Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came

∨ The Day the Floods Came ∧

10

Mrs. Bloxby called on Agatha the following evening, just as Agatha was ready to go out. The vicar’s wife gloomily surveyed Agatha in full disguise. “You’re actually going to do it?”

“Of course,” said Agatha calmly, just as if she had not been wrestling with doubts and fears all day.

“Is it any use me trying to point out to you that you are putting your life in danger?”

“None whatsoever. Anyway, I’m only going to locate the place – if they still have the freezer room. Then I’ll leave and phone the police.”

They walked outside together. “I’ll be all right,” said Agatha, getting into her car. “I tell you what. If I’m not back by midnight, then you can phone the police.”

Agatha parked in the car-park at Merstow Green and studied Mr. Gringe’s map. It was going to be difficult. Terry Jensen had obviously had the wall that had existed between the front and back premises knocked down to make room for the disco. Did the disco dance-room extend right through to the back door? Or was there still a space left at the back with a hidden door somewhere? There might be. Goods might be delivered at the back door.

Agatha got out of the car, wishing now she had let Charles come with her. She felt very alone.

Wayne, the bouncer, was standing outside the club. “Television again,” said Agatha briskly. “Just going to soak up the atmosphere.”

Wayne stood aside to let her pass. The disco was quieter than the last time Agatha had been there. There were fewer couples gyrating on the floor, although the music was still as loud as ever. She hoped it would soon fill up to disguise the fact that she would be be searching around the walls. She went to the bar where Terry was on duty. She shouted at him that she was just getting a feel of the place and ordered a bottle of beer. As she sipped her beer, she looked carefully round about. Then she thought, there must be a toilet somewhere. It might be situated in the back premises. “Got a ladies’ room?” she shouted at Terry.

He opened a door at the side of the bar which Agatha had not noticed before because it was part of a painted mural of a dancing couple. He jerked his head. Agatha walked through. “On the left,” he shouted.

There were two toilets, one marked ‘Gals’ and the other, “Guys.” As he was still watching her, Agatha went into the ‘Gals’ and into one of the cubicles. She sat down on the lavatory seat and took her map out and studied it again. Outside had been dark except for dim lights above the toilet doors. Surely Terry would have gone by now. He couldn’t watch every woman who decided to go to the toilet.

Agatha made her way out and looked quickly around. Beer crates and cases of soft drinks were stacked against the opposite wall. She looked at her map again. If the freezer room was still there, it would be behind those crates and cases. Quickly, she began to move them away from the wall, panting with the effort. The wall behind was covered with a dirty curtain. She paused in her efforts and tried the back door. It wasn’t locked. Good, thought Agatha. If I find something, I can escape that way. It was when she started on the cases in the central section that she realized they were empty. She began to throw them behind her, confident that the music from the disco would cover the noise. What if someone came in to use one of the toilets? But she would have to risk it. She would think of some excuse. She would scream and say she had seen a rat. When she had cleared a big-enough space, she lifted the curtain and peered underneath. It was too dark to see anything. She fumbled in her handbag until she located a pencil torch. She shone it up and down the wall.

And then her heart began to thump. There was a wooden door with a metal handle. The freezer room. She ducked under the curtain and seized the handle and pulled the heavy door open, to be met by a blast of icy air. Agatha went inside. She fumbled inside the door for a light switch until she found it and pressed it down. Fluorescent strip lighting snapped on overhead.

Agatha let out a cry of pure terror.

Sitting on the floor with her head at an awkward angle was Joanna Field. Agatha put a hand up to her lips. Move! screamed her brain. Get out! Get the police. The air was full of the thud of the disco music pounding in her ears. And then there was a louder thud. She swung round. The door had been slammed shut behind her.

♦

“Something’s worrying me, Alf,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “What is it, dear?” asked the vicar.

“It’s about Agatha Raisin.”

“Oh, that silly woman. What’s she been up to now?”

Mrs. Bloxby explained about Agatha’s visit to the disco and why she had gone.

“Then you must tell the police immediately,” said the vicar.

“She made me promise I wouldn’t.”

The doorbell rang. “Maybe that’s her,” said Mrs. Bloxby. She hurried to open the door. John Armitage stood there. “I’ve just got back from London,” he said. “Where’s Agatha?”

“Come in,” urged Mrs. Bloxby. “I’d better tell you.”

She repeated what she had just told her husband. “You said you wouldn’t tell the police,” said John when she had finished. “I didn’t.”

“The phone’s over there,” said Mrs. Bloxby eagerly.

John phoned Worcester police, was put through to Brudge and began to talk rapidly, ending up with “You must get men there now. Her life could be in danger.”

He finally put down the phone. “They’ll get there as quickly as possible. I’m going there myself.”

“We’ll go with you,” said Mrs. Bloxby, ignoring the vicar’s pleas that any rescue should be left to the police. They piled into the vicar’s ancient Morris Minor and headed for Evesham.

“Can’t this car of yours go any faster?” asked John at one point.

“I am not ruining my engine for one silly woman,” remarked the vicar.

♦

Agatha walked up and down, desperately beating her arms at her sides. What a way to end! Frozen to death. And poor Joanna. She must have found something incriminating in Kylie’s e-mail and tried to blackmail them. Agatha felt sick with cold and despair. She was about to die and all because of vanity. She had wanted to solve the case herself, have all the glory. She would never see James again. There were shelves inside the room stacked with boxes. She pulled open one with frozen fingers and found plastic packets of white powder. So this was where they kept the drugs. Kylie must have known. Kylie must have found out. Poor Kylie. Poor Joanna. And poor Agatha.

The shivering finally stopped and she began to feel sleepy and almost warm. She had a paradoxical desire to take all her clothes off and fought against it.

♦

The vicar parked up on the pavement outside the disco and the three got out. Wayne blocked their way as they tried to walk into the disco. “It’s for young people only,” he said truculently. “Then I shall report you immediately to the police for ageism,” said the vicar loftily.

Wayne gave him a hunted look but the word ‘police’ acted as an open sesame. They walked into the disco. Music assailed their ears. Couples were dancing. It all looked very normal, except that they could not see Agatha. John shouldered his way towards the bar, with the Bloxbys close behind. “Where’s the television researcher?” he demanded. Terry gave a final polish to a glass. “You’ve just missed her,” he shouted. “Left ten minutes ago.”

John gave him a baffled look. Agatha could be up in the office.

He swung round and shouted to Alf, “What can we do now?”

“I have prayed,” said the vicar calmly. “The police will be here.”

“Praying’s a fat lot of good,” shouted John and the words were no sooner out of his mouth than the music suddenly died and the disco was full of police, headed by Brudge.

Terry had turned a muddy colour. John thought quickly. If there was a cold room left over from the days when there had been a butchers shop, it would be on ground level.

“Through the back,” he said to Brudge. “There must be some way through the back.”

“There’s a door here, sir,” said a policeman with sharper eyes than Agatha Raisin.

“That’s the toilets, and the stores, nothing else,” said Terry.

“Watch him and see he doesn’t get away,” said Brudge. He walked through the door beside the bar. He took out a torch and shone it round about, shone it up and down the stack of soft-drink cases and beer crates and then on the floor. He saw faint scrape marks on the floor, as if someone had pulled the cases back. Then he remembered in a report when the disco had been searched that said behind the crates there was an old freezer room, but it had been full of stores and junk and the refrigerator unit had been disconnected.

“Move those crates and cases as fast as you can,” he barked at his men. “And pull down that curtain behind them.”

Inside, shivering Agatha had realized that there was no longer the dim thud of the music. She heard the crates being moved from behind the door. She heard voices. She did not scream because she was sure they had come to make sure she wasn’t going to live any longer. From the looks of Joanna, someone had broken her neck.

Agatha looked around for a weapon. But there was nothing.

She would never forget the moment when the door swung open and she found herself staring at Detective Inspector Brudge. “Oh, you lovely man,” cried Agatha and flung herself sobbing into his arms.

Brudge pried himself loose. “Get her to an ambulance,” he barked, “and search this place. My God, that’s the missing girl!”

Agatha then was embraced by Mrs. Bloxby, who wrapped her in the vicar’s jacket. “I’m a fool,” sobbed Agatha.

“There, now,” soothed Mrs. Bloxby. “It’s all over.”

An ambulance arrived and Agatha was wrapped up and stretchered in. A policewoman got in beside her.

Mrs. Bloxby caught hold of the ambulance driver as he was about to climb into the ambulance. “Will she be all right?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said. “She seems to be suffering from moderate hypothermia.”

The ambulance roared off.

♦

Agatha recovered quickly and awoke from a refreshing sleep two days later just as Brudge and two detectives entered the hospital room. “Strong enough to make a statement?” asked Brudge.

The one thing Agatha lied about was her reasons for not phoning the police. She said it was such a long shot that she decided to have a look herself.

At last, when the statement was over, Agatha said, “But why?”

“Why what?”

“I guess they killed Kylie because she’d found out about the drugs. But why not leave her body where it was and then: take it out some dark night and bury it?”

Brudge signalled to the others to leave and settled back in a chair beside the bed. “May as well tell you the whole thing. Zak cracked. What happened was this. He really did mean to marry Kylie and he was in love with her. But idiot that he was, he told her about the drugs. Now he and his father had no previous criminal records. But one of the major Birmingham gangs heard about him setting up the disco in Evesham. They approached Terry Jensen with an offer. If he stored the drugs for them, he’d be a very rich man. He wasn’t to distribute them in the disco. He was merely to store them so they could be picked up and distributed elsewhere in the Midlands. Now Zak may have been in love with Kylie, but Kylie doesn’t seem to have been in love with Zak. She thought this little bit of information was gold and began to demand all sorts of things from Terry, like, after they were married, she wanted a Ferrari.

“Terry told Zak she’d have to go. He was appalled, but it was either Kylie, or himself and his father serving a long prison sentence. She had been bitching about the wedding gown and somehow he persuaded her to slip out one night and bring it round to the club. They’d switched off the refrigeration in the cold room. Told her to go in there – they had it uncovered – and try it on. Then they shut the door and locked it and turned on the refrigeration. With all she had drunk, it made the process of hypothermia quicker.”

“But wouldn’t her hands have been bruised, hammering on the door?” asked Agatha.

“There were no injuries to her arms. I think she thought they were playing a joke on her until it was too late. When she was weak enough, they injected her with heroin.”

“But why the river and why the bouquet?”

“Zak was sick with misery. He had loved her. He wanted her to have a more ceremonious burial than the one his father had planned for her. He bought the roses – where, we still don’t know. Somehow he got her to the river, still in her wedding gown, and as a last farewell, he thrust the bouquet into her frozen hands. I think he must have been a bit off his head with grief, because he thought, in all the chaos of the floods, that it might be assumed she was another flood victim, wedding dress and all.”

“And what about Joanna?” asked Agatha.

“They got tipped off – we’re still trying to find out who did that – and someone struck her as she was getting into Kylie’s e-mail and then wiped all the e-mail out. But Joanna did find one incriminating e-mail before she was hit. Zak says he sent her a desperate e-mail, saying to keep her mouth shut.

“Joanna knew she was on to something. She called round at the disco and told Terry about the e-mail and that unless he paid up, she was going to go to the police. He broke her neck.”

“And Mrs. Anstruther-Jones?”

“It could be youths who made a habit of getting high on drugs and frightening people by driving at them. They may have gone too far. Zak denies they had anything to do with it, but Terry, or that Wayne, may have thought it was you and decided to stop you asking questions about Kylie.”

“There’s one thing I totally forgot,” said Agatha. “Kylie was a member of a church group. I should have asked about her there.”

“We are not completely inept,” retorted Brudge. “We did, of course, question the members. Kylie went once and then never again, although her mother believed her to be a staunch member.”

Agatha lay back against the pillows, her brow wrinkled. “There’s something missing,” she said slowly. “Or rather, someone.”

“What do you mean?”

Agatha lay back in silence for a moment. Then she said, “I asked Freda Stokes if Kylie had been particularly friendly with any of the girls and she said no. I asked her about wedding presents. She said that Marilyn Josh had given Kylie a thong swim-suit. Now it must have seemed like a shocking present to Freda, who at that time considered her daughter a respectable virgin. But what if it was something that Kylie really wanted? When I first saw her, she was getting a bikini wax. She said it was because Zak wanted it, but maybe Kylie wanted it to sport her swim-suit on her honeymoon. You see,” went on Agatlia eagerly, “Marilyn might have been in on it. She might have known Kylie very well. I think Zak or Terry got her, at the hen party, to whisper to her to bring the wedding dress round to the disco and she’d let her know what she thought.”

“Zak said nothing about Marilyn Josh,” said Brudge, “but we’ll check it out. Here’s Mrs. Bloxby.”

Brudge stood up to leave.

“Aren’t you going to thank me?” asked Agatha.

“For what? For nearly getting killed? For interfering in police business? You’re damn lucky you’re not being charged. You were wearing that wig again when we found you.”

“Oh, sod off!” shouted Agatha to his retreating back.

“That wasn’t very nice, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby reprovingly.

“He deserved it,” said Agatha sulkily.

“You seem to be back on your old form.” The vicar’s wife sat down beside the bed. “It’s in all the newspapers and on television.”

“What do they say about me?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. Just about Kylie and Joanna and that a large quantity of drugs was found at the disco.”

“That does take the biscuit! They’d never have found out if it hadn’t been for me,” complained Agatha. “Where’s John?”

“Coming along later.”

“Really! Can you get me my handbag out of that locker? I’ve got make-up in it.”

“When are they going to release you?” said Mrs. Bloxby, retrieving Agatha’s capacious handbag and handing it to her.

“Tomorrow,” said Agatha, taking out a small mirror and squinting at her face in it. “I look a fright.”

She busily began to apply foundation cream. “Do you think that’s a spot coming on my forehead?”

“Can’t see anything,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I’ve brought you a box of chocolates.”

“How kind of you.” Agatha eyed the box greedily. She loved chocolates but hated the effect even one had on her imagination. One chocolate and she could feel her stomach expanding and her hips grower wider. Still, she had gone through a lot and she deserved at least a few.

She applied powder and lipstick and then opened the box. “Have one.”

“I’ve just had breakfast.”

“Oh, go on,” urged Agatha. “I’ll feel like a pig eating them myself.”

Mrs. Bloxby took one and Agatha took one and ate it and then reached for another.

They chatted about village affairs, and when Mrs. Bloxby at last stood up to leave, Agatha realized that the chocolate box was nearly empty and Mrs. Bloxby had only eaten two.

♦

John Armitage arrived in the afternoon, bearing a large bouquet of flowers which Agatha studied carefully until she had judged they were slightly more expensive than the ones he had taken to Joanna.

“Have you heard the latest?” he asked.

“No, what’s that?”

“I heard it on the radio. They’ve rounded up the gang in Birmingham, the ones that got Terry Jensen to store the stuff.”

“And Brudge never even said thank you,” said Agatha.

“I think he got the impression that you were interfering. But you’ll have your moment at the trial.”

“Me! If I hadn’t interfered, as you put it, he’d still be none the wiser.”

“It’s certainly been quite a case. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I’m out of here tomorrow.”

“I’ll take you for dinner to celebrate.”

Agatha brightened. “That’ll be nice. Where?”

“There’s a French restaurant in Oxford, Ma Belle, in Blue Boar Street. They’ve got tables set out in a courtyard in front of the restaurant, and if the weather stays fine, we can go there. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

♦

After he had left, Bill Wong arrived with more flowers. “Agatha,” he said, “I hope this is the last time I have to visit you in hospital after a case. You did a very dangerous thing.”

“Does that man Brudge do nothing but complain about me?” demanded Agatha furiously.

“I called at the vicarage yesterday. It’s Mrs. Bloxby who worried about you. If John Armitage hadn’t decided to call the police, you would have been frozen meat.”

But Agatha, as usual, was not going to take the blame for anything. She gave him a long speech about the fact that it was due to her own brilliance that the police had wound up such a successful case.

“That’s an expensive bouquet,” said Bill, who had not really been listening to her and was pointing to John’s offering.

“It’s from John Armitage,” said Agatha proudly. “He’s taking me out for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Be careful.”

“I’m not a virgin.”

“It’s just you had enough pain and trouble over falling in love with your last neighbour.”

“I’m not going to fall in love with John Armitage,” howled Agatha.

♦

But the next day, as she left the hospital to be driven home by Mrs. Bloxby in the old Morris Minor, Agatha made polite conversation while all the time her mind was plotting and planning what to wear for dinner that evening.

Once home, she resisted the impulse to rush out and buy something new. She had plenty of clothes. It was just a matter of choosing the right things. After having taken every item out of her wardrobe, she settled for a deep-crimson silk evening skirt, slit up the side, and a soft white silk blouse with a plunging neckline.

That evening, made up with care, scented, hair brushed and burnished, she felt she had never looked better. John arrived at seven and they set off for Oxford. It was a warm, glorious evening, with the sun sending down shafts of golden light between the trees, which were still fresh and green, having not yet taken on the dull heaviness of summer.

For once Oxford looked to Agatha like the city of dreaming spires instead of what she usually saw as a mess of bad traffic system, panhandlers and drunken fourteen-year-olds.

John had booked a table in the courtyard of the restaurant. They ordered their meal and a bottle of wine. They talked about the case, going over and over it, until John asked, “You seemed to think my book, the one you read, was not quite real. Why was that?”

They were on to their second bottle of wine. Agatha, mellow and secure in his company, began to tell him about her upbringing in the Birmingham slums while he listened, fascinated.

Agatha hardly ever told anyone about this background from which she was so anxious to distance herself.

When she had finished, John ordered brandies and then leaned across the table and gazed into her eyes.

“What about it, Agatha?”

Agatha looked at him, puzzled.

“What about what?”

“You and me making a night of it.”

Agatha still did not understand. “You mean you want to go on somewhere?”

“Come on, Agatha. You know what I mean. The somewhere is your bed.”

“You’ve got a cheek,” said Agatha.

“We’re both adults.”

Agatha’s self-worth, never very high, sank like a stone. It was because she had told him about her upbringing that he thought that no preliminaries were necessary. She rose to her feet. “Excuse me.”

She walked into the restaurant and past the bar and the diners to a door at the side. She went out into a lane leading up to the High. She hailed a taxi and got in. “Carsely,” she said. “Near Moreton-in-Marsh.”

“Cost you,” said the driver.

“Just go!” ordered Agatha.

She was too upset and humiliated even to cry. Not once had John tried to kiss her or show any sign of affection. He had wanted to get laid and she seemed easy.

When she got home, she sat down and switched on her computer and sent an e-mail to Marie, saying that she had changed her mind. She would like to go back to Robinson Crusoe Island. What dates?

Later that evening, she heard her doorbell. She was sure it was John. She put her head under the duvet. The ringing went on for some time. Then, after that, the phone began to ring. She got out of bed and pulled the jack out of the wall.

She would wait for Marie’s reply and then book her planes. Tomorrow, she would pack up her computer and luggage and move to a hotel in London until it was time to leave. She would tell Worcester police where she was and make them promise to tell no one else.

Agatha felt a pang. She would need to leave her cats again, but her cleaner, Doris Simpson, would look after them and they adored Doris.

She felt she hurt all over.