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“Anything?” asked Agatha.

“I went to the village pub for starters. Smedley is disliked, but everyone thinks his wife is a saint. There’s a rumour he beats her. His electronics factory is out on the industrial estate. They have a showroom, so I went out there and pottered around. I talked to the sales staff, asked them about their boss and all that. Don’t like him. Asked if they’d ever met the wife and they brightened up. Say she’s a gem. He’s so mean that he gets his wife to do all the catering for the Christmas party. They said the food was great and she was absolutely charming. Brick wall so far. But I’ll keep at it.”

Phil said, “Maybe if Harry comes home with me, I can print up the photos of Trixie and Fairy and let him see them. If they’re at the club tonight, maybe he can get into conversation with them.”

“He knows them. Remember? But print them up anyway.”

Agatha was just microwaving her dinner that evening when the doorbell rang. She found Bill Wong on the step. “I couldn’t get round earlier,” he said.

“Come in,” said Agatha. “I was just about to have dinner. Want some?”

“No, I’ve had something in the canteen. What have you been up to?”

Agatha told him about Owen Trump. “Clever work,” said Bill. “I never thought of a schoolteacher.”

Agatha felt a little guilty twinge. It had been Phil’s idea.

“What about your end?” she asked. “Her English teacher thinks Jessica may have been in love. English was last period and she said Jessica kept looking out of the window.”

“That doesn’t sound like one of the schoolboys.”

“She also said her work had deteriorated in the last six months, apart from maths.”

“We’ll have a look at this maths teacher. So how are you? Heard from James Lacey?”

“No,” said Agatha curtly.

“No new interesting neighbours?”

“The house is up for sale again. Probably be the middleaged or elderly who’ll buy it. Young people can’t afford the prices around here.”

“So how’s the agency doing?”

“Work’s picking up. I took on a divorce case. I don’t think it’s really a divorce case. I think it’s a neurotic husband who is insanely jealous. His wife is regarded as a saint.”

“There are no saints, Agatha.”

“There’s Mrs. Bloxby.”

“Come on. She’s only human like the rest of us. Oh, listen. There’s the rain at last.”

Agatha surveyed him fondly. Bill, half Chinese and half English, had been her first friend. He was of medium height with black hair and brown almond-shaped eyes.

“Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you,” said Bill, unwinding Hodge from his neck. “I’ve got to go. Why don’t you come for dinner with us one night?”

Agatha repressed a shudder. Much as she loved Bill, she found his parents terrifying. Besides, his mother was a rotten cook and even a lifetime of microwaved meals could not inure Agatha to the overcooked meat and soggy vegetables that made up Mrs. Wong’s favourite cuisine.

“I’d like that,” she lied. “Wait until things have slacked off a bit.”

When Bill had left, she opened the kitchen door and stood under the shelter of the overhanging thatch. She had recently employed a woman gardener and the long strip of garden was a blaze of flowers. She did wish Bill had not mentioned James Lacey. She often passed days at a time now without thinking about him or wondering if he ever thought of her.

Loneliness gripped her again and as she turned to go, indoors, she felt that irritating stabbing pain in her hip. After Roy’s visit, she would make an appointment with Richard Rasdall, the masseur in Stow. All she needed was a bit of limbering up.

FOUR

HARRY Beam entered the disco and looked around.

He had visited it before, but only on Saturday nights, and he was surprised to find it so full on a weekday.

He wondered if the police ever raided the place because there were underage youths and girls drinking Bacardi Breezers at the bar while crowds of them gyrated to deafening music under the strobe lights.

He made his way to the bar and ordered a beer. Then he turned and leaned his back on the bar and studied the dance floor. And then he saw them. They were heavily made up.

Harry