by Simon Brett
And, though Mrs Pargeter had been very keen to get the house built – as, amongst other things, a memorial to their marriage – she had encountered a lot of delays along the way. These had been caused chiefly by her choice of builder. There was nothing wrong with his professional skills – ‘Concrete’ Jacket was universally acknowledged as one of the best in the business – but he did have an unfortunate habit of getting on the wrong side of the law. Indeed, on one occasion when Mrs Pargeter had been visiting the site of her new home a body had been discovered, and Concrete Jacket found himself arrested for murder. Though he had been on that occasion exonerated, he had an unfortunate habit of committing other peccadillos, which led to his spending a certain number of extended periods at the pleasure of Her Majesty. As a result, the building of Mrs Pargeter’s dream home had been a slow and laborious process.
But it was a magnificent dream. Built in Georgian proportions, the house had six bedrooms, every amenity that modern technology could supply and one and a half acres of garden. This last was attended to by a full-time gardener. Part of the late Mr Pargeter’s dream of retirement had been spending more time getting dirt under his fingernails in the garden, but his widow’s priorities were very different. Though she liked her surroundings to look nice, she had always found gardening deeply tedious. And throughout most of her life she had managed very effectively to steer clear of things she found tedious.
That evening Gary had brought her straight back from Greene’s Hotel after her tea, and in the Bentley they had discussed the plight of Samantha Pinkerton. Gary had said he could definitely provide the cars for the wedding. ‘Can do you a very good deal on them, Mrs P.’ Which had, of course, prompted her knee-jerk reaction that he must charge his regular rates and give her a proper invoice for his services.
The evening caller on the telephone was Truffler Mason. ‘Good to see you at the funeral, Mrs P,’ he said in his customary voice of doom.
‘You too, Truffler. Always good to see you.’
‘And I’ve heard from Gizmo Gilbert. You done a lovely job there, Mrs P. Haven’t compromised his pride at all. In fact, you’ve even made him prouder. He thinks you really have sorted out royalty payments on his “Zipper Zapper”.’
‘Well, I have,’ protested Mrs Pargeter, relieved that Gizmo had gone along with her suggestion for the name of his latest invention.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yes. The cheque he received came from the Patent Office, didn’t it?’ she asked innocently.
From the other end of the line came a low lugubrious chuckle. Truffler was glad to hear that Mr Pargeter’s widow was au fait with the large number of bank accounts her late husband had set up, which could apparently generate cheques from all kinds of public bodies.
‘I’ve got the prototype of the “Zipper Zapper” and all, Truffler,’ Mrs Pargeter continued righteously. ‘I’m sure it’ll come in useful one day.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it will,’ he said sceptically.
‘And incidentally, thank you for setting up my meeting with Sammy Pinkerton.’
‘Nice kid, isn’t she?’
‘Oh yes.’ And Mrs Pargeter gave a brief résumé of her afternoon’s philanthropy. But she didn’t mention the criminal career of Sammy’s fiancé. Though Truffler Mason was totally trustworthy, Mrs Pargeter wanted to find out a bit more about Kelvin’s activities before she shared the knowledge with anyone else.
Then Truffler moved on to the purpose of his call: ‘It’s funny – it’s connected, in a way, with the funeral.’
‘Oh?’
‘I had a call this morning from Lady Winthrop.’
‘What did she want?’
‘She wanted to employ me.’
‘As a private investigator?’
‘Of course. That’s how I’m listed in all the directories. And OK, she may just have stumbled on my name by chance, but it did seem rather a coincidence … you know, with me having worked for your husband and her old man having done the same.’
‘Having possibly done the same. We still have no proof of the connection.’
‘But I’m sure we’ll find it, Mrs P.’
‘Hm. Anyway, did Lady Winthrop say what she wanted you to investigate?’
‘No, she’s coming to the office tomorrow afternoon to tell me about it.’
‘Hm. That is odd, isn’t it? You’ll keep me posted about what she says, won’t you?’
‘’Course I will, Mrs P. I’ll put money on the fact that it has something to do with her husband’s past.’
‘Are you certain you never came across Sir Normington Winthrop in his earlier incarnation?’
‘Never heard of him. And, of course, there was no mention of him working for your husband in the obituaries.’
‘Well, there wouldn’t be, would there?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Incidentally, Truffler, I only read the obituary in the Daily Mail. Could you send me any others you’ve got?’
‘’Course. I’ll email them straight away.’
‘Thank you.’ Mrs Pargeter did not use a computer a great deal, but she certainly knew how to download email attachments. She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’d be interested to know a bit more about Sir Normington Winthrop’s background. Pity “Jukebox” Jarvis is no longer with us.’
She referred to a small bespectacled man who got his nickname from the fact that he used to ‘keep the records’ of all the late Mr Pargeter’s business activities. He was a computer expert who operated out of a terraced house in North London, where his office was a cat’s cradle of wires and leads linking his accumulation of computer hardware. Among his many technical skills was the ability to hack in at will to police emails and thus secure invaluable advance notice of their plans.
Sadly, though, Jukebox Jarvis had died the previous year. Though Mrs Pargeter herself had been unable to attend, there had been a good turnout for his funeral of names from the little black book, but she rather feared that all his expertise had died with him. She expressed this regret to Truffler Mason and was much relieved by his reply.
‘No, I worried about that for a bit, but then I had a call from his daughter, Erin. She’s taken over the whole caboodle. Brought it up to date and all. ’Cause when I watched Jukebox doing his stuff, I reckoned he was a real whizz on the old computers. But Erin tells me technology’s advanced a lot, and she’s tidied up the records and put them on a much more modern system. I went to see her, and she’s done wonderful stuff, digitized all the archive.’
‘But would she have the stuff going right back to when my husband started his career?’
‘I reckon she has got it all, yeah.’
‘And are you sure she can be trusted?’
Truffler sounded almost affronted by the question. ‘She’s as trustworthy as her dad was. As to whether she’s got all the stuff, I’ll check with her tomorrow.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve fixed to see Erin, Mrs P, so’s I’ve got a bit of background stuff on Lady Winthrop for when I meet up with her in the afternoon.’
‘So you’re actually going to Erin’s house?’
‘Yes, she still lives in her dad’s place. Little terrace up North London way.’
‘Ooh,’ said Mrs Pargeter, greatly enthused. ‘Do you mind if I come with you, Truffler?’
Rather than reading the obituaries that Truffler had sent her off the screen of her laptop, Mrs Pargeter printed them out and read them in bed to the accompaniment of a large Armagnac.
As anticipated, there was no mention of Sir Normington Winthrop having dealings with her late husband. But he’d clearly had a very distinguished career in public life, been a man of great wealth and influence. Through all the sycophantic flannel in the obituaries it was possible to work out that his speciality had been the arms trade. Though never a member of any government, he had acted as a consultant to many governments, because of his unrivalled range of international contacts, particularly in the Middle East.
; And although the international arms trade had a justified reputation for dodgy dealings, at no time during his career had any aspersion been cast on the integrity of Sir Normington Winthrop.
The one detail of his life that Mrs Pargeter had not known about was his political affiliation. Though he had made himself indispensable to governments both Labour and Tory, it was not one of the mainstream parties that had claimed Winthrop’s allegiance. A time when only a few cigarette papers of policy difference seemed to separate the two main contenders gave the opportunity for minority groups to claim public attention, and the one in which Sir Normington Winthrop had interested himself was called BROG.
This acronym stood for ‘Britons, Restore Our Greatness’, and it was just the kind of jingoistic set-up to flourish in the aura of political uncertainty between general elections. BROG was really a one-man band. Though it claimed to have many other members, the only one to have any public recognition was its founder – part tub-thumping populist, part buffoon – who was known as Derek Bardon.
An instinctive self-publicist, Bardon was just the sort of character that the tabloids thrived on. Though woolly on the details of BROG’s policies, he was a master of the political stunt and adept at snatching headlines from the two main party leaders. Derek Bardon had the huge advantage over them that whereas promises they made might at some point have to be put into action, there was no danger of that ever happening with any promise made by BROG.
So though the party seemed never likely to achieve a representative at Westminster – or even an MEP – it did provide a welcome focus for the grumbling middle-aged middle class who reckoned they had through their lives watched the inevitable process of the once great Britain ‘going to the dogs’ (or, in some saloon bars where such moans were expressed, ‘to hell in a handcart’).
In the attitudes of BROG’s members there was a dangerous tendency against immigration, which at times strayed into racism, but that was massaged by the party’s publicity. Their literature tended to concentrate on a nostalgic view of a Great Britain which never probably existed: a land of warm beer and village cricket, of cheery plough boys and rosy-cheeked wenches sipping cider on haystacks.
For most of the country BROG was a joke. But clearly it hadn’t been for Sir Normington Winthrop. He had been a great admirer of Derek Bardon and had, virtually on his own, funded the party’s growth. There was also the implication that the terms of his will would continue that substantial funding.
Mrs Pargeter, who had always valued principle over politics, found this new insight into the dead man very interesting. But it wasn’t the kind of thing that she would allow to keep her awake, so after her regular loving goodnight to the photo of her late husband on the bedside table, she settled down to sleep.
The second phone call she had that evening, just after she had turned out the light, was considerably less pleasant than the earlier one she’d received from Truffler Mason.
‘Mrs Pargeter?’ asked a cultured voice which sounded vaguely familiar.
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Edmund Grainger. We met at Sir Normington Winthrop’s funeral.’
‘I remember. In fact, given your bad manners on that occasion, I am hardly likely to forget.’
‘Never mind my manners. I just want to know whether Lady Winthrop has been in touch with you since the funeral?’
‘No, and since you prevented me from speaking to her on that occasion, it’s hardly surprising, is it? She doesn’t know me from Adam – or perhaps I should say Eve?’
‘And has she been in touch with your associates – you know, the scruff-bags who were at the funeral with you?’
‘What business would that be of yours, Mr Grainger?’
‘Never mind. Has she been in touch with them?’
There was no way Mrs Pargeter was about to repeat what Truffler Mason had told her, so she lied succinctly: ‘No.’
‘Well, if any of them are approached by her, tell them to refuse to speak to her.’
‘And why should I do that?’
He couldn’t come up with anything more inventive than the threat he’d used after the funeral. ‘Because if you don’t it’ll be the worse for you,’ he hissed.
‘Oh?’
‘Mrs Pargeter, there are very important things at stake here.’
‘Maybe if you were to tell me what those important things are, I might take your blustering a bit more seriously.’
‘Just take my word for it. If you or any of your associates have any contact with Lady Winthrop, you will upset a lot of people who don’t like being upset.’
‘Can you be a bit more specific, Mr Grainger? If you’re trying to frighten me, then I’m afraid your threats are too vague to have any such effect.’
‘All right. Let’s just say that if you have any contact with Lady Winthrop, you’re in serious danger of getting yourself killed. Is that specific enough for you?’
Mrs Pargeter was not easily frightened. And at the end of the phone call she felt more curiosity than fear. Why was Edmund Grainger behaving in that manner? What was he afraid Lady Winthrop might say?
Or was it the other way round? Was he worried about something Mrs Pargeter or one of her associates might tell Lady Winthrop?
It was bizarre. And a little unsettling. Edmund Grainger had had no difficulty finding her number. And he’d used the landline. Which probably meant he knew where she lived.
Mrs Pargeter’s first instinct was to ring Truffler Mason and tell him about the call. But something stopped her. She thought that Edmund Grainger was just a bully. And she’d never allowed herself to be intimidated by bullies. She was of the view that they were social inadequates who were all talk. To tell anyone about the phone call she’d just ended would mean that this particular bully had won. And she wasn’t going to let him win.
FIVE
The following morning, as Gary piloted the Bentley towards the house in Chigwell an annoyingly familiar sequence of thoughts replayed through his head. His admiration for Mrs Pargeter had been strong from the moment he first met her, but he worried that his feelings had developed beyond mere admiration.
His track record with relationships wasn’t great. For a time he’d felt settled. His most recent wife had been Denise, and that marriage had seemed promising. They’d lived together in a beautiful country cottage with a huge barn, where he’d parked all the vehicles when he’d started his car hire business. And that had seemed really promising … for a while.
But then he’d made the same mistake he’d made on so many other occasions. Started an affair with another woman. And had been careless enough to let Denise find out about it.
Sometimes he worried whether there was a kamikaze element in all his relationships. Just when everything was going fine, just when he should have been feeling secure, he’d go and do something to ruin the whole set-up. And that something was usually another woman. It had happened too often to be a coincidence.
The previous evening had seen the break-up of yet another in the long line of unsatisfactory relationships which had followed his divorce from Denise. It wasn’t that the girls he habitually consorted with weren’t pretty, weren’t sexy, weren’t entirely suitable partners for a man like him. It was just that they all seemed so young, so … callow (though that was probably not a word that Gary knew).
Basically, they all seemed so immature when compared to Mrs Pargeter.
Deep down he knew he didn’t stand a chance with her. It wasn’t that he was unattractive – the ease with which he picked up women he didn’t care about suggested the very opposite. And he couldn’t have wished for more affection and concern for his welfare from Mrs Pargeter. But he knew the unlikelihood, indeed impossibility, of his feelings for her ever being reciprocated. She had enjoyed the perfect relationship with the late Mr Pargeter and, rather than settle for anything less, was determined to live out her widowhood in solitary philanthropy.
She was totally unaware of what Gary felt for her. And in many ways
he knew that that was the right situation – indeed, the idea of his making some declaration to her was acutely embarrassing and could only sour their relationship. But he did still feel on occasion the need to present her with some token of his unspoken feelings.
Hence the parcel on the back seat of the Bentley.
‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ said Mrs Pargeter as she unwrapped the life-size china figurine of a pink and white cat with gold details on its nose, whiskers and feet. Though she was a woman who preferred always to say what she thought, she knew there were moments when honesty should be tempered with tact.
‘I’m really glad you like it, Mrs P,’ said Gary, a raspberry blush suffusing his cheeks. ‘The moment I saw the thing, I knew it had your name written all over it.’
This wasn’t the time for her to say he had just demonstrated how little he knew her. Instead, she uttered some bland platitude about how thoughtful he was, already planning in the depths of which cupboard she would hide the thing when she was next alone in the house.
Amongst the many insights her late husband had taught her had been an appreciation of the beauty – and value – of artworks, and she had instantly recognized that Gary’s gift had no aesthetic quality at all.
Also, it was a cat – and a cat of the most winsome kind. Though of a very generous nature, Mrs Pargeter had never become sentimental over pets. Unlike the majority of people in the British Isles, she believed there were enough human beings in the world who needed her help before she got round to starting on the animal kingdom.
But Gary’s next words rather took the wind out of her sails. ‘I chose it specially because I thought it would go so well on the mantelpiece in here … you know, picking up the blues in the wallpaper.’
This undoubtedly presented a difficulty. Mrs Pargeter had spent a lot of time and thought on the decor of her new home once Concrete Jacket had finally completed it, and in no way did a pink, white and gold china cat fit in with her plans. Least of all on the mantelpiece of her sitting room, whose chief feature was a very fine and sober photograph of her late husband.