Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon Read Online Free

until they came to the first roundabout and realized he hadn’t turned round to go back.
    She opened her eyes. “Try three miles after the first roundabout.”
    Phil went across the first roundabout and slowed down to a crawl as other cars passed him at speed. At last he pulled over into a layby and said, “About here?”
    He switched off the engine and they sat looking about them. “There’s a deep ditch down there,” said Agatha, looking to her left. “He wouldn’t want to drag a body into the woods over there because he might be seen from the road. My guess is that he’d simply have rolled her down the bank.”
    “Let’s search.”
    “In these heels?”
    “I got Mrs. Freedman to give me the flat pair you keep in the office. They’re in the bag I brought back with me. I brought a flask of coffee and some sandwiches.”
    For the first time, Agatha really warmed to him as she slipped off her high heels and put on her comfortable shoes. They left the car and slid down the bank and began searching among the bushes at the bottom. They’d gone at least a mile away from the car when Agatha panted, “It’s no good. This is mad.”
    “Let’s sit down. I’ve got the coffee.”
    Restored by two cups of black coffee, a chicken sandwich and a cigarette, Agatha looked around. Behind her, up on the dual carriageway, the traffic whizzed past. Round about them, the ground was dotted with litter thrown from cars. She looked idly to left and right and then exclaimed, “Knickers!”
    “Yes, it is very hot,” said Phil amiably.
    “No, I mean I think that’s a pair of knickers over there.”
    She got to her feet and went a little way to her left and stooped down. A brief torn pair of lace knickers was hanging on the twig of a stunted bush. “Could be anyone’s,” she muttered. “Let’s look around here.”
    “Here’s a shoe!” said Phil. “What was she wearing when she disappeared?”
    “Let me think. A pink cropped top with sequins, jeans and high-heeled black sandals. No coat because the night was warm, and one of those things called bumbags although women usually wear them round the front.”
    “This is a black sandal. Should we call the police?”
    “No, let’s look further. If she had her knickers torn off and if it’s Jessica, the jeans must be here somewhere.”
    Phil nipped back up the grass bank.
    “Where are you going?” shouted Agatha.
    “Get a better look from the top.”
    Agatha continued to move slowly along the ditch, parting the bushes, impervious to thorns catching at her tights.
    “Someone’s dumped an old fridge there,” called Phil.
    Agatha moved forward. The fridge, a large one, was lying on its side. Taking out a handkerchief, she opened the door. “Nothing!” she called.
    “Let’s keep trying.”
    “Maybe the police have been all over here.”
    “They missed the shoe and the knickers.”
    Agatha suppressed a groan. Then she decided instead of searching away from where the shoe had been found and keeping to the ditch, she should go back to the shoe and move forwards, away from the dual carriageway where the ground rose up again towards a wooded area.
    She entered the trees, glad to get out of the sun. She was suddenly tired. The whole thing was useless. What could she find that teams of searchers could not? She turned to go back and the sun shone into her eyes, momentarily blinding her. She tripped over something and fell headlong.
    “Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha, heaving herself up on one elbow and twisting round to see what had tripped her. She found herself looking into a pair of staring dead eyes and flung herself backwards.
    Jessica Bradley, naked from the waist down, and half covered with branches which had been torn out of the ground and put over the body to conceal it, lay sprawled like a broken doll. Agatha knew it was Jessica from the pink sequinned crop top, which had a huge bloodstain over most of the front. The body had probably been completely