by Simon Brett
The man himself was suave almost to the point – but not quite – of being oleaginous. So much so that Mrs Pargeter’s first reaction was one of suspicion. She had met enough smoothies in her time to distrust the breed, and although Napper Johnson had the endorsement of Truffler and Gary – and had, indeed, worked for her late husband – there was something about him she didn’t warm to. The charm he exuded didn’t seem quite authentic.
The grey hair above his chubby face was cut with a stylish quiff, and his three-piece blue suit had been elegantly tailored to accommodate a growing midriff. The office behind the massive desk at which he sat commanded an extensive view of the Thames snaking its way between the ancient monuments and lesser buildings of London’s financial district.
When introductions had been made and coffee ordered, Mrs Pargeter, with characteristic, but nonetheless charming, bluntness, asked, ‘So, what does “Consultants” mean?’
‘As in “Johnson Caterham Consultants”?’
‘Exactly.’
He smiled.
‘Could cover a multitude of sins, that,’ she said.
He smiled again. ‘I’m sure it could. And I’m sure it has – particularly in the City of London. Though I would like to point out that all businesses on which I now consult are entirely legitimate.’
Mrs Pargeter grinned. ‘That’s what they all say.’
Napper Johnson grinned back. He was clearly enjoying this exchange of banter. There had already developed a mutual respect for the other’s intelligence. But there was still an element of caution on Mrs Pargeter’s side and an element of world-weariness on his.
‘So, are you still involved in kidnapping?’
He winced at her use of the word. ‘I would prefer to describe the scope of my activities as covering the world of public relations.’
‘Oh, really? So when a member of the public wants one of their relations to disappear for a while, then you’re on hand to make the arrangements?’
‘Again, those are not the words I would use, Mrs Pargeter. But a lot of the business of public relations does involve the keeping apart of potentially combustible combinations of people. So if I get requests to make such arrangements, I am more than happy to comply with them.’
‘And in what kind of circumstances might such requests be made?’
Napper Johnson spread his hands to indicate the wide variety of scenarios that might call for his services. ‘A lot of it is family stuff. Let us say, if it might be thought preferable that a divorced father should not be available to attend his daughter’s wedding, that could be arranged. Loving parents might prefer that an unsuitable boyfriend should spend the next year in South America. An inconvenient mother-in-law could perhaps stay on the Costa Brava for a few months. Those are the kind of arrangements my company is happy to make.’
‘But no charges of kidnapping or abduction ever ensue?’
He looked pained by the suggestion. ‘Of course not, Mrs Pargeter. We are far too careful in our business management to let such a situation occur.’
‘I see.’
Truffler Mason and Gary had been watching this exchange with some anxiety. Having made the introduction to Napper Johnson, they were worried to hear their patron apparently looking this gift horse in the mouth. They were also a little worried by the way the consultant appeared almost to be on autopilot rather than deeply engaged in their problem.
‘But you have done some kind of charitable jobs too, haven’t you, Napper?’ said Truffler. ‘Helping people who needed to do a vanishing act. Lord Lucan was one of yours, wasn’t he?’
‘And Shergar,’ Gary contributed.
These, however, were not examples on which the consultant wished to dwell. ‘Both a long time ago,’ he said dismissively. ‘And both – as I subsequently discovered, though of course didn’t know at the time – cases which had some degree of criminal connection. Now, as I say, Mrs Pargeter, I am much more selective in the clients I take on.’
‘Hm.’ She still didn’t sound completely convinced.
Truffler continued trying to ease the process. ‘In fact, Napper,’ he said, ‘it was more the other side of your business that Mrs Pargeter was interested in.’
‘Oh?’
Gary spelled it out. ‘There’s someone she knows who’s been kidnapped, and she wants to find him. Isn’t that right, Mrs P?’
She admitted that what he had asserted was indeed the case, and Napper Johnson’s chubby face was instantly wreathed in smiles. ‘Ah, if only you had said that straight away, Mrs Pargeter. That is the aspect of Napper Caterham Consultants which we have been developing enormously in recent years. And I have no hesitation in stating that our record in the finding and release of kidnap victims is now second to none.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Mrs Pargeter drily, still not totally convinced, still waiting for more.
‘We do make certain restrictions for obvious reasons. We don’t involve ourselves in international politics, so if the kidnap victim were, let us say, in the Middle East, my company would not be the right service to call on. But anything within this country, so long as it has no terrorism connection, is very much our kind of business. So who, may I ask, Mrs Pargeter, is the individual whose release you wish to effect?’
‘He was yet another person who worked with my husband – who was with him right from the start of his operations, in fact. Have you heard of someone called Holy Smirke?’
‘Indeed I have, Mrs Pargeter. And I’ve heard nothing but good of him. Though, sadly, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman in question, I know him to have been one of your late husband’s first associates. I believe the two of them were actually at school together.’
This thorough knowledge of Holy Smirke’s background finally convinced Mrs Pargeter that she was dealing with someone she could trust. She beamed as she said, ‘You’re absolutely right.’
‘And I am so sorry to hear that the Reverend Smirke has been kidnapped. Could you tell me as much as you know of the circumstances of his abduction?’
This Mrs Pargeter, with interpolations from Truffler and Gary, quickly provided.
When they had finished, Napper Johnson linked his hands over his well-rounded stomach and smiled beatifically. ‘Well, that shouldn’t be too much trouble,’ he said. ‘We’ve solved many cases where we have had considerably less information. To know the exact site where the abduction took place is an enormous bonus.’
‘So how do you proceed from here?’ asked Mrs Pargeter. ‘Or is that a professional secret?’
‘It is indeed a professional secret, and one that I would not willingly divulge to anyone …’ He smiled. ‘Except, of course, to you, Mrs Pargeter.’
She was now completely charmed by Napper Johnson and wondered why she had ever doubted his integrity. ‘So how’s it done?’ she asked.
‘Well, there are a variety of methods we use, depending on the circumstances. In these offices I have experts in many forms of information-gathering and, as with many businesses, information is the key to our operation. In this instance we are extraordinarily fortunate that the abduction took place in a busy urban environment.’
‘Oh, really? Why? More witnesses?’
‘Well, in this case, thanks to your vigilance, Mrs Pargeter, we do in fact have a witness in the form of the Big Issue seller. But, more important than that, we have CCTV.’
‘You mean you have your own CCTV?’
‘Good heavens, no, Mrs Pargeter. I don’t have to go to the expense of having my own. The Metropolitan and City police are generous enough to provide that service for me.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘I have amongst the experts on my staff people who are capable of accessing all the information recorded on the police CCTV systems.’
‘You mean, like, hacking?’
‘Accessing is the word I prefer, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Very well.’
‘Perhaps I could give you a demonstration? Remind me of the p
recise location and the approximate timing of Holy Smirke’s abduction.’
Mrs Pargeter provided the relevant details. Napper Johnson pressed down a button on his intercom and relayed the information to some unseen minion. Then he swung the large screen on his desk round so that it faced his three visitors. ‘Shouldn’t take long,’ he said.
And within seconds the screen filled with a view from the roadside end of the alley into which St-Crispin-in-the-Closet was crammed. A Toyota Prius was parked in the forefront of the image. The small door in the church’s large doors opened to reveal Holy Smirke being escorted out by two men. Their conversation, which could not be heard, appeared to be affable. It was only when they were close to the car that the atmosphere changed. While the shorter of the abductors rushed round to get in the driving seat, the larger forced the unfortunate vicar into the back seat. The moment his door was closed, the Prius sped off out of the City.
It was then that the unseen operator of the video process showed his or her skill. The camera focused on the back of the car and enlarged the image to give a very clear reading of its number plate. He or she then produced close-up still photographs of the two abductors.
‘Won’t take us long to identify them from our database,’ said Napper with a note of justifiable smugness.
Then, for good measure, the camera homed in on the Big Issue seller.
‘And there, of course, is your witness.’ Napper Johnson smiled one of his smoothest smiles. ‘I don’t think it should take us too long to sort out this little job for you, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Napper’s good,’ said Gary as they drove away from Canary Wharf.
‘Yes,’ Truffler agreed, ‘but you didn’t take to him straight away, did you, Mrs P?’
‘Very observant of you. No, there was something I kind of distrusted at first. In spite of all the obvious bonhomie, he seemed rather distant, as though he was just going through the motions.’
‘Yes, I noticed that.’ Gary nodded. ‘He’s still got all the spiel, but he didn’t have that enthusiasm for the work he always used to have. Maybe he’s just getting old and tired.’
‘No, there’s more to it than that,’ said Truffler. ‘I heard from someone that his wife died a couple of years back. Lovely woman, apparently. And though Napper’s working as much as ever, nothing’s felt the same for him since he lost her.’
‘Well, I understand that feeling,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
TWELVE
‘Look, you don’t have to tell me about caring for a father,’ said Sammy Pinkerton. ‘I spent nearly three years looking after mine, remember.’
‘I know,’ said her fiancé. ‘And I wish I’d had the opportunity to do the same for my old man.’
‘We’ve been through all this before,’ said Sammy disconsolately.
They made an attractive couple, the girl’s almost exotically dark colouring in marked contrast to the boy’s blue eyes and Nordic pale hair. His body was long and thin. They were sitting in the Greyhound, a pub just round the corner from their flat in Southend, on Thursday evening. It had been the scene of many happy occasions between them over the months of their relationship, but now what it witnessed more frequently were arguments. And almost always about the same thing.
Kelvin Stockett’s angular body was hunched into his chair, full of unloaded aggression. ‘I blame my mother,’ he said. ‘She deliberately kept me apart from my dad.’
‘And always made you refer to him as Daddy. I know,’ she said with a sigh. She was aware that when her fiancé was in this mood he would just go round and round in the same mournful circles.
‘She deliberately stopped me from having any kind of relationship with him.’
‘I know, but she was doing the right thing, according to her principles.’
‘Her principles were nothing more than snobbery. And the situation wasn’t helped by the fact that her father had been a Chief Constable, and she kind of hero-worshipped him. From the moment she got hitched to my old man, she was convinced she had married beneath herself. That’s why she had my birth registered under her surname rather than his. I should have been called Kelvin Mitchell. My mother was, like, disowning her own husband. And she regarded all the money he brought into the house, the means whereby she was able to live such a comfortable life, as somehow tainted.’
Sammy Pinkerton waited for the attack that would inevitably follow. Sure enough, Kelvin said, ‘Just in the same way that you regard my money.’
‘I’ve told you many times, Kelvin. It’s a matter of principle for me. I won’t accept money that’s been got by burglary.’
‘But you know why I’m a burglar, don’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, yes. You’ve told me a million times. You do it out of respect for your father.’
‘Exactly. I wasn’t allowed to have a relationship with him while he was alive; I wasn’t allowed to show pride in his achievements. I wasn’t even allowed to know what those achievements were. My mother kept all that from me. And now I’m trying to repair that terrible breach of faith. I am showing respect for what my father stood for.’
‘What he stood for led to him standing up in courtrooms, on more than one occasion, and being sent away to prison.’
‘I know.’
Sammy clasped her fiancé’s hands in a gesture of supplication and said, ‘I don’t want you to end up in prison, Kelvin.’
‘I won’t. I’m not stupid. I’m a very good burglar.’
‘You say your father was a good one, but he still got caught.’
‘Well, I’m a better burglar than he was.’
‘Oh, so now you’re going into competition with the dead, are you?’
‘No, I’m not,’ he said angrily. ‘I’m respecting his memory.’
‘And you feel the best way you can do that is by “going into the family business”?’
‘Yes, I do. And in most cases where sons follow their fathers into family businesses they have the opportunity to learn the tricks of the trade at their old man’s knee. Well, thanks to my bloody mother’s intervention and my father’s early death I was prevented from having those opportunities. I’ve had to learn everything for myself.’
‘Yes, but what worries me, Kelvin, is that what you do for a living is going to ruin our relationship.’ Sammy sounded desperate now.
‘No, it won’t. I’ve told you. I won’t go to prison because I won’t get caught.’
‘But what’s going to happen … I mean, if we have children? Are we going to tell them what their dad does for a living?’
‘Of course we are, Sammy. I’m not going to repeat the mistakes my parents made into another generation. Our kids are going to grow up proud of what their dad does.’
‘So do you mean you’re planning to go on being a burglar forever?’
‘Yes,’ said Kelvin Stockett with gratified contentment. ‘I’ve got so much time to make up. Remember, I only found out about what my father had done in life when I was clearing up the stuff after my mother’s death. So I owe him a lot for those many years when I had no idea what he did.’
‘You mean I can’t look forward ever to a time when you’re not a burglar?’
‘No, Sammy. As I’ve told you before,’ he replied with great firmness. ‘And can we please say that that’s the last word on the subject? I want to enjoy our evening together.’
‘Yes, but … oh …’ She couldn’t help saying the words. ‘It just seems such a waste.’
‘Are you saying that my old man wasted his life?’
‘No, I’m not. But it’s different for you. You didn’t have to become a burglar, while your father probably did. You had all the advantages. You went to public school, you got a very good degree in Mechanical Engineering at Cambridge. There are any number of jobs you are qualified for.’
‘But none of them are jobs that pay tribute to the achievements of my father.’
‘I know, but …’ Sammy Pinkerton pushed her chair back. She was on the verge of tears, and she knew Kelv
in never liked to see her crying. ‘I’m going home.’
‘But you haven’t finished your wine.’
‘No, but … I’m going.’
‘I’ll just finish my pint and be with you,’ Kelvin called to her retreating back.
He wasn’t really worried about her departure. He knew they’d make it up again back at the flat. In bed. They were very good at making things up in bed. They were meant for each other. They both knew that. And both drew a strong feeling of security from that knowledge.
It was really only that one thing they argued about. Kelvin’s occupation … or, in his view, his vocation. Their verbal tussles on the subject were tiresome, but he felt confident that Sammy would eventually come round to his way of thinking.
He certainly had no plans to change. Every successful burglary he committed was not only a celebration of his father’s life, it was also one in the eye for the mother for whom, since her death, his hatred had only increased.
When he emerged from the pub Kelvin Stockett did not notice the broad-shouldered man who levered himself off the wall and sauntered after him. Nor was he aware that he was being followed until at the end of his road the man grew closer and spoke his name.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Kelvin admitted cautiously. Though none of his burglaries had ever involved violence, he knew that the world in which he now operated was a criminal one where a high degree of caution was advisable.
‘Kelvin Stockett the burglar?’ asked the man.
After his recent assertions of pride in his occupation he was not about to deny that. The man didn’t have the air of a member of the police force. Too well-spoken, for a start.
‘I think I might have a job for you, Kelvin.’
‘A burglary job?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘What is it? And, come to that, who are you?’
‘My name,’ said the man, ‘is Edmund Grainger.’
Mrs Pargeter was not a great enthusiast of the television. She knew that a great many widows found it a great comfort in their loneliness, but that was very much the kind of widow she had no intention of being.
She and her late husband had watched very little when he was alive – except, of course, for police press conferences. Neither she nor the late Mr Pargeter had ever followed fictional crime series. They both found them all rather tame. And deeply implausible.