There Goes The Bride

Chapter Seven

AGATHA CALLED ON Mrs Bloxby the following morning. The vicar’s wife had heard about the death of Bert on television. ‘I really don’t see what the police are up to,’ complained the vicar’s wife. ‘You cannot have three murders around the Bross-Tilkingtons without them being involved in some way, not to mention their French friend.’

‘What about the French friend?’ asked Agatha defensively.

‘He’s always on the scene. Have you thought of that? He is house-sitting for the Bross-Tilkingtons and then a body is found under a jetty on the property right after the boy said he had information for you.’

‘Bert might just have fallen in and smashed his head on something,’ said Agatha.

‘The police are treating it as murder. For your own safety, Mrs Raisin, I would keep well clear of any of them.’

Agatha realized with a sinking heart that when Sylvan called at her cottage that evening, the faces behind the twitching lace curtains of Carsely would register his presence in the village.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Agatha in what she hoped was a casual way, ‘he’s taking me out for dinner tonight.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘He’s an attractive Frenchman, I’m sure he’s not involved, and I haven’t had any fun in ages.’

‘Do you mean sex?’

‘You shock me.’

‘Just a thought. Please don’t let your hormones cloud your usually sharp mind, Mrs Raisin.’

‘I do owe him a favour.’ Agatha told Mrs Bloxby about Toni’s adventure.

‘I would make sure that dinner is all he gets,’ said Mrs Bloxby with unusual severity. ‘It may be a chance, however, to extract some more information from him. Where do you plan to take him for dinner?’

Agatha had really planned to serve a candlelit dinner at home but she said airily, ‘I’ll think of somewhere.’

But Mrs Bloxby’s remarks had caused her to think it might be better to take him out to a restaurant. And she was sure a Frenchman would not appreciate her microwave cuisine. She booked a table at the hotel in Mircester and then did little work that day, fitting it in between visits to Evesham to go to the beautician’s and then round to the hairdresser’s, Achille. Her favourite hairdresser, Jeanelle, was on holiday, so the manager, Gareth, took over, pointing out that her roots were showing. Tinting meant more time than Agatha felt she had to spare, but it just had to be done.

She eventually arrived home in a panic and tore everything out of her wardrobe looking for the perfect outfit. At last dressed in a slinky black velvet gown and high heels, and with a cashmere stole over her arm, she descended to await Sylvan’s arrival.

The day had been exhausting and she fell asleep, only to be awakened later by the ringing of the doorbell. She started up. The cats had been sleeping on her lap and her gown was covered in cat hairs.

Seizing a clothes brush, she hurriedly brushed down her dress and then opened the door. Sylvan stood there smiling broadly, and holding a large bouquet of red roses.

‘How beautiful!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘Go into the sitting room and fix yourself a drink and I’ll put these in water.’

She seized the clothes brush from where she had left it on the hall table and attacked her dress again in the kitchen after running water in the sink and placing the bouquet in it.

She returned to join Sylvan. ‘I took a drive around the Cotswolds,’ he said. ‘Very beautiful.’

‘They say it hasn’t changed in three hundred years,’ said Agatha, ‘but I think that’s too romantic a view. They didn’t have supermarkets and all-night shopping three hundred years ago. Mind you, on a quiet day the villages look much as they must have done long ago. That golden Cotswold limestone stands up to the weather very well. The shops are feeling the pinch. Very few Americans, what with the weak dollar.’

Sylvan finished his glass of whisky. ‘Shall we go? I am very hungry. Or are we eating here?’

‘No, I’ve booked us a table in Mircester.’

Sylvan said he would drive. Agatha eased herself into the passenger seat of his Jaguar sports car, suppressing a moan of pain as her arthritic hip protested violently.

James Lacey had just returned home. He watched, startled, as they drove off, swore under his breath and decided to find out from Mrs Bloxby just what Agatha was about dating a murder suspect.

‘What puzzles me,’ said Agatha, mindful of her detective duties, ‘is why you told me that the baby was Olivia’s and yet Olivia told me the baby was George’s and he had smuggled it in. Surely the police would have found that out and charged him.’

‘Felicity was Olivia’s daughter. Olivia has the birth certificate. There was no need to smuggle any baby in. She is a very respectable matron and thinks a man having an illegitimate baby is better than a woman having one. Very English.’

‘Could George have been smuggling something else? Drugs, say, or cigarettes?’

‘George is just what you see – bluff and honest and very respectable.’

‘Your friendship with them surprises me. When we had dinner in Hewes, you talked about all sorts of glamorous people and celebrities. What is the attraction of the Bross-Tilkingtons?’

‘I was very ill just after I met them. My fair-weather friends were apt to stay away, but George and Olivia stuck by me until the treatment was over. We became very close.’

‘This whole business at Downboys must have shocked you all badly. You know the area. What’s going on? Why did they hire an ex-IRA man like Sean?’

Sylvan sighed and raised his shoulders and spread his hands. ‘My dear Agatha, as far as they were concerned, he was a local yachtsman and an odd-job man. Nothing sinister there.’

‘But there must be something sinister,’ protested Agatha. ‘Who killed Felicity?’

He leaned across the table and took one of her hands in a warm clasp. ‘Are you surprised, considering the way Felicity went on? Probably some rejected lover.’ His thumb stroked the palm of her hand. ‘Let’s talk about something more interesting. Why on earth did you become a detective?’

‘I drifted into it by accident. I solved a few cases and then decided to set up my own agency.’ Agatha gave him several highly embroidered descriptions of cases she had worked on.

By the time the meal was over, Agatha felt herself sinking into the warm bath of obsession again. Everything about Sylvan fascinated her – his lean figure, his very Frenchness.

Outside the restaurant, she suggested they take a cab because they had drunk quite a lot, but Sylvan only laughed and said he was an expert driver.

As they drove down into Carsely, Agatha’s heart was beating hard as she checked over her body. Legs and armpits shaved, check; condoms in the bedside table, check; toenails cut, check…

‘Did you leave all the lights on?’ asked Sylvan as he drew up outside Agatha’s cottage.

‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘Oh, snakes and bastards, it must be Charles. He has a key. I’ll soon get rid of him.’

She anxiously hurried to get out of the bucket seat of the sports car and tumbled out on the ground.

Sylvan laughed as he helped her to her feet. ‘Ah, the penalties of age,’ he said, and Agatha felt just as if he’d thrown cold water over her.

She opened the door and marched into the sitting room to find not only Charles but James.

Charles leaped to his feet and kissed Agatha on the cheek. ‘Have a nice time, darling?’ he asked. ‘I’ve put my stuff in the bedroom. Thought I’d stay for a bit. James has come to say goodbye. He just got back today but he’s off again tomorrow. Hello, Sylvan. Police let you out, did they?’

Sylvan for a moment looked furious. Then he laughed easily and said, ‘I was never in police custody. Excuse me.’

He drew Agatha back into the hall and whispered, ‘You should have told me you had a lover.’

‘He’s not my lover,’ muttered Agatha fiercely. ‘I’ll get rid of him.’

‘No, chérie, it doesn’t matter. I am going to France with my boat in two days’ time but I will be back a week on Saturday. Why not join me in Hewes on the Sunday for lunch and we will make up for lost time? I’ll meet you at the Chinese restaurant at one o’clock.’ He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.

‘Yes, I’ll see you there,’ croaked Agatha when she could. ‘But can’t you stay? You can’t go all the way back to Hewes tonight.’

‘I’ll be fine. Bye.’

Agatha stood on the doorstep and watched him roar off into the night.

Then she went back inside to confront James and Charles.

But James forestalled her by saying icily, ‘Have you gone mad? There have been three murders down there and Sylvan Dubois must be involved in some way. Are you going to believe that he and the Bross-Tilkingtons are entirely innocent?’

‘I’ll bet he was only trying to seduce you to shut you up,’ said Charles.

Overwrought, Agatha, not usually given to swearing, told them both to go and perform impossible physical acts on themselves and stalked upstairs to bed.

Later, when she lay awake, she heard Charles coming up the stairs to go to the spare room. She thought he might come into her room to argue with her, but his door closed behind him and then there was silence.

At last, Agatha’s anger died down as she began to feel obscurely that she’d had a lucky escape.

When she went into the kitchen in the morning, Charles was playing on the floor with her cats. He looked up at her and smiled. ‘Still mad at me?’

‘How did you find out?’ asked Agatha.

‘James saw you leave and called on Mrs Bloxby and then called on me to save you from a fate worse than death.’

‘I can take care of myself,’ said Agatha, lighting a cigarette.

Charles stood up, poured himself a cup of coffee, and said, ‘I was listening at the door. I heard him say he was going to France and would be back a week on Saturday and would see you on Sunday.’

‘So what? Are you going to follow me down to Hewes?’

‘I’ve an idea. I think he’s smuggling something. We could go to the port, Hadsea, hire a boat and go upriver and lurk on the other side of the stream from the Brosses’ property and see if he brings anything in during the night on the Saturday before he’s due to meet you.’

‘Not another boat!’ Agatha told Charles about her adventures in the dinghy.

‘No, no,’ said Charles soothingly. ‘We’ll get something ferociously high-powered. I’ve got friends in Hadsea. I’ll phone and see what I can get fixed up.’

‘Why this sudden enthusiasm for detection?’ asked Agatha. ‘I felt sure you were chasing some girl.’

‘Me? No, just sloping around,’ said Charles. His beautiful Tessa had wanted to go to a rock concert. Charles endured a weekend of noisy bands, pouring rain, mud and the determined cheering and enthusiasm of Tessa. Love died in him when he found the communal toilets blocked up and when Tessa told him not to be such a wimp and find a convenient hedge.

Hadsea was a small fishing port at the mouth of the river Frim. To her relief, the sea was calm. On Saturday Charles helped her board a large motor cruiser. ‘This can do forty-four knots,’ he said proudly.

‘Have you checked about the currents in the river?’ asked Agatha uneasily.

‘I checked. I’ve got the maps. I know where the currents are. There’s even a saloon with a bar. Go below if you like and I’ll shout for you when we’re nearly there. Borrowed it from friends. They’re as rich as anything.’

They must be, thought Agatha, as she went into the expensively appointed wood-panelled saloon. There was a bar in the corner. She poured herself a large gin and added tonic as the powerful engines began to roar. Agatha was determined to stay where she was until they arrived at their destination. She did not like boats. On a coffee table was a selection of magazines. She picked them up and flipped through them, reflecting it was surely a sign of age when she did not recognize many of the celebrities. Of course, with the advent of reality TV, it was possible to become a celebrity without really having done anything, studied acting, or achieved anything amazing in sport.

She was perfectly sure they would not find out anything sinister about Sylvan. She deserved a little fling, she told herself. It was all very well to be moral about casual sex, but when it turned out to be a long time since one had had any at all, morals became weak and shifting. Besides, by now the British police would have been in contact with the French police, and if there had been anything criminal about Sylvan, he would have been arrested.

The saloon was warm and comfortable. Agatha was tired after the long drive and drifted off to sleep, only awakening when she heard Charles hailing her and realized the engines had stopped.

She climbed up and joined him, staring at all the gleaming instruments. ‘It looks like the cockpit of the Concorde,’ she said. ‘Where are we?’

‘A little downriver and under the trees on the opposite bank. It’s as dark as pitch. Now we wait. There’s no sign of any boats at the jetty.’

‘When do you think he’ll come?’

‘Maybe soon. It’s just after midnight. Now, think about this, Aggie. If he were an innocent yachtsman, he’d have come earlier.’

‘What if he’s decided to come back by plane, car or train?’

‘Always uses his boat. It’s called Jolie Blonde. He’s a great favourite down at the harbour. Always presents for the customs people at Christmas and a big donation to the local lifeboat. Doesn’t that strike you as suspicious?’

‘He might just be a very generous man. He’s got a lot of money. Not all men are such tightwads as you, Charles.’

‘Miaow!’

Agatha stifled a yawn. ‘So we sit here all night?’

‘I’ll do a deal with you. When it gets up till two or three in the morning, we’ll call it quits. Listen!’

It was a very still night, and faintly in the distance they could hear the throb of an engine.

A large cruiser painted some dark colour sailed up to the jetty and the engines were cut. A tall dark figure made the boat secure and then went below.

‘Damn,’ muttered Charles. ‘Don’t tell me he’s going to spend the night on his boat.’

They waited impatiently. ‘There’s a lot of banging and moving going on,’ said Charles. The tall dark figure they guessed was Sylvan reappeared and said something. Six smaller dark figures climbed from the boat and stood on the jetty.

Charles nipped to the front of his boat where there was a powerful lamp and shone it straight on the group on the jetty. Sylvan’s startled face stared into the light. Beside him stood six Chinese men.

Sylvan untied the tender and leaped back into his boat. A roar of engines and he shot off down the river.

‘Chase him,’ yelled Agatha.

‘No, phone the police. They’ll alert Hadsea. And get them to pick up those poor sods. I hate this. They probably gave Sylvan their life savings to get smuggled in.’

Agatha phoned the police and then they waited. The Chinese stood patiently. ‘They’re waiting for someone,’ said Agatha. ‘I bet it’s the owner of that Chinese restaurant. He probably moves them on to work as slave labour somewhere.’

At last they could hear police sirens. ‘Lights are going on in the house,’ said Agatha. ‘The Brosses must be at home. They must be involved in this.’

A police launch was the first to arrive. Then Jerry Carton appeared, shouting to his dogs as police cars roared down the grass on the riverbank.

‘And do you think we’ll get any thanks for this?’ complained Charles. ‘Not a bit of it. They’ll be on board soon. We’ll need to go into the police station at Hewes and they won’t believe in my lucky guess for a minute. They’ll think we’ve been withholding information.’

They were interviewed separately. Detective Superintendent Walker, flanked by Boase, was in a high temper. He said he was sure they knew all about the smuggling and instead of informing the police had decided to play at being detectives. His temper was further inflamed by the news that Jerry had escaped.

‘May I remind you, I am a detective,’ complained Agatha, ‘and without us you’d have got sweet damn-all. I suppose you’ve arrested Bross-Tilkington.’

‘No, why? As far as we can gather, he had nothing to do with this.’

‘You must have lost your wits. George’s best friend is unloading Chinese at the bottom of his garden and he doesn’t know anything about it? What about his security-dog man?’

‘Jerry Carton has disappeared. We are looking for him. We are also interrogating Mr Bross-Tilkington, but he seems genuinely bewildered. It was Mr Dubois who suggested hiring Jerry and then Sean.’

‘Well, I’m sure when you bring Sylvan Dubois in, he will inform you that they were all in cahoots.’

Walker’s eyes flickered uneasily and he glared down at notes on the desk in front of him.

‘You’ve lost him!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘You’ve let him get away.’

‘He got out into the Channel but the coastguard will soon pick him up,’ said Walker heavily. ‘Now, if we can get back to the questioning…’

Later the following morning, when Agatha and Charles, who had slept on their boat, woke up, Agatha phoned Patrick to ask him if his contact in Hewes could come up with any news. Patrick had heard about the hunt for Sylvan on the radio news that morning. ‘They’ve a fat chance of catching him,’ he said.

‘Why?’ asked Agatha. ‘They’ve got the coastguard out looking for him.’

‘Don’t the cops down there read the newspapers? Coastguard staff around Britain are on a twenty-four-hour walkout over pay. It started at seven o’clock last night.’

Agatha groaned. The thought of a surely vengeful Sylvan escaping frightened her.

When she rang off, she told Charles. Then she asked him, ‘What made you so sure he would be smuggling something?’

‘It was because of an article I read earlier this year,’ said Charles, nursing a mug of coffee. ‘In February, the police broke up a massive people-smuggling gang. Chinese people pay up to twenty-one thousand pounds to be smuggled into Britain. People like Sylvan are probably responsible for the France-to-Britain leg of the journey. That costs each five thousand pounds. In one flat in Peckham High Street in London, twenty-three Chinese were discovered living in cramped conditions. The police say it’s a myth to think they’re poor peasants. A lot of them are highly skilled.’

‘So what happens to them?’

‘They think a lot get swallowed up by the restaurants in London’s Chinatown.’

‘There’s the Chinese restaurant here of course,’ said Agatha. ‘That’s where Sylvan took me and Roy for dinner. But I wonder how he got them in?’

‘He was friendly with all the authorities down at Hadsea,’ said Charles. ‘I told you that. He probably had a room hidden somewhere in that large boat of his.’

Agatha’s phone rang. It was Patrick. ‘They’re taking the Bross-Tilkington house apart this morning,’ he said, ‘but George is swearing innocence and they can’t so far find a thing against him. They believe he was conned by Sylvan. They think maybe Felicity knew about it and was going to talk and that’s why Sylvan shot her. George and his wife were flattered because Sylvan treated them royally when they were in Paris and introduced them to all sorts of famous people.’

‘Idiots,’ commented Agatha sourly.

‘Oh, really?’ said Charles. ‘If it hadn’t been for me, sweetie, you’d have got laid and into a blind obsession.’

Agatha was saved from replying as a voice hailed them. Charles went up on deck. He came back down and said, ‘There’s a police car on the pier. We’re wanted back at the station.’

Agatha was interviewed again by Boase and Walker. The detective chief superintendent’s eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep. The police were still suspicious as to why Charles had leaped to the conclusion that Sylvan was smuggling something. ‘There is a detective sergeant at Mircester who claims that you have withheld vital information in the past,’ said Walker severely.

‘That will be a bitch called Collins,’ said Agatha wearily. ‘She hates me. I have helped Mircester police many times in the past.’

Falcon put his head round the door. ‘A word, sir? It’s urgent.’

Walker told the tape the interview was being suspended and then left the room. He returned shortly, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

‘Found something?’ asked Agatha eagerly.

‘Never mind. Wait outside until your statements are typed up, sign them and then you are free to go.’

Agatha joined Charles in the small reception area. ‘Something’s happened,’ she said. ‘Walker looked so excited, I believe they’ve got him.’

‘We’ll wait to sign our statements,’ said Charles, ‘and then we’ll get back to the boat and you phone Patrick.’

‘When did you learn to handle a boat?’ asked Agatha. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

‘I was in the navy as a young man.’

‘Charles! I never ever think of you as doing anything useful.’

A gust of wind rattled the windowpanes of the station. ‘Just as well I have,’ said Charles. ‘Seems to be blowing up.’

After a quarter of an hour they were both called into a side room where they signed their statements. Then they went out into Hewes High Street, leaning against the increasing force of the wind.

‘Do we have to go back to Hadsea today?’ pleaded Agatha.

‘’Fraid so. I promised to have it back. It’s only a river, Agatha. It’s not as if we have to go into the open sea.’

Agatha kept to the saloon as the powerful boat set off downstream. She could feel all her self-confidence leaking out through her fingertips. She remembered with shame bragging to Sylvan about her great detective work. Was she really any good? Or was she surrounded by clever people like Charles? The sheer folly of going out on a date and accepting another with a Frenchman who had been at the scene of every murder was silly, to say the least.

Maybe she wasn’t any good at being a detective at all. Maybe she just bumbled round like a trapped bee against a windowpane until someone opened the window and she saw daylight.

When they got to Hadsea and handed over the boat, Charles volunteered to drive them back as they had both come in Agatha’s car, and a weary and demoralized Agatha sank down into the passenger seat.

‘Before we drive off,’ she said, ‘I’d better phone Patrick and see why my interview was cut short.’

Patrick said that a fishing boat had located Sylvan’s boat adrift in the Channel and was towing it into Dover Harbour. An RAF patrol had been alerted earlier by the fishing boat’s captain and had immediately flown over the area. They had seen Sylvan diving off into the sea. He hadn’t been wearing a life jacket. They had circled over the Jolie Blonde. Sylvan had struck out for a little bit and then had sunk under the waves. They were now searching to see if the body surfaced.

Agatha relayed the news to Charles. ‘That’s the end of that,’ he said.

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Agatha, stifling a yawn.

‘Oh, come on, Aggie. It stands to reason. He’d slept with Felicity. She must have known something.’

‘But he had a cast-iron alibi.’

‘Did Patrick say whether the Bross-Tilkingtons are still being regarded as innocent?’ asked Charles.

‘Evidently so. The police feel they were being simply used all along the way. The security and the hiring of Jerry Carter were all Sylvan’s idea. He frightened them to death with stories of burglars.’

‘So, end of chapter. Good,’ said Charles. ‘We can all get back to normal.’

‘What’s normal?’ mumbled Agatha and fell asleep.

She did not awaken until they were drawing up outside her cottage. ‘I’m starving,’ said Charles. ‘Let’s see to your cats and then walk up to the Red Lion. Has John got his outside bit?’

‘Last heard.’

John Fletcher, landlord of the Red Lion, was lucky in that he’d had an extensive car park at the back. Half was now set out with tables and umbrellas enclosed in a heavy sort of plastic tent. The day was fine, so the sides had been rolled up. They ate a hearty meal and walked slowly back.

‘My time to sleep,’ said Charles. ‘Care to join me?’

‘The usual answer.’

‘You’ll crack one of these days.’

‘Not me. I’d better go into the office. See you later.’

Everyone except Mrs Freedman was out. Agatha sighed and sat down at her computer to check through all the cases logged on it. ‘Nothing on that girl who went missing – Trixie Ballard?’

‘Not a sign yet. Sharon’s been working on it.’

Agatha studied the notes on the case on her computer. The disappearance of the fifteen-year-old had received extensive coverage in the press. She looked up. ‘Did the parents appear on television?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Freedman. ‘If you Google BBC News and check back, you’ll get it.’

When the video link came up on the screen, Agatha turned up the sound on her speakers and listened carefully. Mrs Ballard was a thin dyed blonde who sobbed uncontrollably. Mr Ballard did all the talking, ‘Please come home, princess,’ he said, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘We miss you and we love you.’

‘That’s odd,’ said Agatha when the brief video had finished. ‘He never appealed to anyone who might be holding her to let her go. Where is Sharon’s report? No, don’t worry. It’ll be here somewhere.’

Agatha found Sharon’s report and studied it carefully. Sharon had been very thorough. School friends and teachers had been questioned along with next-door neighbours and local shops. She had left school two weeks ago to go home and seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

Still smarting at what she felt were her inadequacies as a detective, Agatha decided to see what she could find out about the girl herself.

The Ballards lived in a five-storey block of flats off a roundabout on the Evesham Road out of Mircester. It all looked very respectable, with private parking, no graffiti, and a tiny mowed piece of grass and flowerbeds along the edge of the car park.

Agatha was about to get out of the car when a thought struck her. Surely the parents, neighbours and friends would all just say the same thing. The girl’s room would have been thoroughly searched. She remembered from the notes, Trixie’s computer had been studied in case some paedophile had been grooming her.

Leaning back in the car, Agatha lit a cigarette and brought the faces of the parents up into her mind’s eye. The father’s face had looked bloated. Grief or drink?

A memory from her own childhood surfaced in her mind. Her parents had both been alcoholics. One night she had awakened to find her father standing at the end of her bed. ‘Move over, darling,’ he’d said.

And young Agatha had opened her mouth and screamed the place down. Her mother had come tottering in and her parents had ended up having a vicious fight.

Had daddy tried anything on with young Trixie? Now, if you were a fifteen-year-old, would you commit suicide? There was a lot of that around. But the reports had her down as a sensible girl, fairly good at exams.

What would I do? wondered Agatha.

With all the influx of immigrants from Eastern Europe, lousy jobs were hard to find, the sort of jobs where they didn’t bother about employment details. She hoped Trixie hadn’t gone to London, where there were plenty waiting to prey on runaways and put them into prostitution.

She was an ordinary-looking girl, tall for her age, with mousy hair. But if she dyed her hair and wore glasses, she could change her appearance.

What would I do? thought Agatha again. She lit another cigarette.

Work? Chambermaid or dishwasher. That might be it. Maybe not too far away. The report said she had never been out of Mircester before. She was too tall and not nearly pretty enough to attract a paedophile. She could pass for seventeen or eighteen.

She returned to the office in time for the evening briefing. ‘Sharon, you’ve done very good work on this girl, Trixie Ballard,’ said Agatha. ‘But I’ve got a feeling there might be trouble with the father. I don’t think she’s been snatched, and from that report from the school counsellor, she doesn’t seem the suicidal type. It’s a wild guess, but she might be working somewhere where they aren’t too fussy about employment legalities. I want you all to take tomorrow to check hotels for chambermaids and restaurants for dishwashers. Jobs like that.’

After briefing them, Agatha went wearily home. Charles had left. She fed the cats and let them out into the garden. She would start work on the Trixie case in the morning.

Toni had enjoyed her brief time of being her own boss. She felt she’d taken a great step backwards to be working for Agatha again. She was grateful to Agatha – too grateful – for all the help she had given her.

Most of the girls she had been to school with had settled for unexciting jobs. Still, thought Toni, they might turn out to be a good source of information as to low-paid jobs where too many questions might not be asked. Toni had opted to search the hotels. Trixie would need somewhere to stay.

Toni began by calling at Mircester’s main supermarket. She walked right around the back of the building to where she knew the staff often stood outside, having a smoke.

Two of her old school friends were there. A thin, scrawny, spotty girl called Chelsea hailed her. ‘If it isn’t our famous tec. What you doing, babes?’

‘I’m looking for Trixie Ballard. Seen anything of her?’

Her companion Tracy, small and fat with lank hair, jeered, ‘Oh, sure. With all the cops in Britain looking for her?’

‘Just wondered,’ said Toni and walked hurriedly away. She realized that if she questioned them about hotels where Trixie might have found work, they would gossip all over the supermarket and, if Trixie was in hiding in one of the hotels, she might get to hear of it.

The time to hit the hotels would be just after ten o’clock, when guests would be expected to vacate their rooms. At the posher hotels it would be midday. At least Mircester was only a market town. A big city like London or Manchester would be a nightmare.

She checked her list. There were five hotels. The George was the biggest but she couldn’t imagine them employing someone without a social security number.

Then there was the Palace – same thing. The Country Inn was a possibility.

She went round to the staff entrance. A woman in a white overall came out and dumped rubbish in one of the bins and went in again. Toni went off and bought a white overall, put it on, returned to the Country Inn and boldly walked in by the service entrance and up the stairs.

She went up and down stairs and along corridors, checking into rooms where the maids were working, but could not see any sign of anyone who looked like Trixie. In fact, most of the voices she heard sounded Polish.

Toni finally gave up and went back to her car. Two hotels left, the Berkeley and the Townhouse. The Berkeley was actually a motel out on the ring road. That seemed the more hopeful of the two.

It was built like an E with the central bar missing. All she had to do was park in the courtyard to get a clear view of the maids coming in and out as they worked on the various rooms.

Not one of them looked like Trixie. Without much hope, she drove to the Townhouse. It was a small seedy-looking hotel.

Time had passed and surely the rooms would have been cleaned. Toni drove to the side of the hotel where she had a good view of the service entrance and waited. By late afternoon, the maids began to check out. There were about six of them but no Trixie.

She checked into the office for the final briefing. ‘Maybe we’ll give it one more morning tomorrow,’ said Agatha, ‘and then that’s that.’

Sharon caught up with Toni outside. ‘You’re looking right dismal these days, Tone. Is it that fellow, Perry?’

‘It’s part that. He had the cheek to send me flowers and keep phoning. He’s finally given up. The liar kept saying it was a setup and he’d never seen the woman before.’

‘What’s the other thing?’

‘I’d like to be my own boss again.’

‘You could ask Agatha,’ suggested Sharon. ‘’Member she originally offered to set you up?’

‘I want to be totally independent of Agatha. After all she’s done for me, I don’t feel like taking on any more gratitude. And I wouldn’t be free of her. She’d be round checking the books and giving unwanted advice.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Sharon. ‘There’s a sloppy movie, To You My Love, on at the Odeon. It’s a bit of a pinch of Sleepless in Seattle. We could grab a burger and then go there.’

Toni grinned and put an arm around Sharon’s chubby shoulders. ‘Sounds good to me.’

Agatha watched them from the office window. Toni was wearing a black T-shirt, short denim skirt with a broad belt slung low over it and flat sandals. The sun glinted on her fair hair. Sharon was in her usual ragbag of fashions, chattering away animatedly.

I wish I were as young as that, thought Agatha moodily. They’re off, out for the night, and I’m going home to my cats.

The film did not have a strong enough plot to hold Toni’s attention, although Sharon, clutching a giant tub of popcorn to her generous bosom, seemed enthralled. Toni remembered when things at home were bad with her drunken brother, she would often escape to the cinema.

She sat up straight and peered around her. Would a girl like Trixie do the same? Of course the poor girl could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere.

Before the end of the film, she whispered to Sharon, ‘I’ll meet you outside.’

Sharon gulped and nodded in agreement, tears running down her face, as she stared avidly at the screen.

Toni positioned herself outside. The movie had received bad reviews and the cinema had been only one third full.

She took out the photo of Trixie and studied it. The girl could change her appearance but she had a small black mole at the right-hand corner of her mouth. I’ll focus on that, thought Toni.

And then, as people began to come out, Toni spotted a girl with a hood drawn over her head. She caught a glimpse of a little black mole. Sharon came up to her. ‘You missed a great ending… What?’

‘I’ve seen Trixie,’ hissed Toni. ‘Let’s follow her.’

They hurried after the hooded figure. The girl walked to the marketplace and waited. A van drove up with GREEN FINGER NURSERIES painted on the side. Trixie got in and the van drove off.

Toni and Sharon raced to Toni’s car. ‘I know that nursery,’ said Toni. ‘It’s out on the Bewdley Road. We’ll go there and see if we can get a better look at her and then we’ll call the police.’

They parked a little way away from the nursery and got out. ‘I must get a closer look,’ said Toni. They cautiously approached the garden nursery. The air was full of the sweet smell of flowers and plants. The van was parked outside a low bungalow. ‘You wait here,’ hissed Toni. ‘I’ll creep up and look in at the window. I hope they don’t have dogs.’

Toni moved silently forward across the parking space in front of the bungalow. Behind the bungalow, long glass-covered sheds glistened in the moonlight.

She crouched down and peered in a window which was lit up. A man and woman and a girl were sitting at a kitchen table. The woman was pouring tea. Staring at the girl, Toni realized that if it hadn’t been for that tell-tale mole, she might never have recognized Trixie. She was wearing glasses and her hair was dyed blonde.

Toni slowly backed away. When she joined Sharon, she said, ‘I’ll call the police.’

‘We’ll get no glory,’ said Sharon.

‘But they may have abducted her, even though it doesn’t look like that.’

‘You phone,’ said Sharon. ‘I’m going behind that hedge for a pee.’

Once behind the hedge, Sharon took out her mobile phone where she had logged in the numbers of all the important newspapers and television companies and began to talk rapidly.

Toni had managed to get Bill Wong and had urged him not to bring the police with all sirens blaring or Trixie might escape.

Very soon the first of the police cars began to arrive. Toni met them at the corner of the road. ‘Go easy,’ she whispered to Bill. ‘I think Trixie might have had trouble with her father.’

‘You mean abuse?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You stay there and leave the job to us.’

It seemed to take a long time. Then the press arrived in numbers. ‘It was Toni here that found her,’ said Sharon proudly.

‘And Sharon,’ said Toni loyally. They put their arms around each other and stood smiling and flashes went off in their faces.

Then there was a press scrum as the bungalow door opened and Trixie was led out, her head concealed by a blanket. The couple were led out as well, but Toni noticed they were not in handcuffs.

Detective Inspector Wilkes approached the two girls and said curtly, ‘Come down to headquarters. You’ll need to make a statement.’

On the way there, Toni said urgently, ‘Phone Agatha. She’ll want to be in on this.’

‘Why? She did nothing.’

‘She’s the boss. Phone!’

Sharon sulkily pulled out her mobile phone and pretended to dial. ‘No reply,’ she said cheerfully.

‘Did you leave a message?’

‘I forgot.’

‘Well, do it now!’

Agatha was outside James’s cottage. He was not at home. She went back to her own cottage and locked up. She went upstairs and undressed and showered and then decided to put a face pack on.

As she sat on the edge of her bed, waiting for the face pack to harden, she suddenly noticed the red light blinking on the phone receiver, which meant she had a message.

She picked it up, listened impatiently to the well-modulated recorded voice of the operator telling her she had one message and then pressed button one.

It was Patrick. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from a contact. Toni’s found that missing girl and the press are all over the place.’ Cursing, she ran to the bathroom and rinsed off the face mask, struggled into her clothes, rushed out of her cottage and into her car and set off for Mircester.

By the time she got to police headquarters, all she could do was wait in the reception area for Toni and Sharon to reappear.

Two hours went past and then Toni and Sharon came out, looking weary.

Agatha listened as Toni described how they had managed to find Trixie. When she had finished, Agatha said coldly, ‘You should have phoned me immediately.’

‘I did phone,’ said Sharon. ‘There wasn’t time to phone earlier and Toni could have made a mistake.’

Agatha immediately felt mean and petty. She must have missed Sharon’s message. But surely the operator had said there was only one message and that had been from Patrick.

‘It was good work,’ she said. ‘Are the parents delighted?’

‘They’re interrogating Mr Ballard. Toni told me that it seemed as if Trixie had run away because the father had been abusing her. The couple at the nursery thought she was seventeen years old and she said she was waiting for her employment card and that she was an orphan. So they set her to work in the nursery and gave her bed and board.’

When they left headquarters, the press had increased in numbers. Agatha tried to make a statement but they called for Toni and Sharon. Biting her lip, Agatha stood aside and watched her two young detectives get all the glory.

When Agatha finally got home and stared in her bathroom mirror, she saw to her dismay that bits of face pack were sticking to her eyebrows and in the front of her hair.

She had always been the one before who had been blessed with these leaps of detective intuition, she thought. Agatha remembered how she had tried to grab the limelight outside police headquarters and curled up into a tight ball on her bed, in an attempt to make herself as small as she felt.