Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came

∨ The Day the Floods Came ∧

7

Agatha awoke next morning to find a letter pushed through her door. She opened it while Boswell dug his claws into the hem of her housecoat and tugged hard. She carried it into the kitchen, dragging the cat along with her.

Agatha sat down and, after dislodging Boswell’s claws from her housecoat, she opened the envelope, noticing as she did so that it was unstamped.

“Dear Agatha,” she read, “I am so sorry about last night. I could see that you were angry because I had not included you in the invitation to dinner. I thought that perhaps Joanna would tell me some more details if we were on our own. As it turned out, she had nothing new to add. Yours, John.”

Agatha felt she had been churlish. It might be an idea to phone Roy Silver first and ask about work. But she would not rush next door immediately. She would take her time and read the morning papers.

In a copy of the morning Bugle, she found an article by a celebrity who had given up smoking through hypnosis. “It worked,” Agatha read. “The first thing I noticed was that I had more energy. Then friends started commenting on the clearness of my skin. I’m so glad I quit. My looks are important to me. You can always tell a middle-aged woman who smokes. They’ve got these nasty wrinkles on their upper lips. I didn’t want to end up like that.”

Agatha’s hand strayed nervously to her upper lip. She remembered she had the phone number of a hypnotist in Gloucester. She had always been meaning to go, but had kept putting it off. She phoned the hypnotist, who said he could see her if she could be at his consulting rooms in an hour and a half’s time, as he had just received a cancellation. Agatha agreed to be there and then rushed to get ready. The day was dry but misty. Agatha drove steadily through a grey world. Water dripped from the trees beside the road.

She managed to find a parking place near the hypnotist’s consulting rooms. She was five minutes early, so she celebrated with what she swore would be her last cigarette.

Half an hour later, it was all over. He had told her that from now on every cigarette she smoked would taste terrible, like burning rubber.

With a feeling of having actually done something for her health and well-being, she drove back home.

As she parked outside her cottage, she saw a familiar figure standing on her doorstep. Freda Stokes. What now? thought Agatha as she got out of the car. Another row? She pinned a smile of welcome on her face.

Freda greeted her with a cry of “Oh, Agatha. I’m so sorry.”

“Come inside,” said Agatha, opening the door. “Come through to the kitchen. Sit down. I’ll make some coffee.”

Agatha plugged in the percolator and sat down at the kitchen table opposite Freda.

“I didn’t want to believe what you told me. I couldn ‘t believe what you told me,” said Freda. “The police called on me. Mr. Barrington has admitted paying Kylie – my Kylie! – to keep her quiet. I’m beginning to wonder if I knew my daughter at all. She was always like a child to me. Innocent. ‘I’m not like those other girls, Mum,’ she’d say. ‘I don’t sleep around. I’m saving myself for my wedding day’.”

“Did she need a lot of money?” asked Agatha, wondering if Kylie had indeed had a drug habit.

“She was always asking me for money. It was a bit hard for me, for I don’t make that much. But she was my only child. I couldn’t refuse her. Now I remember things about her, like she would wear clothes for a few months and then take them back to the shop and try to get her money back. She had this raincoat, oh, for about eight months, and she took it back to the shop and tried to say she had just bought it. But they wouldn’t take it back. So she asked me to take it to the dry-cleaners. I did that and gave her the coat. She took it into her bedroom and then she came out with it and it was covered in grease spots. She said the cleaners had ruined it and I had to take it to them and demand the price of the coat. They paid up in the end but they accused me of having put the grease stains on myself. They said there was no way it could have happened otherwise.” Freda looked tearfully at Agatha. “Do you think Kylie was greedy?”

“Perhaps,” said Agatha cautiously.

“And then there were times when there was money missing from my purse. I had a young girl working at the stall with me during the school holidays. I thought it must be her and fired her. Now I mink it might have been Kylie. Where did I go wrong?”

By pretending nothing was happening, thought Agatha.

Aloud she said, “I have to ask you this. Do you think she’d been taking drugs?”

“No! But then, I didn’t know about the blackmail or anything,” wailed Freda. “Maybe she took that overdose herself and the people that gave her the stuff panicked.”

“That’s possible except for the fact that she was wearing that wedding dress and slipped out late at night. Someone asked her to let them see it.”

Agatha stood up and poured two mugs of coffee and put one, along with milk and sugar, in front of Freda. “Was she very proud of the wedding dress?”

“No, that’s the thing. It was my sister, Josie’s, girl’s gown. Josie’s daughter, Iris, had only worn it once and it cost Josie a mint. Lovely gown, it was. Kylie said she wanted a new one, but I dug my heels in on that. What’s the point, I said to her, of paying out all that money on a gown you’ll only be wearing once? And then Iris and Kylie were the same size.”

Agatha’s interest quickened. “If she was worried about it, she might have said to someone that she didn’t want to wear it and they said, “Well, bring it round and let me have a look.” That suggests another woman. When she got home, did she make a phone call or have any phone calls?”

“She went straight to her room and then I heard her playing a CD. She had a mobile phone. But the police took that away and checked all phone calls to and from the house. She didn’t make a phone call that evening.”

“Does this mean you want me to go on investigating?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, please. I feel I know the worst about my daughter now and nothing else can shock me.”

“Did she keep a diary?”

“No. I bought her one once, but she never bothered to write anything in it.”

“Letters from anyone?”

“None of those. Young people seem to use the phone these days.”

“I’ll keep in touch with you,” said Agatha. “I’ll do my best, but the police have warned me off.”

♦

After Freda had left, Agatha phoned John Armitage. “You’d better drop round,” she said. “There’s been a new development.” When John arrived, Agatha told him about the visit from Freda and what she had said.

“We need to find out more about that hen party,” said John. “We need to find out if one of them volunteered to look at the: dress, and there’s another thing.”

“What?”

“No phone calls. But what about e-mail? Someone could have sent her an e-mail to her station at the firm. Joanna could check that for us.”

“Oh, her,” said Agatha.

“Yes, her. She’s bright and she’s clever and she knows your real identity, which the other girls don’t. I don’t chase young girls, Agatha.”

“I’m not interested if you do,” said Agatha crossly. She automatically lit up a cigarette and then scowled in distaste and stubbed it out. “What’s up?”

“I went to a hypnotist,” said Agatha. “He said every cigarette I would now smoke would taste like burning rubber and he was right.”

John burst out laughing. “There’s one thing about you, Agatha – no one could ever call you boring.”

“That’s me. A laugh a minute,” said Agatha gloomily.

“And I’ll take you for lunch to make up for last night.”

Agatha brightened. “I’ll go and change while you phone Joanna.”

She went upstairs and changed into a trouser suit and a tailored blouse, noticing with delight that the trouser waistline was quite loose. She carefully made up her face and sprayed herself liberally with Champagne perfume before going downstairs to join him.

“Joanna said she would check Kylie’s machine after all the others have gone for the night. If we wait round the corner in the Little Chef, she’ll join us there about seven o’clock this evening.”

♦

“Aren’t you coming, Joanna?” demanded Marilyn Josh as the other girls put on their coats.

“I’ve just got a couple of bills to send out,” said Joanna. “I’d better get them done now.”

“Please yourself,” said Phyllis nastily. “But it’s no use sucking up to the boss. He’s not in.”

Joanna shrugged and pretended to concentrate on her computer. It was, she thought uneasily, as if the others suspected she was up to something. They seemed to take a long time to leave. She stayed at her desk until she heard them all disappear at last into the night. Then, just as she was about to rise from her desk, Sharon Heath came back in. “Still here?” she said. “Won’t be a mo. I left something in me desk.”

Joanna typed steadily, glad she had taken the precaution of leaving her computer switched on. She heard Sharon behind her, opening and shutting drawers and muttering, “Now, where did I put that dratted thing?” Then a grunt of satisfaction. “See ya,” said Sharon. The office door banged shut and Joanna could hear her high heels clacking off down the corridor.

She had a sudden impulse to shut down her computer and leave. The silence of the office seemed threatening. But if she found something, John would be pleased with her. He was very attractive. She wondered if there was anything going on between him and that Raisin woman. No. Definitely not. No vibes there. She had enjoyed her dinner with him. Older men were so much more attractive. She cocked her head to one side and listened. She rose again. She heard footsteps in the corridor and sat down again hurriedly. The door opened. George, who manned the front desk, put his head round the door. “I want to lock up. How long you going to be?”

“Give me five minutes,” said Joanna.

“Right. Give me a shout on your road out.”

She waited again until all was silent. Get on with it, she told herself.

Joanna took a deep breath and crossed the office floor to Kylie’s desk. She switched on the computer.

The screen lit up, bright blue. “Hurry up and warm up,” urged Joanna. She got into the e-mail and began to read. “Ah, now we have it,” she said.

The blow that’s struck her on the back of the head was vicious and sudden. She slumped forward on the keyboard.

♦

Agatha and John fidgeted restlessly in the Little Chef. “It’s now seven-thirty,” said John. “She’s had plenty of time. I hope nothing’s gone wrong.”

“I’ll wait here,” said Agatha. “Why don’t you drive along past Barrington’s and see if there’s still a light on in the office.”

John left and Agatha waited anxiously. What if John decided to take Joanna off on his own again with the excuse that he’d get more out of her that way? I should have given him my mobile phone number.

She waited ten minutes and then sighed with relief as she saw John’s car turning into the car-park once more.

He sat down and leaned forward and said urgently. “There was an ambulance. She was being carried out.”

“Dead? Oh, God, not dead.”

“No, there was breathing apparatus over her face. The police were there and that George fellow was talking to them. They didn’t see me. What with the ambulance and the police cars, a crowd had already gathered. I stood at the back.”

“We’ll need to find out which hospital they’ve taken her to.”

“Where would that be? Here in Evesham? Worcester? Redditch?”

“Got your phone?”

“In my bag.” Agatha opened her handbag, took out her mobile phone and handed it to him.

She fretted and fidgeted as he made several phone calls. “It’s early yet,” she finally interrupted him. “She may not have arrived at whatever hospital they’ve taken her to. Let’s go home and then try again.”

John tried again from Agatha’s cottage. At last he found out that Joanna had been taken to the Alexandra Hospital in Redditch. Agatha was all for rushing there, but John said, “We should wait until the morning.”

“Did they say what was up with her?”

“No, just that she had been admitted.”

Agatha gave a click of annoyance and took the phone from him. She dialled the Alexandra Hospital, introduced herself as Joanna’s aunt and asked to be put through to the sister in charge of the ward where Joanna was.

She asked several sharp questions and then put the phone down. “She’s got a bad concussion and is not allowed visitors until further notice. Now what do we do?”

“There’s nothing we can do. In fact I think we’ve done enough. We should never have involved that poor girl.”

“And I can’t question the other girls now that I’ve given up my disguise. You’ll need to do that.”

“Agatha, one woman is dead and another concussed. All we seem to do is put innocent people in peril.”

“But will the police guess about checking Kylie’s e-mail?”

“We can hardly phone them up now. They told us to stay out of it.”

“And I can’t phone Bill Wong, you know, my detective friend. He would be very angry with us. I know, Freda Stokes. I told you we had been forgiven. She could suggest it to the police.”

Agatha went through to the living-room to phone. John sat in the kitchen and waited. Books were easier. You didn’t have a conscience about people who got hurt or killed in books.

He waited uneasily until Agatha came back. “Fine, I told her. She said she’d wait until it was on the news and phone them then. It all looks bad for Barrington. I wonder if that alibi of his is foolproof.”

“He could have killed Kylie, but why would he sneak out of a Birmingham hotel and go cruising the streets of Evesham in the hope of running you over?”

“True,” said Agatha moodily. “It all comes back to those girls. They must have known she was staying on in the office. One of them could have been suspicious, crept back, and hit her.”

“Oh, Lord. I just remembered, Agatha, there are security cameras at the entrance to Barrington’s. Not only will the police be able to check who came and who went but they will also have a clear picture of the crowd watching the ambulance. They might have a good shot of my face and come demanding to know why I was there.”

“You just stick to your guns and say that you were driving past to meet me at the Little Chef when you saw the crowd, the police cars and the ambulance and stopped and got out to have a look.”

“I hate this lying. Did you never think of joining the police force and being legit?”

“I’m too old.”

“So what now? I think we should just get on with our lives and leave the mess to the police.”

“I suppose so. I feel like phoning up my friend, Roy Silver, and seeing if there’s any work for me.”

“Like what?”

“Like in public relations. Get up to London and away from here for a bit. Then I won’t be tempted to meddle. Although I’ll feel I’m letting Freda down. She’s going to let me know how she gets on with the police. I won’t do anything until I hear from her.”

“I’ll get on with my writing then,” said John. “So much easier dealing with murder in fiction. I’m in control and nobody is in control in this real-life case except the murderer.”

And with that dismal thought, he took his leave.

♦

Freda phoned Agatha the next day to say she had told the police and was waiting to hear from them.

Agatha then phoned Roy Silver. “I was just about to phone you to hear what was happening.”

Agatha gave him all the details, ending up with “So you see, Roy, I can’t really go any further. I was wondering about work.”

“I’ll have a word with the boss. But Agatha, sweetie, it’s not like you to give up.”

“Oh, really, Sherlock? And what do you suggest?”

“The police have told you time and again in the past to bug out. Did you let it bother you? No. Tell you what. I’ll come down at the weekend, bring you another wig and glasses and we’ll damn well go round these office girls and see what we can find.”

“I’ll get in trouble if we’re caught.”

“By the weekend, the police will have interviewed all those office girls to death, and Barrington as well. We’ve really got to see Zak again. He’s the one missing out of all your reports.”

“I’d better not tell John.”

“You mean this writer? He sounds a bit of a stuffed shirt.”

“He’s not really. He’s just more law-abiding and sensitive than I am.” Agatha regretted her last remark as soon as it was out. She considered herself to be a very sensitive person.

“You mean a bore?”

“No, he’s very handsome. Turned out to be not what I thought. But when he’s not talking about the case, he is a bit robotic. Never chats, you know. See you on Friday evening.”

Agatha put down the phone feeling much better. There was something in John Armitage’s character that made her feel, somehow, diminished. She felt the old rebellious Agatha was back. She probably wouldn’t see much of John Armitage again. She and the murders had been a diversion.

♦

To her horror, Roy, descending from the London train on Friday evening, looked like a plucked chicken. He’d had a buzz-cut, which did nothing to enhance his small head and weak features. He was wearing a scarlet shirt with a psychedelic tie under a suede jacket. His thin legs were encased in tight blue jeans and his feet in high-heeled boots.

“Like it?” he said, pirouetting in front of her. “The latest in the media-chic look.”

“You look like an orphan,” said Agatha.

He put an arm around her. “You never did move with the times.” He popped on a pair of sun-glasses with wraparound shades. “There!”

“Oh, God,” said Agatha. “Never mind.”

♦

John Armitage had just completed the first chapter of his new book and was feeling dissatisfied with it. Somehow Agatha had made him feel that his books were not quite real. He might just pop over to her cottage and discuss it with her.

But as he opened his cottage door, he saw Agatha drive past with a young man in the passenger seat. He retreated indoors. Was that the young man who had stayed with Agatha before and had been described by Mrs. Anstruther-Jones as Mrs. Raisin’s toy-boy? Surely not. But he had not thought of Agatha in any sexual way. He went back to his desk and switched on the computer. He typed in ‘Chapter Two’ and then stared at the screen. Then he remembered Agatha saying something about asking someone for work. Roy Silver, that was it. So there was nothing to stop him from visiting her.

He switched off the computer and went to Agatha’s cottage. Roy answered the door to him.

“I’m John Armitage,” he said.

“And I’m Roy Silver. Agatha’s getting changed. We’re going out for dinner. Come in.”

John followed him into Agatha’s living-room. “Drink?” said Roy. He seemed very much at home.

“Whisky, thanks. Agatha said something about phoning you asking for work.”

“Oh, is that what she told you?”

“Well, yes. What other reason could there be?”

Roy gave him a salacious wink.

“Oh,” said John, feeling discomfited. What on earth could Agatha see in this weird creature?

He took a proffered glass of whisky from Roy. “Thanks. Known Agatha long?”

“Since I was sixteen. I started work in her business as an office boy. She trained me up to be a public relations officer. I owe her a lot.”

“Did she tell you about this murder we’d been working; on?”

“That? Yes, she said something about you wanting to drop the whole thing.”

“Not exactly. There’s still a lot to discuss.”

“Maybe some other time.”

Agatha came into the room. She was wearing a soft blouse of swirling colours and a long black skirt slit up the side. John noticed she had excellent legs.

He drained his glass. “Just called in to say hullo. See you again, Agatha.”

He bent down and kissed her cheek. Agatha looked up at him in surprise.

When he had left, she asked Roy, “Why did he call?”

“Just to say hullo. I managed to imply we were having an affair.”

“What on earth did you do that for?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a sudden burst of malice. He’s very good-looking, but there’s something smug about him.”

“I wouldn’t call him smug.”

“Anyway, trust me, he will now look at you with new eyes.”

“Roy, he will now find me pathetic.”

♦

Roy had brought Agatha a new wig. The heavy waves of hair hung down on either side of her face, making it look thinner, and the glasses were large, with fake tortoiseshell rims. She tried both on before they left the cottage the following morning. “Great,” said Roy, surveying the effect. “Doesn’t look like you at all.”

“I’d better take them off now and you can stop somewhere on the road to Evesham and I’ll put them on again. If John sees me in the wig, he’ll know I’ve gone back to investigating and he might turn all moral and phone the police.”

Roy looked shocked. “He wouldn’t do that, would he?”

“Maybe not. But I’m not going to risk it.”

On Agatha’s instructions, Roy drove into Broadway, instead of taking the bypass.

He pulled into a parking place and waited while Agatha put on the wig and glasses. “Property values here must have soared after they got the bypass,” said Roy, looking around. “I remember driving through here when I first came down to see you and the street was jammed with cars and trucks. Are you ready? And who do we try first? We should see Zak.”

“Let’s try Sharon Heath first. I’d like to know the repercussions from the attack on Joanna.”

“Talking about Joanna, maybe we should try the hospital later in case she’s recovered consciousness.”

“We’ll phone first,” said Agatha. “No point in going all the way to Redditch to find she’s still not being allowed visitors.”

Sharon was at home and delighted to see them. They didn’t even need to worry about broaching the subject of the attack on Joanna. It was the first thing Sharon wanted to talk about.

“It was ever so odd,” she said when they were seated in the Heaths’ cluttered living room. Mrs. Heath was not at home, so there had been no hurried cleaning. The remains of a pizza lay on the coffee table surrounded by empty Coke cans and bottles. “I mean,” Sharon went on, “she never worked late before. She said she had a couple of accounts to send out. The rest of us left and then I remembered I had left something in my desk.”

“What?” asked Agatha quickly.

“Eh?”

“I mean, what had you forgotten?”

“Oh, er, a scarf. Anyway, I went back for it but she was at her own computer. But she was found at Kylie’s computer. The police think she may have been looking for something in the e-mail and they checked out Kylie’s computer, but there was no e-mails on it at all. Wiped clean, the policeman said. You should see Mr. Barrington these days. Ever such a state he’s in. But when the attack took place, he and his missus were at the lawyers. She’s asking for a divorce.”

Sharon’s eyes gleamed with pleasure at imparting all this I delicious gossip.

“Is there any other way into Barrington’s, apart from through the front door?” asked Roy.

“Yes, that’s where that bastard, George, got into trouble. There’s a back door into the workshop and from there you can get along to the offices. The door was unlocked. Mr. Barrington was shouting at him something dreadful. George, he said that he never bothered because he always locked everything up after everyone had gone, and how was he to know someone would creep in and biff Joanna on the head. You never can tell what Joanna’s up to. In my opinion, she fancies herself a cut above the rest of us. If she’d told us what she was up to, we’d have stayed with her. So you’re still going to do the telly programme?”

“Oh, yes,” lied Agatha. “But these things take time. As it is all going to be filmed in the disco, we’d better go and see Zak and his father. Will they be at the club now?”

“Might be. They’ve got to work to clean up the mess from last night. I was there and it was full of people.” She peered at them anxiously. “You are going to ask me questions about me-self? I mean, you’re not going to drop everything to do a programme on Kylie’s death?”

“Of course not,” said Roy. He made a frame with his hands and looked at Sharon through it. “Yes, you’ll come across well on television.”

Sharon grinned with delight. “So tell us about your hopes and ambitions,” said Agatha.

“Before you lot came along,” said Sharon, “I thought I’d meet a nice fellow and have a big wedding and settle down. Maybe two kids. But now I think I’m meant for better things. I mean ter say, the sky’s the limit if you put your mind to it.”

Agatha experienced a stab of conscience which she quickly put down to indigestion. Sharon was going on enthusiastically.

“I mean, you know, I always suffered from low self-esteem,” Sharon went on. Agatha reflected that the late Princess Diana had educated the youth of Britain in therapy-speak. “You know, I’d never have thought I had the looks to go on telly. But it hasn’t stopped you getting a job.” She surveyed Agatha.

“I don’t appear in front of the cameras,” snapped Agatha.

“You poor old thing. I’ve got youth on my side.” She turned to Roy. “What about a bit of plastic surgery? Do you think my nose is too long?”

“No, just right.” They beamed at each other.

“To get back to Kylie,” said Agatha. “Surely her computer would be checked to see if there were any accounts that needed sending out.”

“Yes, Phyllis was asked to do that, and she ran off any stuff and dealt with it. No one thought about the e-mail.”

“Do you girls often get personal e-mail on your office computers?”

“Ooh, yes. I had this fellow last year who worked in a travel agents and when they weren’t looking, he’d send me an e-mail to Barrington’s.” She giggled. “Some of it was pretty hot, so I’d delete it after I’d read it.”

But would Kylie have deleted hers? wondered Agatha. Particularly if there was something she could use as blackmail. Her heart quickened. Or maybe she printed them off and took them home. Perhaps they were still there. But Freda would surely have read them. Still, worth a try. The day had turned warm and the little living-room was stifling and permeated with the smell of stale pizza, booze and Sharon’s cheap perfume.

“I think that’ll be enough for now,” said Agatha, rising to her feet.

“But you’ll be back?” asked Sharon.

“Yes, we’ll be back.”

♦

“Now what?” asked Roy when they were outside. “The club?”

“May as well try it.”

But when they got to the club it was closed and locked. “There’s a bell there. Might be someone about.”

“If there isn’t, we could call on Freda Stokes,” said Agatha. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe Kylie printed off any e-mail in case there was something she could use to blackmail Barrington.”

“Fat chance there’s anything at her home,” said Roy. “I mean, the police will have taken every scrap of paper away and they’ll have gone through her belongings.”

“You’re right,” said Agatha, downcast. “Particularly after that business with the bank-books. Ring the bell.”

Roy pressed it and they waited. They were just about to turn away when the door opened. Zak stood there, blinking in the sunlight. He looked as if he had lost weight and there were dark circles under his eyes.

“Oh, you’re back,” he said in a lack-lustre way. “Thought you’d forgotten about us.”

“It all takes ever so much time,” said Roy brightly. “Just want a few more words.”

“Can’t you wait till Dad gets here? He won’t be long.”

“It’s just a chat,” urged Agatha.

“Okay. Come in.”

He led them through the stale-smelling disco where the staff were busy clearing up, and up to the office. “Drink?”

“Too early,” said Agatha. She lit up a cigarette. God, it tasted awful. She stubbed it out.

“I’ll have one,” said Zak. He poured himself a large glass of vodka and gulped it down, neat.

Roy waited until he had finished and then began questioning him about the disco. How many did they get? Had there ever been any trouble?

Zak slumped down in a chair and answered in a dull voice that they had nearly eighty people on a Saturday night, and, no, they’d never had any trouble – a few scuffles, that was all.

“You must feel you cannot settle to anything, get back to normal, until Kylie’s killer is found,” said Agatha.

“If I ever get my hands on the bastard, I’ll kill him,” said Zak fiercely. “She was lovely, my Kylie…lovely. And to be snuffed out like that when she was still so young. It don’t bear thinking off.” His hands shook and tears spilled down his cheeks. “The strain of wondering and wondering who did it is wearing me down.”

The office door opened and his father, Terry, came in. His eyes darted from Agatha to Roy and then to his son.

“Look here,” he said truculently, “Zak’s had enough to bear. I don’t mind you filming the club, but if you’ve got any questions about Kylie Stokes, you’d better ask me in future. Go downstairs, Zak, and make sure they’re not pinching any booze.”

Zak left. He looked glad to escape.

♦

Agatha was glad of Roy’s support. Roy proceeded to question Terry about the club, about the young people, about his life in general, until Agatha could see Terry visibly relax, and even become excited again at the prospect of his club and himself appearing on television.

At last, Roy said he had enough. They were just about to leave when Terry said, “Wait a minute. Give me your card. If I think of anything, I’ll phone you.”

To Agatha’s surprise, Roy took out a card case, selected a card and gave it to him. Terry studied it, gave a satisfied grunt, and put it in the pocket of his shirt.

“What number did you give him?” asked Agatha when they were outside on the street.

“My private line at the office. I thought someone would ask us for a card, so I got some printed on one of those machines at the railway station.” He held one out. It said, in neat script, “Roy Silver, Executive, Pelman Television,” and then the number. “But what if you’re not in your office and the secretary answers?” asked Agatha.

“I primed her. I told her just to say, “Mr. Silver’s secretary,” and then, if someone started asking about television, to field the query.”

“Clever you.”

“Before we try anyone else here, shouldn’t we go up to Redditch and see if that girl’s regained consciousness?”

“We could phone first. And what if there’s a policeman on duty outside her room?”

“So what? We’ll say we’re relatives.”