As The Pig Turns

Couldn’t they do better than that?’
    Joanna Tripp, neat in a pink blouse and evening skirt, small features and heavy glasses, looked at Agatha with disgust. ‘You are a truly horrible woman,’ she remarked.
    Joanna wrote ‘sweet’ poems about the Cotswolds in the local magazines and newspapers. Even to Agatha’s half-educated mind, they seemed like doggerel.
    She surveyed the poetess and said, ‘Why don’t you shut up and go away / And live to fight another day.’
    The three women moved their chairs closer together as if for comfort and began to talk to one another in low whispers.
    The soup was followed by a plate of chicken and mashed potatoes in a gummy white sauce. The George was usually famous for its food. As that course was followed by a sliver of cheesecake, Agatha reflected that it was the most cut-price meal she had ever endured.
    As the coffee was served, Guy Brandon took the microphone. Most of the men at the banquet were wearing black tie, but Guy was wearing a pale blue sweater over a striped shirt and very tight jeans.
    He began to ‘amuse’. He twittered, he clowned, he laughed hilariously at his own jokes, and in all, thought Agatha, he bored for Britain.
    The evening wore on. Guy had a very loud voice. There was a speaker right over Agatha’s table, and she began to feel that endless voice was booming inside her head. People began to shift restlessly, and the laughter grew thin and sporadic. Only the other three contestants at last were left to laugh sycophantically at each new sally.
    At last, the mayor, seated behind Guy on the stage, leaned forward and tapped his watch.
    ‘Ah, yes . . .’ Guy beamed. ‘The great moment. If you will just pass me that envelope, Mayor. Who have we here?’ He grinned at the audience. ‘And the winner is . . .’ Long silence.
    Someone shouted, ‘Oh, get on with it!’
    Guy scowled. ‘The winner is . . . Mrs Agatha Raisin! Come on up, Mrs Raisin!’ he cried.
    Cameras flashed as Agatha made her way to the little stage. Guy flung an arm around her shoulders. ‘What have you got to say? You must be overwhelmed.’
    ‘I have to say this,’ said Agatha, seizing the microphone. ‘I am sure you would all like to know how the judging is done. Listen to this.’ She held a tape recorder up to the microphone and switched it on. The whole room could clearly hear Guy suggesting she pay him and the other judges for the prize.
    When the recording had finished, Guy began to back off the stage, and a chorus of jeers and catcalls rang in his ears. The newspaper reporters were furious because all this was too late for the morning editions and television would scoop the lot. But each reporter decided to do a really nasty piece on Guy for the day afterwards.
    Agatha raised her hands for silence. ‘In view of this chicanery,’ she said, ‘I think the prize should be divided up amongst the three other nominees and that each of them should be given the title of Woman of the Year. Come along, girls.’
    Guy fled. The three women who had spent the evening loathing Agatha all now joined her with beaming smiles.
    Bill Wong, watching local television news before he went to work, stared at the screen in a mixture of anger and dismay. Didn’t Agatha know that it was important these days to keep a low profile? Guy Brandon was interviewed. He said it had all been a bit of a joke that Mrs Raisin had taken seriously. She had a reputation as being a pushy and ambitious woman, and he had just wondered how far she would go. The interviewer then demanded why he had gone ahead and elected her. He hummed and hawed and mumbled something and then fled the studio after unplugging his microphone.
    Agatha found Bill waiting for her as she opened up her office. She had never seen the usually placid detective so angry.
    ‘How could you?’ he raged. ‘The minute you had that tape you should have come to us. This is not the time to have a high profile. You’re as bad as Roy. Grabbing publicity no matter what. You are a very silly woman.’
    ‘It was nothing to do with the case,’ howled Agatha defiantly. ‘Anyway, I’ll bet you’re no further forward in finding who murdered either Gary Beech or his ex-wife.’
    ‘We’re pursuing certain leads,’ said Bill.
    ‘Oh, yeah? Well, that means you’ve got zilch. I watch these real-life forensic programmes on TV and they always seem to find someone through a bit of hair or dust.’
    ‘If you were watching properly, you might have