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told me.’ Alf was the vicar.
    ‘Alf had been preaching a sermon about how we should have minds above material things and Mr Friendly said something afterwards in the church porch about how he hoped his wife had been paying attention to the sermon because she was going through money like water. Mrs Friendly protested she had only been buying a few clothes and her husband said something like, “What clothes? I haven’t noticed.”’
    ‘You think I should leave it alone?’
    ‘One part of me thinks you should. On the other hand, it would be quite dreadful should he prove to be a blackmailer. Just think of the misery he would cause! But why not tell your friend, Bill Wong?’
    ‘I can’t,’ said Agatha. ‘Bill’s on holiday.’ She was still hurt by Bill’s not phoning her and did not want to say that Bill was holidaying at home.
    ‘What about his boss, Wilkes?’
    ‘He thinks I’m an interfering pain. No, I would need proof. There’s no harm in trying. At the worst he’s going to blackmail me. Not kill me.’
    ‘So what do you plan to do?’
    ‘I meant to ask him out but think I’ll make a hair appointment and this time watch and listen. See if I can suss out any other customers he might be putting the squeeze on.’
    ‘Be careful. Now about the concert at Ancombe. It’s very good of you to take over the catering. Do you want me to help you?’
    ‘No, I’ll manage.’ Agatha had already decided to hire a catering firm to make cakes and savouries. Worth every penny to put Mrs Darry’s nose out of joint.
    ‘You know, I’m beginning to wish I had never recommended Mr John. But he has such a good reputation. Mrs Jessie Black over at Ancombe, the chairwoman of the ladies’ society, she used to sport a terrible frizzy perm in an impossible shade of red and he tinted it auburn and put it into a beautifully smooth style.’
    ‘I’ll see if I can get an appointment,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll try tomorrow.’
    Agatha made her way to Evesham. The old buildings of Evesham shimmered in the dreadful heat. She parked in the car park although she would have liked to try to find a parking place outside the hairdresser’s but did not want another confrontation with some embittered local.
    Alert now for nuances, Agatha noticed this time that the receptionist, a vapid blonde in a pink overall with her name, Josie, on a badge on her left breast, gave her a sour, jealous look.
    ‘I was certainly lucky to get a cancellation,’ said Agatha brightly.
    ‘Yes,’ said Josie, jerking a pink gown round Agatha’s shoulders. ‘Mr John is particularly popular with the elderly.’
    ‘Was that crack meant for me?’ demanded Agatha, rounding on her savagely.
    ‘Oh, no, modom.’ Josie backed away, flustered. ‘I’ll just get Yvette to shampoo you.’
    Ruffled, Agatha sat down at a wash-basin and looked around. From the adjoining area, she could hear a woman’s voice raised in complaint. ‘I can’t do anything with her these days. I said, “That stuff’ll kill you,” and she says to me, “Heroin is my friend.” My own daughter on drugs! The shame of it. My neighbour says she thinks my Betty is pushing the stuff.’
    ‘Can’t your husband have a word with her?’ came Mr John’s voice.
    ‘Jim? Him! He doesn’t know she’s on the stuff and he wouldn’t believe me even if I told him. Betty’s always been able to twist him round her little finger. Daddy’s girl. Always been daddy’s girl.’
    Yvette arrived and put a towel around Agatha’s neck. The subsequent hissing of the water drowned out the rest of the conversation between Mr John and his customer.
    A hairdresser’s salon is like the psychiatrist’s couch, reflected Agatha. The things they talk about. Didn’t that woman stop to think that one of the other customers might hear her and report her daughter to the police? But no. Hairdressers and beauty salons were like the confessional. The only one liable to profit from all these confidences was the