by Simon Brett
“Yes, the tour company organized that for me.” Conchita suppressed a yawn and looked at her watch. The tensions of the last couple of days were catching up with her. “I think, actually, if there isn’t anything else, I’ll get on up there. I’m pretty knackered.”
“Knackered?” Clearly Sergeant Karaskakis’s precise textbook English didn’t encompass the niceties of slang.
“Tired.”
“Ah, yes.”
“So if you’ll excuse me . . . And Mrs. Pargeter . . .”
“You have a good night’s sleep, Conchita love.”
“Thank you.” The girl waved across to Yianni and mimed writing a bill.
“I hope,” said Sergeant Karaskakis formally, bringing out what appeared to be yet another prepared line, “that you will be able to enjoy your stay in Agios Nikitas as much as the unhappy circumstances permit.”
“Thank you.” Conchita turned the full beam of her smile on Yianni. “Just for two ouzos, please.”
“Yes, of course, please,” he said, blushing a little and fumbling with his notepad.
“Got a taste for ouzo, have you?” asked Mrs. Pargeter. “You been out in Greece before?”
“No, never,” Conchita replied. “But I’ve had it in Greek restaurants in London, and my father always liked it.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Pargeter.
Conchita paid Yianni and gave him a substantial tip. In full consciousness of her sexuality, she flashed him a farewell smile, then picked up her handbag and rose. “See you around then,” she said to Mrs. Pargeter. “And you know where to find me when you need to, Sergeant.”
“Of course.”
He rose politely to see her off, but then sank down again and looked at Mrs. Pargeter. An arrogant smile twitched beneath his mustache as he spoke.
“You will gather there have been no problems about Mrs. Dover’s death.”
“Yet,” said Mrs. Pargeter defiantly.
“There will not be any,” he countered confidently. “When all the evidence points in one direction, only a perverse person would try to disprove what is obvious.”
“I can be very perverse.”
“You would be very foolish to be perverse in this case—though very soon it won’t matter, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“In two—perhaps three—days, the authorities out here will be satisfied to release the body. After that, it will not matter what ridiculous allegations about murder are made. The case will be over.”
“Who are these authorities?” asked Mrs. Pargeter.
“The details do not concern you. Rest assured, all enquiries are being made in the correct way.”
“You mean the authorities have all the relevant evidence?”
“They have photographs, samples and reports from the scene of the incident.”
“Whose reports?”
He could not resist a wolfish grin as he answered, “Mine.”
“No one else’s?”
“Of course. Reports from police detectives as well.” He paused for a moment, enjoying the scene. “Police detectives who, as it happens, are good friends of mine. One is my cousin, as a matter of fact.”
Just as the Customs Officer at Corfu Airport had been. Mrs. Pargeter knew she was up against a brick wall. Sergeant Karaskakis had got the whole case sewn up. However impartial the investigating authorities might be, he had seen to it that they were only presented with his version of events. And of course a suicide verdict would be much tidier and less disruptive than one of murder.
He spread his hands wide in a gesture of mock-helplessness. “No, I am afraid there is nothing can be done. In two, three days it will be official that Mrs. Dover killed herself. Then no further enquiry will be possible.”
“I know she was murdered,” said Mrs. Pargeter doggedly.
Sergeant Karaskakis shrugged. “I don’t think anyone is going to believe you unless you can produce some evidence. And,” he continued with relish, “I don’t think there’s any evidence to be produced.”
“Not out here, perhaps.” Mrs. Pargeter didn’t really know why she said her next sentence; it just seemed the right thing at the time. “But I can produce evidence in England that will prove Joyce Dover was murdered.”
She was bluffing, but the bluff worked. Sergeant Karaskakis blanched and said, “But you will not be able to get to England to find it.”
“Why not? I can go back tomorrow. I know exactly what I’m looking for,” Mrs. Pargeter improvised like mad to justify her new position.
“I don’t think you can go back tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“All the flights are fully booked.”
He was improvising too. Mrs. Pargeter was encouraged. By pure chance, she had stumbled on something that had got the policeman worried. Maybe the solution to Joyce Dover’s murder really did lie in England.
“I’ll manage to get back,” she asserted coolly.
“No, you won’t.”
“How can you stop me?”
“I can stop you by . . .” He thrashed around, desperate for an idea. It came. “I can stop you,” he announced with sudden confidence, “because the investigations into Mrs. Dover’s death are not yet complete. There is still the possibility, as you say, that it could have been murder. That possibility of course makes you a suspect. Which means that you will not be allowed to leave Corfu until the investigation is complete. And also means,” he concluded triumphantly, “that you must hand over your passport to me until the end of the investigation.”
Mrs. Pargeter took the passport out of her handbag and handed it over. Being without it would be a nuisance, but a small price to pay for the incontestable look of guilt she had seen in Sergeant Karaskakis’s eyes.
chapter
TWENTY-TWO
* * *
“Mrs. Pargeter, it’d be no problem at all. I’d be delighted to do it for you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Believe me. Please believe me.” There was no doubting the sincerity in Larry Lambeth’s voice. She had phoned him the minute she’d got back to the Hotel Nausica and he had arrived within twenty minutes to drive her out to his villa. Neither had voiced the thought, but both felt safer away from the prying eyes and ears of Agios Nikitas.
The Greek woman with the shy smile had produced brandy and retsina and pistachio nuts on the veranda. The impression of intimacy in her relationship with Larry was endorsed by the skimpiness of the negligee she had on. But, as ever, she knew her place and quickly disappeared back inside the villa, leaving them to talk in private.
“Fact is,” Larry continued, “you’re doing me a favor. After all Mr. P. done for me, I’ve really been longing for the day when I could do something for you by way of return.”
“But you have done something for me. You’ve looked after me wonderfully since I’ve been out here.”
He dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “No, I mean something real, something professional—that’s what I’ve been wanting to do for you.”
“Well . . .”
“I’ll feel really good doing it. ’Cause I’ll know, you see, I’ll know that Mr. P.’d be grateful.”
“I’m sure he would have been. But it’s not going to be too difficult . . . ?”
“Mrs. P.,” he reassured her. “It’ll be a doddle. It’s only what I do for a living, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“No buts. Come on, let’s sort out the fine tuning. Now you’ll want to be off tomorrow, won’t you?”
“In an ideal world, yes. But that’s pretty tight for you, isn’t it? I mean, if it can’t be done in time, of course I’ll understand.”
“No problem at all, Mrs. P. Leave it with me. My end of the business be done by lunchtime tomorrow, no sweat.”
“But goodness knows what the chances of getting a flight are. I don’t really feel very inclined to ask Ginnie.”
“Don’t you dare. No way. Suspicious cow, that one. And she�
��s in far too thick with Karaskakis. No, less she knows about this, the better.”
“Well, who else do we ask?”
Larry Lambeth gave a complacent smile, put down his glass of Greek brandy, and rose from the table. “This, Mrs. P., is clearly a job for H.R.H.”
He turned on his heel and walked quickly into the villa, leaving Mrs. Pargeter to conjecture which Royal Highness might be most likely to help with her investigation.
But she felt content. Things were moving. Sergeant Karaskakis’s panic had reinforced her conviction that Joyce had been murdered. Whether the policeman himself had killed her, or was only involved in the cover-up of the killing, she could not yet be sure. But she felt completely confident that she would find out the truth.
So she looked out through the night sky to Albania, sipped her retsina, and waited for Larry Lambeth to return.
He was only gone five minutes, and came back in high good humor. Rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, he sat down and topped up his tall brandy glass.
“All sorted, Mrs. P., all sorted. It’s on for late tomorrow afternoon. Get confirmation of the exact details in the morning. H.R.H. was delighted to be of service.”
“I’m sorry I have to ask,” Mrs. Pargeter apologized, “but who is H.R.H.?”
“Oh, I thought you knew. It’s Hamish Ramon Henriques. Surely I mentioned him to you?”
“Well, yes, you did, but by his full name, not just the initials. You said you did a lot of work for him.”
“Sure. And he worked a lot with Mr. P. That’s why he was so delighted to hear from me, even at this time of night. When he heard the job was for you, he was over the moon. Fact is, he told me Mr. P. had given him strict instructions to sort things out for you if ever you needed any help. You meant a lot to your husband, you know. He really looked after you, didn’t he, Mrs. P.?”
“Yes. Yes, he did,” said Mrs. Pargeter quietly.
“Still does, and all.”
“Yes.”
“Anyway, now H.R.H. has taken it in hand, you got no worries. He is quite simply the best in the business.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pargeter. “Good.” But she had to ask, “I’m sorry—the best what in the business?”
“Well, he’s—” But Larry Lambeth stopped himself and said mischievously, “You’ll find out soon enough. He’s going to meet you at the airport himself.”
“Oh, really?”
“Unheard of, that. Hardly ever stirs from the office, old H.R.H. In fact, I can’t think of another case I’ve ever heard of when he’s gone and met the client himself.”
“Oh?”
“So I hope you’re suitably honored.”
“Oh. Yes. I’ll say,” said Mrs. Pargeter, suitably honored but totally mystified.
Larry Lambeth spread his hands out on the table in a businesslike fashion. “Right. Better sort out exactly what the running order’s going to be for tomorrow . . .”
They were in his car on the track down to Agios Nikitas when he suddenly had another thought. “Ooh, Mrs. P., nearly forgot. Your friend’s ouzo bottle . . .”
“Oh yes. Did you check out what was in it?”
“Sure.”
“And . . . ?”
“A very dilute solution of sodium carbonate.”
“Oh.” It was a long, long time since Mrs. Pargeter had done any chemistry. “Should that mean anything to me?”
“Well, it’s quite a common laboratory chemical.”
“Poisonous?”
“Wouldn’t taste very nice, but you’d be hard put to kill yourself with it.”
“What about killing someone else?”
“No way. There are a lot of easier ways of getting rid of people.”
“Hm. So what is it used for?”
“Any number of things. It’s used in glass-making . . .”
“Oh thanks. So far as I know, Joyce didn’t come out here to make glass.”
“It’s an ingredient in bath salts.”
“But is she likely to have brought it out in that form to use as bath salts?”
“Extremely unlikely. Particularly as almost all the villas out here have got showers rather than baths, anyway.” He bit his lip pensively. “Sodium carbonate’s used in various household cleaners. Not that different from washing soda, in some ways.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t have brought it out here as a cleaner, Larry. She’d got a travel-pack of detergent in her case, anyway.”
“Hm. Well . . . sodium carbonate’s also used in various water-softening processes . . .”
“I suppose it’s possible Joyce was worried about the effect of hard water on her skin or—”
But Larry Lambeth dismissed that idea. “Nah. You’d never bring out neat sodium carbonate for that. If you was really worried about it, you’d be much more likely to use some of the proprietary water-softening tablets.”
“Hm.” Mrs. Pargeter was thoughtful. “Anything else it’s used for?”
“Well,” said Larry Lambeth, unable to suppress a giggle in his voice, “sodium carbonate is actually used in the process of extracting tungsten from wulframite.”
“Is it?” said Mrs. Pargeter wryly. “Well, thank you very much. Amazing I’ve got this far into my life without knowing that, isn’t it, Larry?”
chapter
TWENTY-THREE
* * *
Mrs. Pargeter spent a quiet morning, pottering round Agios Nikitas. She told Maria at breakfast that she was going on a trip to see a little more of the island. A hire-car was coming to pick her up after lunch to take her to Corfu Town for some shopping. She would stay in a hotel there, and the next day have a hire-car to take her to see the natural beauties of Paleokastritsa on the west coast. Another night in the hotel in Corfu Town, then back to Agios Nikitas.
Oh, Maria said in dismay, Mrs. Pargeter should have booked the hire-car through the Hotel Nausica. The rates would have been much cheaper than through Spiro. He always put a big mark-up on everything.
Mrs. Pargeter said, oh how silly of her, she would remember that another time. Then she asked if Maria would mind having her photograph taken in front of the hotel. Even better, would her father and mother and the rest of the family come out and have their photographs taken in front of the hotel? Mrs. Pargeter knew she wasn’t leaving yet, but she really did want photographs of all of them all as souvenirs, and it was the kind of thing she might easily forget.
All the family members were delighted to have their photographs taken.
Then, pausing only to drop by the minimarket and buy a large white cotton hat and large pair of sunglasses (both of which she kept hidden in a carrier-bag), Mrs. Pargeter went across to have a drink at Spiro’s. It was early for retsina, so she asked Yianni for a Sprite.
Linda from South Woodham Ferrers was at the taverna, trying unsuccessfully to get Craig, who had had a stomach upset the night before, to eat some yogurt. Keith was working out on his calculator how much more the antidiarrhea medicine cost on Corfu than it did in South Woodham Ferrers. From time to time he wondered, out loud, how things were going back at the office.
The Secretary With Short Bleached Hair and the Secretary With Long Bleached Hair were sulking in the shade of Spiro’s awning, sipping Nescafe. They had been to a discotheque in Ipsos the night before, where they had both fancied the same plasterer from Bradford. He had flirted and danced with each sufficiently to start them quarreling, and then compounded that felony by going off at the end of the evening with a hairdresser from Luton who—adding insult to injury—had a perfect tan.
The two Secretaries’ sunburn had now reached a threshold of unsightliness and pain which had forced them to spend a day in the shade, but the previous night’s row still festered and they kept snapping at each other.
At a table near the taverna door sat Spiro, Georgio and Sergeant Karaskakis, together, surprisingly, with Theodosia, who had been granted a rare moment’s respite from the kitchen. Georgio was keeping a distant eye on Ginnie, who sat a
t a nearby table, patiently listening to more gripes from Mr. and Mrs. Safari Suit. The couple were wearing different clothes that day. Slightly greener in color. Still safari suits, of course.
Spiro wandered over amiably to chat to Mrs. Pargeter. He hoped she was getting over the dreadful shock of her friend’s death. It was terrible that anyone should do such a thing to themselves, wasn’t it?
Oh yes, Mrs. Pargeter agreed, terrible.
Still, Spiro continued reassuringly, soon everything would be sorted out. The dead woman’s daughter had arrived to complete the formalities, did Mrs. Pargeter know that?
Yes, yes, she said, she had met Conchita the night before.
How terrible, said Spiro, for a young girl to have her mother do such a thing to herself, wasn’t it?
Oh yes, Mrs. Pargeter agreed, terrible.
Having fielded these commiserations, she then outlined to Spiro the plans for her trip to see a little more of the island.
Oh, he said in dismay, Mrs. Pargeter should have booked the hire-car through Spiro. The rates would have been much cheaper than through the Hotel Nausica. They always put a big mark-up on everything.
Mrs. Pargeter said, oh how silly of her, she would remember that another time. Then she asked if Spiro would mind having his photograph taken in front of the taverna. Even better, would Yianni and Theodosia and Georgio mind having their photographs taken in front of the taverna? Mrs. Pargeter knew she wasn’t leaving yet, but she really did want photographs of all of them as souvenirs, and it was the kind of thing she might easily forget.
Spiro and his staff were delighted to have their photographs taken.
The first one Mrs. Pargeter took of Spiro she wasn’t satisfied with, because her hand slipped just as she was pressing the button, but he was very happy to pose again. So were all of them, except for Theodosia, who seemed to be shy of the camera. But her brother snapped a command at her in Greek and, though still clearly unwilling, she submitted to being photographed.