As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,8

on this case. Get Police Sergeant Tulloch in here.’

When Tulloch entered the room, Wilkes said, ‘Are they all in the briefing room? I’ll be along in a few moments.’

‘All there,’ said Tulloch, a burly Scot with a shock of fair hair. ‘Oh, except Beech. I’ve phoned his home, but there’s no reply.’

Wilkes and Bill looked at each other in sudden consternation. ‘You don’t think . . .’ began Wilkes.

‘He’s never missed a day before,’ said Bill uneasily.

‘Get round there,’ said Wilkes, ‘and take Detective Peterson with you.’

Bill brightened. Alice Peterson had recently joined them from Gloucester CID to replace Detective Collins, an acidulous woman, who, to Bill’s relief, had finally secured a transfer to London – not to Scotland Yard, her ambition, but to Brixton.

Alice was clever and almost pretty with her neat dark curls and blue eyes.

On the road to Beech’s home, Bill told her about Agatha Raisin’s odd idea. ‘I’ve heard about Mrs Raisin,’ said Alice. ‘She has had a lot of successes in the past. Everyone says she just blunders into things and gets lucky, but I think she must be clever.’

‘In this case, I hope not. Here we are.’

Bill parked in front of a trim little cottage on the outskirts of Winter Parva.

‘Why doesn’t he live in Mircester?’ asked Alice.

‘It’s cheaper here, he says. Let’s go.’

There was no doorbell, but there was a large brass door-knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Bill performed an energetic rat-a-tat on it.

Silence.

Both detectives looked at each other. They knew from experience that empty houses have a particular silence.

Bill tried the door. ‘It’s locked,’ he said, ‘and the curtains at the front window are closed. I’ll go round the back. You keep an eye on the front.’

The previous night’s fog had thinned to a mist. Bill went along a path at the side of the house. There was a conservatory at the back of the house. Bill looked in.

It was a mess. Plants had been pulled out of their pots and lay on the floor. Bill called Alice, who came hurrying round to join him.

‘We’re going to have to break in,’ said Bill.

‘Try the conservatory door first,’ urged Alice.

Bill turned the handle and the door opened. ‘We’d better suit up,’ said Bill. When they were covered in their blue plastic forensic suits, they stepped inside, calling, ‘Beech!’ in loud voices.

They entered the kitchen. Every canister, box of cereal and bag of flour had been emptied on to the floor. They then went to the living room, followed by a search of a small dining room, and then went upstairs to the bedrooms. Chaos was everywhere: drawers pulled out, clothes thrown around, mattresses slit open. Everywhere in the house appeared to have been frantically searched. Floorboards were torn up, curtains pulled down and carpets ripped up.

The sinister silence of the house and the outside village seemed to press on their ears. Bill opened the door to the bathroom and let out an exclamation of dismay.

There was blood everywhere. It was spattered up the walls and all over the bath.

They retreated outside and sat in their car with the engine running to keep warm. ‘Agatha was right,’ said Bill. ‘How does she do it?’

‘I noticed something odd,’ said Alice.

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ve a brother in the antiques business. Some of those pieces of furniture in the living room are very valuable. How could a mere constable afford, say, a Georgian bureau?’

‘Beats me. I hear sirens. There’s nothing we can do now until the Scenes of Crimes Operatives are finished. I hope they find the head.’

‘What?’

‘Gary Beech’s head. I wonder what happened to that?’

Agatha and Roy went to the pub for dinner that evening. The pub was crowded, but Agatha managed to thrust her way through to the only vacant table, reaching it before a stocky villager, Mrs Benson, was about to claim it.

‘I’ll just need to join you,’ said Mrs Benson.

‘You can’t,’ said Agatha, still too upset by the horror of the murder to be polite. ‘We want to talk in private.’

‘Well, I never did!’ exclaimed Mrs Benson.

‘Then start,’ said Agatha, sitting down and turning her back on the woman.

Mrs Benson glared at her and then left the pub in a huff. She looked at her watch. It was coming up to seven o’clock. If she hurried, she could listen to The Archers on Radio 4 and make some toasted cheese.

Before The Archers, the news came on. She listened as the announcer said that the murdered man was a policeman named Gary Beech.