As The Pig Turns

of instant coffee before being taken off to police headquarters to endure hours of questioning.
    He had planned to give a highly embroidered account, but faced with Wilkes’s severe face and Bill Wong’s admonitory stare, he told nothing but the truth. He omitted only his frantic prayer. In the light of day, praying to God seemed such a wimpish thing to have done. I don’t want to lose my street cred, thought Roy.
    At last the questioning was over. Now to face the cameras, thought Roy. But he waited over an hour before being hustled out of a back door where Alice was waiting to drive him to Carsely.
    ‘The press are following us,’ said Alice. ‘Do you want me to shake them off?’
    ‘No, no!’ screeched Roy. ‘I can handle them.’
    To his delight, just after Alice drove off after leaving him outside Agatha’s cottage, he saw the vanguard of the press arrive. He had changed into jeans and a T-shirt because his retro clothes were a wreck.
    He was standing on Agatha’s doorstep, clearing his throat and waiting for his big moment to begin, when the door behind him opened and Agatha Raisin said, ‘You horrible little man,’ in a loud, clear voice.
    ‘But Aggie,’ pleaded Roy, ‘I’ve been kidnapped and could have been murdered.’
    James appeared behind Agatha and drew her back into the house. ‘He’s been through a lot. Let him have his bit of fame.’
    Roy rallied but gave a plainer statement than he would have otherwise done and therefore a more impressive one.
    When he finally joined Agatha and James in the kitchen, it was to find Mrs Bloxby there as well.
    Agatha gave him a cup of coffee. They had heard his story through the open front door.
    ‘That was a miraculous thing to happen,’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘I mean that thunderbolt.’
    Roy glanced at Mrs Bloxby and blushed to the roots of his newly gelled hair. To Alice’s annoyance, Roy had insisted on stopping at a chemist’s on the road to Carsely to buy an extra tub of gel and then had gone through contortions in the front seat of the police car, trying to peer in the driving mirror.
    ‘Why are you blushing?’ demanded Agatha suspiciously.
    ‘It must really have been a divine deliverance,’ said Mrs Bloxby gently. ‘Were you praying, Roy?’
    ‘Ever so hard,’ said Roy, and began to sob, dry sobs like a child who has nearly cried itself out.
    ‘There, now,’ said Agatha, visibly softening towards him. ‘I think it would be best if you had something to eat and a lie-down. Phone your boss and say you won’t be in on Monday.’
    ‘What if they come for me again?’ asked Roy.
    ‘You come to the vicarage with me,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I won’t tell anyone except the police where you are.’
    Roy meekly and gratefully allowed himself to be led away.
    Agatha and James were joined by Bill Wong and Alice just after Roy had left. Agatha told them that Roy was at the vicarage.
    When they were all seated round the table, Bill began. ‘This is obviously not the work of some lone psycho. It’s not someone who thought they got a parking ticket too many. This looks like a gang, and that usually means drugs or prostitution.
    ‘But there has been no evidence 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