"Never mind Tunis," interrupted Agatha. "What pair?"
"Her, Deborah, and that one wot was killed, arms round each other, they had."
"Where was this?"
"Out on the stairs."
"But a lot of women hug each other."
"But they was kissing and groaning."
"Did you tell the police this?"
"Not me. Hadn't the time to spend with me even though I told them I was an old soldier. No, all they wants to know is if I'd heard her or seen her having a row with that Jessica and I hadn't seen a blind thing. I mostly keeps meself to meself."
"So when did you see them hugging and kissing?"
"Reckon about a month ago. I tell you, what the world is coming to these days, I don't know."
Agatha stood up. "You've been most helpful, Mr Wotherspoon."
"Won't you stay?" Loneliness peered out from old eyes. "We could have a natter."
Much as she thought him horrible, Agatha nonetheless felt guilty as she made her way to the door, said goodbye firmly and went down the stairs and out into the freedom of the sunny street. She wondered how James was getting on.
James privately would have liked to think up some idea for interviewing people that was different from Agatha's. But at last he decided that a market researcher was as good as anything. He had no fear of being seen by Kelvin. Like the others, he would be at work.
Kelvin lived in a tower block near the school, a depressing place surrounded by scrubby grass and litter. What trees there were stood semi-shattered, raising their few remaining branches up to the sky. There were other signs of vandalism everywhere, and he found that the lift was out of order and had probably been out of order for some time, for the sign saying so was covered with old graffiti.
Kelvin lived on the tenth floor. James decided that the police would have interrogated the neighbours on either side of his flat and wondered if he might have better luck questioning the people underneath, as sounds carried down the way.
At the first flat he met with no success at all, perhaps because he never thought of Agatha's idea of offering money. He said he was doing a survey about which kind of washing detergent was most used in Dembley. A sour-faced woman simply slammed the door in his face. He tried the next door after squinting upwards and deciding it must be the one directly under Kelvin's.
The door was opened by a tired-looking woman in her thirties. Her dyed blonde hair was showing an inch of dark roots and her heavy make-up looked like yesterday's.
"It's not the rent arrears again, is it?" she asked nervously.
"No," said James. "I would like to ask you some questions about which soap powder you use."
To his relief, she gave a little jerk of her head. "Come in."
He walked through a minuscule hall and into a living-room full of cheap furniture, all of which seemed to be falling apart. The sofa had been slashed, an arm was off one chair, and the table looked as if someone had recently tried to cleave it with an axe.
"My husband," she said, following his eyes. "He do go on something awful when he has the drink in him."
"Where is he now?" asked James nervously.
"Out on the building site. Come into the kitchen, will you? I'm not much use. I just buy the first packet I see in the supermarket."
He followed her into a small kitchen, averting his eyes from the smashed cupboards, no doubt signs of the absent husband's drunken wrath. She pulled a packet of soap powder from a cupboard under the sink and held it up. "This any good?"
He proceeded to ask questions - number in family, how often clothes were washed, and so on - automatically writing down the answers, wondering how to introduce the subject of the tenant upstairs. "I'm sorry to take up so much of your time," he ventured politely.
She gave him a flirtatious smile. "I don't mind. Don't get to see much people. Like a cup of tea?"
"Yes, please," said James, smiling back.
He leaned against the kitchen counter while she plugged in an electric kettle. He looked down from the window. From down below came the harsh cries of little children trying to catch a cat to torture it. The cat escaped. The children hunched together as if plotting further horrors and then they ran off, screaming at nothing.
"Been doing this job long?" he realized she was asking.
"I'm retired. I do bits for the company a few times a year. Freelance. I'm not on the payroll."
The kettle boiled. She filled a small teapot after putting in six tea-bags, arranged a bottle of milk, a bag of sugar, and two mugs on a tin tray with the teapot, and carried them into the living-room.
The tea was very strong indeed. She leaned back on the battered sofa and crossed her legs. She had very good legs. In fact, thought James, she had probably been a pretty girl before marriage knocked the stuffing out of her, much as the stuffing was spilling out of the sofa on which she sat.
"You've had a bit of excitement around here," said James, sipping his tea and trying not to shudder.
"How come?"
"Isn't one of your neighbours one of those ramblers, a Scotsman?"
"Oh, him." She jerked a thumb at the ceiling. "Lives up above."
"Look like a murderer?"
"Too soft, I'd say. Once tried to come on to me." She recrossed her legs and adjusted her skirt so that a bit of grimy lace showed underneath. "But I wasn't interested. He's that kind, you know. Fancies himself a ladies' man. I don't think he can get it up."
"That's a bit harsh, surely," said James. "You can't tell that by looking at him."
She giggled. "I can tell by listening. Should have heard her going at it."
"Who?"
"Some woman he had with him."
"When was this?" asked James sharply.
"I dunno. Oh, yeah, it was before that murder, a few days before. Round about midnight. My old man was passed out, and I was thinking, what a life, listening to the bed creaking upstairs. I mean, you can hear everything in these flats. Then I heard them shouting. Then I heard someone thumping about. Then going towards the door. Curiosity was killing me, so I went to our front door and opened it a crack. I heard her outside, shouting, 'You can't even make it and you know why? You're probably a closet faggot.'"
"Did you get a look at her?"
"Naw"
"Pity"
"Why?"
"It would be interesting to know if she was that woman that got murdered."
She looked at him round-eyed and then, to his horror, she darted over to where he was sitting and sank down on his lap, "Oh, I'm so frightened," she murmured into his hair.
Oh, Agatha, Agatha, thought James. I wish you were here. And then a key grated in the lock. She was off his lap and back on the sofa with her skirt demurely pulled down about her knees as a huge burly man lurched into the room. "Who's this?" he roared.
"One of those men doing market research," she said.
He jerked his thumb at the door. "Out!" he shouted. And James was up and out the door and down the stairs as fast as he could.
Agatha was beginning to feel a bit sulky. She and James were seated that evening in the Copper Kettle being served by Terry Brice. The initial excitement of sharing their discoveries was over. James kept talking about the case when Terry was out of earshot, and Agatha, who had been writing romantic scripts for him all day, could not understand why he wasn't speaking any of the lines. She wrenched herself into reality with an effort when he said, "We should tell Bill Wong about this."
"Couldn't we wait just a little?" said Agatha. "I mean, he might order us to keep clear."
"I don't know about that. We're private citizens. He can't stop us living in Dembley or going out with the ramblers. I sympathize with you, because we're certainly suffering in the cause, having to pretend to be man and wife" - Agatha winced - "and eating this quite dreadful food. Leave it, Agatha. I'll make us an omelette when we get home. What is that you're poking your fork in?"