Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [23]
“Maybe not. They might assume the police would think a condom had been used. Whoever did it didn’t know she was a virgin.”
“What about me?” asked Harry.
“There are two outstanding divorce cases, both well-to-do people, so you’ll need to blend in. Different clothes and no studs.”
She expected him to protest, but he gave a laconic “Okay.”
“Mrs. Freedman will give you the files.”
“You’ve got the photographer,” said Harry. “You want me to take a camera?”
Agatha was reluctant to surrender Phil. He was proving to have a good insight into things.
“Come down to my car,” said Phil, “and I’ll fix you up with a proper camera and a telescopic lens.”
“Cool.”
“What should I be working on?” asked Patrick.
“See if you can have a chat with Burt Haviland.”
Agatha and Phil set out for the mall. The recent rain had left the skies grey and the air muggy and stifling.
They went back to the clock and, armed with the pictures of Trixie, Fairy and Jessica, began to quiz the shopkeepers round about, but although four of them recognized the girls, it was always the same story. They had seen them waiting but after that had not noticed anything else.
“I think it’s time we went back and saw the parents,” said Agatha. “The body won’t have been released for burial yet, so they’ll probably just be sitting around. I’d like to ask them about Burt Haviland. That sounds like a name out of a romance. Be interesting to find out if he changed his name at any time.”
Mrs. Bradley opened the door to them, looking like a zombie. Agatha guessed she had probably been prescribed tranquillizers.
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin. So kind of you to still offer to find Jessica’s murderer. Do come in.”
Her voice had a soft Gloucestershire burr.
They went into a pleasant living room. There was a large photograph of Jessica on the sideboard, looking every inch the correct English schoolgirl.
Pretty net curtains fluttered at the open windows and the room was full of domestic clutter: books and magazines, videos, and a discarded piece of knitting.
“Is your husband home?” asked Agatha.
“He’s gone back to work at the ice cream factory. He says it keeps his mind off the horror of it all.”
“You should try one of those bereavement counselling classes,” said Agatha gently. “Tranquillizers only keep the grief damped down and it can erupt worse later on. I’ll find out where the nearest one is for you.”
“Thank you.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, rolling down silently, one after the other.
“I’ll make tea,” said Phil.
Mrs. Bradley mopped her eyes with a tissue.
“Did you know Jessica had a boyfriend?”
She looked at Agatha in amazement. “No, was it one of the boys at school?”
“It was a man of thirty-five called Burt Haviland. Works in sales at Smedleys Electronics.”
“She said nothing of this to us.”
“It appears Jessica may have been frightened you’d stop him seeing her because he was so much older. He appears to have been very much in love with her. He has an alibi. Mrs. Bradley, your daughter was not raped. The police will no doubt inform you. Jessica was a virgin.”
“My poor little girl.” She began to cry again.
Agatha suddenly wished she was the type of woman who would find it easy to cross the room and give Mrs. Bradley a comforting hug, but she wasn’t, so she made what she hoped were sympathetic noises.
Phil came in with the tea things. “I’ve made yours very sweet,” he said to Mrs. Bradley. “Good for shock.”
She gave him a weak smile and sipped her tea.
Seeing she was once more composed, Agatha asked, “May we see Jessica’s room?”
“Please go upstairs. It’s at the top on the left. I won’t go up with you. I can’t.”
Agatha and Phil went up the stairs and pushed open the door of Jessica’s room. They each pulled on a pair of latex gloves. It looked the usual teenager’s room with posters of pop stars on the walls, but with more books than usual. There was a computer desk against the wall but no computer. Agatha guessed the police must have taken