The door stopped closing.
“It’s her own fault,” said Pete. “Slut.”
“It was only one mistake,” cajoled Agatha.
“Serves her right,” he growled. “Did she think any man would be interested in her? She should have known he was a blackmailer.”
“But she was tricked,” said Agatha. “Now she misses you and she’s frantic with worry.”
A gleam of satisfaction replaced the anger in his eyes.
“I hope she’s suffering,” he said and slammed the door in their faces.
“Well, what did we get from that?” asked Agatha as they drove off.
“I think we can be pretty sure he’s the one that beat John Shawpart up. Better run you home, Aggie. Got to meet Josie.”
“I’ll wait up for you to hear your news.”
“Well… ”
“You wouldn’t, Charles! A young girl like that!”
“Don’t worry. She probably lives with her parents.”
After Charles had left, Agatha planned to have a peaceful evening but Worcester CID called and took her through her statement, demanding this time to know why she had lied about driving past Shawpart’s house. Wearily Agatha said it was because murder made everyone feel guilty and she had not wanted to sound like one of those ghouls who haunt the scenes of disasters. By the time they left, she felt almost as if she had committed the murder herself.
She had a hot bath and put on a night-gown and dressing-gown and sat in front of the television set, waiting for Charles to come home. She sometimes wondered if Charles regarded her as anything more than a sort of amusement to enliven his days. He was as neat and self-contained as a cat. Although he had temporarily moved in with her, he did not seem to take up any space at all.
It was around midnight, when she was just falling asleep in the armchair, that she heard him driving up.
She struggled to her feet and opened the door.
“Not trying to seduce me, are you, Aggie?” was Charles’s greeting as he surveyed her plain and serviceable dressing-gown worn over a high-necked cotton night-dress.
“Come in and tell me about it.”
Agatha led the way into the living-room and quickly switched off the television, where a rerun of “Star Trek” was showing in case Charles decided to watch it.
Charles poured himself a drink and sat down.
“I’ve found out the identity of the slim, rabbity blonde.”
“Who is she?”
He brought out his small notebook. “Jessie Lang. Evesham girl. Josie said bitterly that she came in one day and made a hell of a scene.”
“What about?”
“Seems he stood her up.”
“Another unhappily married woman?”
“No, she works as a dentist’s receptionist, isn’t married and doesn’t appear to be well off.”
“Got her address?”
“No, Josie said the police have the old appointments’ book and it only had phone numbers in it anyway. But she works at a dentist’s in the High Street. I’ve got the address. God, I’m tired. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, our Josie was smitten by her boss, that’s for sure, but I gather she never got anywhere. She seemed ready to turn her affections on me.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“I said I loved only you. Fortunately, that was over coffee, for the evening promptly went down the tubes.”
“What did she say to that?”
“You don’t want to know.” Josie had actually exclaimed, “What, that old frump!”
“What about Portsmouth?” fretted Agatha.
“It can wait a bit. The action’s here, Aggie.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that! I think the action began in Portsmouth. What if he blackmailed his customers there and one of them followed him up here? Oh, Worcester CID called when you were out. Nag, nag, nag. Same old questions, apart from the fact they’d found out I was lying about just hearing John’s house had gone on fire. Made me feel guilty.”
“So what should we do at the dentist’s tomorrow?” asked Charles. “March in and question her there?”
“No, she’s bound to go out for lunch. We know what she looks like. We’ll go in about lunch-time and waylay her.”
“She might have lunch at her desk. I suggest I use my charm and invite her out for lunch. You could fill in the time by getting your hair done.”
“I’ve got an appointment with that Eve person, but it’s for four o’clock, the day after tomorrow.”
“See if you can change it.”
“I should think the terrible Josie will delight in telling me that there are no free appointments, but I’ll try. I’ll phone in the morning. Oh, I forgot to check when we got back from Honeybourne if there were any messages.”
Agatha went to the phone and dialled. She listened and then put down the phone and turned to Charles. “A message from Mrs. Dairy. She says she wants to see me. She sounded like her old self. Nasty and bitchy. I’ll think about it. Maybe call on her when we’ve finished in Evesham.”
The following day, Agatha left Charles outside the dentist’s and went to the hairdresser’s. Josie was barely polite but reluctantly said there was a cancellation. Agatha had her hair shampooed and was led through to Eve.
Eve was a tall, stately woman, rather like a figurehead on an old ship, proud bosom, flowing dark hair, rounded arms.
As she worked away with the drier, Agatha said, “Did you know Mr. John?”
“The hairdresser who was killed? No. Terribly sad, that,” said Eve. “Lucky for me. I was starting up this business and about to advertise for staff, so I just took his old staff over. I think I’ll just pop some rollers in and put you under the drier. Gives it a firmer set.”
“I don’t want anything too fussy!”
“Oh, it’ll look great.”
“Are you from Evesham, Eve?”
“No, I moved here recently. Thought it might be a good place for business.”
“Where were you before?”
“Worcester.”
Agatha fell silent as the hairdresser put down the drier and then rolled her hair up and sprayed it.
“Yvette, put Agatha under the drier,” called Eve.
“Terrible about Mr. John,” said Agatha to Yvette.
“Yeah. Want some magazines?”
Agatha nodded. The drier was lowered over her head. Several copies of last year’s Vogue and Good Housekeeping were plopped on her lap. At first Agatha amused herself by reading last year’s horoscopes to see if they were anything like what had happened to her, but, like most horoscopes, they were so vague you could read anything you wanted into them.
Time passed. Agatha squinted at her watch. Her hair had been nearly dry when it had been put in the rollers and she had been under the wretched drier for nearly an hour.
Determinedly she put the magazines on a table beside her, removed her head from the drier and went through to the salon.
No sign of Eve.
“Where is she?” barked Agatha.
“Gone out for her lunch,” said Garry, who was perming a customer’s hair.
“What kind of place is this?” howled Agatha. “I want my hair finished now!”
Garry threw her a frightened look. “She’s in the restaurant next door. I’ll get her.”
Agatha stood and fumed. Eve came hurrying back in.
“In a rush, are we?” she asked sweetly.
“I don’t know about you, but I do not like to be kept waiting,” snapped Agatha.
“Well, I’m here now,” said Eve soothingly. She guided Agatha to a chair and began to remove the rollers. Then she back-combed and smoothed the hair.
Agatha stared at her reflection in the mirror.
“That,” she said bitterly, “is the epitome of provincial middle-aged hair-styles. Too bouffant.”
“It’s the latest style,” said Eve.
“It was the latest style somewhere around the sixties.”
“If you would like me to restyle it?”
“Oh, forget it. Just give me the bill and let me out of here.”
In a thoroughly bad temper, Agatha went back to the carpark to wait for Charles. Fortunately for her, they had used her car, so she sat and smoked and waited… and waited.