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Inspector Macdonald and Detective Sergeant Fred Baxter for saving her life.
    She and Freda hailed a cab and went to Harley Street. Agatha forgot about her ambitions as she looked dismally at the now shrunken figure of Bryce in the hospital bed. He conjured up a smile. “You’re a wonder, Agatha. The best PR in the world.”
    â€œI swear I’ll work hard and try to pay back every penny,” said Agatha, swallowing hard to try to get rid of the lump in her throat.
    â€œThat won’t be necessary. The lot goes to my nephew, apart from a sum I have left you to cover your expenses for the next five years, and the flat and the office are yours. George will arrange the whole thing.”
    Agatha blurted out her thanks, but he waved a hand to dismiss them. “The thanks are all mine. Off you go. I’d like to sleep now.”
    Agatha finally reached her office and met her two new PRs, a woman called Jessie Rich and a young man named Sean Fitzgerald. George South was also waiting for her. Offers from clients were pouring in, he said. He would hire two more staff for her and after everything was set up, he would recommend a good accountant and a business manager.
    â€œWhat about you working for me?” asked Agatha.
    â€œToo expensive and plenty of clients on my books. I didn’t only work for Bryce.”
    â€œI wish he could be cured,” said Agatha. “Can nothing be done?”
    â€œI’m afraid not.”
    *   *   *
    Bryce died during the night. Agatha cried and cried when she got the news. At last Freda said bracingly, “The best thing you can do for his memory is to make a success of the business and you’ll never do that if you fall apart.”
    So after the funeral, Agatha worked around the clock, representing a perfume manufacturer, a pop group, and various fashion houses. The sensitive girl she had once been became buried under a hard shell. Journalists, particularly those from the glossy magazines, had never come across a PR like Agatha before. She seemed to ferret out their weak spots and then play on them ruthlessly to get publicity for her clients.
    Then one evening Freda said, “I think I should find a flat of my own.”
    â€œWhy?” demanded Agatha.
    Well, dear, you’re young and it’s time you had a boyfriend. You’ll need a bit of space. Can’t bring anyone back for a romantic evening with old me sitting here.”
    â€œForget it. I’m through with men.”
    But that night, before she went to sleep, Agatha dreamed of a tall, handsome man who would take over her heart and her life. Then her thoughts turned to Jimmy Raisin. Where was he now? She should do something about finding him so that she could get a divorce. She had been terrified that all the publicity about her would cause Jimmy to surface again.
    Agatha would not admit to herself that she had become frightened of Jimmy’s drunken rages. It had been a whirlwind romance until reality had set in when Jimmy stopped his work as a plumber and took to drinking all day, expecting her to be the breadwinner. The first time he had used his fists on her, she had cried. The second time, she had hit him with a frying pan, packed up her belongings, flung the pile of Alcoholics Anonymous literature she had hopefully collected at him, and walked out of his life. Then she began to relax. If Jimmy had not put in an appearance, it stood to reason he was dead.
    Perhaps Freda was right. She should find somewhere for Freda to live. Agatha was already beginning to make a lot of money over and above the large sum left to her by Bryce in his will.
    *   *   *
    In the morning, a new office boy with a white spotty face and his hair in a Mohawk dumped the mail on her desk. “There you are!” he said. He had a cockney voice and looked like a child.
    â€œHow old are you?” demanded Agatha. I don’t hire child labour.”
    â€œI’m