“Blimey, Mrs. Raisin, that’s a proper mess, ain’t it?” The postman strolled up the path just as the last of the fire appliances trundled off down Lilac Lane. “Nobody hurt, I hope?”
“Not yet,” Agatha said grimly, staring at the charred wreck of her car, thinking of the two black-clad men.
“I feel right sorry for you, Mrs. Raisin. Last time we had the fire brigade out around here it was your house,” the postman said, handing Agatha her mail. “This time it’s your car. That’s proper bad luck, that is.”
Agatha, who had dressed in a cream-coloured cashmere rollneck sweater and dark blue woollen slacks while the firemen extinguished the blaze, walked down her garden path with the postman. He’d regaled her with the tale of when his uncle had set fire to his wooden outside toilet while smoking his pipe and studying the Racing Post, trying to pick a winner in the two-thirty at Cheltenham. He lost his list of runners and riders as well as his best trousers in the blaze.
She stood beside the twisted, burned-out shell of her car, wistfully staring at the remains of the glove compartment where her make-up bag had been. All of the cosmetics and other indispensable items that had been in there were, of course, replaceable and replicated in her bedroom, but that wasn’t the point. Having a carefully chosen collection like that in the car was essential. She had always scoffed at men who thought they were being clever when they said that a woman’s car was “an extension of her handbag.” Total crap. It was far more important than that. The car was more like an extension of her dressing table, good light and multiple mirrors making it the best possible place for emergency make-up repairs. She thought about what the postman had said. Last time it had been her house. Two thugs sent by a gangster she was investigating had almost succeeded in burning the place down with her inside. Sometimes being Agatha Raisin, or even being near her, could be seriously bad for your health.
Bill Wong walked towards her with Margaret Bloxby at his side. Bill had been there with the first of the police officers to arrive when the car was still ablaze. Having now scoured Lilac Lane looking for any trace of the arsonists, he bumped into Margaret who was heading for Agatha’s cottage. This was her second visit of the morning, having rushed round to check on Agatha when the entire village had been roused by the arrival of the police and fire brigade.
“Good morning again, Mrs. Raisin,” Margaret said, with a gentle smile of empathy. “You must be exhausted after all this.”
“Not really,” Agatha said, shrugging. “I’ve drunk enough coffee to keep Brazil in business for a year and all I want to do now is to get into the office and start tracking down the rats who did this, and the pigs who murdered Mr. Tinkler, and the…”
“Let’s go inside, Agatha,” Bill said, pushing open her front gate. “We need to talk about the rats, and the pigs, and any other creatures you’re dealing with.”
Bill sat Agatha down in her living room, Margaret sat opposite her, and Roy and James walked through from the kitchen, each holding a mug of coffee. Agatha eyed them all suspiciously. They all had the same expression of grave concern. They had the look of a bunch with something to say—a delegation who all wanted to deliver the same message but were too lily-livered to do it on their own. Agatha felt a buzz of annoyance when she realised they had been talking about her, sneaking about behind her back while she had been watching the firefighters fail to save her make-up.
“So what’s this?” Agatha said, still brandishing the sheaf of letters delivered by the postman and using it to point at each of them in a long sweep of the room.
“It’s your mail,” Roy said with a confused frown.
“Not this!” Agatha jumped to her feet, slapping the letters down on her coffee table. “This!” She swept a hand again to indicate the assembled quartet of guests. “This little group you’ve formed to pass judgement on me? I feel like I’m standing in front of a mini jury!”
“It’s not like that, Agatha,” Margaret said. “We’re concerned about you, that’s all. We simply want to—”
She stopped abruptly, her eyes having been drawn to one of the envelopes on the table—a small, square envelope neatly addressed in handwritten capital letters. Agatha followed her stare and snatched up the envelope, tearing it open. She scanned the single sheet of paper inside.
YOU MAY GIVE IT BUT SHOULD NEVER WASTE IT
IF I TAKE IT I WILL NEVER HAVE IT
YOU MAY REMEMBER IT BUT NOT ALL OF IT
YOURS CAN ONLY GO ONWARDS
BUT I WILL END IT
She tutted and handed the riddle to Margaret. The others crowded round to look over Margaret’s shoulder as she read the contents out loud.
“It’s another death threat,” James announced. “No doubt about it.”
“I agree,” said Bill, “although this one’s more about life than death. The first line says how you can ‘give it,’ meaning give or devote your life to something or someone, but that you should never waste your life.”
“Yes, life fits throughout,” Margaret said. “The second line talks about taking a life, meaning to kill someone, but not being able to have that life, or a proper one of your own if you are locked up for murder.”
“Then comes the line about remembering your life.” Roy joined in. “You can remember some of it but not everything throughout your whole life.”
“And the final line is the actual threat,” Bill said. “Your life can only go forwards, you can’t go back and relive things, but the riddler can end it by killing you.”
“Agatha, my dear,” said James. “This proves that those two who turned up last night intended to kill you.”
“Rubbish!” Agatha argued. “It proves nothing of the sort.”
“Why do you say that?” Roy asked. “The riddler says he’s going to end your life!”
“That’s not what the riddler wants at all,” Agatha countered. “The riddler wants to tease me. For some reason he or she wants to antagonise me, frighten me and pit their wits against me. They’re daring me to try to find them and having a good laugh at my expense, proving to themselves that they’re smarter than I am. That all ends if I’m dead.
“Just as the shop burglaries are not connected to Mr. Tinkler’s murder, this,” she took the riddle back from Margaret and waved it in the air while pointing out the window towards the remains of her car with her free hand, “is not connected to that, and the reason is painfully obvious.”
“How so?” asked James.
“Because this riddle could only have been written yesterday at the latest,” Agatha explained, picking up the square envelope. “It arrived this morning in the ordinary post and the postmark shows that it was processed yesterday. There’s no way it could have reached me any time before first post this morning. What point would there be in sending it if the riddler also sent those two creeps out to kill me last night? I couldn’t read it if I was dead, could I? And killing me spoils the whole game—you can’t scare or pit your wits against a dead person.”
“The fact remains that ‘those two creeps’ did try to kill you last night,” Roy pointed out, “and they tried to abduct you from outside your office. You are being targeted and if the men last night aren’t working for the riddler, that just makes things worse.”
“Roy’s right,” said Margaret. “You could have two different sets of thugs after you.”
“I doubt it,” Agatha said. “I even doubt that they were here to kill me. Why bring a homemade petrol bomb? It’s not a great weapon for an assassination—not very precise. Even if they had managed to set the house on fire, Roy and I could have escaped. I survived last time somebody tried to torch the place. And if they’d intended to do that, they could simply have smashed a window and lobbed the bomb in. I don’t think they were just after me. They had another motive and the petrol bomb was probably to cover their tracks—destroy evidence. It’s amateur stuff, though. Too poorly planned for a professional hit or burglary. There’s more to this than meets the eye.”
“That may be,” Bill said, “but there is still overwhelming evidence pointing to the fact that you are in danger, and that puts those around you in danger, too. Outside your office it was Toni. Here, in your own home, it was Roy. The men behind the attacks may have made mistakes but I doubt they’re going to give up … and they only have to get lucky once to get their hands on you.”
“And that’s why I need to get to the office now!” Agatha snapped, her suspicions about the motive of her assembled friends setting her temper fuse fizzing. “I need to start going through old case files. If someone I’ve tangled with in the past is back playing games, there could be something in there that will help me find them!”
“You’re absolutely the best person to find them, Agatha,” Roy said, “but maybe not from the office.”
“They know your office and they know your home,” Margaret said. “You need to work on finding them from somewhere safe.”
“Somewhere safe?” Agatha could scarcely believe her ears. “You expect me to hide? You think that I can just run away and hide somewhere?”
“Not hide, my dear,” said James. “Just take them by surprise. Deploy tactics that they’re not expecting. Catch them off guard—devise a different plan of attack.”
“It doesn’t matter how you dress it up!” Agatha roared, her fury flaring as fiery as the petrol bomb. “You all want me to turn tail and leg it! Well, I’ve got news for you! Agatha Raisin doesn’t run away from anyone! Now get out of my house, the lot of you!”
There was an awkward silence and they all shuffled towards the front door, Roy at the end of the queue.
“Not you, Roy!” Agatha yelled. “You’re living here, remember? Get your act together. We’re leaving for the office in ten minutes!”
In her office, Agatha and Toni had time for a briefing from Patrick prior to leaving for their meeting with Stuart Sculley at Sculley Security Systems.
“What do I need to know before we talk to Mr. Sculley, Patrick?”
“When he set up his business here a couple of years ago,” Patrick said, “Sculley Security Systems really took off and was doing well … until recently. At one time he had a dozen staff. Most of them have been laid off. A mate of mine who fits alarm systems for a rival company says Sculley hasn’t sold a new system in more than two months.”
“So things have been going badly for him since the start of the burglary epidemic,” Agatha said. “That’s understandable if every victim had one of his alarms. Word gets around about things like that.”
“It does,” Patrick agreed. “Especially given that members of the chamber of commerce have been talking to each other about the raids enough to want to bring us in to investigate … but according to my mate, Sculley was struggling well before the first of the raids.”
“Enough for him to start robbing his clients?” Toni asked.
“Who knows, but if he’s got financial problems, maybe that gives him a motive.”
“Surely he would realise that he would be the prime suspect for a string of burglaries on places all fitted with his alarms?” Agatha said. “Or could that be his double bluff? He thought nobody would suspect him because he was such an obvious candidate?”
“Could be.” Patrick nodded, opening a laptop and turning it so that Agatha and Toni could see the screen. “But Sculley has an alibi for every single one of the raids. He’s been trying to expand his business down south in London. Bill Wong told me which hotel in Kensington he stays at and I was able to pull a few strings to get hold of some security-camera footage.”
He scrolled through a series of stills showing Sculley’s van arriving in the hotel’s underground car park, then much clearer, moving footage of Sculley checking in at the front desk.
“The camera in the corner of the reception area shows him checking in when he said he did, then going to dinner with what must be a potential client in the hotel restaurant, handing his key to the receptionist when he goes out for a stroll, then picking up his key again before he goes up to his room for the night. He has business meetings the following day, then checks out to head home. We can then see his van leaving the hotel car park.”
“Same hotel every time? Same sort of routine?”
“Exactly the same one. It seems he’s a creature of habit.”
“Rewind the recording to where he’s picking up his key before going to bed,” Agatha said. “There—that’s definitely him. He looks straight up at the camera. The receptionist is chatting to him. Why isn’t Sculley looking at him? Who stares at security cameras on the ceiling in the corner of the room when you’re in the middle of a conversation?”
“Someone with a professional interest?” Toni suggested. “He sells and installs the things, after all.”
“Or someone who wants to make sure he’s seen,” Patrick said.
“Exactly—someone making sure he has an alibi,” Agatha agreed. “Patrick, there’s bound to be a way he could have sneaked out of the hotel late at night without going through Reception. See if you can pull a few more strings and pick him up on a different camera. Toni, let’s go and have a word with Mr. Sculley.”
“Honestly, Mrs. Raisin, I’m at my wits’ end,” Stuart Sculley said, gesturing to two seats in front of his office desk. He was wearing a dark-green sweater with the stylised padlock that was his company logo on the right breast. Arched above the logo were the words “Sculley Security Systems.” “These burglaries are ruining my business!”
“Your friends at the chamber of commerce are also very concerned,” Agatha said, looking beyond Sculley out of the grimy window to where weeds, rusted rail tracks and wind-blown litter dominated the disused railway marshalling yards. Sculley’s office was on the first floor of a small warehouse, the ground floor housing numerous boxes of equipment and racks of tools.
“I’m not surprised,” Sculley said, wringing his hands. He was of slim build with short, dark hair and Agatha judged him to be in his mid-forties, although the worry lines on his face tended to make him look older. “Every single one of the raids has been on premises where I have fitted the security systems!”
“You can understand why some people have begun to think that’s more than just a coincidence,” Toni said.
“Of course!” Sculley said. “Obviously people are going to suspect I’m involved. In their position, I’m sure I would think exactly the same—but I’m not the one behind all this! Overall, my clients have lost goods worth over two hundred thousand pounds. Some have even threatened to sue me!”
A young woman entered the room, carrying a tray loaded with coffee cups and a plate of digestive biscuits.
“Here we are,” she announced breezily. “Just as you ordered. Black for you, Stuart, and white no sugar for the ladies.”
“Thank you, Yvonne,” Sculley said, and while the young woman placed the coffees on the desk, Agatha looked round the room. The office was neat, but not spotlessly clean. The woodwork was painted an unimaginative shade of grey-blue and the walls might once have been white. There were two tall filing cabinets and a couple of photographs on the walls of sports cars and motorbikes, as well as several showing Sculley shaking hands with smiling customers and local celebrities. In some of the pictures there were others wearing the green company sweater.
“How many employees do you have here, Mr. Sculley?” Agatha asked.
“We had quite a few at one time,” Sculley said, bristling slightly, as though anxious not to admit just how far his business had fallen. “Now it’s more convenient to hire freelance fitters and engineers when they’re required.”
“Did you carry out background checks on those you employed?” asked Toni.
“That didn’t seem necessary at the time,” Sculley explained. “Some I already knew. I used to work as an engineer myself, you see, so I was able to employ people I knew or who came recommended, all with good references.”
“We carry out a lot of background checks for employers,” Agatha said. “They’re more thorough than simple references.”
“When the police spoke to me,” Sculley said, “they told me they’d be taking a look at everyone who has worked here since I set up the business.”
“We will as well,” Agatha informed him. “Toni will need a list of your employees.”
“It’s a short list at the moment.” Sculley sighed. “There’s just me and Yvonne. I’ve been spending a lot of time in London recently, though, and I’m close to a couple of big contracts there that will turn things around.”
“You’ll have to hope news of the burglaries doesn’t scare off your new clients,” Agatha said.
“That’s exactly why I’m so keen for you to get to the bottom of this mess,” Sculley said. “Believe me, Mrs. Raisin, I want to find out who’s behind this as much as you do—and quickly. Yvonne will supply details of everyone who’s worked here. You will keep me informed of your progress, won’t you?”
They chatted for a while longer about the range of security systems Sculley sold and his background in the business. When they were finished, Sculley asked again that Agatha stay in touch.
“I’m a member of the chamber, after all,” he pointed out, “and, in a way, I suppose that means I’m partly your client. Whatever you find out, let me know. I may be able to help.”
On their way out, Agatha and Toni stopped at Yvonne’s desk in Sculley’s tiny outer office. While she flicked through some files in a cabinet, promising Toni that she would scan and send to her any employee details she didn’t already have on the computer, Agatha studied Yvonne. She was slim and looked fit, probably in her early thirties with dark shoulder-length hair and a pretty face. By the way she held her head in consciously cute poses, it was obvious that she enjoyed people looking at her. She enjoyed being the centre of attention, the one that people would always admire and remember. That, Agatha judged, gave Yvonne enviable self-confidence … or was she simply smug.
Agatha also examined Yvonne’s workspace. There was a computer screen and keyboard on her desk, along with a phone, a mug full of pens and pencils, and a photograph of Yvonne wearing a ski helmet and jacket. The blue sky and snowscape background, along with a sign that read ASPEN, identified the location as one of the United States’ top ski resorts. At Yvonne’s side was a man wearing a ski helmet, dark, reflective goggles that obscured most of his face and a scarf that covered his chin.
“You like to ski, Yvonne?” Agatha asked.
“Love it!” the younger woman replied with a beaming smile. “Especially in the States. Mammoth Mountain, Vail, Breckenridge—the American resorts are amazing.”
“Skiing is so glamorous,” Toni said, seeing Agatha give a secret nod towards the photograph. “Do you go with someone?”
“I can always find a friend to come along,” Yvonne replied. “During the ski season anyone who knows anything about skiing simply can’t wait to get out in the mountains. I take it neither of you ski?”
“I prefer warmer pastimes,” Agatha said.
“And I’m sure you can always find a friend for ‘warmer pastimes,’ Mrs. Raisin,” Yvonne said, smiling playfully. “Now, anything else I can help you with apart from these files?”
“I don’t think so,” Agatha said, returning the younger woman’s smile. “Goodbye, Yvonne.”
They walked downstairs without saying a word, then looked at each other once they were settled in Toni’s car.
“Yvonne’s quite a character, isn’t she?” Agatha said.
“Seems a bit full of herself to me,” Toni answered. “She won’t be so smart when her age starts wearing away that cutesy look.”
“And at what age does a woman’s beauty start wearing away?” The narrowing of Agatha’s eyes gave Toni fair warning that she should choose her next words carefully.
“For a glamorous woman with style and taste,” said Toni slowly, skilfully extricating herself from a potential Raisin bear trap, “it never does.”
“Good answer,” Agatha said, nodding. “Yvonne appears to enjoy very expensive ski holidays.”
“Not the sort of holiday you can easily afford on what she must be earning,” Toni commented.
“Affordable if you have a friend paying for them,” Agatha said with a wry smile, “and unless I’m very much mistaken, the friend in the photograph was Stuart Sculley.”
“Not easy to identify in all that ski gear,” Toni said, “but I think you’re right. I bet that relationship doesn’t show up on her background check.”
“What did you make of Mr. Sculley?” Agatha asked.
“I’d say he was pretty upset by the burglaries,” Toni replied.
“Or a very good actor,” Agatha argued. “If he’s taking his secretary off on luxury ski breaks, then my guess is he’s burning through cash far faster than he can earn it. See what the employee background checks throw up, Toni, but, in spite of his alibi, Stuart Sculley stays top of our suspect list.”
Toni started the car and headed back across Mircester towards the office.
“We do, of course, have other suspects to track down—murder suspects,” Agatha said.
“It’s possible they’re the same two who tried to kidnap us,” said Toni.
“Possible,” Agatha said. “Those were certainly the ones who torched my car. We need to get a look at the pub’s security camera again.
“Already on it,” Toni said. “I mentioned it to Simon and he’s been checking it out.”
Agatha gave Toni a quizzical look and raised an eyebrow.
“I know you didn’t ask us to do it, but Simon volunteered as soon as I explained what went on last night. We can get things done on our own initiative sometimes, you know.”
“Yes, I do know—I’ve trained you well enough to know that,” Agatha said, immediately taking credit for any “initiative” they had shown. “I hope you didn’t tell him about—”
“The ghost of Timothy Tinkler?” Toni interrupted, sounding slightly miffed that Agatha had shown no appreciation for her and Simon’s forethought. “I didn’t say a thing.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way for the time being.”
Nothing more was said on the way back to the office and Agatha slowly realised that she had probably offended Toni by not heaping praise on her. She sighed and looked out the window as they pulled into their usual car park. What did the silly girl expect? She was doing her job just as she was supposed to, just as she was paid to do. What did she want—a medal from the king? I don’t have time for that sort of nonsense, she told herself. I’ve got the murder, the kidnap attempt, the burglaries, the extravaganza and those stupid notes to think about—too much to be pussyfooting around other people’s feelings!
By the time they reached the office the atmosphere between them, despite the increasingly mild weather, was distinctly frosty. Their arrival coincided with that of Simon, who was triumphantly brandishing a computer flash drive.
“I got the footage, boss!” he announced. “A copy of the whole night’s recording’s all on here. I met the bar manager this morning when she was waiting for a delivery from the brewery and she’s … well … a sort of friend, you might say…”
“Or I might not,” Agatha said abruptly, “especially if it led the conversation anywhere near your murky love life. Let’s look at it in my room. You, too, Toni.”
They stood around Agatha’s desk while Simon plugged the flash drive into her laptop and opened the file with the security-camera footage. He was about to press “play” when Agatha stayed his hand.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I’ve just realised what might be on here. Did your bar manager friend see this?”
“No,” Simon said. “Nobody’s looked at it. She said Bill Wong was coming to take a look this afternoon.”
Agatha started the recording, which showed the front of the antiques shop from the same angle as the night Mr. Tinkler had been murdered. The image was as dark, grainy and grey as before but the street was empty. Simon fast-forwarded to where Agatha and Toni stepped out onto the pavement. Their attackers’ van then appeared, obscuring the fight that ensued just before the shop lights came on.
“Looks like we miss the best bit of the show,” Simon said, freezing the picture with the driver limping back to his cab. “There’s better lighting here, though. We might be able to enhance that frame to get the full licence plate.”
He then let the recording play again, the van racing off to reveal Agatha and Toni, recovering, then turning in horror to see the apparition appear from the shop. Simon recoiled from the screen.
“Wait, that’s…” Simon looked from Agatha to Toni, confused, searching for an explanation. Agatha stopped the recording.
“Sit down, both of you,” she said, then looked them each in the eye. “You two, along with Patrick, are the people I most trust, and can best rely on in the whole world. You did good work in getting this recording, but no one else must see it.”
She explained to Simon about Tristan Tinkler and the need to keep him under wraps.
“If the police, especially Wilkes, see Tristan on that recording, we lose our surprise,” Agatha said. “There’s no way we can keep him a secret if anyone else knows. Wilkes will take great delight in telling all his slimy pals at his golf club about how scared we looked when we saw the ‘ghost.’”
“Can you get back in there, Simon?” Toni asked. “Maybe sabotage the original recording?”
“No worries,” Simon said. “I’ll get over there now and tell the manager that I messed up the file transfer. I can go back into their system and delete everything from the moment the van drives off. To anyone who looks at the file after that, it will look like I made another balls-up.”
“Good,” Agatha said, and looked straight at Toni. “I might not always make it obvious, but I really do appreciate all the hard work you two do.”
“Thanks, boss,” Simon said. “I’ll get going now.”
Toni looked down at the laptop, then back at Agatha, smiled and nodded. Not for the first time, Agatha reminded herself that a few carefully chosen words could help avoid any amount of pussyfooting.
Agatha had been working at her desk for an hour or so and was beginning to think about lunch when her phone rang. It was Martin Randall.
“I wanted to let you know how sorry I am about your friend, Timothy Tinkler,” Randall said. “That was a terrible thing for you to go through.”
“Rest assured I will find who did it, Mr. Randall.”
“Please, you must call me Martin, and … I know this might sound awkward at a time like this, but … might you be free for dinner this evening?”
Agatha was about to turn him down, then paused for a moment. She had lost a lot of sleep the previous night and had been looking forward to a quiet evening at home, yet Martin Randall was a contact she needed to cultivate and the extravaganza was drawing closer by the day. He also seemed quite charming and was very easy on the eye …
“An early dinner would be a lovely idea, Martin,” she said. “I don’t think I can stay out too late after all that happened last night.”
“Last night? Sounds like you live a very exciting life, Agatha.”
Agatha promised to explain everything later and they agreed to meet at an Italian restaurant they both knew not far from her office. By the time her phone clicked off she had opened the drawer in her desk where she kept her office make-up stash. Ordinarily, she would have rushed home before a date with a man like Martin Randall, but her car was gone, and her car’s vital cosmetics bag was gone. The desk-drawer alternative, combined with what was in her handbag, looked sufficient, but the sweater she was wearing could not go to dinner, even in a Mircester Italian. Fortunately, she’d spotted a top that would be ideal in a high-street boutique window the previous week, so she dealt with this emergency like she had with so many in the past. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping!
“Rolex, Cartier, Longines, Tiffany, Breitling,” Agatha read through the list with mounting amazement. “There are some seriously posh watches and jewellery here, Roy.”
Agatha handed the list of items that had been donated for auction at the extravaganza back across her desk to Roy, who looked excessively pleased with himself.
“I asked a few of our sponsors to donate, Charles said Gustav made a few ‘persuasive’ calls and Mrs. Tassy strong-armed the rest,” Roy said.
“I can well imagine the tactics those two were able to use,” Agatha said, laughing. “All this in just a couple of days…”
“Paintings and furniture have been pledged, too,” Roy promised, “but I thought the sparkly things would be best to make a start on a catalogue.”
“Ah, yes, the catalogue,” Agatha said. “I’ll be talking to Martin Randall about that this evening, so you’ll have to make your own plans for dinner.”
“Ooooh … he’s a fast mover, isn’t he?”
“It’s a business dinner, Roy, nothing more.”
“So you say now, sweetie, but in the heat of the moment … well, you know what I mean. Just you be careful and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Well, that leaves me plenty of scope, doesn’t it?”
Roy stood to leave and Toni, who had been hovering outside, took her chance to grab some of her boss’s time.
“Simon has doctored the security footage,” she said as soon as the door was closed, “so the secret is safe, but I still don’t see how the ‘ghost’ thing is going to work for us.”
“Neither do I just yet,” Agatha said, “but as long as he’s a secret, we can bring Tristan into play when we eventually need him.”
“How are you feeling now, after all that stuff last night?”
“I’m fine. I got off lightly. All I lost was a dressing table.”
“It was your car that was set alight.”
“Car, dressing table, whatever…” Agatha yawned and stretched.
“You must be tired,” Toni said.
“A bit. It’s been an exhausting couple of days. On top of everything, I had what felt like a mutiny in my living room this morning,” Agatha explained. “People I thought were on my side were suddenly ganging up against me.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” Toni said, and laughed. “Bill Wong phoned sounding a bit sheepish. He said they’d tried to get you to lie low and that you’d gone a bit ‘Raisin’ on them. Sometimes I think they don’t know you at all!”
“I suppose they thought they were doing the right thing,” Agatha said with a sigh. “You don’t think I should run away somewhere, do you?”
“Not a bit. You’ve got too much work to do.”
“Precisely—and now I need to start delving into old cases as well.”
“On the other hand,” Toni said, holding up her mobile phone, “you have one of these that will keep you in touch with me, Roy, Charles or anybody else you need to talk to from anywhere you like. You also have one of these,” she tapped Agatha’s laptop, “which can be loaded with every case file we’ve got as well as sending and receiving emails from anywhere in the world. On top of that, you have airline tickets for a flight to Mallorca that leaves tomorrow afternoon, where you have your very own, ex-police, dancing bodyguard to keep an eye on you…”
“You’ve been recruited by the mutineers, haven’t you?”
“No. You can always count on me. I’m on your side, whatever you choose to do, always.”
“Thank you, Toni. I know…”
She was interrupted by a roaring, angry voice and footsteps booming across the outer office so violently they made the door shudder.
“Where is she? Where is that damn woman?”
Agatha and Toni stepped out of her room into the main office to see DCI Wilkes standing in the middle of the floor, his greasy dark hair in disarray from having run up the stairs, half his front shirt tail untucked and with one pocket of his brown suit having turned itself inside out with excitement. His face was crimson.
Agatha took in the scene with a glance. Patrick was out, Simon had stood to intercept Wilkes but plucky Helen Freedman, a middle-aged woman in glasses who barely came up to the lanky Wilkes’s chest, had beaten him to it. She stood resolutely in front of the furious Wilkes, barring his way to Agatha’s office.
“How dare you come barging into this office!” Helen scolded him, shaking her fist. “You calm down and stay right where you are or I’ll give you a punch in the nose, young man!”
“Then I’ll have you for assaulting a police officer, just like I’m going to have your boss!” Wilkes snarled, baring his teeth.
“It’s all right, Helen,” Agatha said. “You can leave this to me.”
“Agatha Raisin!” Wilkes growled. “Just the woman I’ve been looking for.”
“You flatter me,” Agatha replied. “I’m sure you’ve been looking for a woman for years.”
Wilkes sneered. “You think you’re so clever, but I know how to handle women like you.”
“I very much doubt that,” Agatha said. “You know even less about women than you do about choosing a suit. I bet the last woman to hold your hand was checking for a pulse, although I doubt she found one on a zombie like you.”
“What happened to the police tape securing my crime scene downstairs?” Wilkes yelled.
“I can assure you, I didn’t touch it.”
“And what happened to the security-camera recordings from the King Charles? I hear your office boy over there was tampering with them—tampering with evidence is a serious offence.”
“I’ve seen the recording,” Agatha assured him, “and what it shows is evidence of the crime that was committed last night—the assault on myself and Miss Gilmour. Accidents happen when it comes to technology but, in any case, you can’t prove there was anything else on that recording pertinent to any crime.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Mrs. Raisin!”
“Even I can’t do the impossible. Now I must ask you to leave. I’m really rather busy this afternoon, so maybe I can ignore you some other time?”
“I want any recordings you’ve got from the King Charles cameras!” Wilkes held out his hand.
“Unless you have a search warrant, you’re leaving with that hand just as empty as it is now. Good afternoon, DCI Wilkes.”
“I’ll be back!” Wilkes shouted, waving a finger at Agatha before turning on his heel and marching off down the stairs.
“Simon,” Agatha said, once Wilkes had gone. “Do you have a flash drive with the film of the van but the last part deleted?”
“Yes, boss,” Simon said. “Just as it now is on the pub system.”
“If Wilkes, or any other cop he sends, asks for our footage when I’m not here, you give him that version, okay? Let me have the original version.”
Simon handed her the flash drive and she closed her fingers around it, staring at her clenched fist.
“What are you going to do now?” Toni asked.
“I’m going to get changed and go out to dinner,” Agatha replied with a smile. “Then I might just leave the country!”