M.C. Beaton - The Day the Floods Came

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.