M.C. Beaton - The Day the Floods Came

“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.”

∨ The Day the Floods Came ∧

8

Agatha was silent on the road to Redditch. Her conscience, never usually very active, was beginning to bother her. She felt responsible for the death of Mrs. Ansruther-Jones and for the attack on Joanna. When they were clear of Evesham, she took off the wig and threw it on the back seat and put the glasses in the glove box.

Should there be a policeman on duty outside Joanna’s room, then she did not want any report of a woman in a blond wig getting back to headquarters.

“A lot of hospitals don’t bother much about visiting hours,” said Roy. “Let’s hope this is one, or that we arrive at the right time.”

“Do we ask at the desk? Or do we just walk in and try to find the right ward?” asked Agatha.

“We’ll suss it out when we get there,” he replied.

“Well, well, well,” remarked Roy, as they drove into the car-park.

“What?”

“Over there. Just getting out of that BMW. That’s John Armitage and carrying a huge bouquet of flowers.”

“Let’s join him,” said Agatha.

“No, let’s follow him. I bet he knows where to go.”