Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon (17 page)

“How?”

“I’ll find a way. Please.”

“I should be shot for agreeing to this. Okay. But if you’re caught, I know nothing about it.”

“Thanks.” Harry took the letter and left.

“Now Bill,” said Agatha. “What about giving me some crumbs of information?”

“As long as you don’t say you got it from me.”

“Of course.”

“Burt Haviland’s bank account reveals that in the past six months he received two payments of twenty thousand pounds each.”

“Blackmail?”

“Could be. It was paid in cash. The teller who took the payments has left the bank and is now on holiday in Turkey. We’re trying to find her.”

“I keep wondering if all these murders aren’t connected in some way,” said Agatha.

“Maybe. You’d better get off. I’ll tell everyone it was just a friendly call. Oh, by the way, my parents are still thrilled with that lamp.”

“Good.”

“They only wish they could afford the other one.” “What other one?”

“There’s a blue one in the shop now and Mum thinks it would be a companion to the other. I’d buy it, but I’m overdrawn at the bank as it is.”

Agatha repressed a sigh. “I’ll get it for them.”

“No, it’s too much. Don’t even think of it.”

It was only when Agatha had paid for the other lamp and sent it off in a taxi that she reflected that Mr. Wong ran a very successful dry-cleaning business and could easily have afforded it. But she got a warm feeling just thinking how pleased Bill would be.

Harry went to his flat first. Wearing a pair of thin latex gloves, he took out an envelope similar to the one containing the letter and copied out a forgery of the “By Hand” legend. The police did not have his fingerprints but they might have Agatha’s. Of course they also might wonder why there were no fingerprints on the envelope at all, but that was a minor problem. Then he realized that his fingerprints and Agatha’s would be all over the letter itself. He would need to replace it with a copy. He ran off a copy on his printer. Then he dressed himself in a pair of worker’s overalls he had once used when he was painting his flat. He padded out his cheeks, dug into a box of costumes he had worn when he was in the school dramatic society and found a heavy fake moustache, which he glued on with spirit gum. Putting on a pair of dark sunglasses and pulling a baseball cap down low on his head, he went out and stopped off at a hardware shop to buy a toolbox. He set off on his motorbike and left it at the end of Joyce’s street.

He walked boldly up to Joyce’s front door and rang the bell. She opened the door. He felt a guilty pang when he saw her eyes were red with weeping.

“What is it?”

Joyce lived in a terraced house. Harry flashed his student rail card so quickly that no one could possibly have seen it clearly and said, “I’m from the council. Your neighbours are worried about subsidence. Just going to check the walls.”

“Come in. Don’t be long. I’ve got to go out.”

Harry made a great show of tapping the walls. The trouble was Joyce followed his every move. He was just wondering how he could ever put that letter back without her noticing when there was a ring at the doorbell.

Harry heard a stem voice. “Detective Inspector Wilkes. We have a warrant to search these premises.”

Harry heard Joyce complain. “I’m not letting you in. You’ve already searched them.”

“If you do not let us in, we will need to take you down to the station.”

Harry ran lightly up the stairs. He slipped the letter back into the drawer, opened the bedroom window, threw his toolbox into the back garden, stepped out and, hanging on to the drainpipe, closed the window and slithered down. Thanking his stars that the back of Joyce’s house was not overlooked by any other houses and was a jungle of untended trees and bushes which shielded him from Joyce’s neighbours on either side, he made his way out by the back garden gate, along a lane and out into the main road.

How had Wilkes been able to move so quickly?

The fact was that Bill had told Wilkes almost immediately he had heard a rumour that Joyce had been having an affair with Haviland and that evidence of that may have been overlooked during the initial search. Although he had expected it would take some time to get a search warrant, Wilkes had pointed out that the original search warrant was still legal, called together a search team, and set out.

Bill hoped that Harry, who he believed was probably out on the street, watching the house and waiting for Joyce to leave, would not be discovered.

Joyce tried to follow the search team upstairs, but Wilkes had brought along a policewoman who ushered Joyce into her living room and told her to sit down and wait.

They came to the bureau. One said, “It’s just all bank statements and accounts. I’ve been through this before.”

“Look again,” snapped Wilkes.

The detective pulled open the bottom drawer. Harry had simply dropped the letter right on the top.

He took the envelope and extracted the letter and read it. “Take a look at this, sir,” he said, handing it to Wilkes.

Wilkes read it. “Odd. It looks like a copy. Let’s go downstairs and see what our Miss Wilson has to say for herself.”

Joyce, confronted by the letter, burst into floods of tears. The policewoman handed her a box of tissues which was lying on the coffee table, and then all waited in stolid silence until she had stopped crying.

“It was just a brief fling,” she said.

“I think you had better accompany us to the police station.”

“What about the building inspector?”

“What building inspector?”

“He was here when you arrived.”

They searched the house and then came back to Joyce. “No sign of anyone. Why was he here?”

“He said there was subsidence next door and needed to check the walls.”

“Did he show you any identification?”

“He flashed some sort of card.”

“Probably some burglar trying it on who fled when we arrived,” said Wilkes. “We’ll check with the neighbours and then, Miss Wilson, you’re coming to the station with us.”

As Joyce was led into police headquarters, a policeman in reception turned and stared at her and then hurried after Wilkes. “Sir?” he called.

“Take her to interview room number two,” said Wilkes. “Yes, Phelps, what is it?”

“That woman you’ve just brought in. She answers the description of a woman who was up at Bewdley Road early this morning, harassing the residents and demanding to see someone called James Henderson.”

“Thanks, Phelps, we’ll ask her about that.”

It was obvious to Wilkes that his first question genuinely amazed Joyce. “Did Mr. Robert Smedley tell you he was being blackmailed?”

“No! And he would have done. He told me everything.”

“So tell us about Burt Haviland. Did you know he was originally called Bert Smellie and did a term in prison for armed robbery?”

Those protuberant eyes of hers looked ready to pop out of their sockets. “I can’t believe that. He was a good salesman. He loved me.”

“How could he love you when he knew you were having an affair with the boss?”

“I am fascinating to men,” said Joyce. She was regaining her composure. I wonder whether she can cry at will, thought Wilkes. I wonder if this one is more devious than we ever imagined.

“This letter is a copy. Where’s the original?”

Joyce looked genuinely surprised. “I don’t know.”

With a few breaks, the questioning went on all day. Joyce became calmer and calmer as the day went on. She stuck to her story that she had had a brief affair with Burt only because she didn’t think Smedley meant to marry her. But shortly after Burt broke up with her, Smedley had said that he would start proceedings for a divorce within the month.

The only time she seemed to lose some of her composure was when Wilkes asked her what she was doing out at Bewdley Road where the residents had described her as hysterical.

“Someone called James Henderson took me out last night. He picked me up. I think he put that date rape drug in my drink because when I woke up this morning, he was gone. I was furious. He said he lived with his parents out on Bewdley Road. I went to confront him. He must have taken the letter and copied it.”

“Were you raped?”

“No, he must have got cold feet.”

“We’ll have you tested for drugs.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Miss Wilson, you tell us that someone calling himself James Henderson slipped you a Mickey and yet you don’t want a test?”

“I may have been mistaken,” said Joyce sulkily. She knew now she’d gone frantic at the thought of such a rich prize slipping through her fingers.

After Agatha had put Harry back on two outstanding divorce cases and she had spent most of the day making notes on the murders without coining to any conclusion, Charles put in an appearance. They decided to go and confront Mabel Smedley. Agatha thought it would be better to leave Phil behind, and let Mabel go on thinking that Phil was a friend.

Agatha started the questioning, “Mrs. Smedley …”

“Mabel, please.”

“Well, Mabel, you must know by now that Joyce Wilson was really having an affair with your husband.”

“So the police keep trying to tell me. I still don’t believe it. He was merely kind to her, taking her to Bath to see her mother. He told me all about it, you know.”

“Did you know that the police have proof that Joyce was also having an affair with Burt Haviland?”

“That’s possible. Burt had a bit of a reputation. He probably killed that Jessica girl and someone killed him in revenge.”

“I see your house is up for sale,” said Charles. “I noticed the estate agent’s board on the way in.”

“Yes, I’ve decided to make a clean start. The factory has been sold to another electronics company. It will be up to them if they want to retain the staff.”

“When is your husband’s funeral?”

“Let me see, last Friday.”

“There was nothing in the papers about it.”

“I suppose it’s old news. The police released his body. I had him cremated. That’s him over there.” She pointed at the sideboard. A black um sat on top of it. “I like to have him with me. I talk to him sometimes. But all this chit-chat is surely not helping you find my husband’s murderer.”

“I’m beginning to think it might have been Joyce Wilson,” said Agatha.

“Joyce is a simpleton. Not a bad secretary as secretaries go, but pretty dim.”

“It doesn’t take much intelligence to put weedkiller in a milk bottle.”

“It takes a lot of nerve to stand up under the strain of a murder inquiry. Believe me, if Joyce had done it, she would have burst into tears by now and confessed all.”

“The poor woman’s under a lot of strain herself,” said Charles as they drove off.

“She was as cool as cucumbers.”

“I thought from her body language she was quite rigid. No more cosy cups of coffee either.”

“I’m beginning to think this all leads somehow to Jessica.”

“Could be coincidence. Jessica could just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Then you would think it would’ve been a sex crime. It was made to look like one. An amateur murderer.”

“Or one just playing for time.”

Agatha squinted at her watch. “It’s after six. We couldn’t get near Burt’s neighbours last night because the police were all over the place. Let’s try again.”

But they found there was a mobile police unit set up in the street and policemen were still busy making door-to-door enquiries.

“There’s a pub two streets back,” said Charles. “Go back there. We might find some of the locals talking about the murder.”

The pub was called The Prince of Wales. No brewery had got around to modernizing it. It was dingy with cigarette bums on the green linoleum on the floor. There was a pool table at one end and a row of machines—video computer games and one-arm bandits—at the other.

The pub was quite busy. “Where do we start?” asked Agatha.

“At the bar. Your usual?”

“No, just tonic water.”

Charles ordered a tonic water for Agatha and a Coke for himself. “What are all the police doing around here?” he asked the barman.

“Haven’t you heard? Chap was murdered. Stabbed to death.”

“How awful,” said Agatha. “Does anyone know who did it?”

“Not as far as I know. You could ask Mr. Burden, the chap with the cap over in the comer. He said the police asked him so many questions, he began to feel he’d done it himself.”

“He’s a neighbour?”

“Next-door flat.”

Mr. Burden was sitting alone at a small round table. He was a small neat man in a dark business suit, collar and tie, and with a tweed cap on his head.

“Mr. Burden?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, who wants to know?”

Charles and Agatha sat down next to him. “We’re private detectives working on this murder of Burt Haviland. Did you hear anything?”

“What’s that you’re drinking?” asked Charles.

An empty half-pint glass was in front of Mr. Burden. He brightened visibly. “Very kind of you. I’ll have a double Scotch.”

Charles looked hopefully at Agatha, who refused to meet his gaze. Let him pay for something for once, she thought.

They waited until Charles had returned.

“Now,” said Agatha. “Did you hear anything?”

“I heard him screaming. I know now it must have been him, but at the time I thought it was the telly. Then I heard the door slam and footsteps running down the stairs.”

“The police said no one was at home except a deaf old lady on the top floor.”

“I was off sick. First time they came round and I heard them hammering, I didn’t answer. I was feeling poorly and I was in bed. Food poisoning.”

Agatha looked at the glass Mr. Burden had just drained, wondering whether alcohol poisoning would be nearer the mark.

“What kind of footsteps?” she asked.

He twisted his empty glass this way and that.

“I’m sure Mr. Burden would like another one, Charles,” said Agatha hurriedly.

Charles sighed and went back to the bar.

When he returned, Mr. Burden seized the glass eagerly and took a swig of whisky. “Footsteps,” prompted Agatha.

“What do you mean?”

“Were they heavy, light, heels, what?”