The detective agency was above a dress shop. A small girl with pink hair and long pink nails sat in the reception area reading a film magazine which she reluctantly put down. “We would like to see Mr. Atkins,” said Agatha. “Ain’t one.” “What! Who’s in charge here?” “Mrs. Atkins, that’s what.” “Are you a temp?” “Yeah.” “I gathered that from your sod-off-don’t-care attitude,” snarled Agatha. “Tell Mrs. Atkins that Agatha Raisin and Sir Charles Fraith are here to see her. Hop to it!” “Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she mumbled and went through a frosted glass door and slammed it behind her. The girl came out a few minutes later and held the door open. “You’re to go in.” Mrs. Atkins had tinted blond hair, one of those wind-tunnel facelifts, and she was wearing a black two-piece suit with broad lapels decorated with black sequins. She was heavily made-up, and her small red-painted mouth was surrounded by a radius of wrinkles. No ashtray, thought Agatha cheerfully.
