Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (11 page)

“Goodbye, age of innocence,” said Charles.

“I don’t think any of them had the expertise to set up a Web site,” said Harry.

Agatha remembered the expensive equipment in Burt Haviland’s living room. “We’d better call the police on this one,” she said. “I’ll phone Bill.”

Bill said he would be around right away. Agatha turned to Harry. “How does this work?”

“There are men who like looking a pictures of sexy schoolgirls. They pay up. It’s usually safe enough for the girls because they never need to be in contact with their clients. Maybe one of them recognized Jessica at the roadside and got carried away.”

“But it wasn’t a sex crime,” Charles pointed out.

The door opened and Bill Wong came in. “I hope you’re not wasting police time. What have you got?”

Agatha silently pointed to the computer.

Harry flicked through the images for Bill. “Stop there!” said Bill suddenly. Agatha looked over Harry’s shoulder. The three girls were in bikinis, chasing one another around a garden. Jessica seemed to be protesting and the other two pulled her hair and then dragged her to the ground.

“How did you get on to this?” asked Bill.

How Agatha would have loved to take the credit. “Harry,” she said. ‘Tell Bill how you discovered this.”

Harry did while Bill listened intently. Then Agatha said, “Burt Haviland has a lot of expensive equipment in his home. His real name’s not Burt Haviland. It’s Bert Smellie.”

“We’ll run that name through the computer. I’d better get a search warrant for his flat.”

“Bill, remember we found this out for you and let us know how you get on.”

“I’ll try to get round tonight. You, Harry, come with me. I’ll need to take a statement from you.”

Bill and Harry left, and shortly afterwards Phil and Patrick came in. They told them about the computer video.

“Well,” said Phil, “I was wondering why a nice girl like Jessica could go and get herself murdered in such a horrible way. Now we know. Could have been anyone.”

“We’ll get back out there,” said Patrick. “We’ll see Trixie and Fairy and tell them they’ve been found out. If the police have pulled them in, we’ll try the parents.”

When they’d gone, Charles said, “I’m going off for the afternoon, Agatha. Got things to do at home. See you later.”

Agatha slumped down on the sofa. She felt tired and jaded. “Mrs. Freedman,” she said. “You don’t wear make-up? Does your husband ever ask you to?”

“No, m’dear. Doesn’t notice much.”

“Bill noticed when I wasn’t wearing make-up.”

“Could be a way of him saying you haven’t been your usual sparky self lately. Have you eaten anything?”

“Haven’t had time.”

“Go out and get something. I’ll look after things here.”

“You’re a treasure.”

Agatha went out and round to a cafe and ordered sausage and chips, which she doused liberally with ketchup. She wished she could shake off the heavy feeling of nothingness that was beginning to overtake her.

She did not realize that the root of the problem was that she was obsessive when it came to men. Agatha was addicted to falling in love. While she was obsessing about some man, she could dream. But now, with no obsession, when she lay down to sleep at night there seemed to be a black hole left in her head, around the edges of which swirled nagging, petty little worries.

Charles was sitting at his desk going through the farm accounts when his manservant, Gustav, announced, “Chap called Freddy Champion to see you.”

Charles’s face lit up. “Freddy! Haven’t seen him in ages. Show him in.”

A tall, lean, bronzed man with a shock of white hair and dark brown eyes came into the room.

“Out of Africa?” asked Charles.

“Thrown out of Zimbabwe.”

“What will you do now?”

“Nigeria’s offering us farmers land. Might try that.”

“You’re a devil for punishment.” They talked of old friends and old times and then Charles talked about Agatha and the murders.

“What an extraordinary woman she seems to be. I’d like to meet her.”

“If you’re not doing anything this evening, I’ll take you over. Where’s the missus?”

“Gone to South Africa for a break.”

Agatha tried to work in her office at home that evening, writing down everything she knew about the Smedley case. The evening was cold and damp and she wished she’d never gone to the expense of buying an air conditioner. She switched off the computer. She had changed into an old pair of trousers and a sweater. No need to dress up for Bill and Charles.

She fed the cats but was reluctant to prepare anything for herself. Perhaps she and Charles could go to the pub after Bill had left.

The doorbell rang. When Agatha answered it, she found not only Charles standing there but a tall, handsome man. Charles introduced Freddy. Agatha was suddenly acutely aware of her old sweater and trousers.

Any minute now, thought Charles cynically, Agatha’s going to say she’s nipping up to the bathroom and she’s going to come down with her face freshly made up. And that’s exactly what Agatha did.

Agatha began to ask Freddy about his life in Zimbabwe. Charles, watching her animated face and sparkling eyes, suppressed a groan. He was just about to drop some remark about Freddy’s wife when the doorbell rang announcing Bill’s arrival.

“Well?” demanded Agatha eagerly.

Bill sat down at the kitchen table. He looked enquiringly at Freddy and Agatha quickly introduced him.

“We ran the name Bert, or Albert, Smellie through the police computer. I’m amazed he gave you his real name. How did you get on to that?”

“Think of it,” said Agatha. “Burt Haviland is like one of those names in romance books.”

“Anyway, he’s got a record for armed robbery. In prison took his A levels. Left prison and took a degree in electronics engineering. Bright lad. His probation officer was so proud of him. We raided his house. We found the video set-up hidden in a shed in the garden. But we recognized his bedroom and the garden from the video. He blustered and protested that it was just a bit of fun. The girls weren’t doing anything pornographic and it was an easy way to make money out of dirty old men. We’re keeping him in overnight for more questioning and while we double-check his alibi for the night Jessica was killed.”

“Did the parents know about this?”

“They were genuinely horrified,” said Bill.

“Where did three schoolgirls get the time to do all this?”

“Weekends, evenings, school holidays. We’re tracking down all the men who paid for a viewing.”

“I’ve an idea,” said Agatha, suddenly excited. “Maybe these two murders were tied up in some way. Robert Smedley’s computer at home had been overwritten to conceal what he had been logging into.”

“It’s an idea. We’ll check his credit-card details. I don’t suppose we’ll need a search warrant. Mrs. Smedley is very helpful. In fact, she’s one of the most charming ladies I’ve come across in a long time.”

“Humph,” muttered Agatha. “But what about Burt? Is he still claiming he was madly in love with Jessica?”

“Yes, he is. He said the video thing was a bit of fun. He was saving up to give Jessica a super wedding.”

“And you believe him?”

“I don’t know what to believe and that’s a fact. Thanks for the info, Agatha. We must have dinner sometime when all this is over … if it’s ever over.”

After Bill had left, Charles suggested they all go out for dinner. He watched uneasily as Agatha sparkled and told highly embroidered stories of her cases. He felt he should throw in some remark about Freddy’s wife, but it was so grand to see Agatha once more back on form. Let Freddy tell her.

Freddy didn’t, so Charles consoled himself with the thought that after this evening Agatha would probably never see him again.

But when Charles, predictably, went to the toilet as soon as the bill arrived, Freddy said, as he paid for it, “I have enjoyed this evening. I’m a bit at a loose end at the moment. What about dinner, just the two of us, on Saturday?”

Agatha glowed. “That would be lovely.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Freddy did not tell Charles of the arrangement he had made with Agatha, and Agatha did not tell him in case he volunteered to join them.

She went to bed that night wrapped in rosy dreams.

In the morning, at the office, Agatha said, “The police have talked to the parents, but see what more you can find out about this video business, Patrick, and take Phil with you. Did you see the girls?”

“No, the police chased us away.”

“Harry,” said Agatha, “you keep questioning her schoolmates. If a boy at the cyber cafe came across that Web site, then it stands to reason some of the others must have known what they were up to. Charles and I will try to track down Eddie Gibbs.”

“Who’s he?” asked Patrick.

“Some chap who left Smedleys Electronics. He evidently had every reason to hate Smedley. I know, we’ll start with Joyce. I wonder if she’s still at home.”

Joyce was. Her face was very white against the red of her hair and her hands trembled. “Come in,” she said. “The police asked dreadful things.”

“What about?” asked Agatha.

“You’ll never believe it. They wanted to know if he was keen on young girls. I was furious. Robert wasn’t like that.”

“We were wondering if you could find the address of a former employee called Eddie Gibbs.”

“Oh, I remember him. A quiet little man. Such a tragedy. His wife is in a wheelchair. I could look up the records in the office. I don’t mind. I would like to get out for a bit in case the police come back. It’s silly to go on hiding here. I’d better get back to work. I suppose Mrs. Smedley will sell the firm. Maybe the new people will keep me on. I’ll get my jacket.”

They drove her to the factory. Agatha wondered why Smedleys Electronics hadn’t bother to put in an apostrophe. Joyce shuddered a bit on the doorstep of the office.

“Fingerprint dust everywhere,” said Agatha. “I thought they used a type of light or something.”

“Do you think it’s all right to touch anything?” asked Joyce.

“Sure,” said Agatha. “The office door’s no longer taped off.”

Joyce hung up her jacket and sat down at the computer. She typed away busily and at last she said, “I’ve got it. Mr. Edward Gibbs, 78, Malvern Way.”

“Where’s Malvern Way?” asked Charles.

“It’s over at the other end of Mircester on the Evesham Road. You take the dual carriageway and turn off at the second roundabout into Cherry Walk and Malvern Way is the third on the right.”

“How do you know exactly where it is?”

“Eddie had a bit too much to drink at an office party and I drove him home.”

“Did you ever hear him having a row with Mr. Smedley?”

“Well, yes,” said Joyce awkwardly. “But Robert was very good about it. He said Eddie was all strung up because of his wife’s condition.”

They dropped Joyce back at her home and then set out to find Eddie Gibbs. “He’ll be at work, won’t he?” asked Charles.

“We’ll have a word with the wife and find out where he is. Maybe catch him on his lunch break.”

The house in Malvern Way was a small bungalow with a neat garden. Agatha rang the doorbell which played the Westminster chimes. The door opened and a woman in a wheelchair faced them. She had a long beautiful face, rather like one of the faces in a Modigliani painting.

“Yes?” she asked.

Agatha introduced them and explained they were trying to find out who had murdered Robert Smedley. She said they were anxious to speak to Mr. Gibbs.

“Why?” asked Mrs. Gibbs.

“Because he didn’t like Mr. Smedley and we thought he might give us a good picture of his character. The more you know about the murdered person, the easier it is to guess who might have wanted to kill him.”

“Well, my Eddie wouldn’t. He’s too kind and nice. But come in. He won’t be back until six this evening.”

She wheeled herself back and they followed her into a sunny living room.

“Sit down,” she said. Agatha and Charles sat down together on a sofa covered in cheerful chintz.

“I thought Smedley was a despicable man,” she said. “He made several very crude remarks to Eddie about my condition. But his wife is a saint.”

“You know Mrs. Smedley?” asked Agatha.

“I owe her a lot. She never said a word against her husband but she turned up here one day. Eddie had put his back out trying to get me to bed. She organized carers to come in the morning and get me up, give me a sponge bath and get me dressed, and to come in the evening to put me to bed. She organized Meals on Wheels to give me lunch and dinner, which means that Eddie has only got to pick up something for himself on the road home. That beast, Smedley, would not give Eddie a reference, but she wrote one out on the firm’s paper and signed it on behalf of her husband.”

“And where is he working now?”

“Over at Baxford Engineering on the Harley Industrial Estate. It’s a good job and he’s happy there. I know, he goes to Peg’s Pantry at lunchtime, one till two. You can’t miss it. It’s the only restaurant on the estate. I don’t know why we should help you with this because I’m glad he’s dead.”

“We won’t bother you any further,” said Charles.

“Is there any news about that poor girl who was also murdered, Jessica?”

“We’re also working on that,” said Agatha.

They drove to the industrial estate and waited until lunchtime before going into Peg’s Pantry. “We should have asked for a photograph,” mourned Agatha. “We don’t even know what he looks like.”

“I do,” said Charles triumphantly. “When you were yakking on, I studied a photograph of him on the side table next to me.”

“Good for you.”

“Why are you looking suddenly uneasy?”

Agatha had in fact been wondering how to get rid of Charles on Saturday evening. But she said, “I was thinking about poor Mrs. Gibbs. I mean, people say if you’re feeling down, find someone worse off than yourself. But all it makes me feel is that life can be terribly unfair. I think the sort of people who feel grateful at the expense of someone else’s misfortune are the types in the old days who would have enjoyed a good hanging.”

“Here he comes,” said Charles.

A little man with small features and wispy hair had just entered the restaurant. He was wearing a checked shirt, an old tweed jacket, and jeans with knife-edge creases in them.