Free Dishing the Dirt by M. C. Beaton

demolished a plate of sausage, eggs, bacon and chips, all washed down with coffee. Then she managed to secure an appointment for a facial at a beauty parlour and feeling refreshed and newly made-up, she called in at the George Hotel bar for a double gin and tonic before finally taking up a position in the car park opposite police headquarters, where she could watch for Bill coming out.
    At last she saw him emerging and called to him. “Get in the car,” ordered Agatha. “I’ve got something to show you.”
    “What have you been up to now?” asked Bill.
    “This came through my letter box,” said Agatha. She had carefully wiped the book free of prints other than her own, because she thought that they might have Jenny Harcourt’s fingerprints on file, as the woman was a kleptomaniac. Agatha suddenly wondered if Jill had hidden the book in that desk or if Jenny had stolen it.
    “What do you think it is?” asked Bill.
    “It looks to me of a record of blackmailing payments,” said Agatha. “There is only one initial at each payment.”
    Bill had that sixth sense that a few good detectives are blessed with and he was suddenly sure that Agatha had not just received the book through her letter box.
    “You’d better come back to the station with me and make a statement,” he said. “Are you telling me the truth? This really did come through your letter box?”
    “Would I lie to you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, Bill. Wilkes will get in on the act and he’ll bully me.”
    “He’s off duty. Come along.”
    *   *   *
    As Bill carefully took down Agatha’s statement, he seemed to turn from friend to efficient detective. When exactly had she found the book? Why had she taken so long to contact the police? She should have phoned right away.
    Exasperated, Agatha complained, “I wanted to tell you! Right! I did not want Wilkes accusing me of murder or interfering in a police investigation.” At last the ledger was bagged up and she was free to leave. “Coming for a drink?” she asked.
    “No,” said Bill. “I’ll need to get onto this right away, and, sorry, but I’ll need to contact Wilkes at home.”
    “Did you find out who sent me that poisonous bouquet?”
    “Yes. One of the market traders said he found the flowers on his stall with a letter and a fifty-pound note asking him to deliver it to you. He didn’t want to leave his stall, so he gave that little boy the bouquet to take to your office. Just think, Agatha. If he hadn’t been so honest, he could have pocketed the money and taken the flowers home to his wife.”
    *   *   *
    When Agatha parked outside her cottage, James came hurrying to meet her. “There’s something you should know,” he said.
    “What?”
    “I think Davent gets highlights put in his hair and that dimple on his chin, I’ll bet, was put there by a cosmetic surgeon.”
    “So what?” demanded Agatha. “I’ve just had a facial.”
    “It’s different for men. He’s probably gay.”
    “If he’s gay, why has he asked me out on a date?”
    “Probably to bump you off, you silly woman.”
    “Oh, go and take a running jump, you tiresome bore.”
    James swung round and stomped off.
    Agatha was just about to unlock her door, when a car bearing Wilkes and Bill drove up, followed by a forensic unit. Agatha groaned. Of course, they would want to check her door for fingerprints.
    “Get in the car,” ordered Wilkes. “We’ve got to let the forensic boys do their stuff.”
    “No,” said Agatha. “I don’t want to sit in a stuffy car. You can interview me in the pub.”
    *   *   *
    It was a warm, humid evening. They sat at a table in the pub garden, away from the other drinkers.
    To Agatha’s relief, Wilkes was less suspicious than Bill. But while she talked, Agatha was aware of Bill’s almond-shaped eyes fastened on her face, those beautiful eyes he had inherited from his Chinese father. Bill Wong had been her first friend after she had moved to the Cotswolds.