As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,45

away. But there were a good few smokers enjoying their after-lunch coffees, and they all looked very British.

As he hesitated in the doorway, a small, silver-haired man got to his feet and waved him over. ‘Mr Powell said you would be looking for me,’ he said. He had a slight trace of accent. His eyes, like Bill’s, were slightly elongated, but as grey and cold as the North Sea. He was wearing a lightweight cream-coloured suit with a blue shirt and striped silk tie. He had thick grey skin, a small mouth and nose and odd pointed ears.

‘Please sit down,’ he said. ‘Coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Why are you interested in Mrs Raisin’s cottage?’

‘What are you talking about? I have been looking at many properties.’

‘Mrs Raisin’s cottage is in Lilac Lane in Carsely.’

‘Ah, yes, Carsely. I liked it. I want a new home for my daughter. So typically English. What has this to do with the police?’

Bill told him.

Staikov raised well-manicured hands in dismay. ‘I did not know. I do not read the newspapers. I am retired. My son now runs the business. I wish the quiet English life.’

‘What is your nationality?’ asked Bill.

‘I am originally from Bulgaria, but I married a British woman and settled here some twenty years ago.’

‘What was your business?’

‘Clothing. Suede, leather, that sort of thing. My son now runs the business. Country Fashions. Our place is out in the industrial estate.’

‘Would you mind if I had a look around your premises?’

He shrugged. ‘Go ahead. You British have only to hear the word Bulgarian and you think Mafia.’

Toni had waited until Bill had left police headquarters and followed him to the estate agent’s and then to the George. Once again, she went into the George. The restaurant was now empty apart from one couple, but she heard the sound of voices from the terrace, approached it and had a quick look, where she saw Bill talking to a silver-haired man.

Toni found a seat in the reception area, half-shielded by a cheese plant, and waited. Bill was not very long. After ten minutes, the man he had been talking to went out. Toni followed. He got into a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. Toni wished she had brought her car.

She approached the desk. She was just wondering whether to pose as a reporter when the receptionist said, ‘What can I do for you, Miss Gilmour?’

Toni cursed Agatha’s penchant for getting their photos in the newspapers and on television. ‘I just wondered about the identity of that gentleman who just left?’

‘Oh, that would be Mr Staikov.’

‘Film business?’

‘No, clothing business.’

The receptionist turned away to deal with someone else. Toni made her way to the offices of the Mircester Mercury, where she knew an old school friend, John Worthing, had a job as a reporter.

John was delighted to see her. He was an owlish young man with limp brown hair. He had been bullied at school until he had come under the protection of the tough and popular Toni.

‘I haven’t seen you in ages,’ he said. ‘Anytime there’s a story about you, the chief reporter gets it.’

‘I’m here to ask a favour.’

‘Anything.’

‘Could you look up a man called Staikov in your files?’

‘Sure. Hasn’t your voice got posh!’

‘It’s not posh. It’s neutral,’ said Toni. ‘Be a love and get cracking.’

‘Wait till I heat up the computer.’

‘You are on broadband, aren’t you?’

‘Mircester Broadband.’

Toni grinned in sympathy. Mircester Internet connection was rumoured to be the slowest in Gloucestershire.

At last he gave a grunt of triumph. ‘Here he is. We did a story when he retired last year. He has a clothing business out on the industrial estate. Originally from Bulgaria. Imports leather mostly. Rags-to-riches story. Arrived here pretty broke and made a fortune.’

‘I wonder how he got British nationality?’

‘Married an English local. She died four years ago.’

‘What did she die of?’

‘Hang on.’ John clicked away. ‘Ah, here we are. Fell down a flight of stairs.’

‘Did she now,’ remarked Toni, feeling a stir of excitement. ‘Got a report of the inquest?’

‘Here we go. Verdict, accident. Pathologist said she was as drunk as a skunk.’

‘What’s the name of this clothing firm?’ asked Toni.

‘Country Fashions.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Toni, wait a minute. Do you think we might meet up one evening?’

He looked at her with pleading eyes, and Toni suddenly remembered a younger John, crying in the corner of the playground.

‘I’m pretty busy,’ she said diplomatically. But as his face fell, she said quickly, ‘I tell you what I’ll do for you. Give me your card, and if I’ve got a big