Dishing the Dirt (5 page)

“Of course not.”

“So, goodbye.”

Charles could feel the volcano that was Agatha simmering beside him.

He handed Adrian his card and heaved Agatha out of her chair. “Let’s go, darling.”

Chapter Three

Outside, Agatha raged, “Horrible man!”

“Oh, calm down,” said Charles. “We want a look inside her cottage, don’t we? You nearly spoiled things.”

“I am sorry,” said Agatha in a suddenly mild voice. Charles looked at her suspiciously. Agatha had just remembered that David Herythe was due to call at her office and she didn’t want Charles around. “Why don’t we split up? I can’t interview Victoria because she’ll just curse me. But you could and we could meet up later.”

“All right,” said Charles reluctantly. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ve got to get to the office and see how the others are getting on. I do have a business to run, Charles, and no one is paying me for all this effort.”

“But we came in your car, or have you forgotten? How am I to get to Carsely?”

Agatha whipped out her mobile phone. “Toni,” she said, “could you be an angel and run Charles back to Carsely? Great. We’ll meet you in the car park.”

Now, why doesn’t Agatha want me in her office? wondered Charles. “We haven’t had anything to eat,” he said. “Why don’t we all go for a late lunch?” he asked as Toni came hurrying towards them.

“I’m not hungry,” lied Agatha. “Why don’t you and Toni go for a bite first?”

“I’ve already had lunch,” said Toni.

“You can watch me eat,” said Charles.

They were about to walk off, when Toni called, “My wits are wandering. Herythe is waiting for you in the office, Agatha.”

Charles gave a malicious smile. “I haven’t seen David in ages. Must say hullo,” and to Agatha’s horror, he set off for her office without waiting for her.

Toni and Agatha hurried after him.

*   *   *

To Agatha’s further irritation, when she got to the office it was to find David Herythe seated behind her desk and going through the contents of her computer.

“Charles Fraith!” cried David. “What are you doing here?”

While Charles explained that he was a close friend of Agatha’s and the conversation turned to the sort of do-you-know about people Agatha had never met, she leaned over and switched off her computer. Still talking, David vacated her desk and walked round to join Charles.

“Why don’t we go for a drink?” said Charles.

“Great idea.” Both men headed for the door.

“Stop!” shouted Agatha.

They both turned around. Charles smiled at her sweetly and David raised his eyebrows.

“I mean,” said Agatha desperately, “you were supposed to find out something for me, David.”

“Oh, that. I’ve got as far as finding out how Tremund was murdered. He wasn’t strangled. He was struck on the head with some blunt instrument. A bag of stones was slung round his neck and he was tipped into the canal. The divers found it when they brought him up.”

“How did they know he was in the canal?” asked Agatha. “And when was he shoved in?”

“They haven’t done the pathology thoroughly yet, but some students have finally come forward. They said it was about three in the morning and they were coming back from a party when they heard a splash from the canal. One girl said she thought she saw a man’s head above the water and then it disappeared.”

“Why didn’t they come forward sooner?” asked Agatha.

“The police guess they had been on drugs and didn’t want to get involved, but one of them, a girl called Hayley Martin, got a fit of conscience and called in at the police station and reported what they had seen.”

“Did she see anyone else around?” asked Toni.

“She saw a dark figure on the towpath but couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman. Her friends told her to forget it, that it was just someone fly tipping.

“I went to see this Hayley Martin. I told her that anything she told me would not be reported to the police. She said the others were drunk and had been smoking pot. She said she didn’t take drugs and hadn’t had all that much to drink. I could see why the police took her story seriously. She’s a very pretty girl and very honest.

“Now, to Tremund’s office. His computer has been taken and as you saw, Agatha, papers and correspondence were scattered all over the place.”

“Did the police say whether Jill Davent kept tapes of her sessions?”

“Evidently she didn’t. That’s all I’ve got. Come along, Charles. All this talking has given me a thirst. I’ll be in touch, Agatha.”

*   *   *

Over drinks in the George, David said, “Are you in a relationship with that Raisin woman?”

“We are very close friends.”

“Didn’t think it could be anything else,” said David.

“Why?”

“Men like us can have a pick of the young ones,” said David. “Though I must admit Agatha is sexy. Might have a fling there.”

Charles rose to his feet. His light voice carried around the bar.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Why?”

“Because I’ll kill you,” said Charles and strode out of the hotel bar.

David Herythe was furious. People treated him with respect. He would bed Agatha and make sure Fraith heard about it.

He finished his drink and decided to return to his home in Summertown in Oxford.

He lived in a Victorian villa, one of the ones that had been built for the Oxford dons in the nineteenth century when the decision was made to allow them to live out of college and marry. It is the most expensive part of Oxford. He also had an apartment in the Inner Temple in London, one of the Inns of Court.

He parked his car in the short drive under a laburnum tree and got out, savouring the peace of the evening. He let himself in, reset the burglar alarm, went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of Chardonnay and carried it through to his desk in the office.

He started to make out a bill for his services at police headquarters to send to Agatha. That being done he opened the window wide, for the evening was warm, listening to the blackbirds singing and the hiss of traffic going down the Banbury road.

His phone rang. A gruff, sexless voice said, “If you want to know who done those murders, meet me at the Hythe Bridge canal in half an hour.” Then whoever it was rang off.

Now this is either some nutter or the real murderer, thought David. He phoned the police and told them about the call. They said they would send plainclothes detectives to keep watch.

As he got into his car and set off, he felt the thrill of the chase. He parked in the Worcester Road car park and walked round to Hythe Bridge. He could not recognise the detectives, but the road was busy with young people coming and going. As the time dragged past, he realised the call must have been a hoax. He phoned the police and said he had been the victim of a silly trick and he was going home.

As he parked, he noticed to his irritation that he had left his office window open in his excitement. He let himself in, reset the burglar alarm and decided to make himself an omelette before going to bed.

After he had eaten, he undressed, showered and went to bed. But he felt restless, tossing and turning until he decided to take two of his prescribed sleeping pills, the ones he had been trying so hard to do without.

With a sigh of relief, he settled back against the pillows. Soon his eyes closed and he was fast asleep.

He slept naked. A gloved hand came out of the darkness and gently pulled the covers down. Leaves were pressed against his chest. The figure moved silently away.

David jerked awake as palpitations racked his body. His body arched in convulsions, he writhed in agony and then fell into a coma.

The dark figure came back and picked the leaves from his body and then disappeared.

*   *   *

David Herythe’s cleaning woman, Mrs. Danby, let herself in the following morning. She reset the burglar alarm and went into the kitchen, hoping to be able to have a cup of tea before Mr. Herythe, whom she knew to be an early riser, descended the stairs.

She was not only able to have a cup of tea in peace but a cigarette as well. Then she began to clean the downstairs. When, by midmorning, her employer did not appear, she began to become worried. His car was in the drive. Heaving the old vacuum up the stairs and cursing her employer for being too mean to buy one of the newer, lighter ones, she left the machine on the landing and pushed open David’s bedroom door.

A shaft of sunlight shining in between a gap in the heavy curtains shone full on the twisted rictus of agony that was David’s face.

Mrs. Danby backed slowly away. She knew she should check for a pulse but she was too frightened to go anywhere near that awful death mask. She retreated to the landing and slammed the door, scrabbled in the pocket of her old trousers for her phone and called the police before going downstairs on shaky legs to cut off the burglar alarm and leave the door open.

*   *   *

Two police cars arrived, then three detectives and then the pathologist, followed closely by a forensic team, whose job it was to go over the whole house, while Mrs. Danby sat on a kitchen chair in the front garden, shivering despite the warmth of the day.

*   *   *

Agatha allowed a small television in the corner of her office to play the BBC’s twenty-four-hour news service, so long as the volume was turned low. She was just saying to Phil, “Get your cameras and we’ll try that adultery case again,” when Phil said, “Listen!” He went over and turned up the sound on the television. David Herythe’s face came up on the screen, dressed in wig and gown. “His body was found at his home in Oxford by his cleaner, Mrs. Danby,” the announcer was saying, “but the police do not suspect foul play. Preliminary reports suggest that the eminent barrister died of a massive heart attack.”

“Don’t believe it,” said Agatha. “Where’s Patrick?”

“At the supermarket, checking out the staff to see who’s been nicking the electric goods.”

Agatha phoned him and told him about Herythe. “Have you any contacts in the Thames Valley Police?” she asked.

“I’ve got one. I’ll see what I can find out.”

Agatha rang off and turned to Simon. “Find out this Mrs. Danby’s address and get over there. It must be murder.”

*   *   *

It was evening before Simon was able to track down the cleaner who lived in tower block on the Blackbird Leys council estate. The door was opened by a young woman with an improbable colour of aubergine hair, two nose rings, and holding a screaming baby.

“Mrs. Danby?” asked Simon.

“Naw, she ain’t speaking to no press, so get lost.”

“I’m not press. I’m a detective,” said Simon.

“Oh, well, that’s different. Hey, Beryl,” she called, “another of them police.”

Simon knew he should reveal his proper identity but he decided to do that as he was leaving.

He was ushered into a filthy living room, showing that some cleaners can’t be bothered with their own homes after they’ve finished cleaning someone else’s. Empty pizza boxes littered the floor, empty beer cans spilled over out of a plastic bin in the corner and old newspapers and magazines were piled up everywhere.

The woman with the baby said, “I’m off home, Mum, to get Frank’s tea. I’ll be round in the morning.”

When she had gone, Simon said, “Just a few questions, Mrs. Danby.”

“Could you give me a minute to change?” said Mrs. Danby. She raised one powerful freckled arm and sniffed her armpit. “I stink something awful.”

“Go ahead,” said Simon. When she had gone, he opened a window wide because it wasn’t only Mrs. Danby’s armpits that stank.

*   *   *

Mrs. Danby went into her bedroom and stripped off her blouse and trousers. Her trousers were too long for her and she had rolled up the bottoms. She took the trousers and threw them on top of a pile of clothes in the laundry basket. A large leaf which had been stuck to the bottom of the trousers fell at her feet. She automatically picked it up and rolled it between her fingers while she wondered if she had anything clean to wear.

She suddenly clutched her heart as she was seized by a violent allergic reaction. “Help!” she shrieked.

Simon came running in, looked at her contorted face and wondered why the matronly Mrs. Danby was wearing a scarlet thong. He phoned for an ambulance.

Desperate to do something, he went into the kitchen, filled a glass of water, poured a pile of salt into it, mixed it up and took it to her. “Drink!” he shouted. He got her to take a large gulp and then she vomited all over the floor. “Did you eat or drink something bad?” he asked.

“Leaf,” she said weakly. “That there leaf.”

Simon heard the wail of a siren. He took out a little plastic back and put on gloves. He lifted the leaf carefully into the bag.

“What’s your daughter’s phone number?” he asked.

“On the wall. Above the kitchen phone. Josie Maller.”

*   *   *

The ambulance men arrived, closely followed by two policemen and a detective. The woman was Detective Sergeant Ruby Carson. She had blond hair and deep blue eyes. Simon forgot all about Toni and fell in love on the spot. He rapidly told Ruby and the paramedics about the leaf. She said she would take his statement while waiting for the pathologist and a forensic team to arrive, while they sat in her car.

Said Ruby, after Simon had reverently handed her the little plastic bag with the leaf inside, “I’ll phone the hospital in a few minutes to make sure she’s still alive. I’ll give this leaf to the forensic lab.” She took his statement down, printed it off on her mobile printer and got him to sign it.

“It all seems to have started in that village where your boss lives,” said Ruby. “What’s the connection?”

“David Herythe was on holiday and keen to do a bit of detecting,” said Simon. “He dies. His cleaning woman picks up this discarded leaf and has a seizure. Jill Davent, that therapist, I am sure, found out something about someone, and whatever it was panicked a murderer.”

“I’ll just phone the hospital.” Simon waited while Ruby phoned, studying her attractive profile. How old was she? Maybe a good bit older than he was. He wondered whether to ask her out.