by Simon Brett
Mrs. Pargeter even asked Sergeant Karaskakis if she could take a snap of him. He was positively delighted to be so honored, and could not keep a leer of triumph out of his face as the shutter clicked.
Back at the Hotel Nausica, Mrs. Pargeter picked up from Reception the expected padded envelope, which had been delivered by motorcycle courier, and sat down to eat an early lunch. In the course of this, a second padded envelope was delivered for her. After lunch she went upstairs to pack her flight bag for her trip “to see a little more of the island.”
She was waiting outside the Hotel Nausica in a rather bulky cotton print dress and straw hat when, on the dot of two o’clock, the hire-car arrived. (It had been arranged by Larry Lambeth from a firm in Corfu Town.)
The driver was uncommunicative, which suited Mrs. Pargeter well, but she did not risk opening either of the envelopes while she was in his car. Though he was from a different part of the island, she didn’t rule out the possibility of information homing straight back to Agios Nikitas.
The journey along the switchback coast road was dusty, but not unpleasant. As instructed, the driver deposited her in Corfu Town at the north end of the Esplanade. He asked for no money; Larry Lambeth had sorted that out.
There was no play that afternoon on Corfu’s famous but eternally incongruous cricket pitch. The sun was baking, and Mrs. Pargeter felt drawn towards the shade of the Liston, a Parisian-style colonnade of street cafés, where tourists lounged lethargically.
But her instructions didn’t not include stopping for a cold drink, so she moved sedately through the sunlight towards the Palace of St. Michael and St. George.
A car slid alongside her. The door opened. She got in the back.
“Well done,” said Larry Lambeth.
Safely inside the car, she changed her straw hat for the new white cotton one and put on the new sunglasses. Then she unbuttoned the bright dress and slipped it off to reveal a sober, anonymous beige one beneath.
“Quite a relief to have that off,” she sighed. “Hot weather for two dresses.”
Larry Lambeth chuckled.
Mrs. Pargeter finally turned her attention to the two padded envelopes. The first one contained a First Class airline ticket. Olympic Airways. Five o’clock scheduled flight for that afternoon. Corfu to London Heathrow. Clipped to the ticket was a “With Compliments” slip, headed “H.R.H. Travel.”
She turned her attention to the second envelope. “So who am I, Larry?” she asked.
“You have a look, Mrs. P.”
It was a perfect job. A British passport in the name of “Mrs. Joan Frimley Wainwright,” a “Housewife” whose place of birth had been “Norwich.” The date of birth tallied for Mrs. Pargeter, as did the height. And the photograph looked astonishingly like the passport’s new holder.
“Where did you get it from, Larry?”
He shrugged. “Saw her on the beach at Kalami this morning. Right size, right age. Mind you, she was a real old biddy, hadn’t got your style at all, Mrs. P.”
Mrs. Pargeter’s compassion was aroused. “But won’t she be terribly upset to lose her passport?”
“Happens all the time,” said Larry callously. “She’ll survive.”
Mrs. Pargeter gave another look to what really did seem to be a picture of herself. “How on earth did you fix the photograph, Larry? And how on earth did you do it so quickly?”
He grinned proudly. “Fact is, we all have our professional secrets, don’t we, Mrs. P.?”
Mrs. Pargeter looked round anxiously at Corfu Airport, but there was no sign of the Customs officer who looked so like Sergeant Karaskakis.
There were no problems about checking in luggage, as she only had her flight bag.
There were no problems at Passport Control.
There were no problems with the flight. It left on time.
In fact, there were no problems at all.
But, in spite of that, as she sat in her First Class seat, waited on by solicitous stewardesses, Mrs. Pargeter was ill at ease.
The passport for Mrs. Joan Frimley Wainwright in her handbag felt as if it was on fire. Soon the flames would burst out and everyone would have their attention drawn to the forgery.
Mrs. Pargeter felt dreadful.
It was the first time in her life, you see, that she had ever broken the law.
chapter
TWENTY-FOUR
* * *
It was a huge relief to be safely through Passport Control at Heathrow.
And an even huger relief to have someone there to meet her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pargeter. I am Hamish Ramon Henriques.”
He took her hand and bowed down to kiss it. He was in his sixties, very tall and very British in dress. In spite of the mild June weather, he wore one of those three-piece tweed suits that look as if they have been marinated in family history. He had brown shoes built like rowing boats and some sort of regimental tie. His accent epitomized the impeccable vagueness of the British upper classes.
But his face contradicted all these impressions. The skin was coffee with a dash of milk, and eyes like black olives crowded either side of the fine prow of his nose. All his features seemed lengthened, pulled down, as in a painting by El Greco. Centrally parted white hair swept down over his ears and a long carefully nurtured white mustache drooped over his full lips. He looked like an illustration of Don Quixote.
But he was no mere tilter at windmills. With exemplary efficiency, he whisked Mrs. Pargeter through the terminal crowds and out to a limousine which waited, unmolested by traffic authorities, in the Strictly-No-Parking area directly outside the exit. The chauffeur needed no instructions but swept effortlessly through the traffic on to the M4.
“I have booked you into the Savoy,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques. “I gather you are always happy to stay there.”
“Yes. That’ll be very nice indeed, thank you.”
“I have spoken to Truffler Mason. He will meet you in the bar at nine o’clock.”
“Oh, that is kind. Let’s hope he has got something to report.”
“In my experience, he is always very reliable. I have never known Truffler Mason not to come up with information in an investigation.”
“Well, that’s comforting. You’ve worked with him a lot, have you?”
Hamish Ramon Henriques made an expansive gesture. “My dear Mrs. Pargeter, I have worked with everyone. Particularly of course with your late husband.” He looked soulful. “The business lost a great deal when he died, you know.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Pargeter agreed pensively.
“No, he was a man with standards. Nowadays some of the people I have to work for . . .” Hamish Ramon Henriques gave a very Latin shrug. “They are utterly immoral. They have no sense of right and wrong.”
Mrs. Pargeter fervently endorsed this opinion. “I know, it’s dreadful, isn’t it?”
“With your late husband, one always knew where one stood. His operations were always efficient and so it was a pleasure to contribute one’s own efficiency to them.”
“And, er,” Mrs. Pargeter asked cautiously, “you have always been involved in the transport side of things, have you?”
“Yes. I started in a very modest way back in the Fifties. Procuring and renting out getaway cars.”
“Oh yes?”
“But then the business expanded into other areas of transport. Obviously a lot of run-of-the-mill travel arrangements to predictable destinations . . . the Costa del Sol, certain South American countries . . . for people who need to be out of England for a while. In fact, I once organized a trip of that kind for you and your late husband.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. To Crete. Do you remember it?”
“Certainly. We had a wonderful time. I didn’t know you arranged that.”
Hamish Ramon Henriques nodded with diffident pride. “It was my privilege. Quite tricky at the time, actually. They were looking out for him at the airports.”
“Really?” It did explain someth
ing, though. “Is that why he went on the plane dressed as a bishop?”
“Yes. The late Mr. Pargeter was the Bishop of Tristan da Cunha, traveling to an Interdenominational Ecumenical Conference in Heraklion.”
“Good heavens.”
“That’s what it said on the passport. Didn’t you see it?”
Mrs. Pargeter smiled apologetically. “No, he always looked after the passports. By the way,” she added, “who did I go as?”
Hamish Ramon Henriques looked bewildered. “Well, obviously—the wife of the Bishop of Tristan da Cunha. Who did you think you would have gone as?”
She giggled. “I don’t know. Thought I might have been an actress.”
Hamish Ramon Henriques didn’t see the joke. “No, no, that wouldn’t have done at all. Very important in my area of the travel business that one avoids immorality. It doesn’t do to draw attention to oneself.”
“No, no, of course not,” said Mrs. Pargeter, suitably chastened. “And the company’s still going well, is it?”
“I’ll say. Everyone’s traveling more these days, so of course there’s a knock-on effect at my end of the business.”
“Good.”
“No, all going extremely well. I keep having to take on more staff. And of course I can charge rather more than the average travel agent for . . . you know, those little extras.”
“Little extras like what?”
He grinned. “Confidentiality . . . secrecy . . . bodyguards . . . not going to the police, that kind of thing . . .”
“Oh yes, of course. Incidentally, while we’re on the subject, do let me know what I owe you. I’d hate for you to—”
He raised his hands in horror. She had uttered blasphemy. “Mrs. Pargeter, I would not dream of charging you anything. After all your late husband did for me in the early years of my business, all the work he put my way . . . I am almost insulted that you even mention it.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Very well. We say no more about it.”
“If you insist.”
“I do. Suffice it to say that, without your late husband’s support and faith, my company would certainly not have the preeminent position and reputation it now enjoys.”
“Oh, I see. Hm. Well . . .” Mrs. Pargeter felt that a change of subject would be appropriate, and prompted, “I dare say you’ve done some pretty big jobs in your time . . . ?”
Hamish Ramon Henriques was more than happy to recount his triumphs. “I’ll say. Tricky one we did a few years back was that racehorse. You remember hearing about a horse called . . . Shergar . . . ?”
“Oh yes.”
“Well, that did present problems. I mean, easy enough to arrange transport for horses here—not so easy to fly them out to the southern hemisphere.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. Is he still out there?”
“I’ll say. Oh yes, Shergar’s going to confuse the bloodlines of international racing for a good few years yet.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t ask which part of the southern hemisphere it was, should I?”
“Well, of course I’d tell you, but—”
“No, shouldn’t have even raised the question.” Mrs. Pargeter remembered the late Mr. Pargeter’s views. “Some things better I don’t know.”
“Right.”
“So, Mr. Henriques—”
“Please call me H.R.H. Everyone does.”
“Right. So, H.R.H., would you say that Shergar was the biggest job you’ve ever done?”
“Maybe. Mind you . . .” He lowered his voice confidentially. “The one I’m proudest of is Lord Lucan.”
“Oh really,” said Mrs. Pargeter. “You made his travel arrangements, did you?”
Hamish Ramon Henriques nodded modestly.
“Well, H.R.H., I don’t think I’ll ask about his destination either.”
“I’d tell you of course if you wanted to know, but . . . perhaps better not.”
“Right.”
“He’s still out there, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Haven’t seen him for a few years, but, er . . . I still get Christmas cards.”
“Ah.”
The carphone rang and the chauffeur answered it. “Crooks’ Tours.”
Hamish Ramon Henriques burst into a torrent of Spanish expletives. “Don’t you dare ever say that again!” he roared at the chauffeur.
“Sorry. Wasn’t thinking. It’s for you, Mr. Henriques.”
His face still red with fury, Hamish Ramon Henriques picked up the extension.
“Do please tell me,” he said, as the car bowled effortlessly along the Westway into London, “if there is any other service you require. Anything you need doing, my staff and I are at your disposal round the clock.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything?”
“No, I don’t think . . . Ooh yes, I wonder—would it be possible to get some photographs developed rather quickly?”
“Of course. Give the film to me and I will see that the prints are delivered to the Savoy within the hour.”
He took the film and handed her a printed card. “If there’s anything else you require, ring this number. Or do feel welcome to call in at our offices in Berkeley Square.”
“Thank you so much. There was one thing I wanted to ask you, H.R.H. . . .”
“Ask away.”
“Have you ever heard of someone called Chris Dover . . . ?”
“Hm. Bloke who used to deal in arms back in the early Sixties—that the one?”
“Yes.”
“Came from South America somewhere, didn’t he?”
“Uruguay.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I just wondered if you’d ever had any dealings with him. You know, because he must have had a lot of travel arrangements, given his line of work. And of course he could have spoken Spanish to you, couldn’t he?”
“Yes. But no, I never did do anything for him. And that’s strange, really, because at that stage I was the only person in London in my line of business. There are a lot more now—I mean, H.R.H. is still far and away the best—but there is more competition these days.”
“So you never even met Chris Dover?”
“No. And I know he was aware of what I did, because I heard from people who’d recommended my services to him. But he never made contact. And in fact, now I come to remember it, there were two or three occasions—you know, social functions—which we were both invited to, and each time he just didn’t turn up.”
“Coincidence.”
“Mmm,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques ruminatively. “More than coincidence, I remember thinking at the time.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Almost as if Chris Dover was deliberately trying to avoid me.”
chapter
TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
Hamish Ramon Henriques had organized a range of clothes from her home wardrobe to be in Mrs. Pargeter’s room in the Savoy and, after a bath, she selected a coral-colored silk suit for her meeting with Truffler Mason. The late Mr. Pargeter had always encouraged his wife to wear bright colors. “No point in trying to hide yourself, my dear,” he had frequently said, “when there’s such a delicious amount of you to hide.”
She cut a handsome figure in the Savoy bar. Truffler Mason looked less exotic. He wore his customary camouflage of nondescript sports jacket and brown trousers. His long, horselike face looked even more gloomy than usual.
“Virtually nothing to report, Mrs. Pargeter,” he apologized. “I’ve spent most of the day on the phone to contacts in Uruguay and still haven’t got any positive identification or details about Chris Dover’s life before he came to England.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Yes. What’s more, he seems to have slipped out of the country secretly, so there probably wouldn’t be any records.”
“And you didn’t find anything from his time in Uruguay back in the house?”
Truffler didn�
��t ask how she knew he’d searched the Dover family home. That was one of the things he liked about working for Mrs. Pargeter. So little explanation was necessary. She understood his methods and just let him get on with it.
“No. He seems to have covered his tracks very effectively. I went through everything. There was some kid’s stuff, but it was all Sindy Dolls and what-have-you—clearly the daughter’s. I only found one thing that might have belonged to Chris when he was younger.”
“What was that?”
“A chemistry set. Kid’s chemistry set.”
“Oh. Where had it been manufactured?” Mrs. Pargeter asked hopefully.
“In England,” Truffler Mason replied, immediately dashing her hopes of a Uruguayan connection.
“Ah.” Another thought came to her. “Was there any sodium carbonate in the set?”
“Didn’t notice. I’d have to check again.”
“It’s probably not important. What was the chemistry set like?”
“Fairly small set-up. A few test tubes, a few little pots of chemicals. Manufactured in England, as I say. Done a bit of research and it seems it would have been available in toy shops here round the late Fifties.”
“Just about the time Chris came over here. So he probably bought it soon after he arrived . . .”
“Perhaps.”
“Maybe, for someone new to the country, that was the easiest way he could find of obtaining chemicals he needed.”
“Possible.”
“But I wonder what he needed them for . . . ? Hm, we have no means of knowing. Too many things in this case at the moment that we have no means of knowing.” She slumped back into her chair, dissatisfied, and sipped her vodka martini. “There’s something here in England which explains why Joyce was murdered.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
Mrs. Pargeter told Truffler about her encounter with Sergeant Karaskakis. “It was the speed with which he changed tack when I said I would go back to England to investigate. Up until then he’d been trying to persuade me to leave. The sooner I got out of Corfu and out of his hair, the better. But the moment I said—I was only bluffing, but I said I could produce evidence from England that Joyce had been murdered—and the moment I said it, suddenly he was desperate to keep me on the island until the investigation was over. Which must mean I had somehow stumbled on the truth. There actually is proof of the murder—or proof of the motive for the murder—over here. If only I knew what I was looking for.”