Agatha Raisin: As The Pig Turns (11 page)

‘I suppose there might be,’ said James, wondering why on earth he hadn’t thought of it before.

They made their way quietly out of the house. James risked flashing his torch around the garden. ‘There’s a gate at the end over there, but it’s going to be the same problem.
It’s solid and it’s as high as the fence. It’s padlocked.’

‘Can’t you pick the lock?’

‘It’ll take a few moments. It’s a pity you’re not more agile. We could just have shinned over it. You should get that hip replacement.’

Agatha remained mulishly quiet while he got to work picking the lock. She did not like anyone, particularly James, knowing that she had been operated on for a hip replacement. Also, she was
stiff and sore from getting over the fence. At last the padlock clicked open. James let Agatha out into the lane at the back, relocked the padlock and climbed nimbly over the fence.

‘Now, if we go quietly along this lane at the backs of the houses, we should reach my car. That way there’s no fear of someone in the houses seeing us.’

‘Someone could be looking out of a back window.’

‘Too many trees and bushes at the back, and I can’t see a light in a window anywhere.
Come on
.’

Agatha was so grateful to be finally back in her cottage kitchen. ‘Coffee would be nice,’ said James.

‘A stiff gin and tonic would be nicer,’ said Agatha.

‘Well, make a strong coffee for me. I’ll nip next door and get my camera. Don’t touch that ledger with your bare hands!’ James was Agatha’s nearest neighbour.

When James returned, Agatha had moved to her living room and was stretched out on the sofa asleep, a glass of gin and tonic perilously balanced on her chest and a smouldering cigarette in one
hand.

He gently removed her drink and stubbed out her cigarette. He decided to leave her to sleep while he had a look in the ledger himself.

The entries in the ledger were baffling. There were long lines of columns with cryptic entries such a c.h. b. P.L., t. r. P.L. and so on in the same style. He woke Agatha, who blinked up at him
and then came fully awake, crying, ‘What did you find?’

‘Nothing but a lot of gobbledygook. Come and have a look before I photograph the pages. There are only about five pages of entries. If this is what the killers were looking for, then I
wonder why they wasted their time.’

Agatha followed him into the kitchen and stared in bafflement at the entries.

‘Now what do we do?’ she asked.

‘I photograph all the entries and then, so help me, I’ve got to take the book back, make sure the place is swept clean so there’s no trace of our visit and then drop an
anonymous line to the police.’

Agatha awoke the next morning with the feel of James’s lips burning into her memory. In his way, he had been passionate in bed when they were married, but somehow only
during the sex act itself. When it was over, he had rolled over to his side of the bed and gone to sleep as if she didn’t exist. Agatha tried to erase her feelings over the kiss by
remembering how awful the marriage had been: all his infuriating pernickety bachelor ways such as complaining about the laundry, trying to forbid her to work. She gave herself a mental shake. She
did not want to end up in the miserable depths of an obsession for James again.

But in its way, obsession was as necessary to Agatha Raisin as drink to an alcoholic. In the way that an alcoholic will endlessly chase the dream of when drink brought pleasure and escape,
Agatha usually remembered only the beginning of obsessions, when the days were brighter and she felt young again.

She wondered whether to call on James before she went to the office but steeled herself against the urge.

Agatha was just about to leave her cottage after letting her cats out into the back garden for the day when the postman arrived with a large parcel. ‘Grand day,’ said the
postman.

Agatha could almost smell the countryside coming to life after the bitter winter. The sky above was pale blue, and somewhere nearby a blackbird poured down its song.

It was on mornings like this that Agatha realized why she loved living in the Cotswolds so much. Perhaps, she thought, there is nowhere more beautiful in Britain than this man-made piece of
England with its thatched cottages and gardens crammed with flowers.

The parcel was very heavy. She heaved it in and on to the kitchen table. It was addressed to her in block capitals. There was no return address.

She stared down at it, wondering at the same time if James had been successful in returning the ledger and somehow telling the police about the secret room without revealing their
identities.

Agatha took a sharp knife out of the kitchen drawer and sliced the tape that sealed the parcel. Just before she wrenched it open, she paused. What if it were a bomb?

She put her ear to the parcel and then told herself she was being silly. Surely bombs ticked only in old movies.

She was reminded of some old game show on television where people would shout either ‘Don’t open the box!’ or ‘Open the box!’

She tore open the top flaps. Whatever was in there was covered in bubble wrap. She gingerly opened the coverings and then stared down at the revealed contents. Rigid with shock, she looked into
the dead eyes of Gary Beech. His face was encrusted with little pellets of ice. The head had been frozen.

She sank down into a chair and grasped her knees to stop them from shaking.

Agatha felt she did not have enough strength to get up and call the police from the phone on the kitchen counter. She reached up and pulled her handbag down from the kitchen table and fished out
her mobile and dialled 999.

James looked out of his window and saw police cars and a forensic unit arriving outside. He rushed out of doors in time to see a white-faced Agatha being led out and ushered
into a police car.

He tried to get to her but had his way blocked by a policeman. ‘Can’t go there, sir,’ he said.

‘Agatha!’ shouted James. ‘What’s up?’

‘Head!’ screamed Agatha wildly as she was thrust into the car, which then sped off, and the road in front of her cottage was taped off.

Agatha, who had refused offers of treatment for shock and simply wanted to get any interview over with, told Inspector Wilkes about the arrival of the package. While she was
making her statement in a weak, faltering voice quite unlike her own, the interview was suddenly suspended as Wilkes was summoned from the room.

She waited, staring blankly into space, reviving only enough to refuse a policewoman’s offer of hot sweet tea.

Wilkes eventually returned. His face was grim. ‘Do you know there was a note for you with the head?’

‘Too much of a shock to look further,’ said Agatha. ‘What did it say?’

‘It says, “You’re next, you nosy bitch, if you keep on interfering.” What have you been up to?’

Agatha thought wildly of her visit to Gary Beech’s home. She said, ‘I was investigating his death at the request of his ex-wife . . .’

‘Who you found murdered?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘That’s all.’

‘Have you found out anything at all you are not telling us? You see, we got an anonymous call at dawn, telling us about a secret room in Gary Beech’s house. You wouldn’t know
about that, would you?’

‘A secret room!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘That sounds like something out of Enid Blyton. It would never cross my mind.’ She leaned forward wearily. ‘Do you know yet
exactly how Beech was killed?’

‘We are waiting for the pathologist’s report on the head. But the initial report says there is evidence of severe blunt-force trauma to the back of the skull.’

Shocked though she was, Agatha was aware of a heavy atmosphere of suspicion in the room. I’ve got to solve this case, she thought wildly. I’m rapidly becoming the number one suspect.
But that’s ridiculous. I would hardly send a severed head to myself. And where is the rest of the body? The feet and legs are missing.

‘Mrs Raisin!’ said Wilkes sharply. ‘Pay attention. I want you to go back to the late Mrs Richards. We must assume that she knew something and that was the reason she was
killed.’

‘You have my statement,’ said Agatha. ‘I gave you everything then.’

‘Nonetheless. Go over it again.’

Agatha eventually had to be supported from the interview room by a policewoman. She felt her legs had turned to jelly. James was waiting for her.

‘I rescued your cats from the garden,’ he said, ‘and took them to my place. I suggest you move in with me until things are safer. It’s all right, Officer, I’ll take
her home.’

‘Take me for a drink first,’ said Agatha.

‘It’s just a few minutes before eleven in the morning. Too early.’

‘James, I’m sure the sun is over the poop deck or whatever. I
need
a drink.’

‘Agatha, that is a warning sign. When people start saying they need a drink, they’re on the slippery slope to alcoholism.’

A fit of rage brought the strength back to Agatha’s legs. ‘Goodbye,’ she said abruptly, and left police headquarters, banging the door noisily behind her.

She headed straight for the Dragon pub across the other side of the car park, deaf to the sound of James shouting something from behind her.

There was a light breeze. The pub had tables outside with large glass ashtrays on each one. ‘Civilization at last,’ breathed Agatha.

She sat down, opened her handbag, took out her lighter and a packet of Bensons and lit a cigarette. A shadow fell across her.

‘Gin and tonic?’ asked James.

‘Make it a double,’ said Agatha, squinting up at him out of her bearlike eyes.

When James went into the pub, Agatha pulled out her mobile and dialled Toni. ‘See if you can renew your friendship with Mrs Richards,’ said Agatha after she had finished describing
the horrors of the morning. ‘She might know something. I mean, this Richards character strikes me as fishy.’

‘Patrick did a check on him,’ said Toni cautiously. ‘He is what he appears to be – a successful businessman.’

‘Nonetheless, do it,’ said Agatha, ‘and I want Phil following behind you to keep a watch on you, just in case.’

James came back as she rang off, carrying her drink and a coffee for himself. Agatha suddenly found herself missing Charles. She did not want to move in with James. She would not be allowed to
smoke. And his fussy bachelor ways would get on her nerves. Her cottage was protected by first-class security.

‘I think I’d be better off in my own home,’ said Agatha after a gulp of her drink. ‘It is secure. Come on, James, you know we’d get on each other’s
nerves.’

He gave a reluctant smile. In that moment, Agatha wavered. Oh, those blue eyes of his and that smile which lit up his whole face. That hard, muscular body . . .

She gave herself a mental slap.

For his part, James felt that old pull of attraction towards Agatha. Her hair was shining in the sunlight, and the colour had returned to her face.

‘Can’t you just for once leave this one to the police?’ he asked.

‘No, I can’t,’ said Agatha. ‘I must get to the bottom of things. What knowledge did a common copper like Beech have that was worth a lot of money? That’s what I
would like to know. His macabre death was revenge, I think, but also a warning to anyone else.’

‘Leave it for now, anyway,’ said James. ‘Let me take you home.’

Agatha wavered but realized she was still weak from shock. ‘All right,’ she said, finishing her drink. ‘But I don’t think I’ll go home yet. It will still be full of
police. I’ll book a room at the George Hotel after I buy myself some cheap clothes.’

Sir Charles Fraith heard the news of the dead head delivered to Agatha on the car radio later the next morning. When he arrived at his Warwickshire mansion, he went straight to
the kitchen where he kept the keys to Agatha’s cottage. They were usually hanging on a board along with various other keys to the garage, the cellar and so on. But Agatha’s keys were
missing. He called to his manservant, Gustav, ‘Have you taken Mrs Raisin’s keys?’

‘Wouldn’t touch them,’ said Gustav, who disapproved of Agatha.

‘Ask around. The village women were in to clean, weren’t they? And ask my aunt.’

He waited impatiently until Gustav returned. ‘Nothing,’ he said with gloomy relish.

‘Check all the locks. Make sure no one could have broken in.’

‘You probably left them somewhere.’

‘Oh, just do what you’re told for once in your miserable life.’

Gustav eventually found there were faint scratches around the lock on the kitchen door.

‘I’d better get to Agatha quickly,’ said Charles. ‘She isn’t answering her phone.’

A call to Bill Wong elicited the fact that Agatha was staying at the George. Charles got into his car and set off for Mircester.

Toni decided that it would be a mistake to visit Mrs Richards in her home. With Phil in his car parked behind her car a little way away from the Richardses’ villa but with a clear view of
the front, Toni settled down to wait.

The news of Gary Beech’s head had been flashed on television. If Fiona Richards saw it and her ex-husband was implicated in any way, she might rush to him – always assuming she knew
something.

The day was unusually warm. The sun beat down on Toni’s little car. After an hour, Fiona Richards appeared. She was on her own. Fiona drove off at a sedate pace, and Toni with Phil behind
followed her black BMW.

Then Fiona parked in the town square. Toni slid into a parking place a few places away and set out to follow on foot.

To Toni’s dismay, she went into the George Hotel. Agatha had phoned again before Toni had left the office to say that she would be staying at the George.

She heard the receptionist say, ‘Good day, Mrs Richards. Your friend is waiting for you in the dining room.’

Toni had forgotten to take any money out of the petty cash and hoped her own credit card would stand the strain of a lunch at the George. She turned and saw Phil hovering behind her.
‘She’s gone in for lunch to meet someone,’ said Toni. ‘I’d better go into the dining room as well.’

‘Don’t waste your money on an expensive meal,’ said the ever-practical Phil. ‘You can’t get near her when she’s with someone. Go into the dining room and get
a look at whoever she is meeting and then join me in the café across the road. We can have a cheap snack and wait until she comes out.’