Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

quiches you bought.’
    ‘Did you tell the police this?’ asked Agatha.
    The Greek looked horrified. ‘I didn’t want to put the police on to my cousin.’ He looked at Agatha solemnly.
    Agatha stared at him in bafflement and then the light dawned. ‘Is it the immigration police you’re frightened of?’
    He nodded. ‘My cousin’s daughter’s fiancé came on a visitor’s visa and they married in the Greek Orthodox Church but haven’t yet registered with the British authorities and he is working for his father-in-law without a work permit and so . . .’ He gave a massive shrug.
    Agatha did not know anything about work permits but she did know from her dealings with foreign models in the past that they were paranoid about being deported. ‘So it was just as well Mrs Cummings-Browne didn’t sue,’ she said.
    A shutter came down over his eyes. Two customers walked into the shop and he said a hurried goodbye before scuttling back behind the counter.
    Agatha finished her coffee and took a stroll around her old haunts. She had a light lunch at the Stock Pot and then decided an air-conditioned cinema would be the best way to pass the afternoon. A little voice in her head was telling her that if she was determined to move back to London, she should start looking for a flat to live in and business premises to work from, but she shrugged the voice away. There was time enough, and besides, it was too hot. She bought an Evening Standard and discovered that a cinema off Leicester Square was showing a rerun of Disney’s Jungle Book . So she went there and enjoyed the film and came out with the pleasurable prospect of seeing Roy, feeling sure that he would galvanize her into starting her new business.
    It was hard, she thought, when she descended to the hotel bar at seven thirty, to get used to the new Roy. There he was with a conventional haircut and a sober business suit and an imitation of a Guards regimental tie.
    He hailed her affectionately. Agatha bought him a double gin and asked him how his nursery project was going and he said it was coming along nicely and that they had made him a junior executive and had given him a private office and a secretary because they were so impressed by his getting his photo in the Sunday Times . ‘Have another gin,’ said Agatha, wishing that Roy were still unhappy at Pedmans.
    He grinned. ‘You forget I’ve seen the old Aggie in action. Fill ’em up with booze and then go in for the kill over coffee. Break the habit, Aggie. Hit me with whatever is on your mind before we get to dinner.’
    ‘All right,’ said Agatha. She looked around. The bar was getting crowded. ‘Let’s take our drinks to that table over there.’
    Once they were both settled, she leaned forward and looked at him intently. ‘I’ll come straight out with it, Roy. I’m coming back to London. I’m going to set up in business again and I want you to be my partner.’
    ‘Why? You’re through with the mess. You’ve got that lovely cottage and that lovely village . . .’
    ‘And I’m dying of boredom.’
    ‘You haven’t given it time, Aggie. You haven’t settled in yet.’
    ‘Well, if you’re not interested,’ said Agatha sulkily.
    ‘Aggie, Pedmans is big, one of the biggest. You know that. I’ve got a great future in front of me. I’m taking it seriously now instead of camping about a few pop groups. I want to get out of pop groups. One of them hits the charts and then, two weeks later, no one wants to know. And you know why? The pop business has become all hype and no substance. No tunes. All thump, thump, thump for the discos. Sales are a fraction of what they used to be. And do you know why I want to stick with Pedmans? I’m on my way up and fast. And I plan to get what you’ve got – a cottage in the Cotswolds.
    ‘Look, Aggie, no one wants to live in cities any more. The new generation is getting Americanized. Get up early enough in the morning and you don’t need to live in London. Besides, I’m thinking of getting married.’
    ‘Oh, pull the other one,’ said Agatha rudely. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever taken a girl out in your life.’
    ‘That’s all you know. The thing is that Mr Wilson likes his execs to be married.’
    ‘And who’s the lucky girl?’
    ‘Haven’t found her yet. But some nice quiet girl will do. There are lots around. Someone to cook the meals and iron the shirts.’
    Really, thought Agatha crossly, under the exterior of every effeminate man