As The Pig Turns

a quick look inside the dining room. There was no sign of Fiona. She boldly asked at the desk whether a Mrs Fiona Richards was in the hotel and learned to her dismay that she had left.
    It must have happened while I was talking to that estate agent, thought Toni. I’m suspicious of everyone and everything. Does this estate agent really exist?
    She was just crossing the square to police headquarters when she saw Bill Wong about to get into his car and hailed him. Toni decided it would be better to say nothing about watching Fiona, as they had all been warned off.
    She told him about the estate agent and the prospective client for Agatha’s cottage.
    ‘I’d better look into it,’ said Bill. ‘Leave it with me. I mean, why did this estate agent approach you? Why not phone Agatha?’
    Toni then phoned Agatha on her mobile and gave her a report. ‘Where were you when this man accosted you?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘I didn’t tell Bill, but I happened to see Fiona’s car parked at the George, so I waited in reception. Then this estate agent distracted me, and after he had gone, so had she.’
    Agatha’s voice was sharp with anxiety. ‘Toni, you are not to have anything to do with the murders. It’s too dangerous. You’ve got that divorce case. Get on with it.’
    After Toni had left, Bill went back into the police station and typed out a short report on the estate agent and handed it to Wilkes.
    ‘I see his firm is Powell, Slerry and Card,’ said Wilkes. ‘I’ve seen their FOR SALE boards. Get round there and have a word with him and insist on getting the name of his client.’
    The estate agent’s offices were situated in the Glebe, one of the twisting mediaeval lanes around the abbey. He went in and asked for Mr Powell. A girl disappeared into a back office and then indicated that he should go in. Powell rose from behind his desk and extended a large hand.
    ‘Why am I being honoured with a visit from the police?’ he asked.
    ‘We are interested in your client who wishes to buy Agatha Raisin’s cottage. May I have his name, please?’
    ‘We do not give out names unless authorized to do so,’ said Powell.
    ‘Oh, do be sensible,’ said Bill. ‘Do you want me to get a warrant and have your files thoroughly searched?’
    ‘Would you mind stepping outside while I phone him? Just a courtesy to a client.’
    Bill waited impatiently, knowing he had little chance of getting a warrant without having any solid proof of criminal activity.
    Powell came out of his office and handed him a slip of paper. ‘His name is Bogdan Staikov. You’ll find him at the George right now.’
    ‘What nationality?’
    Powell smiled. ‘You’ll need to ask him.’
    At the George, Bill was told that Mr Staikov was taking coffee on the terrace.
    He walked through the hotel and on to the terrace overlooking the gardens at the back. He had not asked to be conducted to Staikov, feeling sure he would spot the foreigner right away. But there were a good few smokers enjoying their after-lunch coffees, and they all looked very British.
    As he hesitated in the doorway, a small, silver-haired man got to his feet and waved him over. ‘Mr Powell said you would be looking for me,’ he said. He had a slight trace of accent. His eyes, like Bill’s, were slightly elongated, but as grey and cold as the North Sea. He was wearing a lightweight cream-coloured suit with a blue shirt and striped silk tie. He had thick grey skin, a small mouth and nose and odd pointed ears.
    ‘Please sit down,’ he said. ‘Coffee?’
    ‘No, thank you. Why are you interested in Mrs Raisin’s cottage?’
    ‘What are you talking about? I have been looking at many properties.’
    ‘Mrs Raisin’s cottage is in Lilac Lane in Carsely.’
    ‘Ah, yes, Carsely. I liked it. I want a new home for my daughter. So typically English. What has this to do with the police?’
    Bill told him.
    Staikov raised well-manicured hands in dismay. ‘I did not know. I do not read the newspapers. I am retired. My son now runs the business. I wish the quiet English life.’
    ‘What is your nationality?’ asked Bill.
    ‘I am originally from Bulgaria, but I married a British woman and settled here some twenty years ago.’
    ‘What was your business?’
    ‘Clothing. Suede, leather, that sort of thing. My son now runs the business. Country Fashions. Our place is out in the industrial estate.’
    ‘Would you mind if I had a look around your premises?’
    He shrugged. ‘Go ahead. You