attractive man. He couldn’t be gay. He’d been married. She fought down the voice in her head reminding her of gays she had known who were married. And did it matter a damn anyway? It was not as if she was going to spend the night with him. She began to talk about the murders and how an attempt had been made on her life.

  Over the dessert of huge slices of cheesecake, he leaned across the table and took her hand. “You’re a very attractive woman, Agatha. I wish you would drop this case.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too dangerous. Just drop it.”

  He was staring into her eyes and his grip on her hand tightened. His voice had held a note of command.