Mrs, Presumed Dead

by Simon Brett

  ‘Oh . . .’ Mrs Pargeter blushed charmingly.

  ‘And now I have the pleasure of meeting you, I can see he was dead right.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Mrs Pargeter decided it was time to reciprocate the odd compliment. ‘You’ve got yourself very nicely set up here.’

  He shrugged dismissively. ‘Well, all right to tide us over. I mean, when I’m, er . . . when I’m my own master again, I’ll move us somewhere that’s more our style. But this is all right, you know, while the kids is little. Bit of a squash when they get much bigger, though.’

  ‘It’s fine. And very convenient.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know, for visiting . . .’

  ‘Oh, sure. Yes, well, I get out as often as I can.’ The eighteen-month-old tottered across and nuzzled at his or her father’s knee. The silky hair was affectionately rumpled. ‘I mean, obviously sometimes it’s tricky, but I think, by and large, I probably see as much of the kids as most fathers . . . certainly more than those who leave for work before the little ’uns wake up and get back after they’ve gone to bed.’

  He could have been describing the fathers of Smithy’s Loam, Mrs Pargeter thought.

  ‘I mean, what kind of communication do they get with their nippers, I ask you, only seeing them weekends when Dad’s probably tired out and bad-tempered?’

  ‘Not much, I would imagine.’

  ‘No. Well, I’m all in favour of the family unit. I think, if more families stuck together – even when things get difficult – there’d be less crime in this country of ours.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  ‘If kids aren’t brought up with any standards in the home, then how on earth can anyone expect them to know right from wrong when they grow up?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Now, I don’t go along with everything this government stands for, but—’

  However, this encomium of Victorian values was interrupted by the return of Mrs Crabbe with the coffee. As she bent down to put the tray on a low table, her husband gave her rump an affectionate pat. She poured the coffee. It was delicious, fresh-roasted, strong, a million miles away from the ‘metal polish’ served in Bedford prison.

  ‘All right, love,’ he said, when the coffee was poured and sugary biscuits had been distributed. ‘Business.’

  His wife nodded obediently and started for the kitchen. ‘Shall I take the kids?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind, love. I know they’re young, but what they don’t know, they can’t tell no one about.’ He smiled at Mrs Pargeter. ‘As your late husband always used to say.’

  ‘Yes. One of his mottoes, that was.’

  The baby was carried out, and the older two lured away cheerfully enough with promises of crisps and drinks. Mrs Crabbe closed the sitting-room door and her husband turned to his visitor.

  ‘Right. What can I do you for?’

  ‘Well, I hope you don’t mind, but—’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind. Anything you need, lady, you just say the word. Quite honestly, your late husband done so much for me, I could never repay it if I tried for a million years, so you just ask away.’

  Mrs Pargeter settled into her armchair. ‘All right, listen. I need a kind of . . . burglary done and my late husband always said – I mean, not that he ever talked to me about his work – but he made it clear to me that, when it came to getting in and out of places, there was no one in the world to touch Keyhole Crabbe.’

  Her listener nodded. No point in false modesty; she was saying no more than the truth.

  ‘Well, anyway, Keyhole, what I need doing is a bit delicate, and so I thought I’d ask your advice . . .’

  ‘Very sensible. You come to the right place.’

  ‘I mean, I realise that . . .’ She trod delicately. ‘. . . it’s a bit difficult for you yourself at the moment . . . you know, your movements are a little restricted, but I wondered if you could recommend someone who might possibly—’

  ‘Don’t you count me out, lady. I’m sure I could do the job myself . . . I mean, depending where it is . . .’

  ‘Well, that could be a problem. It’s near Worcester . . .’

  ‘Oh, easy. Do there and back inside the day.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ve a feeling this is going to have to be done at night.’

  ‘Ah.’ He hesitated for a moment, chewing his lip. ‘Nights are a bit trickier, certainly. They do have this unfortunate habit in nicks of shutting you up for the night. I don’t mean I can’t get out, obviously, but I try not to do it too often. Keep it for special occasions, you know, wedding anniversaries and suchlike. No need to take unnecessary risks, is there? Hmm . . .’ He pondered for a moment, then made up his mind. ‘Oh, but, Mrs Pargeter, for you . . . no, I’d have to do it myself.’

  ‘Not if it’s going to be risky for you—’

  ‘Don’t even give it a thought. No problem. I got the routine sorted out. Sunday nights tend to be good, anyway, screws all dozy after a skinful on Saturday. No, Mrs Pargeter, I couldn’t stand the idea of no one else doing it for you. Hate to think of you being let down by some beginner. No, like you say, when it comes to anything with locks or keys, I am the best in the business. What’s more, I never get caught.’

  Mrs Pargeter could not prevent herself from looking a little quizzical, but Keyhole Crabbe quickly explained away his current situation. ‘Shopped, I was, this time. Some silly little bugger – pardon my French – thought he could clean up my end of the market if I was out of the way.’ He laughed at the incongruity of the idea.

  ‘And . . . what happened to him?’ Mrs Pargeter asked cautiously.

  ‘Let’s say he wasn’t successful.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘No, don’t get me wrong, lady. No violence. I hate violence. Never done anyone no good, hitting people. Not from Cain and Abel onwards. No, I done a straight tit-for-tat on this young chancer. Got him shopped, and all. He’s in an Open Prison. Ford, you know, down near Bognor. And he can’t even get out of there. Which goes to show exactly how good he is, dunnit?’ he concluded with satisfaction.

  Mrs Pargeter smiled. She liked Keyhole Crabbe, and she appreciated his values. They coincided almost exactly with her own.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, offering her the biscuits again, ‘give me a bit more gen on this job you want done . . .’

  22

  ‘I don’t know, Theresa seemed sort of anonymous,’ said Sue Curle after some deliberation. ‘I mean, obviously I knew her, and one sort of went through the motions socially, but it was as if there was something missing in the middle. I mean, I never felt that I got through to her.’

  ‘Did you feel the same, Vivvi?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did in a way.’ Vivvi Sprake wrinkled her nose up cautiously. ‘There was something sort of . . . shut-off about her. I mean, she was perfectly friendly, and very helpful – she fed our cat while we were away in Portugal, and I watered her plants when they were off, that sort of thing – but I don’t know, she seemed to be sort of distancing herself all the time.’

  ‘And was that the same when her husband was around? I mean, did it make any difference when he went up North?’

  ‘Don’t think it made any difference at all,’ said Vivvi. ‘Theresa was always like that.’

  But she had replied too quickly. Again, Mrs Pargeter was aware of an unusual reaction from Vivvi when the name of Rod Cotton came up. There was something there to be probed further. When the right opportunity arose.

  Mrs Pargeter was pleased with the little impromptu coffee party she had arranged. Only Vivvi and Sue. All the other Smithy’s Loam second cars had been out that Monday morning when the idea came to her, but Vivvi and Sue had been so surprised by the sudden invitation that neither had had time to make up excuses. If excuses were required. Probably not, Mrs Pargeter surmised. Both women would be sufficiently intrigued to see how she had changed the interior of the Cottons’ house to come across the road, anyway.

  ‘What
impression did you get, Sue?’ she asked, moving the heat away from Vivvi for the time being. ‘Do you think Theresa had a weak personality?’

  ‘No, not really. She just seemed to be very self-sufficient, you know, like there was an inner core of her that was completely private and that no one could touch.’

  ‘Hm. And she never gave the impression that she was dissatisfied with her life here?’

  ‘Dissatisfied with her life in Smithy’s Loam?’ asked Sue Curie, struck by the incongruity of the idea. ‘No, why should she be? I mean, she had a husband who was earning a packet. More than that,’ she added bitterly, ‘she had a husband who didn’t keep putting his hand up every skirt he came across.’

  Mrs Pargeter flashed a look at Vivvi Sprake. Yes, there was some reaction. Quickly concealed, but it had been there. What had happened between Rod and Vivvi?

  ‘And did Theresa ever have a job herself?’ she asked diffidently, still trying to find a way into the secret life of the missing woman.

  ‘I think she did before they were married,’ said Vivvi, ‘but Rod was old-fashioned about that. Thought it reflected badly on him for his wife to have to go out to work. Anyway, he was coining it, so there wasn’t much point. Anything she earned’d only add to his tax bill.’

  That put women’s independence in its place, thought Mrs Pargeter. She tried a new approach. ‘But you don’t think Theresa ever wanted anything different? Anything more spiritual? Did she ever talk about values? Or materialism?’

  ‘What is this?’ Sue Curle laughed easily. ‘Honestly, Mrs Pargeter, it sounds like you’re filling out some questionnaire.’

  ‘Sorry. Just a nosy old woman,’ she covered up quickly. ‘It’s just . . . I’m sorry, one does get sort of interested in the people who’ve lived in a house before you.’

  Both Sue and Vivvi looked blank at this idea. Clearly they had no interest in the people who had owned their houses before them. Once their financial and social status had been established, former owners ceased to have any relevance. The residents of Smithy’s Loam continued to move in their own selfish circles.

  Still, neither of them commented on their new neighbour’s eccentricity. ‘Actually,’ Sue went off on a new tack, ‘the reason I thought of questionnaires was that I had some market researcher round this morning . . .’

  ‘Oh, so did I,’ said Vivvi. ‘Woman with a Welsh accent . . . ?’

  ‘That’s right. Asking about marital status and that sort of thing. I was able to air some of my views on the subject of men and divorce.’ Sue smiled grimly. ‘Seemed quite a sensible woman, I thought.’

  Mrs Pargeter took in this information with quiet satisfaction. She felt fairly certain that the Welsh ‘market researcher’ was Truffler Mason’s assistant. Sue Curie’s commendation of the woman’s views on men and divorce seemed a sufficient pointer.

  So that was good. It meant that Truffler’s investigations were proceeding. In tracking down the Cottons, he would have to make enquiries in Smithy’s Loam and market research was as good a cover as any other. It was also likely that his investigations would incidentally be finding out a few details about the other residents of the close. And such information could be very useful to Mrs Pargeter later in her enquiries.

  The only thing wrong was that the Welsh girl should have come to her door, too. Missing her out because she was the instigator of the enquiry was the kind of lapse that could give rise to suspicion. Mrs Pargeter made a mental note to mention this to Truffler when they next spoke.

  Although Sue had now drawn attention to her questionnaire approach, Mrs Pargeter saw no reason to discontinue it. Why not keep up the image of a nosy old bat?

  ‘When did you last see Theresa, Sue?’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Well, Vivvi, you said she came round to see you early evening of the night she left. And I know she went to see Fiona Burchfield-Brown, too. So I was wondering whether she did a complete circuit of Smithy’s Loam, saying goodbye . . .’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Sue Curle looked suddenly confused, perhaps even embarrassed. ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘It would have been the Monday evening, between six and sevenish. Last Monday. But perhaps you were still at the office . . . ?’

  ‘No,’ said Sue hastily. ‘No, I was back. Now I remember, yes. Kirsten had to go up to London to some club or other. She was leaving about five, and I had to get back from the office early. That’s right, Theresa did just come round briefly to say goodbye.’

  ‘Just “goodbye” . . . ?’

  That question got a firm ‘Yes’. Mrs Pargeter wondered . . . Something odd there, too . . . So many cross-currents in Smithy’s Loam. So many hints that needed picking up. So many half-statements that needed completing. So many details that cried out for investigation.

  Still, she must move slowly. As usual, she felt it would be a ‘softly, softly’ approach that paid off in the end.

  ‘It’s strange,’ she mused casually, ‘how I keep thinking about Theresa Cotton . . . I mean, as you say, she didn’t seem to have a strong personality at all, and yet I can sort of feel her presence around the house . . .’

  She had floated this just to see what kind of reaction it would provoke, but all she got was more bitterness from Sue Curie. ‘She may well have had a very strong personality, who can say? But being stuck at home looking after a house for a husband is not the best way of demonstrating one’s personality, is it? But that’s the lot of the average woman, even now. Yes, even after all the publicity about Women’s Lib and all the great things it’s supposed to have achieved, the average woman is still stuck at home, totally eclipsed by her bloody husband.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say—’

  ‘It’s true. Might as well be dead as stuck at home in the “mere wife” role. God, life’s bloody unfair. Get born with a tassel and you’ve got an advantage for the rest of your life.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s always true,’ Mrs Pargeter protested. ‘I mean, in some relationships, the sexes are completely equal.’ That had been the experience of her marriage to the late Mr Pargeter. But then of course she knew she had been exceptionally lucky.

  Sue Curle poured scorn on this idea. ‘Huh. I’m sorry, Mrs Pargeter, but it’s a generation thing. You only say that because your generation was brainwashed into thinking that a girl’s main aim in life was to get a husband, and once she’d got one she should spend the rest of her days kowtowing to the selfish bastard!’

  Under normal circumstances, Mrs Pargeter would have contested this extravagant generalisation, but she didn’t want to deflect the conversation. She was fishing for information and knew that her best catch would come in unguarded statements from her two guests. So she contented herself with a ‘Well, maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Sue Curle asserted. ‘God, what I’d give to have my time over again! Certainly I’d never get married. Never give any man power over me, oh no. Maybe I’d try exercising a bit of power over them.’

  ‘But I thought you said,’ objected Mrs Pargeter reasonably enough, ‘that the power came with the tassel, as it were. I thought you said the men had always got the advantage.’

  ‘Oh, they think they have, but that’s just a product of another form of brainwashing. You see, even for my generation, marriage and fidelity were still the ideals. But some of the young ones now just don’t think that way.’

  ‘I thought this dreadful AIDS business was bringing monogamy back.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s making that lot change their behaviour much. Anyway, Mrs Pargeter, I’m not just talking about sex. The young are much more prepared to be selfish, just to have a good time, than we ever were. I mean, take Kirsten . . .’

  ‘Your au pair?’

  ‘Yes, her life is completely dedicated to pleasure. She goes out with men if she chooses to, but ensures that they pay for everything. And she spends the rest of her time buying clothes or going to clubs or sending off endless bulky letters to friends in Norway.’

&nbs
p; ‘I thought she was over here to be helping you and learning the language.’

  Sue Curle tossed her head back. ‘Huh. And huh again. In fact, huh on both counts. She’s useless. It’s like having another child around. I have to go around tidying up after her. She won’t even pick up a pair of her own dirty tights.’

  ‘Well, can’t you get rid of her?’

  ‘Oh yes, sure, I could. But, honestly, it’s hardly worth it. For a start, I haven’t got time to traipse round looking for a replacement at the moment. And, anyway, she goes back to Norway for good in a couple of months. I’m just hoping that between now and then I’ll be able to sort something out. The trouble is, having just gone back to work, time is at a premium.’

  This thought prompted her to look at her watch, but before she could say it was time to be off, Mrs Pargeter asked, ‘Where does Kirsten get the money to buy all these clothes? I didn’t think au pairs were paid that much . . .’

  ‘No, they’re not. Must have rich parents, I suppose.’ Then she looked again at her watch. ‘Sorry, I must be off now. I’ve got to be in the office this afternoon, and I haven’t sorted out anything for the kids’ supper yet.’

  ‘Doesn’t Kirsten even do that?’

  This was greeted with another ‘Huh’. Sue went on, ‘I don’t know why people go on having au pairs. All I hear from my friends is a long history of disasters. Anorexia, pregnancies, drugs, boyfriends – ugh! I don’t think I’ve heard of anyone who’s had a happy experience with an au pair.’

  ‘I have heard,’ said Mrs Pargeter mischievously, ‘of one or two husbands who have.’

  Sue Curle grinned wryly. ‘Yes. Right. That just about says it all, doesn’t it? Another triumph for the tassel.’ She picked up her handbag. ‘Look, I must be off. Thanks very much for the coffee. It was a really nice break.’

  ‘I should be going, too,’ Vivvi Sprake agreed, perhaps too quickly, after Sue had disappeared up the front path. She didn’t seem to want to be left alone with her hostess.