by Simon Brett
‘No, no,’ Mrs Pargeter soothed. ‘I just meant – how has he reacted to what’s happened?’
The invalid’s expression soured. ‘I regret to say he’s delighted.’ In response to a quizzical look, she went on, ‘The removal of the paintings by thieves saves him what he might anticipate to be embarrassing scenes with the police after my death.’
‘Ah. Yes . . . So he had no idea of your plans to return the goods?’
‘Good heavens, no. And, even though their disappearance in the way you and I had intended would also have let him off the hook, I’m sure he would never have given his blessing to what we were proposing to do. He has rather different moral attitudes from mine.’ The thin face formed a grimace of distaste. ‘Though I don’t like to say it about my own son, I’m afraid in Toby I have produced an insufferable prig.’
Mrs Pargeter chuckled. ‘There’s no one more self-righteous than first generation straight. Like people who’ve just given up smoking, or reformed alcoholics.’
Through the frosted glass of the door the outline of two men in suits was visible. ‘Looks like the doctor’s come to check you out.’ Mrs Pargeter gave the thin old hand a final pat. ‘I’d better be on my way. Leave you to get some rest.’
‘Yes.’ Veronica Chastaigne looked suddenly more frail than ever. ‘I am extraordinarily tired . . .’
Leaning forward to plant a kiss on the pale cheek, Mrs Pargeter whispered, ‘Don’t worry, Veronica, I’ll sort it out. Track down those paintings and get them back to where they should be.’
‘I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble . . .’
‘No problem. Soon get it sorted.’ Moving, as ever, daintily for someone of her bulk, Mrs Pargeter crossed to the door. ‘Cheerio,’ she said as she opened it.
Veronica Chastaigne raised a tired hand in farewell and seemed to sink even deeper into the bedclothes.
The two suited men who faced Mrs Pargeter in the corridor did not look like doctors. One she recognized as Veronica’s son, but the other was unfamiliar to her. The suit he wore, however, had overtones of a profession other than the medical. Financial? Legal, perhaps?
Though she knew full well who Ibby Chastaigne was, they had not officially met, so Mrs Pargeter just gave the two men a cheery smile and hurried off.
Toby’s small eyes followed her suspiciously down the corridor until she was out of sight. Then, with a nod to his companion, he opened the door to his mother’s room. ‘Come on in.’
Through the slit of her drooping eyelids, Veronica Chastaigne took in the new arrivals without enthusiasm.
‘Good morning, Mother,’ said Toby, bending down to give her cheek the most perfunctory dusting with his lips. ‘I brought my solicitor along, so that we can tie up a few loose ends . . .’
Veronica Chastaigne feigned sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
Inspector Wilkinson sat alone in the unmarked car, thinking gloomy thoughts. The mistimed raid on Chastaigne Varleigh had been a body blow to him. He’d been planning the operation so long that he’d invested more hopes and ambitions than he’d realized in its successful outcome. This had been intended to be the big one, the masterstroke which wiped away the memory of so many past failures, even of the terrible moment when he had just missed entrapping the late Mr Pargeter. Proving the Chastaigne Varleigh connection to the art thefts would have ensured that Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson had made his mark.
Except that the coup hadn’t worked. The Long Gallery had been empty, although there were enough tell-tale clues – picture-hooks, rectangles of dust, outlines of darker wood where pictures had hung – to suggest it hadn’t been empty for long.
Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson was going to have to find another way to make his mark.
It was a relief to be alone in the car that morning. He was beginning to find the presence of Sergeant Hughes distinctly irksome. From the start Wilkinson had detected in the young man an unattractive cockiness, which at times bordered on disrespect. Since the Chastaigne Varleigh débâcle, the disrespect had been overt.
No, Wilkinson decided, it was a relief not to have Hughes with him (though he might have revised that opinion had he known that the Sergeant was at that moment once again immersed in files of the Inspector’s old cases).
Life has dealt me a pretty lousy hand, Wilkinson thought self-pityingly. In the cop shows he watched and the crime novels he read many of the heroes had family connections to make them interesting. A crippled sibling always helped, or a child with a serious medical condition. Wives could also be very useful as a means of enriching their man’s personality. A wife in an iron lung could do wonders, or one with a secret drinking problem.
And wives who had terminal illnesses or, even better, wives who were dead, could do much for a detective’s sympathy rating. A dead wife in the background could leave a hero embittered, throwing himself wholeheartedly into his work so as not to have time to brood, but also available for the odd entanglement with a cleared suspect or an attractive young colleague. (These entanglements were doomed to be of short duration, but usually involved some very good sex on the way.) Yes, the right sort of deceased wife profile offered another way for a good copper to make his mark.
But Inspector Wilkinson hadn’t had that kind of luck. His ex-wife was still very much alive, living in Stockport with a croupier fifteen years younger than her. She had not had any secret illnesses or agonies. Nor had their parting been a dramatic, tempestuous moment always to be regretted by one of those magnificent couples who could not live with each other but could not live without each other. No, the former Mrs Wilkinson had left her husband because she found him terminally boring.
Maybe that’s what he was, the Inspector thought in a rare moment of total self-doubt. Maybe the moment that was going to salvage his career – or his whole life – was never going to happen. Maybe he was terminally boring.
But even as he reached the nadir of this dispiriting thought, it gave way to a flicker of hope. Everything wasn’t all over. There was still one lead to follow up, one door imperceptibly ajar, which, if pushed with sufficient delicacy, might open up the route to a totally new area of success.
The change of mood was prompted by the sight of a woman emerging from the hospital’s front gates. Broad-beamed and impressive in her bright silk print dress, she stepped daintily towards the convenient limousine which had just slid to the kerb.
Inspector Wilkinson stepped out of his car and in two or three large strides had moved across to intercept her. ‘Excuse me, madam . . .’
He caught the full beam of the violet-blue eyes, which showed their customary expression of puzzled innocence. ‘Yes, can I help you?’
‘You may recall we met the other day, when I was making enquiries about this limousine.’
‘Yes, of course I remember.’
‘And it struck me that on that occasion I didn’t introduce myself . . .’
‘No.’ She sounded a little mystified by this information.
‘. . . though you did recognize – correctly – that I am a member of the Police Force.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I felt I should tell you that I am Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson.’
‘Ah. Well, thank you. A pleasure to meet you.’
Their eyes were locked. The Inspector seemed to be making a mental note of every detail of her appearance. As his scrutiny continued, Mrs Pargeter began to feel a little uneasy. Why was he so interested in her? Surely he couldn’t know anything about the job she had agreed to undertake for Veronica Chastaigne?
She let out a little cough to break the impasse. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way, Inspector Wilkinson.’
He stood aside. ‘Of course.’ She turned away towards the limousine, but his voice stopped her. ‘You didn’t tell me your name.’
‘No, I didn’t.’ She faced him once again, with complete composure. ‘My name is Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Oh,’ he said, surprised. It was a name that had very sign
ificant reverberations for Inspector Wilkinson.
‘Mrs Melita Pargeter. Should you wish to contact me, I am currently residing at Greene’s Hotel in Mayfair.’
‘Right. And should you wish to contact me, here is my card. The mobile number is the best one to catch me on.’ He handed the card across, and stood back. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Pargeter. You’ve been most helpful.’
His tone of voice gave her permission to continue her journey into Gary’s limousine.
But, as she did so, Mrs Pargeter could feel the eyes of Inspector Wilkinson boring into her back. It gave her a slightly unpleasant frisson. Although her conscience was entirely clear, and she knew she had never transgressed the law in even the tiniest particular, there was still something uncomfortable about this level of interest from the Metropolitan Police.
Chapter Seventeen
She had intended to communicate her worries about the Inspector to Truffler Mason the minute he arrived at the hotel, but first she had to go through a litany of self-recrimination. Mrs Pargeter was sitting at her usual table in the bar, drinking champagne with Hedgeclipper Clinton, when Truffler shambled in, literally wringing his hands in anguish.
‘I feel such a fool, such a bloody idiot, Mrs P,’ he moaned, before he’d even sat down, and certainly before he’d touched his drink. ‘Simple thing like shifting those pictures from Chastaigne Varleigh and I go and screw it up, let some villains ace in ahead of us and nick the lot.’
‘You’re sure they were villains?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, who was not showing the same reticence as her guest with the champagne. ‘Sure they weren’t police?’
‘If they’d been on the side of the law, Mrs Chastaigne’d certainly have heard something by now. Besides, I got a look at them. They were villains all right. And,’ Truffler added thoughtfully, ‘villains with extremely good information.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Hedgeclipper.
‘They must’ve known we was about to raid the place.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘The timing’s too much of a coincidence. If they’d been casing the joint, or if they was acting on a tip-off from one of Bennie Logan’s cronies, they could’ve done it any time in the five years since he died. But no, they chose the very day we’d planned to lift the loot. They knew something.’
Hedgeclipper Clinton nodded. It made sense.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Truffler. ‘It’s like being back in the days of Posey Narker.’
‘Yes, it is. Not nice.’
‘I’m sorry?’ said Mrs Pargeter guilelessly. ‘Did you say “Posey Narker”?’
‘Yes.’ Truffler rubbed his chin in pained recollection. ‘Fact is, while your husband was alive, we had a bit of trouble with information ending up where it shouldn’t.’
‘Oh?’
‘Seemed like someone Mr Pargeter trusted was betraying that trust. Police kept knowing more than they should have known about things that were about to happen. Never found out who the grass was. All we got, from one of our informants inside the Met, was this name – “Posey Narker”. Clearly someone’s idea of a joke. Annoying, though, because we knew the grass was like, teasing us, sending us up, challenging us to catch him. We never did, though. Which was lucky for him,’ Truffler concluded darkly.
‘Too right.’ Hedgeclipper Clinton was transformed for a moment from hotel manager to an earlier, more aggressive persona. ‘I had a few plans for the little rat if we ever had got hold of him . . .’
‘Anyway, we’re talking a long time ago,’ said Truffler, closing the subject. ‘This business of the villains being tipped off and getting in before us at Chastaigne Varleigh . . . well, it, like, reminded me of Posey Narker, that’s all.’
Mrs Pargeter reverted to a point she’d made earlier. ‘You are absolutely sure the ones you describe as villains had nothing to do with the police?’
Truffler Mason looked up sharply at the intonation of her words. ‘Yes, of course I’m sure. But why do you say that? Have you got some inside info?’
‘Not exactly,’ replied Mrs Pargeter, now able to get on to the subject she’d wanted to start with. ‘There’s this Detective Inspector who seems to be sniffing around.’
Truffler was instantly alert. ‘Sniffing around? How d’you mean?’
‘I first met him that afternoon I’d gone to your office, you know, to tell you about what Veronica Chastaigne had asked me to do.’
‘Yes?’
‘He had some enquiry about Gary’s limousine. Said it’d been seen near a crime scene in Tulse Hill. Well, Gary’s not been to Tulse Hill in ages, so clearly somebody’d misidentified the car. I didn’t think any more about it . . . until I found the same policeman waiting outside the hospital this morning after I’d been visiting Veronica Chastaigne.’
Hedgeclipper Clinton looked alarmed, and Truffler Mason’s long body was rigid with tension. ‘A detective inspector you said?’
‘That’s right,’ Mrs Pargeter confirmed.
The hotel manager licked his lips nervously, but let Truffler continue putting the questions. ‘What did he ask you about today?’
‘Well, that was what was odd,’ replied Mrs Pargeter. ‘Nothing, really.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No. It was just like he was, kind of, keeping tabs on me, monitoring my movements. Somehow he knew I’d gone to the hospital. I even get the feeling he knew he was going to meet me coming out of your office that first time. I don’t like it.’
‘Nor do I,’ Truffler agreed wholeheartedly. ‘I wonder . . .’
‘Wonder what?’ asked Hedgeclipper, with another flick of the tongue around his dry lips.
‘Well, maybe sneaking the stuff from Chastaigne Varleigh was a police set-up . . . Maybe they’re working on some kind of major entrapment plan . . .’ His huge head shook slowly from side to side. ‘No, I don’t like this at all, Hedgeclipper.’
‘Nor me.’
‘I mean, personally I’ve nothing against the police,’ said Mrs Pargeter, magnanimous as ever, ‘in their place. They do a wonderful job, this country would be a much poorer place without them . . . but the fact remains, I don’t like them snooping around me.’
‘Nor do I,’ said Truffler again.
‘Not,’ she hastened to add, ‘that I’ve ever done anything to arouse their interest, in a professional way. But the people they tend to recruit are not always the brightest, and one would hate for there to be any misunderstandings, for them to get the wrong end of the stick, either about me . . . or about any of the people I associate with.’
‘One would hate that very much indeed.’ Hedgeclipper Clinton nodded agreement with the sentiment. Grimly, Truffler Mason rubbed his long chin, and said again, ‘I don’t like the sound of this one little bit. I’d better investigate it further.’ He stood up, leaving the remainder of his champagne untouched. ‘You haven’t got the bloke’s name, by any chance, have you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson.’
There was a moment’s silence while Truffler and Hedgeclipper took this in. Then a snort of laughter erupted from the hotel manager. Truffler Mason’s entire body shook, as he sat back down in his chair and picked up his champagne glass. He made as if to take a swig, but was laughing too much to complete the action.
‘What is it?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, unused to seeing that lugubrious face incapable with merriment. ‘What is it that’s so funny? Do I gather you two know this gentleman?’
Hedgeclipper Clinton could only nod, unable to form words but, through gasps of laughter, Truffler Mason managed to say, ‘Oh, yes, I know him. I know him all right. Your husband knew him, and all, Mrs P. I’m surprised Mr Pargeter never mentioned old “Craggy” Wilkinson to you.’
‘You know my husband never spoke to me about his work,’ she said primly.
‘No, I know he didn’t as a general rule, but with old Craggy I’m surprised he could keep it to himself.’
‘Why?’
>
‘Well, some of the things he done . . . they were just such good stories. You know, when me and the boys was working with your husband, whenever we needed a good laugh, we’d just tell another Craggy Wilkinson story. Isn’t that right, Hedgeclipper?’
The hotel manager was sufficiently recovered to let out a ‘Yes,’ but the sound of the emergent word only set him off again.
‘Why? What kind of things did he do?’
‘Well, let’s take for instance . . .’ Truffler paused for a moment, shuffling through a mental filing cabinet, spoiled for choice as to which anecdote he should produce first. ‘All right. Try this for starters.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘There was a job up Ponder’s End,’ said Truffler. ‘Bullion delivery, very hush-hush, transfer of a load of gold ingots from some arms deal a bunch of North London villains’d done with Nigeria. Mr P’d got word of it from a baggage handler at Heathrow. Goods were going to come into the country, you see, in crates marked “Tribal Artefacts”, but everyone at the airport had been bunged a bit to keep a blind eye. The baggage handler who snitched reckoned the bung wasn’t big enough and he’d get a better deal from your husband. Which of course he did. Always the soul of generosity your old man was, Mrs P.
‘Anyway, like as ever, the planning of the job was meticulous. Never left any angle uncovered, Mr P didn’t, sorted through everything, done dry runs, rehearsals, double-checks. Any operation he was involved in was always sweet as a nut and tight as a noose.’ A wistful, nostalgic look came into Truffler’s eyes. ‘He was an artist, your husband, Mrs P, a true artist.
‘Right, so the whole thing’s planned. The lorry with its crate of “Tribal Artefacts” is meant to be going from Heathrow to, like, Epping Forest where the gang’s going to stash it for a couple of weeks before it gets melted down and redistributed in the form of chunky identity bracelets.
‘Except, of course, it’s never going to make it to Epping Forest, because in Ponder’s End it’s going to be diverted from its original course. And somehow the crates of “Tribal Artefacts” are going to end up in a refrigerated ice cream lorry heading due south for Penge where the ingots will end up in far more deserving pockets than those of the North London mob.