Mrs. Pargeter's Principle

by Simon Brett

  ‘Yes. He’d just come back from the Congo, and he’d witnessed first-hand the terrible effects that the wrong kind of British colonial policy had had there, and—’

  ‘Erm, sorry to interrupt you,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘What?’

  ‘But I think you’ll find that the Congo was not colonized by the British. It was colonized by the Belgians, so if there’s anyone you want to accuse of the wrong kind of colonial policy you should—’

  ‘Will you just shut up! I’ve come here to kill you, not to listen to your half-baked ideas about international history.’

  ‘Well, I just thought that if you and Derek Bardon and Sir Normington Winthrop were setting up a party trying to correct the failures of British colonial policy based on the model of a country where Belgian colonial policy was—’

  ‘Shut it!’ he shouted, so loudly that she did.

  With a meek change of direction, she said, ‘So, as soon as he heard about the party, Sir Normington agreed to fund BROG?’

  ‘Yes,’ Grainger conceded.

  ‘And at that time did you know about his past in Africa?’

  ‘We knew he’d just come back from there, obviously.’

  ‘But did you know what he’d done there?’

  ‘He’d made a huge fortune in the munitions business.’

  ‘Gun-running.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you call it. When Norm arrived in England, the slate of his past was wiped clean.’

  ‘Oh, was it? So you didn’t know what he’d done out in the Congo?’

  ‘It didn’t matter. He offered a lifeline to BROG. A lifeline Derek and I were very happy to grasp with both hands.’

  ‘So neither you nor Derek knew exactly where his money had come from?’

  ‘Of course we did. I told you. The munitions business.’

  ‘Hm.’ Mrs Pargeter paused for a moment. ‘But you can see that it’d make a difference – to the image of BROG – if you knew that the so-called Sir Normington Winthrop’s fortune had been amassed by Hair-Trigger Hardcastle committing multiple murders and then assuming a new identity?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  But the way Grainger looked down when he said the words told Mrs Pargeter that he was lying. She pressed home her small advantage. ‘So you knew from the start the illicit source of Sir Normington’s fortune? You knew he was really Hair-Trigger Hardcastle? No wonder he was prepared to pay for Conrad Skeet’s silence.’

  An unpleasant grin spread across Edmund Grainger’s face. ‘We don’t have to worry about Conrad Skeet any more.’ It was tantamount to a confession of murder. ‘And pretty soon –’ he looked along the barrel of his gun – ‘we won’t have to worry about you either, Mrs Pargeter.’

  Keep them talking, keep them talking. She remembered that advice from countless thrillers and B-movies. When confronted by a man with a gun keen to shoot you, a life-saving tactic is to engage them in light conversation for as long as possible. And she hadn’t done too badly already on keeping him talking. Could she manage to do so for a bit longer?

  ‘Well,’ she began, ‘there is an issue of principle at stake here, and—’

  But Edmund Grainger had clearly read the same thrillers and watched the same B-movies. He knew how inadvisable it was for people bent on murder to allow themselves to become engaged in conversation. He also realized that he had broken that golden rule, and Mrs Pargeter had already engaged him in far more conversation than was appropriate in such circumstances.

  ‘Don’t bother talking,’ he said, rather belatedly. ‘It won’t save you. I’ve come here with the simple purpose of killing you, and that is exactly what I am going to do.’

  He moved a little nearer her and raised the gun to point directly at the middle of her forehead.

  Oh dear, thought Mrs Pargeter, this really is it. She wondered what she could do. Phoning the police never occurred to her. But getting in touch with SomeoneAtT‌heOtherEndOfTheLine.com … that was a thought. Trouble was, there was no time for anything like that.

  Shortly, she told herself desperately, I will find out if there is an afterlife where I will be reunited with my husband. But she still thought the chances were against it. Just as the chances were against her surviving the next fifteen seconds.

  There was a sudden commotion behind Edmund Grainger. He half-turned as a figure in black jeans and hoodie, face hidden by a black scarf, launched itself at him.

  The newcomer had the advantage of surprise, and he wrapped Grainger’s body in a bear hug, immobilizing his arms by his sides. The gun went off, making, Mrs Pargeter noticed, a rather unsightly dent in her woodblock flooring.

  Edmund Grainger was very strong, but his captor appeared to be stronger. Still controlling the man’s body in his hugging grip, he manoeuvred the resisting criminal in the direction of the fireplace. Then, using his own head for extra power, he smashed Grainger’s forehead against the jutting marble shelf. The second time he did it, the pistol slipped from the potential murderer’s hand and his body slithered down to the floor.

  The man in black kicked the gun across the floor towards Mrs Pargeter, who picked it up. Then he whipped out a pair of handcuffs, brought the bleary Edmund Grainger’s hands round behind his back and snapped the cuffs on his wrist.

  His victim was by now conscious and trying to stand up. The captor placed a hand on his shoulder and announced, ‘This is a citizen’s arrest. Edmund Grainger, you are under arrest for threatening to kill Mrs Pargeter.’ He produced a mobile phone. ‘A video of which action I fortunately managed to capture on this. And I’m sure when the police interview you, they will find a whole list of other crimes with which to charge you.’

  Edmund Grainger was still too fuddled to make any reply.

  The man in black whipped the scarf off his face and pulled his hood down to reveal the ash blond hair of Kelvin Mitchell.

  ‘I’ve been following him for days, Mrs Pargeter,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t follow him into the Barbican, but I’ve got video of him entering and exiting the building this afternoon. I think that’ll put him firmly in the frame for the murder of Conrad Skeet.’

  ‘Well, Kelvin,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘I can’t thank you enough. I know the expression “you saved my life” is bandied about far too much, but in this case you actually did.’

  ‘No worries. I was glad to do it,’ said Kelvin Mitchell, longing for the day when he would not be making citizen’s arrests but proper police ones.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  At that moment they heard the screeching of a Ferrari coming to a halt on gravel. As ever, Gary had selected the right car for the job and the drive out to Chigwell had been a testament to the skills he’d developed back when he was a getaway driver.

  He and Truffler were considerably relieved to find that no harm had come to Mrs Pargeter and full of admiration for the way Kelvin Mitchell had captured Edmund Grainger.

  He glowed in their commendation. ‘Used a bit of my old skills too,’ he said. ‘Your security system’s good, Mrs Pargeter, but not good enough, I’m afraid. I had no problem entering the property.’

  ‘I’ll get it seen to,’ she said.

  ‘But the question is – what are we going to do about him?’ asked Truffler, pointing towards the handcuffed man sitting on the floor.

  ‘I’ve worked that out,’ Kelvin replied. ‘I’m going to drive him in my van to the headquarters of the City of London Police station in Wood Street and turn him in.’

  ‘That’s very brave of you,’ said Mrs Pargeter, mindful of her late husband’s dictum that one should never have more to do with the police than was absolutely necessary.

  ‘There’s no danger of the cops letting him go?’ asked Truffler uneasily.

  ‘No way. Not when I’ve shown them my video evidence.’

  ‘Well, in that case,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘I think it’s a very good idea.’ She looked down at her unwelcome guest. ‘The sooner he’s out of my house, the happier
I will be.’

  Truffler and Gary manhandled Edmund Grainger out to Kelvin’s van, and it was a moment before Mrs Pargeter noticed that the young man hadn’t gone with them. Instead, he stood behind a sofa, twisting the black scarf rather nervously in his hands.

  ‘I’m sorry, is there a problem, Kelvin?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, it is rather awkward …’ he began tentatively.

  ‘I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be easily sorted out,’ she reassured him. ‘Is it something with you and Sammy? Because I’d have done anything for the two of you even before you saved my life, but now—’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with me and Sammy. Everything’s fine with me and Sammy.’

  ‘Good.’ She waited for him to fill the silence, but he didn’t, just continued to stand there winding the scarf around his hands. ‘What is it, Kelvin?’

  He shook back his blond fringe with an attempt at assertiveness. ‘The fact is, Mrs Pargeter, that I have really enjoyed the contact I’ve had with you over the last few weeks.’

  ‘It’s mutual. Been a pleasure to get to know you too, Kelvin.’

  ‘And I can’t thank you enough for your generosity to Sammy and me over the wedding arrangements, and—’

  ‘I’ve been delighted to help out. My husband, I’m sure, would have felt the same. We owed something to Sammy’s father, and we’re making it up to his daughter.’

  ‘Yes, well, that brings me to the point of what I’m saying. You know what Sammy’s father did for a living, don’t you?’

  Mrs Pargeter smiled ingenuously. ‘Graphic artist, wasn’t he?’

  ‘The fact is, Mrs Pargeter, that Sammy’s father was a forger and a crook!’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know that,’ she said mildly.

  ‘Well, it’s true. And all the people we’ve been working with …’ He gestured towards the front garden. ‘Truffler and Gary, Napper … they’re all crooks.’

  ‘I think you should be wary of making such allegations,’ said Mrs Pargeter with some asperity. ‘Truffler Mason runs a legitimate detective agency, Gary has a very successful legitimate car-hire business, and Napper Johnson runs one of the country’s foremost legitimate public relations companies. And the detail they have in common is that all of them were helped when they were setting up their businesses by my late husband. Who was a very good judge of the character and honesty of an individual.’

  ‘Yes, but the fact is, Mrs Pargeter, that your late husband was a …’ Kelvin’s words trickled to a halt.

  ‘Was a what?’ she prompted. But still the words didn’t come. ‘Hmm?’

  The boy started off on another tack. ‘Listen, Mrs Pargeter, you know that I am planning to join the police force?’

  ‘Yes. Following in the footsteps of your late father.’

  ‘Exactly. And the point is that once I am established in my future career, though I will undoubtedly have contact with criminals in the line of duty …’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘I will not be able to fraternize with them.’

  ‘Sorry, Kelvin. What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘I am saying that when I am a member of the police force I will not be able to be friends with people who have criminal connections!’ He looked relieved at having got that off his chest.

  ‘And is that all you were going to say?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so relieved. The build-up you gave it, I thought it was going to be something much worse.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘All I mean is that it’s a relief to know that you and I think so alike about things.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t agree with you more, Kelvin.’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘I’ve never been able to be friends with people who have criminal connections,’ said Mrs Pargeter with a huge smile. ‘And I look forward to seeing lots more of you and Sammy in the future, Kelvin.’

  The boy went out to drive Edmund Grainger to the police station. Truffler and Gary returned to the sitting room. Mrs Pargeter offered them a drink to celebrate the successful outcome of the case, but they both demurred, Gary because he was driving and Truffler because he had an early start in the morning. ‘Got to get back to the day-to-day business of tracing flighty wives and errant husbands,’ he said mournfully.

  Mrs Pargeter didn’t mind their going. She was feeling quite weary after the tensions of the day and thought going to bed straight away was her best option.

  But she did just casually switch the television back on and found a news channel where a front man and two pundits were talking about the political implications of the exposure of BROG. Which she did find rather interesting, and she had soon been sitting there for more than half an hour.

  ‘Of course,’ said the front man as a huge picture of Derek Bardon filled the screen behind him, ‘we’re still waiting for a more detailed statement from the leader of BROG, but he seems to have vanished off the face of the earth.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ said a voice behind Mrs Pargeter.

  TWENTY-NINE

  ‘I’ve been here for a while,’ said Derek Bardon almost languidly. ‘I got in at the same time as Edmund, fortunately unnoticed by your superhero in black. And then I found a very convenient broom cupboard in your kitchen, where I have been ever since, listening to everything that’s gone on here.’

  ‘What do you want with me?’

  ‘Revenge.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For ruining my entire life. My dreams of political power have been dealt a death-blow. And that’s all down to you, Mrs Pargeter. It’s all your fault. Why did you do it?’

  ‘I think the crimes of Sir Normington Winthrop should be a matter of public knowledge. Though it’s not always the case, in this one I think the truth had to come out. It’s a matter of principle with me.’

  ‘Very admirable, I’m sure, Mrs Pargeter. But principles are not going to save your life.’ His face reddened as a burst of anger swept through him. ‘If you only knew the damage you have caused! Not just to me but to this country.’

  ‘How’ve I done that?’

  ‘By killing BROG as a political force. We were starting to make serious inroads into the seat of political power. Getting more and more local councillors. Only a matter of time before we get an MEP, then someone at the Westminster Parliament. It’s a matter of time and momentum, which was building very nicely. And you have destroyed all that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Mrs Pargeter, though she didn’t feel very sorry.

  ‘And without BROG there as a moderating force, this whole country will go to hell in a handcart.’

  Mrs Pargeter, who had never before heard BROG described as ‘a moderating force’, listened as he went on, getting ever more vehement.

  ‘There’ll be unrestricted immigration, good British jobs taken by foreigners. And that’ll only be the start of it. Under the current government – or the other lot; they’re both equally useless – there doesn’t seem to be any concept of the threat the country is under. Already there are Muslims on every street, in every town council. It’s only a matter of time before this whole country’s run by them!’

  ‘And BROG could have put a stop to that?’

  ‘Of course it could. We are the only British party whose manifesto promises a policy of sending all immigrants back where they belong! And there are an enormous number of people in this country who support that policy.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know many people who support it.’

  ‘All that means is that you mix with the wrong sort of people. Woolly-minded liberals. Not the real people of Britain – the ones who are proud of our island heritage and who want to keep foreigners out, just as the pilots of the Battle of Britain kept the hated Germans at bay.’

  ‘If I’ve ruined the chances of people who think like that getting into power,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘then I think I’ve done rather a good job.’

>   ‘No, you haven’t! You’ve destroyed everything! And that is why I’m going to kill you.’ As he spoke, he drew from his pocket an automatic pistol identical to the one with which Edmund Grainger had threatened Mrs Pargeter only a few hours earlier.

  ‘If you shoot me,’ she said, trying to sound cool, ‘you won’t get away with it. You’ll be found out and spend the rest of your life in jail.’

  ‘I don’t care about that. I don’t care about anything. My career’s ruined. Everything I’ve worked for has been smashed to pieces. And the only thing that’s going to make me feel mildly better is to put a bullet through your head!’

  The look in Derek Bardon’s eyes now was truly scary. Mrs Pargeter realized how loose his grip on reality was and what real danger she was in. She clutched her handbag to her, rose from the sofa and moved towards the mantelpiece, which was spattered with a few spots of blood from Edmund Grainger’s forehead.

  But Derek Bardon moved straight after her, raising the gun in just the same way her previous would-be assassin had done.

  Then, she’d been saved by Kelvin Mitchell. But he was far off, handing Edmund Grainger over to the City of London police. Truffler and Gary too were by now a good half hour away. They couldn’t return to save her in the few seconds of life she had remaining.

  If she was going to get out of her current predicament, she was going to have to do it on her own initiative.

  Suddenly, a thought came to her. Reaching deftly inside her handbag she felt the reassuring outline of Gizmo Gilbert’s prototype ‘Zipper Zapper’. Keeping it still hidden, she pointed it towards her attacker’s groin and pressed the control.

  Now, men are funny – almost obsessed – about their zips. They all live in terror of being seen in public with their zips undone. It is for them a deep humiliation, inadequately understood by the other gender.

  So, as Derek Bardon felt the tug of his zip descending, he could not help himself from looking downwards.

  And in that moment of distraction Mrs Pargeter picked up Gary’s pink, white and gold china cat and brought it down with all the force of which she was capable on to Derek Bardon’s head.