As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,38

dinnertime – teatime for the elderly residents – and everyone in the village had been indoors, or that was the way it seemed, because the police received the same reply as they went from door to door – no one had seen anything.

Roy scrubbed his eyes dry with the sleeve of his shirt as the cottage seemed to rock under the ferocity of the storm breaking overhead.

In all his misery and fear, there was one little nugget of comfort – he had not fouled himself. He had read in books that people did that under duress.

He tried to be calm and search the room for any possible means of escape, but his legs were trembling too much and he sat down on the floor and began to sob. He had never believed in God, had been almost proud of the fact, but now, in extremis, he prayed for deliverance as he had never prayed before as the storm roared in ferocity.

Then, as his sobbing subsided, he suddenly felt exhausted and weary.

His eyes were just closing as he sat with his back to the wall when there was a tremendous explosion. He was to find out later that a thunderbolt had hit the roof. The door to his room was blown open as if by dynamite.

He staggered to his feet, his only thought one of escape. He no longer cared if his captors were lurking around. He ran through a wrecked, smouldering kitchen and out into the driving rain.

Roy looked around wildly. A jagged flash of lightning lit up his surroundings. Nothing but fields on either side. But far in the distance, he could see headlights of cars on a road.

He half ran, half stumbled, across fields, soaked to the skin, as the thunder rumbled off in the distance, and on the horizon, he could see one small pale star in the sky.

He finally reached the main road and stood waving his arms frantically at cars. He looked a weird figure, and at first, it seemed as if no one was going to stop. At last a small Volkswagen pulled up. A man in a dog collar got out and asked, ‘Are you in trouble?’

‘Take me to the nearest police station,’ begged Roy.

Agatha sat by the phone in her cottage. Her friend Mrs Bloxby held her hand. Equipment had been set up to record any calls. Two men crouched over it. Alice Peterson, the pretty detective constable, was making another pot of tea.

‘I’ll never forgive myself,’ said Agatha for the umpteenth time. ‘The whole horror of finding that head is beginning to get to me. I should never have let Roy come on a visit.’

‘You weren’t to know. Where is Mr Lacey?’

‘Out searching for Roy.’

‘And Sir Charles?’

‘Haven’t even tried to reach him. I’ll put on the television.’ There was a small set on the kitchen counter.

Agatha switched it on to the 24-hour BBC News. Alice said, ‘If he had been found, he would have phoned you.’

‘Not if it’s his dead body that’s been found,’ said Agatha.

The evening dragged on into the early hours of the morning. Agatha fell asleep with her head on the table. Mrs Bloxby quietly left.

Alice, seated on a chair next to Agatha, felt her eyes begin to close. Suddenly, the voice of the news presenter crashed into her thoughts: ‘Breaking news. Public relations officer Roy Silver, friend of detective Agatha Raisin, who claims he was kidnapped, is at Chipping Norton Police Station, and we are just awaiting his comments.’

‘Wake up!’ cried Alice, shaking Agatha.

‘What?’

‘Roy’s been found. He’s in Chipping Norton Police Station and about to emerge and make a statement.’

The camera showed the outside of the police station, where a large number of press and television reporters and cameramen were gathered.

‘The bastard!’ hissed Agatha. ‘Do you know what he’s done? Somehow he got free and got help, and instead of phoning me or the police at Mircester, he must have got hold of someone’s phone and called Associated Press and every television company he could think of. I’d better phone Mrs Bloxby. No, on second thought better not. The vicar would be furious if I woke them up in the middle of the night for any reason.’

‘Would you like to go over to Chipping Norton?’

‘No,’ said Agatha grumpily. ‘I’m going to bed.’

Roy had forgotten about the miracle of his deliverance. He was addicted to appearing on television.

He had begged the vicar for use of his mobile ‘to phone his mother’. Roy’s mother had died when he was