As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,40

of drug dealing on a large scale in Mircester, or of any prostitution ring. What use could a market-town copper like Gary Beech be to a criminal gang? It must be something so good and so profitable that they have been driven to murder, intimidation and kidnap.’

‘Terrorism?’ suggested James.

‘The intelligence services have not found anything.’

‘That doesn’t mean to say it doesn’t exist,’ Agatha pointed out. ‘But, say these people were terrorists. What good would Beech have been to them?’

‘He was always ferreting around,’ said Bill. ‘He could have discovered enough to blackmail them.’

‘But,’ protested James, ‘why, with Beech out of the way, still go after Agatha? Maybe they thought Roy was her son.’

Agatha bridled. She hated to be reminded of her age.

‘The thing is,’ said Bill slowly, ‘you are all at risk: you, Agatha, James and your staff. In the past there has been a lot in the media about your successes, Agatha. They want to make sure you don’t find out anything.’

‘Was there any clue in that—’ Agatha coloured and bit her lip. She had been about to ask if the ledger found in Beech’s secret room had given them any clues.

‘In what?’ demanded Bill suspiciously.

‘In, for example, the cottage to which Roy was taken. Who does it belong to?’

‘It’s a derelict building out in the fields of a farm that’s been on the market for the past six months. The farmer is in an old folks’ home, and his heirs don’t want to continue with the farm and so no one lives there. No fingerprints. The storm scrubbed everything pretty clean when part of the roof caved in. By the way, that vicar who gave Roy a lift to Chipping Norton Police Station would like to be paid for the phone calls.’

‘Which calls?’ asked Agatha.

‘Roy asked if he could borrow the man’s mobile to call his mother.’

‘She’s dead!’

‘Anyway, he used it to phone a lot of the media.’

Agatha sighed. ‘I’ll make sure Roy pays him back.’ She suddenly felt low as she looked at Bill’s pleasant face. Bill was the only normal man she knew. James was a cold fish, Charles was flighty, and Roy, a publicity-grabbing pain in the fundament. At that moment, Bill exchanged a smile with pretty Alice, and Agatha felt a stabbing pang of jealousy.

‘Now,’ said Bill. ‘We will put a guard on your cottage and one on your office. But we cannot guard the homes of all of your staff. For your own safety, you should close your business, let everyone go off somewhere safe and leave the detection to the police.’

‘In the middle of a recession!’ exclaimed Agatha.

‘You would not like anything to happen to Toni, for example,’ said Bill. ‘I want you to announce in the press that you are dropping all your investigations into this case to protect your staff. At least will you do that?’

Their conversation had been periodically interrupted by rings at the doorbell. ‘The press are still outside, Agatha. Go and do it now.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Agatha. ‘I must admit, whoever they are, they’ve really got me scared.’

They waited while she made her statement.

She eventually returned in a bad temper. The press had seen her capitulation as possibly the end to more horror stories and had tried to goad her about ‘giving in’.

After Bill and Alice had left, James stayed on guard with Agatha, pointing out that she was at risk until her story appeared in the news. Agatha was waiting for workmen to come and beef up her security, change the locks and change the burglar-alarm code and for a local man to put bars on all the downstairs windows.

James made an omelette for lunch and then waited with Agatha until the workmen had finished.

‘I think you should move in with me,’ he said again.

Agatha gave a reluctant smile. ‘May I smoke?’

‘No.’

‘Then no thanks. But thanks all the same for sticking by me and looking after my cats. I’ll go to the office now, and tell everyone to leave the investigation into Beech’s death alone.’

‘Including you?’

‘Yes, including me,’ said Agatha.

Everything seemed to go very quiet in Agatha’s life after her statement appeared on television and in the press.

May came in, cold, blustery and rainy, but then cleared up into long, sunny days.

Agatha had prepared herself carefully for the Woman of the Year banquet. Her favourite hairdresser, Jeanelle, had recoloured her hair to a rich, glossy brown, and her beautician, Dawn, had performed a series of nonsurgical face-lifts. Agatha felt ready for what she privately considered