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“You might at least thank us,” said Agatha.

Bill paused in the doorway. “Agatha, wasn’t life safer in public relations?”

Agatha grinned. “Dog-eat-dog, I assure you. Knives in backs all round.”

“And stale metaphors by the dozen,” murmured Charles as Bill left, slamming the door behind him.

Her mobile rang again. Agatha listened and said, “We’re all in the office. You’d better come in until we figure out what to do about this.”

She rang off and said, “Patrick’s found out something about that maths teacher.”

Patrick arrived half an hour later. He looked weary. He sank down on the sofa and said, “Could someone make me a cup of coffee? I’m beat.”

“I’ll do it,” said Harry. “Detective work wearing you out?”

“No, it’s my home life. We’d both agreed on a divorce, but she wants me out of the house now. I sold my flat when we got married. Prices have gone sky-high, so I don’t know if I can afford to buy anything, and rents are pretty steep as well.”

“You can move in with me until you find a place,” said Phil. “I’ve got a spare room.”

“Phil’s very neat,” cautioned Agatha. “You’re not messy, are you, Patrick?”

“Not in the slightest. That’s what her indoors was always complaining about. She said I tidied things away so much, she couldn’t find anything.”

Agatha cynically reflected that Miss Simms—as she always thought of her—had probably found a new gentleman friend and wanted rid of Patrick as soon as possible.

“Thanks a lot, Phil,” said Patrick. “We’ll get together later and agree on the rent.”

Harry handed Patrick a cup of instant coffee.

“Now,” said Agatha impatiently, “what’s this about that maths teacher? Charles, what are you looking at?”

Charles was staring down from the window. “I’ve just seen Laura Ward-Barkinson. Back in a minute.”

He rushed off.

Agatha felt a pang on jealousy and then reminded herself firmly that Charles was only a friend. In any case, this Laura might simply be a friend of his aunt.

“So what’s it about, Patrick?” Agatha moved to the window and looked down. Charles was talking animatedly to a tall, leggy brunette. Then they moved off together.

“I don’t think you’re listening,” said Patrick sharply.

“Sorry.” Agatha moved away from the window.

“I was saying that Owen, the maths teacher, was seen one evening several weeks before Jessica was murdered out at the Pheasant restaurant on the road to Pershore. It’s very posh, but I know the owner from the days when I was in the force. I met him by chance in Evesham when I was getting my hair cut—what’s left of it. We went for a drink and I began discussing the case. Funnily enough, I’d quite forgotten I’d once asked Phil to wait outside the school and take a photo of Owen Trump, that teacher. He was in the notes, Agatha, but no picture. Anyway, my friend, John Wheeler, he said to me he might look at photos because he knew so many people in the area and he might recognize someone. I had a whole set of prints in my briefcase and he went through them. He picked out Owen Trump. He remembered him because he’d made such a fuss about the wine and then complained about the food. He hadn’t recognized Jessica first time round, so I showed him a photograph of her again. He said she’d had her hair up and was wearing a lot of make-up and looked much older. He said she seemed embarrassed by Owen’s behaviour and was drinking rather a lot.”

“Let’s look up the phone book and find out where he lives,” said Agatha.

“Already got his address.” Patrick produced a thick notebook. “He’s got a flat in the centre of Mircester.”

“All right. Patrick and I will go. Phil, you may as well see if you can make another date with Mabel. Harry, I think you should keep out of sight for the moment. Oh, if Charles comes back, tell him about this latest development.”

After they had left, Harry paced up and down the office, corning to a halt before the mirror behind Mrs. Freedman’s desk. He suddenly thought he looked ridiculous. Why had he ever thought all this piercing and