Agatha Raisin: As The Pig Turns (15 page)

‘It’s like this. I’ve got this client who wants a cottage in the Cotswolds. He was driving with me around the villages and we ended up in Carsely. He fell in love with Mrs
Raisin’s cottage.’

‘Odd that he should spot it,’ said Toni suspiciously. ‘It’s in a cul-de-sac.’

‘He spotted it from the end of Lilac Lane. We drove up. He said he must have it.’

‘Agatha won’t sell, I can tell you that.’

‘Ah, but wait to hear what he’s offering.’

‘Who is this man?’

‘At the moment he prefers to remain anonymous.’

‘Mr . . .’

‘Peter. Call me Peter.’

‘Peter, then. Agatha Raisin is a detective who has, until recently, been involved in two grizzly murders. She is going to be highly suspicious, as I am, of this mysterious buyer. In fact,
I am going to have to report your interest to the police.’

‘You can check up on me anytime. I’m well known in the estate-agency business. I have a good reputation.’

‘I think, then, they will be more interested in your client. Look at it this way. A prospective buyer would expect access to the house, would he not?’

‘Well, of course.’

‘So the police will naturally want to know who and why.’

‘That’s understandable. Go ahead.’

After he had left, Toni crossed the hotel lobby and took a quick look inside the dining room. There was no sign of Fiona. She boldly asked at the desk whether a Mrs Fiona
Richards was in the hotel and learned to her dismay that she had left.

It must have happened while I was talking to that estate agent, thought Toni. I’m suspicious of everyone and everything. Does this estate agent really exist?

She was just crossing the square to police headquarters when she saw Bill Wong about to get into his car and hailed him. Toni decided it would be better to say nothing about watching Fiona, as
they had all been warned off.

She told him about the estate agent and the prospective client for Agatha’s cottage.

‘I’d better look into it,’ said Bill. ‘Leave it with me. I mean, why did this estate agent approach you? Why not phone Agatha?’

Toni then phoned Agatha on her mobile and gave her a report. ‘Where were you when this man accosted you?’ asked Agatha.

‘I didn’t tell Bill, but I happened to see Fiona’s car parked at the George, so I waited in reception. Then this estate agent distracted me, and after he had gone, so had
she.’

Agatha’s voice was sharp with anxiety. ‘Toni, you are not to have anything to do with the murders. It’s too dangerous. You’ve got that divorce case. Get on with
it.’

After Toni had left, Bill went back into the police station and typed out a short report on the estate agent and handed it to Wilkes.

‘I see his firm is Powell, Slerry and Card,’ said Wilkes. ‘I’ve seen their
FOR SALE
boards. Get round there and have a word with him and insist on
getting the name of his client.’

The estate agent’s offices were situated in the Glebe, one of the twisting mediaeval lanes around the abbey. He went in and asked for Mr Powell. A girl disappeared into a back office and
then indicated that he should go in. Powell rose from behind his desk and extended a large hand.

‘Why am I being honoured with a visit from the police?’ he asked.

‘We are interested in your client who wishes to buy Agatha Raisin’s cottage. May I have his name, please?’

‘We do not give out names unless authorized to do so,’ said Powell.

‘Oh, do be sensible,’ said Bill. ‘Do you want me to get a warrant and have your files thoroughly searched?’

‘Would you mind stepping outside while I phone him? Just a courtesy to a client.’

Bill waited impatiently, knowing he had little chance of getting a warrant without having any solid proof of criminal activity.

Powell came out of his office and handed him a slip of paper. ‘His name is Bogdan Staikov. You’ll find him at the George right now.’

‘What nationality?’

Powell smiled. ‘You’ll need to ask him.’

At the George, Bill was told that Mr Staikov was taking coffee on the terrace.

He walked through the hotel and on to the terrace overlooking the gardens at the back. He had not asked to be conducted to Staikov, feeling sure he would spot the foreigner right away. But there
were a good few smokers enjoying their after-lunch coffees, and they all looked very British.

As he hesitated in the doorway, a small, silver-haired man got to his feet and waved him over. ‘Mr Powell said you would be looking for me,’ he said. He had a slight trace of accent.
His eyes, like Bill’s, were slightly elongated, but as grey and cold as the North Sea. He was wearing a lightweight cream-coloured suit with a blue shirt and striped silk tie. He had thick
grey skin, a small mouth and nose and odd pointed ears.

‘Please sit down,’ he said. ‘Coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Why are you interested in Mrs Raisin’s cottage?’

‘What are you talking about? I have been looking at many properties.’

‘Mrs Raisin’s cottage is in Lilac Lane in Carsely.’

‘Ah, yes, Carsely. I liked it. I want a new home for my daughter. So typically English. What has this to do with the police?’

Bill told him.

Staikov raised well-manicured hands in dismay. ‘I did not know. I do not read the newspapers. I am retired. My son now runs the business. I wish the quiet English life.’

‘What is your nationality?’ asked Bill.

‘I am originally from Bulgaria, but I married a British woman and settled here some twenty years ago.’

‘What was your business?’

‘Clothing. Suede, leather, that sort of thing. My son now runs the business. Country Fashions. Our place is out in the industrial estate.’

‘Would you mind if I had a look around your premises?’

He shrugged. ‘Go ahead. You British have only to hear the word
Bulgarian
and you think Mafia.’

Toni had waited until Bill had left police headquarters and followed him to the estate agent’s and then to the George. Once again, she went into the George. The
restaurant was now empty apart from one couple, but she heard the sound of voices from the terrace, approached it and had a quick look, where she saw Bill talking to a silver-haired man.

Toni found a seat in the reception area, half-shielded by a cheese plant, and waited. Bill was not very long. After ten minutes, the man he had been talking to went out. Toni followed. He got
into a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. Toni wished she had brought her car.

She approached the desk. She was just wondering whether to pose as a reporter when the receptionist said, ‘What can I do for you, Miss Gilmour?’

Toni cursed Agatha’s penchant for getting their photos in the newspapers and on television. ‘I just wondered about the identity of that gentleman who just left?’

‘Oh, that would be Mr Staikov.’

‘Film business?’

‘No, clothing business.’

The receptionist turned away to deal with someone else. Toni made her way to the offices of the
Mircester Mercury
, where she knew an old school friend, John Worthing, had a job as a
reporter.

John was delighted to see her. He was an owlish young man with limp brown hair. He had been bullied at school until he had come under the protection of the tough and popular Toni.

‘I haven’t seen you in ages,’ he said. ‘Anytime there’s a story about you, the chief reporter gets it.’

‘I’m here to ask a favour.’

‘Anything.’

‘Could you look up a man called Staikov in your files?’

‘Sure. Hasn’t your voice got posh!’

‘It’s not posh. It’s neutral,’ said Toni. ‘Be a love and get cracking.’

‘Wait till I heat up the computer.’

‘You are on broadband, aren’t you?’

‘Mircester Broadband.’

Toni grinned in sympathy. Mircester Internet connection was rumoured to be the slowest in Gloucestershire.

At last he gave a grunt of triumph. ‘Here he is. We did a story when he retired last year. He has a clothing business out on the industrial estate. Originally from Bulgaria. Imports
leather mostly. Rags-to-riches story. Arrived here pretty broke and made a fortune.’

‘I wonder how he got British nationality?’

‘Married an English local. She died four years ago.’

‘What did she die of?’

‘Hang on.’ John clicked away. ‘Ah, here we are. Fell down a flight of stairs.’

‘Did she now,’ remarked Toni, feeling a stir of excitement. ‘Got a report of the inquest?’

‘Here we go. Verdict, accident. Pathologist said she was as drunk as a skunk.’

‘What’s the name of this clothing firm?’ asked Toni.

‘Country Fashions.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Toni, wait a minute. Do you think we might meet up one evening?’

He looked at her with pleading eyes, and Toni suddenly remembered a younger John, crying in the corner of the playground.

‘I’m pretty busy,’ she said diplomatically. But as his face fell, she said quickly, ‘I tell you what I’ll do for you. Give me your card, and if I’ve got a big
story, you’ll be the first to know.’

‘That would be great. I mean, everyone’s out on some story or another and I’m left here to edit the letters page.’

Outside, Toni phoned Agatha, who said quickly, ‘I’m in the office. Get round here. I want to hear every bit of it.’

When Toni finished her report, Agatha’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘I knew there must be some gang behind it. Must be the Mafia. I’d like to get inside that
factory.’

‘I should think that’s impossible,’ said Toni. ‘Anyway, I’m sure that’s the first thing Bill would have done.’

Patrick Mulligan walked in at that moment. Agatha rapidly told him what Toni had found out.

Tall and lugubrious and with the shiniest shoes in Mircester, Patrick looked every bit the retired policeman.

When Agatha had finished, he said, ‘There’s a café out on the estate. Well, it’s just a shack with tables outside. I’ll get out there and see if I can meet any of
the workers.’

When Patrick had left, Toni said uneasily, ‘We weren’t going to investigate the murders. Isn’t this a bit dangerous?’

‘Not unless this Bulgarian has anything to do with it,’ said Agatha. ‘Don’t you see? I’ve decided we’re always going to be in danger if we don’t solve
these murders.’

Before he went to the industrial estate, Patrick went home and changed out of his suit, collar and tie and shiny shoes. He put on old casual clothes, a scuffed pair of boat
shoes and a baseball cap.

It was a glorious day in June. He cycled out to the estate, feeling he needed the exercise. The English are not very used to good summers, and the warm weather appeared to have taken a lot of
people by surprise. He could see men and women carrying coats and jackets.

He cycled into the industrial estate and propped his bicycle at the side of the café. He realized he hadn’t had any lunch and ordered a hamburger, chips and tea. He could hear the
man and woman who ran the café chattering in Polish. There were Poles everywhere in Gloucestershire. The lunch rush was over. He selected a table where he could get a good look at the
entrance to Country Fashions.

Then he saw Bill Wong and Alice Peterson emerging and getting into their unmarked police car and driving off. He jerked down the peak of his baseball cap and turned his face away as the car
slowed down opposite the café and then heaved a sigh of relief as it accelerated and drove off. He was served his hamburger, chips and tea. The tea was hot and freshly made. The hamburger
was good, and to his amazement, the chips were from real potatoes, not the frozen kind.

He had a sudden longing to be able to sit here, relaxing in the sun, forgetting about detective work. But what would he do if he retired? He did not have any hobbies. Perhaps he and Phil could
retire together and take up golf. At last, he decided reluctantly that he’d better get on with it and have a closer look at the factory.

As he approached it, a truck drove up and went round the back of the factory. Patrick paid for his food and pushed his bike in the direction the truck had gone. Men were unloading skins from the
back of the truck.

‘What are you doing here?’ demanded a sharp voice.

Patrick swung round and found himself confronted by a man in the uniform of a security guard. Fortunately, Patrick had studied the list of businesses on a board as he had entered the industrial
park.

‘I think I’m lost,’ he said. ‘I need a pump for the pond in my garden.’

‘You want Aquaria Plus, Lot eleven, over there,’ said the guard. Patrick got on his bicycle and cycled off.

Patrick lived in a flat and didn’t have a garden, but he was always cautious, and some instinct prompted him to cycle to Aquaria Plus, dismount and go inside. As he inspected a selection
of pumps, he glanced out of the window. The security guard was standing there. Patrick fell into conversation with a sales assistant, and when he looked up again, the security guard had gone. He
waited a few minutes and then said apologetically that he would need to consult ‘the wife’.

He cycled back to the café and ordered a cup of tea and a doughnut, sitting this time with his back to the factory. Perhaps the security guard was simply overzealous. Still, it was
something to report.

Early that evening, Charles Fraith was fumbling for his keys to Agatha’s cottage.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’ demanded a Scottish voice. Charles swung round. A police sergeant was standing, glaring at him.

‘I’m a friend of Mrs Raisin,’ he said crossly. ‘I usually have the keys to her cottage, but I forgot that they had been stolen. What are you doing here?’

‘I am Sergeant Tulloch, following orders. A policeman will be along soon to relieve me.’

‘What has she been up to?’ asked Charles, ringing the doorbell.

Agatha answered it. ‘It’s all right, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘Come in, Charles. Sergeant, would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Thanks, missus. Grand. Still hot out here.’

‘You might have given me a new set of keys,’ complained Charles, following Agatha into the kitchen.

‘I like the feeling of not having to find you in residence when I get home,’ said Agatha. ‘Wait till I make that copper a cup of tea and I’ll tell you what’s been
happening.’