by Simon Brett
While she was sitting with a gin and tonic waiting for supper, idly flipping through a bridal magazine (she’d stocked up with a lot of them so that she could keep up to speed with Sammy), she had a phone call from Erin Jarvis.
‘Anything to report?’ Mrs Pargeter asked eagerly.
‘Well, first of all I’ve got the information about Passport Pinkerton that his daughter wanted.’
‘Oh, she’ll be delighted with that. I gave her your number, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, you did. I’ve spoken to her, and she’s over the moon about it. We’re meeting up for coffee tomorrow to talk it through.’
‘Great. You’ll love Sammy; she’s a terrific girl.’ But both of them knew that this was not the most important part of their conversation. ‘So,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Did you find anything in the physical archive about Normington Winthrop?’
‘Well, it’s interesting,’ said the girl. ‘It’s not so much what’s in the archive as what isn’t in the archive.’
‘The dog that didn’t bark in the night-time?’
‘Exactly. As you know, your husband was a meticulous record-keeper.’
‘Meticulous in everything he did,’ said Mrs Pargeter fondly.
‘And in his records of his early … er, business ventures he gives credit where appropriate to every one of his associates … except, of course, the one whose name has been so carefully excised from the notebooks.’
‘Normington Winthrop,’ said Mrs Pargeter excitedly.
‘We don’t know for sure that it’s him, but that’s a possibility. Anyway, whoever tampered with the notebooks was clearly given instruction to cut out the name, which he or she has done with punctilious efficiency. But there are one or two references to another associate which haven’t been cut out.’
‘And why do you think that is?’
‘It’s because, Mrs Pargeter, the references to him are not made by name. He’s given a kind of nickname, and clearly the saboteur with his pair of scissors wasn’t told to look out for that.’
‘So what is the nickname?’
‘“The Armourer”,’ said Erin Jarvis.
Mrs Pargeter had finished her delicious Indian banquet. Having relished every mouthful of her prawn puri and chicken dhansak and swept up the residual juices with naan bread, she was about to return to reading a pivotal debate on the optimum size of a bride’s bouquet when she noticed the time. Just after nine.
She rang the number on Holy Smirke’s card and, as promised, the answer had a French accent. A lovely, very warm, sensual French accent. Holy had certainly landed on his feet when Ernestine was appointed as his housekeeper.
‘Could I speak to …’ Mrs Pargeter suddenly realized that his nickname might not be in general usage and continued: ‘The Reverend Smirke?’
‘I am sorry. That, I am afraid, you cannot do. Holy is not here.’
So at least Ernestine used it. Mrs Pargeter wondered if his parishioners did too. ‘Oh. He said he would be in if I rang at nine.’
‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘My name is Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Ah.’ The woman sounded relieved. ‘Holy has mentioned you. He holds you in very high regard.’
‘I’m honoured.’
‘Also, he always speaks very highly of your husband. He it was, I believe, who paid for Holy’s training for the priesthood?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘He was a very generous man, I think.’
‘Yes, very generous.’ Mrs Pargeter couldn’t prevent her eyes from moving towards the photograph of her dark-suited husband on the mantelpiece.
‘Anyway, I am sorry, Mrs Pargeter, that Holy is not here to speak to you.’
‘Have you any idea when he will be back?’
‘No, not at all.’ For the first time there was an edge of anxiety in the woman’s voice. ‘Normally, on weekdays he comes back to the flat at six thirty on the dot. But today, no.’
‘Maybe he had an urgent call from one of his parishioners?’
‘I do not think so. He is always very good about telling me where he is going. He calls me on the mobile. And it is very unlike him to be late for a meal.’
‘Particularly, I gather, when you are cooking cassoulet.’
‘Ah, he told you, yes. It is indeed one of his favourite dishes.’ Ernestine sounded almost on the verge of tears. ‘It is unlike Holy to miss his cassoulet.’ She caressed the word, as if it were symbolic of some more intimate treat.
‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ said Mrs Pargeter, sounding more confident than she felt. ‘Just got held up somewhere.’
‘Yes. Perhaps. I hope.’ But Ernestine didn’t sound convinced.
‘Well, look, I’ll be up till ten thirty, so if he’s in before that, could you ask him to give me a call?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Once again emotion threatened to overwhelm her. ‘But if Holy does not come back …? If he is not here in the morning …?’
‘Ring me,’ said Mrs Pargeter firmly.
It was half-past seven the following morning when the phone on Mrs Pargeter’s bedside table rang. It was Ernestine.
‘I am sorry it is so early. I have been awake all night. Holy has not come home.’
TEN
Mrs Pargeter instantly rang Truffler Mason and agreed to meet him at eleven outside St-Crispin-in-the-Closet. She texted Gary, and he was at her house within twenty minutes.
‘I haven’t had an invoice from you for months,’ said Mrs Pargeter once she was settled into the back of the car. ‘And you’ve done a hell of a lot of driving for me recently.’
‘I’m on the case,’ Gary lied.
Truffler Mason was outside the church as agreed, his expression again that of a man whose investments had all just vanished in a major financial crash. ‘Good morning, Mrs Pargeter,’ he said lugubriously. ‘Wonderful to see you, as ever.’
‘Am I coming with you this time?’ asked Gary.
‘Yes, please. Will the car be all right here?’ The Bentley had been drawn up half on the pavement, straddling the double yellow lines.
Gary reached inside the glove compartment and took out a rolled-up small flag on a stick. As he affixed it to the front of the Bentley’s roof, the fabric unfurled to reveal that it was the Royal Standard. ‘Usually works,’ said Gary.
Ernestine looked as warm and sexy as her voice had promised. Her hair was dyed a rich brown and cut stylishly short. Probably over seventy, she had that Frenchwoman’s knack of looking elegant in any circumstances, even those as unhappy as her current situation.
She served excellent coffee in the tiny but snug flat behind the church and told them what she could about Holy Smirke’s disappearance. Which wasn’t very much, really. He just hadn’t returned to the flat; that was all there was to it.
‘Have you looked in the church?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
‘Of course I have. One of my first thoughts was that he might have had a fall – or perhaps worse, a stroke – but there was no sign of him anywhere.’
‘And no signs of a struggle?’ asked Truffler. ‘No evidence that anyone else had been in the church?’
‘No.’
‘Because I was trying to think what time I left him yesterday,’ Mrs Pargeter mused. ‘Oh yes, it was just on four because Holy had a four o’clock appointment with a woman about her husband’s funeral arrangements. I wonder if we could track her down, find out when she left him and whether she witnessed anything unusual.’
‘I have spoken to her,’ said Ernestine.
‘Oh?’
‘Her name was in the church diary. With her phone number. So I telephone her this morning. She tells me she leave soon after five. Holy stays in the church. He does not say anything to her about going out.’
‘She could be lying, I suppose,’ said Gary.
‘Yes, but we really have no reason to be suspicious of her.’
‘No, Mrs P,’ Truffler agreed. ‘Just the circumstantial fact that she may have been the last pe
rson to see Holy before he disappeared.’
Mrs Pargeter turned the beam of her violet eyes on to Ernestine. ‘So there was nothing at all that seemed unusual when you searched the church?’
‘Well, there was one thing …’
‘Something missing?’
‘No. More the other way around. There was something there that I would not have expected to be there.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know that Holy does not have a lot of hair on top of his head …?’
‘You can’t help noticing that.’
‘And he feels the cold very much. Even when the weather gets warmer, he never goes out without his … what do you call it? “Flat hat”?’
‘“Flat cap”, maybe?’
‘Yes, this is good. This is what he calls it. Well, it is there, the flat cap. It is still hanging on the hook in the vestry where he always puts it.’
‘Which means?’
‘Holy did not mean to go out. If he intended to go outside he would definitely have worn his flat cap.’
‘So,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘we might conclude from that that someone forced him to leave the church.’
Truffler Mason and Gary made a very full examination of the interior of St-Crispin-in-the-Closet, looking for any clues as to the circumstances of Holy Smirke’s departure from the church the previous afternoon. They found nothing.
While the two men were doing their search, Mrs Pargeter drank more coffee with Ernestine, giving her constant reassurances that Holy Smirke would be found, that she had at her disposal the finest team of investigators in the country. She then asked rather tentatively if Ernestine had thought of calling the police. The Frenchwoman said no, Holy had always wanted to have as little as possible to do with the police. Mrs Pargeter was with him on that.
It was only when she had said her goodbyes and was about to enter the Bentley (the Royal Standard, having saved it from the ministrations of traffic wardens, had now been stowed away) that she stopped suddenly and said, ‘Big Issue.’
Truffler Mason looked perplexed. ‘Do you want me to buy you one? Or are you selling them?’
‘No, no. There was a man on the corner selling them yesterday. He was sitting on the pavement just here with a dog. He might have witnessed something.’
‘I remember him,’ said Gary, then, stating the obvious, continued, ‘but he’s not here today.’
‘He might have just shifted his pitch. Drive along Lace Bobbin Street and see if you can spot him.’
It was a shrewd suggestion. Less than a hundred yards away the scruffy man with the scruffy dog was sitting hopefully on the pavement with his stock of magazines. He recognized the Bentley and rose to his feet. He also recognized Mrs Pargeter. Not many of his customers gave him twenty pounds and didn’t even take a copy of the magazine.
When asked about the comings and goings at St-Crispin-in-the-Closet the previous afternoon, he proved to be a very observant witness.
‘It was early evening yesterday. I remember because I was thinking of packing it in for the day. Evening rush hour is hopeless for my business. Everyone too keen to get home, scurrying off for their buses and tubes. If they want something to read on the journey, they pick up an Evening Standard, because that’s free, apart from anything else. They certainly don’t stop for a Big Issue. Mornings are a bit better, but—’
Mrs Pargeter raised a hand to stop his flow. ‘Sorry, what did you see early evening yesterday? Did you see a clergyman in a cassock come out of St-Crispin-in-the-Closet?’
‘Certainly did. One of those Toyota Priuses – you know, hybrid cars – parked just at the end of the lane, where you parked yesterday and all. Two men got out and went into the church. Couple of minutes later out they come, with the vicar in tow.’
‘Did he appear to be coming with them willingly?’
‘Yes. Well, he did at first.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘They get to the car, and one of the men – big guy he was, must’ve spent a lot of time in the gym – he says, “It’s really urgent. There’s this bloke who’s dying, needs to have his last rites,” and the clergyman says, “Last rites are a Catholic sacrament, and I’m Church of England.” And the big guy says, “Never mind that,” opens the back door of the Prius and shoves the vicar in. Smaller guy leaps into the driver’s seat, and they screech off like they got all the hounds of hell after them.’
‘So you reckon the vicar was kidnapped?’
‘Looked like it, yeah.’
They asked further questions, but the Big Issue seller had little more information to give. He hadn’t taken note of the Prius’s number plate. He wasn’t sure if he’d recognize the two men again. All he could tell them was that the car had gone off on the road out of the City in the direction of South London.
After their encounter with the witness they all felt rather flat. Gary suggested he drive Mrs Pargeter back to Essex and drop Truffler by a tube station so that he could return to his office.
‘But we must find Holy,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
‘Sure. We’ll do our best.’ Truffler didn’t sound very hopeful. Mind you, he never actually sounded very hopeful.
‘I thought you were something of an expert on Missing Persons.’
‘I’ve had a few successes,’ Truffler admitted, ‘but I’ve always had a bit more to go on than we’ve got here.’
‘Hm.’ Mrs Pargeter took the little black book out of her handbag and flicked through the entries. ‘My husband entered you in here with your specialism listed as “Missing Persons”.’
‘Generous of him, but, as I say, my track record isn’t that great.’
‘Are there any other names in there under “Missing Persons”?’ asked Gary.
Mrs Pargeter checked the relevant entries. Quite a few names had been scored through with a single neat blue line from her husband’s italic fountain pen. She had worked out that these represented people who had passed on to that great Investigative Bureau in the Sky.
‘Just one,’ she replied. ‘“Napper” Johnson.’
Both men immediately let out a whoop of joy. Even Truffler Mason sounded mildly cheerful.
‘Napper Johnson!’ he said. ‘Now you’re talking!’
ELEVEN
Erin Jarvis and Sammy Pinkerton met up in a nice (i.e. not part of a chain) coffee shop in Covent Garden on Thursday afternoon. There was an instant rapport between the two, and almost immediately – in the way women always can and men very rarely can – they were talking with deep emotion. Both had recently lost their fathers, and though Erin was further down the road of coming to terms with the fact, they had a lot of common experience to talk about.
So they had shared many secrets by the time they got on to the real purpose of their meeting. After getting in their second round of coffees, Erin handed Sammy a cardboard folder. ‘This is all the stuff I could find on your father.’
Sammy opened the folder to reveal a pile of printed sheets the thickness of a short novel. ‘Wow,’ she said, ‘that’s awesome!’
‘I’m not expecting you to read it straight away,’ said Erin, flicking back her purple hair. ‘But when you do get into it, if there’s anything you want developed or amplified just give me a call.’
Then they got on to the topic of Sammy’s forthcoming wedding, and Kelvin, and the general inadequacies of boyfriends. Erin had had quite a roller coaster of an emotional history and was currently enjoying being unattached. ‘The trouble is I’m really a workaholic, and it’s sometimes difficult for blokes to take that on board.’
‘Yes, Kelvin’s very caught up in his work. I sometimes think it’s the only thing he’s interested in,’ Sammy agreed ruefully. But she didn’t specify what that work was.
When the two girls parted, they realized that they had been there for over two hours, and they had formed a very strong bond.
Sammy Pinkerton’s last words to her new friend were: ‘You must come to my hen party on Saturday. I’ll email you the details.�
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Their appointment with Napper Johnson – or, as he was now known, Victor Johnson of Johnson Caterham Consultants – was at his Canary Wharf offices. They were to see him as soon as they arrived, no matter the time. ‘Everything else out of the diary for Mrs Pargeter,’ he’d said when Mrs Pargeter rang him earlier that day from the Bentley, after speaking to the Big Issue seller. ‘When I think of all the things your late husband did for me …’
After a good fish and chips lunch, as the Bentley probed its way through the East End traffic, Truffler and Gary reminisced fondly about the exploits of the legend they were about to visit.
‘Remember, Gary, what Napper did with those two security guards on the Fulham safe-deposit job? Only flew them off on a package holiday to Torremolinos! End of the fortnight they were having such a good time they didn’t want to come back.’
‘I think the reason they didn’t want to come back was more the reaction they were likely to get from their boss when he found the safes had been cleaned out.’
‘You’re probably right, Gary.’
‘Then do you remember what Napper done with those two Arab princesses? Kept them locked in a suite at Claridges – only the same blooming hotel where their dad the Sultan was staying – and where he received the ransom demand. And he knew nothing about it till he’d agreed to fly back the two of Mr P’s men who’d been arrested for the jewellery scam out in his country … Can’t remember where it was. One of the United Arab Emirates, anyway.’
‘Then there was the time Napper nicked that—’
‘I can’t help observing,’ Mrs Pargeter interposed rather coldly, ‘that the cases you refer to seem to involve your colleague actually kidnapping people rather than finding and releasing those who have been kidnapped.’
Rather embarrassedly, remembering whose company they were in, Truffler and Gary fell over themselves to assure Mrs Pargeter that Napper Johnson had performed a lot of the other kind of service as well.