Agatha Raisin: Hiss and Hers (11 page)

Agatha had a good memory and remembered the road to Jimmy's bungalow. She recalled how vandals ripped up her mink coat. Jimmy had given it to his late wife, who had had it repaired. I wonder if he's got it, thought Agatha. I wouldn't mind having it back.

Jimmy had been watching for her and came out to meet her. ‘Let me,' he said, taking her heavy case from her. He pecked her on the cheek. He still had a lugubrious face and large pale eyes under heavy lids. There were a few grey hairs in his black hair, but that was the only change Agatha could see in him.

He dumped Agatha's case in the hall. ‘Have you eaten?'

‘Just stopped for a bacon sandwich on the road.'

‘Then I'll take you out for dinner. There's a new place in town. Do you need to freshen up?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll show you where your room is, through here at the back. I'm proud of our guest room. My late wife had a bathroom en suite put in.'

The double bed was covered in one of those slippery silk covers that Agatha loathed. It was bright pink, as were the curtains at the window. The bathroom boasted a pink bathmat, and the toilet was covered in pink chenille. Agatha wondered if the late Mrs Jessop had been a Barbara Cartland fan.

She decided to hang up her clothes later. She washed her face and reapplied her make-up.

When she joined Jimmy again, she said, ‘I haven't changed. I'm just too hungry.'

‘You'll do. It's not a dressy place.'

Obviously, thought Agatha uneasily. Jimmy was wearing a tropical shirt over grey flannels and grey socks with brown sandals.

‘Things haven't changed much since your last visit,' said Jimmy as he drove competently into the centre of the town. ‘The sea wall is ugly and blots out the view of the beach, but it's better than being flooded. Here we are. The great thing about this place is that they have a large car park.'

Agatha's heart sank. The restaurant was called Chicky Chicken. A large neon chicken reared up against the paling night sky.

They entered the restaurant. ‘I booked a table,' said Jimmy. ‘This place is awfully popular.'

There was no air-conditioning and Agatha could feel little rivulets of sweat running down her back as they were ushered into a booth with plastic seating. The menu was on a tablemat. Agatha gloomily surveyed the menu. There was every kind of chicken dish: roast chicken, barbecued chicken, southern fried, chicken in a basket and chicken wings.

‘I could murder a nice cold drink,' said Agatha.

‘I'm afraid they haven't got a licence,' said Jimmy, ‘but they do a very good fruit squash.'

‘Okay,' said Agatha bleakly. ‘I'll have one of those and some roast chicken, maybe with roast potatoes.'

‘Just chips.'

‘Oh, well, go for it.'

‘My wife had her last meal out here,' said Jimmy, ‘before she became too weak. It will always have a special place in my heart.'

After Jimmy had given their order to an acned waiter, Agatha asked, ‘What kind of cancer did she have?'

‘Cancer of the breast.'

‘But I thought they could do wonders these days.'

‘Poor Margaret. She was so proud of her hair.'

Agatha blinked, remembering Mrs Jessop's tightly permed curls.

‘She refused chemo and tried every alternative you could think of.'

I shouldn't have come, thought Agatha. But I'll need to stop being snobbish. I like chicken, but I would also have liked a drink. Oh, well, I may as well get something out of this trip.

‘Your late wife did enjoy that fur coat of mine,' she said. ‘Do you still have it?'

‘Margaret loved it so much, she left instructions to be buried in it.'

Oh, my mink, mourned Agatha. All those beautiful little vermin that were better on my back than depopulating the natural species of these islands.

‘Wasn't that considered . . . well . . . a bit odd?'

‘Not at all. Margaret was much respected. Now, tell me about these horrible murders.'

‘Well . . .' Agatha paused as their food arrived. ‘I'll eat something and then I'll tell you,' she said.

Her first bite of chicken removed much of her appetite. Even though Agatha's palate was geared to junk food, she found the chicken dry and tasteless. She wondered if they had boiled it first for stock. She seized the bottle of ketchup on the table and doused it and put another helping on her chips.

‘You'll ruin the taste,' said Jimmy severely. ‘That chicken is free range.'

With legs like this, the poor bird was probably jammed in a cage until it finally died a welcome and premature death, thought Agatha. She gloomily forced herself to eat some ketchup-doused bird and then began to talk about the murders. She finished by asking, ‘You have some experience of murderers. I've told you about my suspects. Who do you think it could be?'

Jimmy shook his head. ‘He seems to have been a serial philanderer. There could be other women in his past. Was he ever married?'

‘Snakes and bastards. He told me he had been married once but said he didn't want to talk about it. Excuse me. I must powder my nose.' Agatha headed for the ladies' toilet. She had not wanted to make a phone call about the case in the noise of the restaurant.

Ensconced in a stall in the toilet, Agatha took out her phone and dialled Janet Ilston's number. ‘It's Agatha here,' she said urgently. ‘Your brother was married once. Who was she and how did the divorce come about?'

‘It was twenty years ago. Her name was Trixie DuVane. She was a young model. All legs and no brain. George wouldn't talk about it. All he said was that it was an amicable divorce.'

‘Have you any sort of address for her?'

‘I do as a matter of fact. She wrote me a letter of condolence. Hang on a minute.'

Agatha waited impatiently.

A woman hammered on the door. ‘Are you going to be in there all day?' she shouted.

‘I've got AIDS,' yelled Agatha. ‘Leave me alone.'

There came shocked exclamations and the shuffle of feet as the ladies' toilet hurriedly emptied. Idiots still think you can get it from lavatory seats, thought Agatha.

Janet came back on the line. ‘She's now Mrs Tragent. Number twenty-two, River Lane, Jericho, Oxford.'

Agatha thanked her and rang off. She hurried back to Jimmy.

‘You look stressed. You should forget about the murders and enjoy the weekend,' said Jimmy severely. ‘I mean, here we are together again.' He leaned across the table, and taking Agatha's hand in his, gave it an affectionate squeeze.

A woman marched up to their table and glared at Agatha. She had dyed blonde hair and a fake bake. ‘I waited outside the loo to see who it was. I wouldn't touch her if I were you,' she said to Jimmy. ‘I heard her loud and clear. She's got AIDS.'

‘Sod off!' yelled Agatha, her face flaming.

‘What's this about, Agatha?' asked Jimmy.

‘I only went to the toilet to make a phone call, Jimmy. About the case. I thought you might think it rude that I was still working on the murder. She was hammering on the door. I only said I had AIDS to get rid of her.'

Jimmy fished in his pocket, took out his warrant card and flashed it at the woman. ‘Police,' he said. ‘Go away.'

When the woman had retreated, he said, ‘How could you, Agatha? This is a small, gossipy town and I have my reputation to consider.'

‘I didn't know they still lived in the dark ages here,' protested Agatha. ‘What if I did have AIDS? Think of the sheer cruelty.'

‘One would think your attitude to the poor people cursed with a dreadful illness is a bit callous.'

‘I am
not
callous. I just didn't think,' said Agatha, near to tears. ‘I'd like to get out of here before they decide to stone me.' Jimmy paid the bill and they left the restaurant. They walked in silence to the car.

‘Let's go for a drink,' said Agatha.

‘I would rather go home, if you don't mind.'

Agatha tried to think of something, anything, to say to lighten the atmosphere, but Jimmy's disapproval filled the car like a dark cloud.

Once in the bungalow, he said stiffly, ‘I would like an early night.'

‘Look, Jimmy, I—'

‘Agatha, I am a respected member of the Rotary Club and a verger at the church. I am in line to be made superintendent. My reputation is precious. Please go to bed and leave me alone.'

Agatha trailed off miserably to the spare room and sat on the bed. She had to admit to herself that she had nourished a dream of maybe marrying Jimmy and settling down. No more fears of being left alone in old age. No more frights and serpents. She felt ashamed of her remark about AIDS. She felt lonely.

She longed to phone Charles to come and rescue her, but that would be adding insult to injury as far as Jimmy was concerned. The room was stifling. Agatha wanted a cigarette. She looked around, but there was no ashtray in sight. She quietly left the room and made her way to the kitchen. Agatha could hear Jimmy leaving the bathroom and going to his own room.

The kitchen was intimidating in its housewifely cleanliness and décor. Gingham curtains hung from the windows. Appliances of every kind gleamed and glittered. There was a pot of geraniums on the table. Agatha felt one of the leaves. Fake! That cheered her up a bit.

She took a saucer down from a cupboard, sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. With a sigh of relief, she took a long drag on her cigarette and blew a smoke ring up to the ceiling. Too late, she saw the smoke alarm. It went off with a shrill sound.

The kitchen door was wrenched open and Jimmy, in striped pyjamas, glared at her. ‘No smoking, Agatha.'

Agatha sighed and stubbed out the cigarette. Jimmy went out and slammed the door behind him.

Returning to her room, Agatha packed her suitcase. There was no point in staying on. But then it dawned on her that Jimmy had probably set a burglar alarm. She tiptoed quietly to the front door. There it was.

But beside it was the fuse box. She tiptoed back. She listened. Snores were coming from Jimmy's room. He can't be that upset, thought Agatha sourly.

Returning to her room, she scribbled out a note for Jimmy. ‘Something's come up. Got to go. Didn't want to wake you. Agatha,' and left it on her pillow.

Quietly she lifted her suitcase and crept along to the front door. She reached up to the fuse box and cut the electricity, unlocked and unbolted the front door and went out to her car.

The moon was riding high above. She saw to her dismay that Jimmy's car was blocking her own.

But she felt she could not bear a night in his house. Agatha cautiously made her way back indoors. She followed the sound of snoring and crept into Jimmy's room. He was lying on his back, large snores reverberating round the room. The curtains were drawn back and Agatha could see his car keys on the bedside table. She picked them up.

Back outside, she moved Jimmy's car by releasing the handbrake and letting it slide down into the road. She loaded her suitcase into the boot of her own car. The night seemed to have brought no relief from the heat.

The clock on the dashboard said ten-thirty. Agatha could hardly believe it was still so early. A lifetime seemed to have gone past since she had first arrived. She crept back into the house and left the car keys on the kitchen table.

She drove down to the Garden Hotel, where she had stayed before, booked into a smoking room and then made her way down to the bar, where a large gin and tonic soothed her rattled nerves.

Simon, clutching an autograph book in which he had scrawled the forged signatures of various celebrities, rang the bell outside Jessica Fordyce's door. He still had hopes of getting close to Toni and wished she were with him.

A young man answered the door. He was barefooted and wearing only a pair of ragged jeans slung low on his hips. He had the face of a dissolute fawn shadowed by a mop of glossy black curls.

‘I was hoping to get Miss Fordyce's autograph,' said Simon.

‘Give me your book and I'll see what I can do.' He held out his hand.

‘Is it possible I could have a minute with her? I'm such a fan.'

‘No, it isn't.' The door began to close.

‘Who is it?' called a female voice from behind him.

‘Some fan wanting an autograph. I'll get rid of him.'

‘Don't do that, Rex. Musn't be rude to the fans. Let him come in.'

‘She's through that door,' said Rex, and walked off.

Simon walked into the kitchen. ‘I'm just making coffee,' said Jessica. ‘Take a seat.' Jessica helped herself to a mug of coffee and sat down opposite Simon in front of a laptop. ‘Just a moment,' she said.

She was wearing a gingham blouse, brief denim shorts and wedge-heeled sandals. ‘Aha!' she said at last. ‘Here we have the website of the Agatha Raisin Detective Agency and here is a photograph of Agatha with her staff. And here's you.'

‘Doesn't stop me from being a fan,' said Simon gamely. ‘I'd still like an autograph.' He pushed the book across the table to her. She pushed it back.

‘Let's stop the charade,' she said. ‘You're detecting and for some reason I seem to be on the list of suspects.' She smiled at him. Simon felt blinded by that smile.

‘Now I've met you,' he said, ‘it does seem silly. You're just too beautiful to murder anyone.'

She rose from the table. ‘I think that deserves a coffee. Milk and sugar?'

‘Yes, please.' Simon admired her long legs. All thoughts of Toni were forgotten. He could feel himself being pulled into Jessica's aura, and then began wondering who the young man was.

As if by telepathy, the young man appeared in the kitchen. ‘He still here?' he complained.

‘Don't be a grump. Rex, this is Simon Black, a private detective. Simon, Rex Dangerfield acts the part of one of my lovers in the soap.'