Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

used to be glad of my help.’
    ‘That was before you nearly got yourself killed on several occasions. You may not realize it, but I am fond of you, Agatha.’
    ‘Now you’ve done it,’ said Charles, as fat tears began to spill down Agatha’s cheeks.
    ‘What did I say?’ asked Bill, as Agatha mopped her face.
    ‘She’s a bit fragile. Come on, Aggie, let’s get going.’ Charles put a hand under her arm and helped her to her feet.
    Turnpike Lane, Worcester, where Melissa’s first husband lived, turned out to lie in the outskirts of the town in a modern housing development. ‘You want to go on with this?’ asked Charles, as he parked outside number 5.
    ‘Yes, I’m all right.’
    ‘You’ve got a soft centre after all, Aggie.’
    ‘How many times do I have to tell you not to call me Aggie? My husband may be dead, he is suspected of murder, and that’s enough to upset anyone. Now are we going to talk to this man or not?’
    They got out of the car and stood looking at the house. It was raw-looking, the stone a harsh yellowish colour, and was surrounded by identical houses. ‘He hasn’t bothered much about the garden,’ commented Charles, looking at the weedy earth in front of the house, which was still dotted with bits of builders’ rubble.
    Charles rang the white bell-push on the white-painted door. Agatha was once more struck by the fact that there were no children playing about. Children rushed indoors after school these days to surf the Internet or watch television or play computer games.
    A woman walking a dog stood at the garden gate and studied them. ‘Want anything?’ called Agatha.
    ‘I represent Neighbourhood Watch in this area,’ she said, ‘and I haven’t seen you before.’
    ‘Well, now you have,’ snapped Agatha. ‘And I’ve got a gun. Bang, bang, you’re dead!’ She turned back and stared impatiently at the closed door.
    She was just about to say to Charles that it did not look as if their quarry was at home, when the door opened a crack and one pale eye surveyed them.
    ‘Mr Dewey?’ said Agatha.
    ‘I’m not buying anything.’
    ‘We’re not selling anything,’ said Agatha crossly. ‘I am Mrs Agatha Raisin and this is Sir Charles Fraith. We would like to talk to you.’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘Melissa Sheppard.’
    ‘Oh, her.’ The door swung open.
    ‘Everything all right, Mr Dewey?’ called the woman at the garden gate and her dog gave a shrill bark.
    ‘We’re only here to shoot him,’ called Agatha to the woman. She turned back. ‘Do let us in, Mr Dewey. We can’t talk on the doorstep with that tiresome woman watching us.’
    ‘Come in.’
    Charles took a look back down the garden path and saw the representative of Neighbourhood Watch pull a mobile phone out of her pocket. He felt he should say something, but Agatha was already walking into the house, so he gave a shrug and followed her.
    The small living-room into which Mr Dewey led them was as characterless as the outside of the house. Fitted brown carpet covered the floor. There was a new three-piece suite, the sofa having a shell-shaped design. One coffee-table in plain wood. No pictures, photographs, books or magazines softened the starkness of the room. Agatha wondered if he lived in the kitchen.
    ‘Mr Dewey,’ she began when they were seated.
    ‘John,’ he said. ‘You may call me John.’
    A small, slight man with closed features and gold-rimmed glasses, he was wearing a white T-shirt, jeans with ironed creases down the front, glittering white sneakers and, over his clothes, a plastic apron decorated with fat roses which reminded Agatha of Megan’s cups.
    ‘Well, John,’ she said, ‘you may have read about us in the papers.’
    ‘Yes, you’re that woman whose husband killed Melissa.’
    ‘That’s just the point. We don’t think he did. Before he disappeared, he was attacked and we think that whoever attacked him killed Melissa.’
    ‘I don’t see the point of these questions,’ he said. ‘I mean, I’ve told the police all I know.’
    ‘We’re asking a different sort of question,’ said Agatha. ‘We would like to find out what Melissa was really like. I mean, if there was anything in her character that would drive anyone to murder her.’
    ‘She was just an ordinary sort of person, bit irritating.’
    ‘But you divorced her.’
    ‘No, she divorced me. We didn’t quarrel about it, you know. I didn’t argue. I bought this house after the divorce. Suits me to have my own