The Quick and the Dead (A Sister Agnes Mystery) Read Free

nodded.
    ‘So he’s — they’re — staying in New York?’
    Athena nodded again.
    Agnes fiddled with her fork. ‘How’s Alexander?’
    ‘His paintings are doing really well, he said. Nothing more, really. You know what men are like. The whole letter was barely half a page long, and that was big writing too.’ Athena looked at Agnes. ‘You still miss him, then, Alexander?’
    Agnes met her eyes. ‘No.’
    Athena grinned. ‘As in, yes. There’s no point waiting for these things to go away. What you need, poppet, is to chase it away. In fact, that’s it. What we both need is some gorgeous hunky geezer to appear on the horizon —’
    Agnes laughed. ‘Speak for yourself, Athena. Spiritual yearning is enough for me these days.’
    ‘As if you had the choice,’ Athena giggled.
    They walked back to South Kensington underground station together.
    ‘Do you have access to the Internet?’ Agnes asked suddenly.
    ‘Whatever for?’ Athena said.
    ‘I’m trying to track down a road protest, that’s all. I thought they might have an email address.’
    ‘I just can’t keep up with you.’
    ‘Well, do you?’
    ‘Simon’s got some screen thingy in the back office that whirrs and beeps at him from time to time. But I’m not sure it’s any good on eco-warriors; it only knows about art.’
    ‘Hmm. Would it be all right if I came back to your office and made a few phone calls, then?’
    *
    ‘See?’ Agnes announced to Julius. ‘It’s only two forty-five. Not only that but I’m empty-handed.’
    ‘It must be a record,’ Julius laughed. ‘Whereas Madeleine and I are still here. And the Chablis?’
    ‘Only a glass — I’m driving.’
    ‘Julius told me that Sam’s gone,’ Madeleine said.
    ‘Yes. I think she’s at an anti-road protest. I spoke to a couple of campaigning organisations on the phone, and there’s one in Epping which sounds likely. They’ve even got a mobile phone number, but I couldn’t get through, so I thought I may as well drive over and check it out.’
    ‘Well, good luck,’ Madeleine smiled.
    ‘By the way,’ Julius said as he got up to close the window against the traffic noise, ‘talking of Sam, her social worker phoned again.’
    ‘Great. Did she apologise for her stupid, heavy-handed —’
    ‘If you’d just let me finish — she said they’d had a call from a man claiming to be her father. Not her stepfather, this is her birth father. He hasn’t seen her since she was a few months old, when he left her mother, but he’s tracked them down, and wants to renew contact with Sam.’
    ‘How odd.’ Agnes looked at the piece of paper he handed her. ‘How very unusual. And what are we supposed to do about it?’
    ‘Ask her what she feels about it. If we see her again. See, I wrote the name down. Michael Reynolds.’
    ‘Not the same surname, then?’ Agnes put the slip of paper in her pocket.
    ‘He wasn’t married to the mother.’
    ‘Well,’ Agnes said, getting up. ‘I’ll tell her. If I ever see her again.’
    ‘What car are you hiring this time?’ Julius grinned. ‘The Jag again? The Rolls?’
    ‘If only. No, these days I have to rely on the community’s own horrible chuggy little Metro. If it goes over fifty-eight, bits start falling off it.’
    The M25 snaked its way round London, flashing with mirages in the July heat. Agnes turned off towards Ongar, glad to leave the traffic jam behind. She passed leafy villages, golden arable fields ripe and swaying, flat pastures where elegant horses grazed. She reached the village of Broxted, then turned off up a dirt track as directed, and parked by a gate at the end. The field sloped upwards away from the village, and at the top she could see a clump of trees, interspersed with bright blue tarpaulins. She climbed the gate and set off up the hill to the camp. As she approached she saw the trees were festooned with streamers, the tarpaulin tents decorated with flowers, tinsel and old coat hangers.
    A young woman was