by Simon Brett
Mrs Pargeter raised a hand to stop her and beamed beatifically. ‘It was my pleasure.’
‘Well, you’re a saint, Mrs Pargeter, a real saint.’
At that moment Truffler Mason emerged from the law courts. His long arms were wrapped around the three VVO originals which had covered the valuable paintings in the Winthrops’ abortive smuggling expedition. ‘Here, these exhibits were released for you, VVO,’ he called across.
‘Oh, terrific!’ cried the genius, delighted to be reunited with his masterworks. He gazed fondly at the top painting, the pink-bowed lamb frolicking in front of its winsome windmill.
But the effect of the picture on its creator was as nothing to the impact it had on Jukebox Jarvis. The archivist’s jaw fell open; he was transfixed by the canvas in front of him. ‘Hey, who did this?’ he asked in an awestruck voice. ‘Can I see the others?’
‘Sure.’ VVO revealed the lovable ducklings on the frozen pond and then, with a dramatic flourish, the Scottie dog and the fluffy white cat. He looked into Jukebox Jarvis’s mesmerized face. ‘Do you like them?’
The archivist replied in a voice low with reverence. ‘Like them? I think they’re absolutely wonderful. I may not know much about art, but by golly I know what I like.’ He looked plaintively at the artist, not daring to hope. ‘They’re not for sale, by any chance, are they . . .?’
‘Well,’ replied VVO, unable to disguise how delighted he was by the question, ‘since you ask . . .’
As the artist began to expatiate to his new fan on his art, his struggles, his intentions, his ambitions, Mrs Pargeter grinned across at Truffler Mason. Together with Arnold Justiman, they moved across to get into Gary’s limousine.
Chapter Forty-Five
Since they had last visited her, Veronica Chastaigne seemed to have shrunk even further. Her body looked lost amidst the bedclothes, her skin tighter, her tiny bones more prominent. Had she been able to stand up, a breath of wind could have blown her away. Only the fierce sparkle in her eye showed the indomitable will which was keeping her alive until all her earthly business had been discharged to her satisfaction.
Arnold Justiman, looking even bigger looming over the birdlike figure in the hospital bed, had taken her through the provisions of the new will. As Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason looked on, he proffered a fountain pen to the invalid and pointed to the relevant line on the document.
‘So if you could just sign there, Mrs Chastaigne . . . assuming, that is, you’re happy with the provisions . . .’
Her voice was very feeble as she said, ‘I’m delighted with them,’ but the signature that she affixed to the will was firm and definite.
The barrister turned to Mrs Pargeter and Truffler. ‘And if you two could just sign as witnesses . . .?’
‘Melita Pargeter’ was appended in Mrs Pargeter’s round, almost childish, hand, and as she passed the document across to Truffler, she said, ‘It’ll be nice for you to know that the National Trust’s looking after Chastaigne Varleigh, won’t it, Veronica?’
The response from the fading figure in the bed was surprisingly robust. ‘It’ll be even nicer to know that Toby’s getting absolutely nothing from me! Serve him right for trying to disclaim his own father.’ She chuckled breathily. ‘Toby always insisted he wanted to stand on his own two feet. Well, now he can see what it feels like.’
A peaceful smile stole across her lined face. ‘And now I know the paintings are back where they belong . . . there’s nothing left to worry me.’
Arnold Justiman took the will from Truffler Mason and folded it neatly into an envelope. ‘So . . . all done.’
‘Yes. By me, Veronica Chastaigne . . .’
‘. . . being of sound mind . . .’ Mrs Pargeter supplied.
‘Absolutely,’ the old lady agreed. ‘No problems there. It’s only this wretched body that’s giving out. Oh well, never mind. It’s not as if I haven’t had a good run for other people’s money . . .’
And she chuckled wheezily, but merrily, at the thought.
Now it was just the two women in the private room. ‘I asked you to stay,’ Veronica Chastaigne murmured, ‘because there is one more thing . . .’
‘Yes?’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘You tell me. Whatever it is, I’ll see that it gets done. It’s a point of honour with me to sort out all my late husband’s unfinished business.’
‘It’s about Toby.’ A hard look came into the old lady’s eyes. ‘I still don’t think Toby’s suffered enough.’
‘Well, he hasn’t really suffered at all yet. He doesn’t even know Chastaigne Varleigh’s going to the National Trust. But don’t worry, I think he will suffer,’ Mrs Pargeter reassured her. ‘The people who actually stole the paintings from the Long Gallery are in police custody. They’re bound to implicate Palings Price – that’s Denzil Price, the interior designer – and then I’m sure he’ll shop your son.’
‘And what will Toby be charged with?’
‘I don’t know what the technical expression will be – “aiding and abetting a robbery” perhaps? I mean, he must’ve given the information to the thieves about the secret hoard at Chastaigne Varleigh. Or perhaps it’ll be “handling stolen goods” . . .’
‘And you think he’ll get a custodial sentence?’ asked the old lady eagerly.
‘I would imagine so. Depends as ever, of course, on the kind of legal representation he gets. As Arnold Justiman would tell you, the right lawyer can get anyone off anything.’
‘Yes.’ Veronica Chastaigne shook her head thoughtfully. ‘No, I want something more watertight than that.’
‘Sorry? What do you mean?’
‘I mean that I want to ensure Toby goes to prison for a long, long time.’ Mrs Pargeter was taken aback by the venom with which these words were spoken. A fanatical light blazed in the pale eyes, as Veronica Chastaigne went on, ‘What he was trying to do was a complete betrayal of me – and, even worse, of his father. Having spent his whole life disapproving and being sniffy about Bennie’s career, and having claimed he wanted nothing to do with the paintings in the Long Gallery, Toby was actually proposing to get them sold on the black market. He was intending to profit from the very business he claimed always to have despised. I’ve never had a problem with good, honest criminality, but if there’s one thing I cannot tolerate it’s hypocrisy!’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Pargeter agreed. ‘I’m with you on that one.’
‘So I don’t want Ibby to get away with it. I want to ensure that he gets punished for what he’s done.’
Mrs Pargeter grimaced. ‘The trouble is, he hasn’t done that much. He undoubtedly intended to sell off the paintings, but since they were returned to their rightful owners before the selling process could be started, he never got round to that part of the crime.’
‘No.’ Veronica Chastaigne’s mouth twitched angrily from side to side. It was amazing the intensity of seething that could fit into such a tiny body. ‘Well, that’s what I want you to do something about, Mrs Pargeter,’ she said finally.
‘Sorry? What exactly?’
‘I want you to ensure that my son Toby goes to prison for a long, long time.’
‘On what charge?’
‘I’ve told you – hypocrisy!’
‘Mmm . . .’ said Mrs Pargeter tentatively. ‘Although I’m fully in agreement with you that hypocrisy is a despicable crime, I don’t think you’ll find that in the British system of justice—’
‘I’m not talking about justice!’ the old lady snapped. ‘I’m talking about what’s right!’
‘Ah. Well, those are two very different things,’ Mrs Pargeter agreed.
‘And which do you believe to be the more important?’
‘What’s right, obviously.’
‘Exactly!’ There was a gleam of triumph in the faded eyes. ‘So I want you to arrange that what’s right gets done. I want Ibby to go to prison for a long time to pay for his crimes.’
‘Even the ones he didn’t technically commit?’
‘Yes! Pa
rticularly the ones he didn’t technically commit!’ She looked pleadingly across at the younger woman. ‘Could you do that for me?’
Mrs Pargeter smiled comfortably. What she was being asked to do did fit in rather well with a plan that was already formulating in her mind. ‘Yes, Veronica. I can do that for you. No problem.’
As she left the hospital, thinking back to the display of mother love she’d just witnessed, Mrs Pargeter decided it was probably just as well she’d never had children.
Chapter Forty-Six
Once she had decided what needed doing, it was all done very quickly.
Immediately after her visit to the hospital, Mrs Pargeter convened a meeting with Truffler Mason and Hamish Ramon Henriques, and spelled out her plans to them. They were in complete agreement with what she proposed.
Their first port of call was the little terraced house where Jukebox Jarvis lived. He immediately accessed the police computer system (that day’s six-letter codeword was ‘peeler’, an inventive historical variation), and discovered that Sergeant Hughes had not used an office machine on which to compile his dossier.
This was only a minor setback, and indeed one that they had been anticipating. While still inside the police computer system, Jukebox Jarvis found Sergeant Hughes’s home address, and was also able to confirm from the duty rosters that the young man was at work all that day.
Keyhole Crabbe, the late Mr Pargeter’s most trusted security expert, had been alerted to a possible call-out, and was immediately summoned from his home in Bedford. Accompanied by Jukebox Jarvis, he went to Sergeant Hughes’s flat, where the double locks and burglar alarm proved only a momentary obstacle. Once inside, Jukebox quickly found the Sergeant’s laptop, located the file from which his dossier had been printed, and deleted the entire contents of that and its back-up. He resisted the temptation to leave a cheeky message.
All that remained to be done then was for Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason to concoct an alternative dossier on the alleged criminal activities of the late Mr Pargeter and his associates.
It was a work of great simplicity, but, in the view of its creators, considerable beauty.
Sergeant Hughes had done well in his researches. He was a gifted detective, who might well have lived up to his first name of Hercule, had not the jealousy of crusty old superiors like Inspector Wilkinson (and a little finessing by associates of Mrs Pargeter) held back his career.
Hughes had made the link between Chastaigne Varleigh and the series of international art thefts initiated by Bennie Logan. He had identified the role of Palings Price in these crimes and the interior designer’s current association with Toby Chastaigne.
More disturbingly, he had traced the links from Bennie Logan and Palings Price back to the late Mr Pargeter. Once that connection had been made, a whole set of new names became ripe for investigation. By going back into the old files from the period immediately before Mr Pargeter’s death, when Inspector Wilkinson had been getting close to arresting the whole gang, Hughes had named Truffler Mason, Hedgeclipper Clinton, Hamish Ramon Henriques, Keyhole Crabbe and Gary the chauffeur.
Truffler had not been guilty of hyperbole when he described the contents of the dossier as dynamite.
Still, the original had now been deleted from the Sergeant’s laptop. All that remained was to ensure that it was never reconstructed in the same form, and that Sergeant Hughes was discreetly removed from the scene.
It was to achieve this first aim that Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason compiled their revised dossier. The document did not attempt to excise all reference to the late Mr Pargeter. It was more subtle than that. As in Sergeant Hughes’s researches, links were traced between the dead man and a series of associates. It was in the names of these associates that the new dossier diverged from the original.
Rod D’Acosta was implicated in a series of the late Mr Pargeter’s operations. So were his acolytes, the heavies called Ray, Phil and Sid. Their involvement was at a strictly Rent-A-Muscle level, so their sentences would not be as long as those handed down to the ringleaders.
And these ringleaders were of course identified in the new dossier. The mastermind behind a great many vicious crimes turned out to be Denzil – known in the underworld as ‘Palings’ – Price. And, interestingly, he had for a long time been in cahoots with a gentleman called Toby Chastaigne.
The criminal network run by these two was extensive, but, sadly from the police point of view, all of the other major players in their gang had since died. (Compiling this list of names had been Truffler Mason’s task, which he had completed with his customary efficiency. In fact, it had been easy. In the dusty chaos of his office, he kept all the back numbers of a magazine called Inside Out. Known affectionately in the underworld as ‘The Lag Mag’, this publication noted the comings and goings, releases and transfers of the country’s prison population. All Truffler had to do was to consult the ‘Obituary’ sections, and he soon had an extensive list of safely dead villains.)
The men named in the new dossier formed the core of a gang responsible for some of the most audacious criminal operations of the previous two decades, and unanswerable evidence was provided against all of them. Bringing to justice the six who were still alive would neatly tie a bow on a long series of unsolved crimes. Once they were put away, the police file on the late Mr Pargeter could be closed for ever.
The dossier took a couple of days to get right, but, when finished, it was, though Mrs Pargeter said it herself, a beautiful piece of work. She did have a momentary pang of conscience contemplating the length of the jail sentences the named men were likely to get, but then she remembered Veronica Chastaigne’s important distinction between the concepts of ‘justice’ and of ‘what’s right’. Mrs Pargeter then felt absolved from any possible blame about what she was doing.
All that remained was for Jukebox Jarvis to access the police computer once again to add a couple of refinements. This he did with no problem (invention having run out, they were back to using ‘copper’ as that day’s six-letter password).
Once inside the system, Jukebox followed Mrs Pargeter’s instructions. The text of the new dossier was copied into a secret file in the computer which sat on the desk of Inspector Craig Wilkinson.
And then there was the small matter of Sergeant Hughes . . . Truffler Mason had suggested, very tentatively and obliquely, that this could be a job for Vanishing Vernon or even, remembering how he got his nickname, Hedgeclipper Clinton. But Mrs Pargeter was vehemently against the idea.
Her solution to the problem was much more ingenious. Obeying her instructions, Jukebox Jarvis accessed the files of the Met’s personnel department.
A few relevant keystrokes were made, and the following Monday Sergeant Hughes started his new posting at a dog-handling unit in South Wales.
One piece of unfinished business remained. She wasn’t obliged to do it, but for Mrs Pargeter it was a point of honour that she should once again speak face to face with Craig Wilkinson.
She announced herself at the station reception, and he was clearly surprised when she entered his office.
Mrs Pargeter spoke first to ease the potential embarrassment. ‘The circumstances of our parting last time were so abrupt that I didn’t want there to be any ill feeling between us.’
‘No, no, of course not. I’m sorry. It’s something that doesn’t very often happen to me, but I just got the wrong end of the stick.’ This wasn’t a deliberate lie on the Inspector’s part; he did just genuinely lack self-knowledge.
‘The other thing was—’ – Mrs Pargeter placed Sergeant Hughes’s folder on the desk – ‘you left this behind in the restaurant. I’ve no idea what’s in it—’ (now that was a deliberate lie) ‘but I’m sure it’s important.’
‘Well, yes, yes, it could be.’ In spite of Sergeant Hughes’s furious questions about where the dossier was, Wilkinson had been too deeply sunk in his own gloom to think much about it.
‘Mind you, these days losing a copy of a document’s
not such a problem as it used to be. Presumably you have the text on your computer, don’t you?’
‘Er, well . . .’ The Inspector looked across at the alien keyboard and monitor on a small table on the other side of the room. Its layer of dust showed how often it got used. In Wilkinson’s oft-stated, Luddite view, ‘A good copper doesn’t need computers. A good copper works by instinct and intuition.’
‘Actually, in this case,’ he went on, ‘most of the research for that dossier was done by my junior, Sergeant Hughes.’
‘But he’d probably have sent a copy to your computer, so that you could check it.’
‘I’m not sure that he would. He’s a rather secretive type, Hughes. Likes to keep things to himself.’
‘Surely, though, when working with someone of your eminence and track record, Craig, he’d know that it was his duty to share everything with you.’
‘Well, maybe . . .’
‘I bet you’re just being modest. I bet there’s a copy of his work on your computer, and you’ve added all kinds of refinements and clever bits to it.’
Inspector Wilkinson chuckled. ‘I suppose you could be right.’
‘I bet all the original thinking in there comes from you, not from Sergeant Hughes at all.’
He nodded modestly. ‘Yes, it probably does.’
Mrs Pargeter had been right. She’d reckoned, in Inspector Wilkinson, she was up against one of those bosses who, whatever had been the provenance for a good idea, would always claim it as their own.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I really just wanted to bring this back to you and, you know, say I’m sorry that we couldn’t work anything out on . . .’ she blushed coyly ‘. . . the other business.’
‘Think nothing of it, Mrs Pargeter. I’ve come to terms with the truth now. I am just destined to be a failure in my private life.’
‘But—’ – she tapped the dossier meaningfully – ‘destined to be a huge success in your professional life.’