Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came (22 page)

‘Terry told Zak she’d have to go. He was appalled, but it was either Kylie, or himself and his father serving a long prison sentence. She had been bitching about the wedding gown and somehow he persuaded her to slip out one night and bring it round to the club. They’d switched off the refrigeration in the cold room. Told her to go in there – they had it uncovered – and try it on. Then they shut the door and locked it and turned on the refrigeration. With all she had drunk, it made the process of hypothermia quicker.’

‘But wouldn’t her hands have been bruised, hammering on the door?’ asked Agatha.

‘There were no injuries to her arms. I think she thought they were playing a joke on her until it was too late. When she was weak enough, they injected her with heroin.’

‘But why the river and why the bouquet?’

‘Zak was sick with misery. He had loved her. He wanted her to have a more ceremonious burial than the one his father had planned for her. He bought the roses – where, we still don’t know. Somehow he got her to the river, still in her wedding gown, and as a last farewell, he thrust the bouquet into her frozen hands. I think he must have been a bit off his head with grief, because he thought, in all the chaos of the floods, that it might be assumed she was another flood victim, wedding dress and all.’

‘And what about Joanna?’ asked Agatha.

‘They got tipped off – we’re still trying to find out who did that – and someone struck her as she was getting into Kylie’s e-mail and then wiped all the e-mails out. But Joanna did find one incriminating e-mail before she was hit. Zak says he sent her a desperate e-mail, saying to keep her mouth shut.

‘Joanna knew she was on to something. She called round at the disco and told Terry about the e-mail and that unless he paid up, she was going to go to the police. He broke her neck.’

‘And Mrs Anstruther-Jones?’

‘It could be youths who made a habit of getting high on drugs and frightening people by driving at them. They may have gone too far. Zak denies they had anything to do with it, but Terry, or that Wayne, may have thought it was you and decided to stop you asking questions about Kylie.’

‘There’s one thing I totally forgot,’ said Agatha. ‘Kylie was a member of a church group. I should have asked about her there.’

‘We are not completely inept,’ retorted Brudge. ‘We did, of course, question the members. Kylie went once and then never again, although her mother believed her to be a staunch member.’

Agatha lay back against the pillows, her brow wrinkled. ‘There’s something missing,’ she said slowly. ‘Or rather, someone.’

‘What do you mean?’

Agatha lay back in silence for a moment. Then she said, ‘I asked Freda Stokes if Kylie had been particularly friendly with any of the girls and she said no. I asked her about wedding presents. She said that Marilyn Josh had given Kylie a thong swim-suit. Now it must have seemed like a shocking present to Freda, who at that time considered her daughter a respectable virgin. But what if it was something that Kylie really wanted? When I first saw her, she was getting a bikini wax. She said it was because Zak wanted it, but maybe Kylie wanted it to sport her swim-suit on her honeymoon. You see,’ went on Agatha eagerly, ‘Marilyn might have been in on it. She might have known Kylie very well. I think Zak or Terry got her, at the hen party, to whisper to her to bring the wedding dress round to the disco and she’d let her know what she thought.’

‘Zak said nothing about Marilyn Josh,’ said Brudge, ‘but we’ll check it out. Here’s Mrs Bloxby.’

Brudge stood up to leave.

‘Aren’t you going to thank me?’ asked Agatha.

‘For what? For nearly getting killed? For interfering in police business? You’re damn lucky you’re not being charged. You were wearing that wig again when we found you.’

‘Oh, sod off!’ shouted Agatha to his retreating back.

‘That wasn’t very nice, Mrs Raisin,’ said Mrs Bloxby reprovingly.

‘He deserved it,’ said Agatha sulkily.

‘You seem to be back on your old form.’ The vicar’s wife sat down beside the bed. ‘It’s in all the newspapers and on television.’

‘What do they say about me?’

‘Nothing, I’m afraid. Just about Kylie and Joanna and that a large quantity of drugs was found at the disco.’

‘That does take the biscuit! They’d never have found out if it hadn’t been for me,’ complained Agatha. ‘Where’s John?’

‘Coming along later.’

‘Really! Can you get me my handbag out of that locker? I’ve got make-up in it.’

‘When are they going to release you?’ said Mrs Bloxby, retrieving Agatha’s capacious handbag and handing it to her.

‘Tomorrow,’ said Agatha, taking out a small mirror and squinting at her face in it. ‘I look a fright.’

She busily began to apply foundation cream. ‘Do you think that’s a spot coming on my forehead?’

‘Can’t see anything,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I’ve brought you a box of chocolates.’

‘How kind of you.’ Agatha eyed the box greedily. She loved chocolates but hated the effect even one had on her imagination. One chocolate and she could feel her stomach expanding and her hips grower wider. Still, she had gone through a lot and she deserved at least a few.

She applied powder and lipstick and then opened the box. ‘Have one.’

‘I’ve just had breakfast.’

‘Oh, go on,’ urged Agatha. ‘I’ll feel like a pig eating them myself.’

Mrs Bloxby took one and Agatha took one and ate it and then reached for another.

They chatted about village affairs, and when Mrs Bloxby at last stood up to leave, Agatha realized that the chocolate box was nearly empty and Mrs Bloxby had only eaten two.

John Armitage arrived in the afternoon, bearing a large bouquet of flowers which Agatha studied carefully until she had judged they were slightly more expensive than the ones he had taken to Joanna.

‘Have you heard the latest?’ he asked.

‘No, what’s that?’

‘I heard it on the radio. They’ve rounded up the gang in Birmingham, the ones that got Terry Jensen to store the stuff.’

‘And Brudge never even said thank you,’ said Agatha.

‘I think he got the impression that you were interfering. But you’ll have your moment at the trial.’

‘Me! If I hadn’t interfered, as you put it, he’d still be none the wiser.’

‘It’s certainly been quite a case. How are you feeling?’

‘Fine. I’m out of here tomorrow.’

‘I’ll take you for dinner to celebrate.’

Agatha brightened. ‘That’ll be nice. Where?’

‘There’s a French restaurant in Oxford, Ma Belle, in Blue Boar Street. They’ve got tables set out in a courtyard in front of the restaurant, and if the weather stays fine, we can go there. I’ll pick you up at seven.’

After he had left, Bill Wong arrived with more flowers. ‘Agatha,’ he said, ‘I hope this is the last time I have to visit you in hospital after a case. You did a very dangerous thing.’

‘Does that man Brudge do nothing but complain about me?’ demanded Agatha furiously.

‘I called at the vicarage yesterday. It’s Mrs Bloxby who’s worried about you. If John Armitage hadn’t decided to call the police, you would have been frozen meat.’

But Agatha, as usual, was not going to take the blame for anything. She gave him a long speech about the fact that it was due to her own brilliance that the police had wound up such a successful case.

‘That’s an expensive bouquet,’ said Bill, who had not really been listening to her and was pointing to John’s offering.

‘It’s from John Armitage,’ said Agatha proudly. ‘He’s taking me out for dinner tomorrow night.’

‘Be careful.’

‘I’m not a virgin.’

‘It’s just you had enough pain and trouble over falling in love with your last neighbour.’

‘I’m not going to fall in love with John Armitage,’ howled Agatha.

But the next day, as she left the hospital to be driven home by Mrs Bloxby in the old Morris Minor, Agatha made polite conversation while all the time her mind was plotting and planning what to wear for dinner that evening.

Once home, she resisted the impulse to rush out and buy something new. She had plenty of clothes. It was just a matter of choosing the right things. After having taken every item out of her wardrobe, she settled for a deep-crimson silk evening skirt, slit up the side, and a soft white silk blouse with a plunging neckline.

That evening, made up with care, scented, hair brushed and burnished, she felt she had never looked better. John arrived at seven and they set off for Oxford. It was a warm, glorious evening, with the sun sending down shafts of golden light between the trees, which were still fresh and green, having not yet taken on the dull heaviness of summer.

For once Oxford looked to Agatha like the city of dreaming spires instead of what she usually saw as a mess of a bad traffic system, panhandlers and drunken fourteen-year-olds.

John had booked a table in the courtyard of the restaurant. They ordered their meal and a bottle of wine. They talked about the case, going over and over it, until John asked, ‘You seemed to think my book, the one you read, was not quite real. Why was that?’

They were on to their second bottle of wine. Agatha, mellow and secure in his company, began to tell him about her upbringing in the Birmingham slums while he listened, fascinated.

Agatha hardly ever told anyone about this background from which she was so anxious to distance herself.

When she had finished, John ordered brandies and then leaned across the table and gazed into her eyes.

‘What about it, Agatha?’

Agatha looked at him, puzzled.

‘What about what?’

‘You and me making a night of it.’

Agatha still did not understand. ‘You mean you want to go on somewhere?’

‘Come on, Agatha. You know what I mean. The somewhere is your bed.’

‘You’ve got a cheek,’ said Agatha.

‘We’re both adults.’

Agatha’s self-worth, never very high, sank like a stone. It was because she had told him about her upbringing that he thought that no preliminaries were necessary. She rose to her feet. ‘Excuse me.’

She walked into the restaurant and past the bar and the diners to a door at the side. She went out into a lane leading up to the High. She hailed a taxi and got in. ‘Carsely,’ she said. ‘Near Moreton-in-Marsh.’

‘Cost you,’ said the driver.

‘Just go!’ ordered Agatha.

She was too upset and humiliated even to cry. Not once had John tried to kiss her or show any sign of affection. He had wanted to get laid and she seemed easy.

When she got home, she sat down and switched on her computer and sent an e-mail to Marie, saying that she had changed her mind. She would like to go back to Robinson Crusoe Island. What dates?

Later that evening, she heard her doorbell. She was sure it was John. She put her head under the duvet. The ringing went on for some time. Then, after that, the phone began to ring. She got out of bed and pulled the jack out of the wall.

She would wait for Marie’s reply and then book her planes. Tomorrow, she would pack up her computer and luggage and move to a hotel in London until it was time to leave. She would tell Worcester police where she was and make them promise to tell no one else.

Agatha felt a pang. She would need to leave her cats again, but her cleaner, Doris Simpson, would look after them and they adored Doris.

She felt she hurt all over.

Once more on Robinson Crusoe Island, Agatha sat with Marie and Carlos in the lounge and watched the rain clouds sweep across the bay. It was cold. She should have realized it would be winter in August on the Juan Fernández Islands.

But somehow there was still that atmosphere of peace and comfort, that feeling of being very far away from worries and troubles. Marie and Carlos were good listeners and took Agatha through her story over and over again, until it all seemed so incredible, almost as if it had all never happened.

‘This Evesham sounds like a wicked place,’ said Marie.

‘On the contrary, the people are wonderful. That’s what makes it seem so odd,’ said Agatha.

‘And has this Marilyn Josh been arrested?’

‘Yes, I read about it in the newspapers before I left. The police are keeping very quiet about me. I think they don’t want anyone to know I was masquerading as a woman from a television company. So I don’t get any glory.’

‘You get the glory of knowing that a lot of villains are locked up,’ pointed out Carlos.

‘True,’ agreed Agatha, although she privately thought it would have been nice to get some praise and recognition for her efforts.

When Carlos took himself off to go for a long walk, Marie asked, ‘And what about your ex-husband?’

‘Oh, that’s definitely over,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve closed that chapter in my life.’

‘So what about this writer who was supposed to be helping you?’

‘He insulted me. I don’t want to have anything to do with him again.’

‘Why?’

‘He took me out for dinner. He is very attractive-looking. We went to a restaurant in Oxford.’ Agatha broke off and bit her lip.

‘So what happened?’

‘You may as well know. He wrote a detective story I’d read based in the Birmingham slums, only you don’t call them slums any more. You refer to them politely as inner cities. I had said the background didn’t ring true and he asked me how I knew.’

‘And how did you know?’

May as well tell the truth, thought Agatha. I’m so very far from home.

‘Because I was brought up in that sort of environment until I escaped and clawed my way to the top, got a posh accent, got money and success. But my background is something I like to keep quiet about.’

‘I do not see why,’ said Marie. ‘It is a sign of how far you have come by your own efforts.’

‘Britain isn’t so very class-conscious now, but it was when I was growing up. I’ve always had this feeling of not fitting in anywhere and that in itself breeds a sort of snobbery. Anyway, I told him because we’d had a fair bit to drink. He propositioned me, just like that. He hadn’t uttered one word of praise about my appearance, he hadn’t shown me any affection, he hadn’t even shown he desired me. So I thought it was because of my poor background that he felt he could dispense with the preliminaries.’