Agatha Raisin: As The Pig Turns (19 page)

Agatha and Toni had hoped to collect their cars from the airport terminal at Gatwick and get back to Mircester, but they were intercepted and taken to a room in the airport
where two plain-clothes detectives grilled them. Evidently, the Las Vegas police were angry that they had just disappeared while an investigation was in progress. They were taken through their
stories again.

At last, they were released but warned that the Mircester police would be calling on them later.

‘At least they didn’t take my passport away again,’ grumbled Agatha. ‘Do you want to follow me to Carsely?’

‘No, I’ll go to my flat. I’m tired.’

Chapter Eleven

Simon found that the army were only too glad to get rid of him. Sergeant Sue Crispin was popular, and they felt that Simon had behaved disgracefully. He had made several
attempts to see Toni again, but she always said she was too busy.

He even asked Agatha for his old job back, but Agatha said roundly she could not afford to take on any more staff.

Simon had always disliked authority figures, something that had landed him in trouble many times in his short army career. To him, Agatha Raisin was the epitome of an authority figure. He
decided to apply to Mixden, Agatha’s rival agency, for a job.

Mr Mixden laid down the same terms he had laid down to Toni.

Simon hesitated only a minute. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But I will expect a bonus if I get something really good.’

‘Then let’s see how good you are,’ said Mixden. ‘You’re on a month’s trial. Remember, no one’s paying us to solve these murders. But I want the
publicity.’

Simon decided the best way to go about finding out what was happening over at Agatha’s agency would be to pretend to be unemployed and get as friendly with Toni as possible.

At that moment, Toni and Agatha were studying the photographs taken from Toni’s little camera, along with the still photos given to them by the Las Vegas police. They put
them up on the computer screen in the office.

Patrick and Phil peered over their shoulders. ‘He’s clever,’ said Patrick. ‘Look at the way he ducks his head. He knows exactly where the cameras are.’

Agatha leaned back in her chair. ‘I wonder,’ she said slowly, ‘if it was all just some sort of coincidence. Say it’s someone from around here, addicted to gambling. He
spots what looks like Toni and thinks he’s been found out. I mean, just look at Chelsea. She really did go out of her way to look like you, Toni. Say this chap sees Toni enter the casino.
Then she’s lost from view.
Then
he thinks he sees Toni playing the machines.’

‘If that’s maybe the case,’ said Patrick, ‘it could be someone who likes money the way Beech did. And if he’s got the gambling habit, he might be prepared to do
anything for it.’

Toni’s mobile rang. It was Simon. ‘You seem to have been having a lot of adventures,’ he said. ‘What about meeting up this evening?’

‘I’m a bit busy.’

‘Look, Toni, I’d really appreciate it. Everyone’s treating me like a leper.’

‘Just a drink, then,’ said Toni. ‘Eight o’clock in the Dragon.’

Charles Fraith had called at Agatha’s cottage, thinking she would be resting up after her ordeal in Las Vegas. James Lacey had gone off on his travels again but had left
Charles a copy of the notes from Gary Beech’s ledger. Charles decided to walk along to the Red Lion, have a drink and see if he could make any sense of them.

He ordered a half of lager and sat at a table by the window. He gazed at the notes, but they didn’t mean anything to him.

‘Thousands of pounds, all gone. I’m going to have trouble with the insurance,’ said a voice.

Charles looked over. He recognized a farmer called Ettrick who had recently bought a farm outside the village. The man he was speaking to said, ‘You mean they pinched a whole combine
harvester?’

‘The whole damn thing,’ complained Ettrick. ‘I phoned the insurance, but they’re humming and hawing and said I shouldn’t have left it out in the field with all the
thefts of farm machinery that have been going on.’

Charles glanced down at the notes. Could c.h. mean combine harvester? Could Beech have been alerting some gang as to where to go and what to steal?

‘What would anyone want stealing a combine harvester?’ asked Ettrick’s companion.

‘They do say they come in the night, dismantle the thing, load it up and it ends up somewhere in Eastern Europe. The Carters over at Broadway had their ’un pinched last year. That
Beech, him who was murdered, he says it was their own fault. Ought to have locked it up for the night.’

Charles finished his drink, went outside and phoned Agatha. When he had finished, her voice was sharp with excitement. ‘Beech must have been spying for some gang, telling them about houses
that were easy to break into, telling them about where to pick up expensive farm machinery.

‘Which means,’ Agatha concluded slowly, ‘that there might be another rogue cop. The man who abducted Chelsea showed a warrant card. I’d better get on to Bill.’

To Agatha’s disappointment, both Bill and Wilkes thought the whole thing was too far-fetched, but at Agatha’s insistence they promised to look into it. But when she
had gone, Bill said, ‘It wouldn’t do any harm to take a look at the coppers and see if any of them look more flush with money than the others. An awful lot of farm machinery has gone,
along with expensive cars. We’ve had all the force out on these murders. Maybe it’s time to get the files out on the theft and take another look.’

The sad fact is that there is a division between town and country. Even in towns like Mircester, surrounded as it was by countryside, it was assumed all farmers were rich despite all the plagues
that visited them, from mad cow disease to tuberculosis, and therefore the sometimes overworked police force of Mircester didn’t put enough energy into solving cases like missing tractors and
combine harvesters. Bill, drafting in help to go through back cases, was often met with the surly remark of ‘They’re insured anyway’, generally from those who did not realize the
insurance was apt to go sky-high and that the recent government’s heavy tax on four-by-fours had been an added burden. Wilkes obtained a search warrant for Country Fashions, and Customs &
Excise were warned to search all of Staikov’s trucks leaving or entering the country. He also ordered a search of the passenger lists on all aircraft going to or returning from Las Vegas.

Toni was relieved when she met Simon that evening to find him cheerful and friendly. ‘Got a job yet?’ she asked.

‘Looking around,’ said Simon airily. ‘How’s the case going?’

‘Which one?’ asked Toni cautiously.

‘You know, the murders and that pal of yours being kidnapped in Las Vegas.’

‘One minute, Agatha tells us all to go on holiday in case something happens to one of us, and the next minute, we’re all back on the job again.’

‘You can see her point. Until everything is solved, you’ll always be looking over your shoulders. What’s the latest?’

He looked so eager and friendly that Toni began to relax. There could be no harm in telling Simon. She often felt quite lonely in the evenings these days. Her old school friends seemed like
strangers. She felt she had moved on out of their world: a world of discos and binge drinking and dreaming of becoming celebrities without getting any skills such as acting, singing or dancing.

So Toni told him all about the latest theory that the Las Vegas business might have been a coincidence, about the disappearing farm machinery, and about Agatha leaping to the conclusion that
there might be another rogue cop who had taken over when Gary had been murdered.

Simon suggested they have dinner together, but Toni suddenly felt uneasy: that she should not have said anything at all. She swore him to secrecy, said she had another appointment and left.

After she had gone, Simon sat, thinking hard. Any policeman who had turned criminal would be careful not to flash money around. But if this bent copper – say he was a bent copper –
had money, surely he would want to buy something special and maybe keep it hidden. The police would be checking the casinos of Britain, looking to see if there was a recognizable face, but that
would take days and weeks of studying video footage.

He ordered another drink. Perhaps the best idea, he decided, would be to watch the comings and goings at police headquarters, see if there was something about any policeman that sparked his
suspicions.

The police frequented a pub called the Golden Eagle round the corner from headquarters. He decided that it might be a better idea to go there.

But all he got for an evening’s work was too much alcohol and a hangover the next morning. Not one policeman or detective seemed to be flush with money.

He drank two Alka-Seltzers and followed that with a cup of strong coffee before sitting down at his computer to type out a report for Mixden. Of course, he was cheating Agatha by spying for
Mixden, but he comforted himself with the thought that Agatha deserved it for having interfered in his life.

As he was typing, his thoughts returned to what he, for example, would buy if he had a lot of money. A car, he suddenly thought. A Porsche, a Ferrari, something flash, keep it hidden but take it
out for a spin on days off, keep it well away from Mircester in a lockup.

There was a dealer in expensive cars in Birmingham called Class Cars. He thought of phoning them but decided to go there in person. Thanks to the generosity of his parents, he had a wardrobe of
expensive clothes. He put on a Savile Row suit with a silk shirt and silk tie, asked his father if he could borrow the Audi for a day and set off.

Once at Class Cars, he wandered around the showroom until an assistant came up and asked, ‘Can I help you, sir?’

Simon pretended to show interest in an Alfa Romeo. ‘I’m thinking of buying something really good,’ he said. ‘In this recession, you must be feeling the pinch.’

‘Well, I must admit, people are hanging on to the cars they’ve got,’ he said. ‘Would you like to take the Alfa out for a trial spin?’

‘Look,’ said Simon, exuding sincerity, ‘I’ll tell you what I’m really after.’ He produced one of the Agatha Raisin Detective Agency cards with his name on it.
‘I don’t want to waste your time. You’ve read about those dreadful murders in the Cotswolds?’

‘Yes, but what’s that got to do with us?’

‘It’s a long shot,’ said Simon. ‘We feel we might be dealing with a bent copper. Now, he might just have spent some of his ill-gotten gains on a flash car. Can you
remember anyone like that?’

The assistant hesitated and looked around. The showroom was quiet. A secretary was working away in one corner. Another assistant was sitting staring moodily at a computer. Simon produced a roll
of a hundred pounds.

‘Put that away!’ hissed the assistant. ‘It’s just about my lunch hour. Let’s go to a pub.’

In the pub, it transpired his name was Wilfred Butterfield. Simon bought them drinks and found a quiet table in a corner.

‘I’ll take the money now,’ said Wilfred.

‘I’ll see if the info is worth it,’ said Simon.

‘Well, we did have one chap. We joked afterwards that maybe he was a copper checking up on us. He had that look. Hard eyes, shiny black shoes, you know. He took one car after another out
for a spin and then said, “Maybe I’ll be back.” Wasted a whole morning.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Thickset. Scottish accent. Fair hair.’

Simon passed over the money. ‘Anyone else?’

‘Nobody like that. Oh, we’ve sold cars, but all to reputable people.’

‘I wish I could have a look at your sales book.’

‘No. Absolutely not. That’s going too far. Aren’t you going to buy me lunch?’

‘No,’ said Simon. ‘I’ve given you enough to buy your own.’

On his way back to Mircester, Simon suddenly remembered there were several group photographs of police decorating the dingy Mircester police reception area. He headed straight for police
headquarters and asked to speak to Bill Wong. He was told he was out.

‘I might wait a bit and see if he comes back,’ said Simon. He strolled round, studying the photographs. Near the centre of one group was a burly man with sergeant’s stripes and
fair hair.

‘Why!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know this chap. Isn’t that Henry James?’

The policeman on duty at the desk leaned over and peered at the photo. ‘Naw, that’s our sergeant Billy Tulloch.’

‘Odd, that,’ said Simon. ‘Looks just like Henry James. I won’t wait for Bill after all.’

Simon waited in the car park outside all day, feeling hungrier and hungrier, but determined to get a look at Sergeant Tulloch. Then he saw him at nine o’clock in the
evening. The sergeant got on to a powerful motorbike and set off. Simon followed in pursuit. At times he thought he had lost him because the sergeant cut down several winding side streets, but at
last Simon saw him park outside a fairground on the outside of the town. Tulloch entered the fairground, and Simon followed him.

And then all at once he lost him among the fairground rides and booths.

He was standing, irresolute, when he felt something hard pressed into his side and heard a Scottish voice say, ‘This is a gun. Do as I say and nothing will happen to you.’

He urged Simon towards a ride called the Haunted House. ‘Get in,’ muttered Tulloch. ‘Pay the fare.’

Simon did as he was told. ‘Help me!’ he mouthed at the man taking the money.

The man burst out laughing, thinking Simon was joking. The car jerked forward into the gloom. Halfway through the ride, a fake skeleton placed on a chair lurched forward. Tulloch drove a knife
into Simon’s side. The car stopped a moment before jerking forward. There was no one in the cars behind. Tulloch tore the skeleton from its chair and hauled Simon out on to the thin ramp used
by the fairground engineers. He shoved Simon into the chair and then walked along the ramp to where there was a break in the canvas tent that covered the exhibit. He let himself out into the
fairground and disappeared in the crowds.

Patsy Broadband and her boyfriend, Terry Kelly, climbed, giggling, into a car at the Haunted House. ‘We seem to be the only people here,’ said Patsy.