Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon - M. C. Beaton [31]
Agatha took out her card case and read him out her Visa number. Another picture came up.
It showed a film of Fairy, Trixie and Jessica lounging on a bed. They were all wearing lacy teddies and fishnet stockings. They giggled and pouted at the camera. Occasionally they kissed one another and fondled one another’s breasts. “You want me to go on?” asked Harry.
“No, that’s enough for now. Does it get worse?”
“Not really. There’s a lot of them in school uniform—you know, blouses open to the waist and stocking tops.”
“Goodbye, age of innocence,” said Charles.
“I don’t think any of them had the expertise to set up a Web site,” said Harry.
Agatha remembered the expensive equipment in Burt Haviland’s living room. “We’d better call the police on this one,” she said. “I’ll phone Bill.”
Bill said he would be around right away. Agatha turned to Harry. “How does this work?”
“There are men who like looking a pictures of sexy schoolgirls. They pay up. It’s usually safe enough for the girls because they never need to be in contact with their clients. Maybe one of them recognized Jessica at the roadside and got carried away.”
“But it wasn’t a sex crime,” Charles pointed out.
The door opened and Bill Wong came in. “I hope you’re not wasting police time. What have you got?”
Agatha silently pointed to the computer.
Harry flicked through the images for Bill. “Stop there!” said Bill suddenly. Agatha looked over Harry’s shoulder. The three girls were in bikinis, chasing one another around a garden. Jessica seemed to be protesting and the other two pulled her hair and then dragged her to the ground.
“How did you get on to this?” asked Bill.
How Agatha would have loved to take the credit. “Harry,” she said. ‘Tell Bill how you discovered this.”
Harry did while Bill listened intently. Then Agatha said, “Burt Haviland has a lot of expensive equipment in his home. His real name’s not Burt Haviland. It’s Bert Smellie.”
“We’ll run that name through the computer. I’d better get a search warrant for his flat.”
“Bill, remember we found this out for you and let us know how you get on.”
“I’ll try to get round tonight. You, Harry, come with me. I’ll need to take a statement from you.”
Bill and Harry left, and shortly afterwards Phil and Patrick came in. They told them about the computer video.
“Well,” said Phil, “I was wondering why a nice girl like Jessica could go and get herself murdered in such a horrible way. Now we know. Could have been anyone.”
“We’ll get back out there,” said Patrick. “We’ll see Trixie and Fairy and tell them they’ve been found out. If the police have pulled them in, we’ll try the parents.”
When they’d gone, Charles said, “I’m going off for the afternoon, Agatha. Got things to do at home. See you later.”
Agatha slumped down on the sofa. She felt tired and jaded. “Mrs. Freedman,” she said. “You don’t wear make-up? Does your husband ever ask you to?”
“No, m’dear. Doesn’t notice much.”
“Bill noticed when I wasn’t wearing make-up.”
“Could be a way of him saying you haven’t been your usual sparky self lately. Have you eaten anything?”
“Haven’t had time.”
“Go out and get something. I’ll look after things here.”
“You’re a treasure.”
Agatha went out and round to a cafe and ordered sausage and chips, which she doused liberally with ketchup. She wished she could shake off the heavy feeling of nothingness that was beginning to overtake her.
She did not realize that the root of the problem was that she was obsessive when it came to men. Agatha was addicted to falling in love. While she was obsessing about some man, she could dream. But now, with no obsession, when she lay down to sleep at night there seemed to be a black hole left in her head, around the edges of which swirled nagging, petty little worries.
Charles was sitting at his desk going through the farm accounts when his manservant, Gustav, announced, “Chap called Freddy Champion