Mrs, Presumed Dead

by Simon Brett

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you don’t have to rush, Vivvi. I did just want to ask you about something . . .’

  ‘Oh. What?’

  For a moment Mrs Pargeter was thrown. Then she remembered her good old stand-by excuse. ‘About gardeners . . .’

  Yes, about gardeners first. And then about Rod Cotton . . .

  ‘Oh. All right.’ Vivvi put her handbag down. She didn’t look very happy about it, but she knew she couldn’t rush off without actual rudeness.

  ‘Yes, Vivvi. What I wanted to ask was—’

  But then the telephone rang. Just at the wrong moment. It let Vivvi Sprake off the hook. As Mrs Pargeter went to answer it, her guest said hastily, ‘Look, sorry, I really must dash. Didn’t realise it was so late. We’ll talk about gardeners another time – OK?’

  And she was out of the front door before Mrs Pargeter had picked up the receiver.

  How infuriating!

  ‘Hello?’ said Mrs Pargeter into the phone.

  ‘Mrs Pargeter? It’s Keyhole.’ His voice was tense and subdued.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I did it last night. Like you asked.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘And I’m afraid you was right.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Pargeter, reaching for a chair to support herself. ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’

  23

  ‘Tell me what happened, Keyhole,’ she said.

  ‘Job went easy. No problem. Sorted things out in the nick . . .’

  ‘Wasn’t that difficult?’

  ‘No. Like I said, done it before. You know, wedding anniversaries, that kind of special occasion . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mind you, of course, any celebrations have to be on the, sort of, domestic side. Can’t really take the missus out for a nice meal, or up West for a show, you know, bit risky, that.’

  ‘I’m sure. But, last night . . .’

  ‘Oh yeah. Right. Last night. Well, as I say, no problem getting out of the nick. In many ways it’s easier, really, doing it after we’ve all been locked in. Screws aren’t looking out for trouble. They, like, relax their vigilance. I mean, during the day they—’

  ‘Yes.’

  The tension in Mrs Pargeter’s voice got through to him, and Keyhole Crabbe speeded up his narrative. ‘Anyway, outside the prison, met up with my mate all right. He’d got the car and organised the gear, skeleton keys and that, and off we go to Worcester. No problem finding the place. We done our homework and knew exactly where to go. Blooming great warehouse, it was.’

  ‘What was the security like?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘You mean there wasn’t any?’

  ‘Oh no. They got a couple of blokes with dogs come round, you know, patrol every hour or so. And they got these alarms on the doors and windows. But my mate’s sussed it all out beforehand, so we don’t have no difficulty.’

  ‘And no problem getting into the depository?’

  ‘No. Three locks, all dead easy. Could’ve done them with a piece of soggy macaroni.’

  ‘And inside?’

  ‘Bloody big, I’ll say that – pardon my French. All these blooming great containers. That could’ve been a problem . . . you know, so many of them . . . not knowing where to look, that sort of number. Could’ve spent a long time going through everything in a big place like that. Heavy gear to move, and all.’

  ‘But you managed?’ Mrs Pargeter urged him on.

  ‘Yes. Like I say, my mate’s good. He’d done his research on the inside of the place, too. Took me straight to the right container.’

  ‘So you started to unpack it?’

  ‘Yeah. Glad there was two of us. Half weigh a lot, wardrobes and that.’

  ‘Yes?’ Mrs Pargeter was finding the tension unbearable.

  ‘So where was it? What did you find?’

  ‘You was right. It was in the freezer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘That was locked, and all. No problem there, though . . .’ He seemed to be slowing down again, unwilling to continue with his story.

  ‘Come on, Keyhole. Tell me what you found.’

  His voice was thick and low as he continued. ‘We open the freezer. There’s this something wrapped in polythene . . . Heavy. We pull it out. We unwrap it. And yes, it’s a body.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Pargeter murmured. ‘I’m very sorry to have put you through that.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You had warned me, tipped me the wink, like. Not as if it was a complete surprise.’ He swallowed noisily down the line. ‘Nasty, though.’

  ‘Yes. And I suppose, having been in there more than a week . . .’

  ‘Wasn’t too bad from that point of view, Mrs Pargeter, actually. Tightly wrapped in the polythene, good seal on the freezer lid, wasn’t in too bad a state.’

  ‘Good.’ Mrs Pargeter hesitated, unwilling to have her next, inevitable question answered. No way round it, though – had to be asked. ‘And who was it, Keyhole . . . ?’

  ‘A woman. About forty. Fully clothed. Red hair.’

  Poor Theresa Cotton. Now the anxieties and uncomfortable speculations of the last few days had been proved real, Mrs Pargeter felt weak and drained. Tears, she knew, were not far away. Tears for a woman she had only met a couple of times, but whose murder seemed to dispossess her more than the deaths of friends who had been much closer.

  ‘Tell me, Keyhole,’ she murmured. ‘Was there anything else in the polythene? Or in the freezer?’

  ‘All we found was a tie. Man’s tie. Some school’s Old Boys . . . cricket club . . . something like that, anyway. That was what did it.’

  ‘She was strangled?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any other wounds on her?’

  ‘Not that we could see. No blood on her clothes, nothing like that.’

  ‘No.’ That at least suggested that the attack had been a surprise. A quick death. Mrs Pargeter tried to comfort herself with the thought.

  ‘So what did you do, Keyhole?’

  ‘Like you said, Mrs Pargeter. Wrapped the body up, just as it had been. Back in the freezer. Freezer back in the container. All the rest of the furniture put exactly where we’d moved it from. No one’ll know we been in there.’

  ‘And there’s no danger that any fingerprints or . . . ?’

  ‘Mrs Pargeter . . .’ he said, aggrieved and offended.

  She covered the gaffe as quickly as she could. ‘I’m so sorry, Keyhole. Wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘No.’ He sounded only partly mollified. ‘Look, Mrs Pargeter, I’m going to have to ring off soon . . .’

  ‘Why? Where are you phoning from?’

  ‘The Governor’s Office. About the only decent direct-dial line out in this place.’

  ‘What, you’ve made yourself a key . . . ?’

  ‘Of course. Well, I like to ring home every couple of days, see how the kids is getting on.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But, anyway, the Governor’s doing an inspection and he’ll be back any minute, so I’d better scarper sharpish.’

  ‘Mm. Well, look, Keyhole, I can’t thank you enough for—’ A sudden thought stopped her in mid-sentence. ‘Keyhole, one thing . . .’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’re sure there wasn’t any money in the freezer? Or in the polythene wrapping?’

  ‘What, you mean coins or—?’

  ‘No, notes. A lot of notes.’

  ‘Not a sign. Nothing. Like I say, nothing but the body and the tie.’

  So, although Theresa Cotton had been found, over two thousand pounds was still missing. Murders had been committed for much less, Mrs Pargeter reflected. Even in affluent surroundings like Smithy’s Loam.

  ‘Look, Keyhole, I’m eternally in your debt for—’

  ‘Gotta scarper!’ she heard, before the phone was slammed down.

  She had a momentary pang. She had got Keyhole Crabbe into this. If he were caught in the Governor’s office, all kinds of unpleasant details about his es
capological feats might come to light. He could even lose his remission for good behaviour. She thought tenderly of the sweet domestic scene she had witnessed so recently in Bedford.

  But the anxiety only lasted for a moment. She had confidence in Keyhole. He was far too canny an operator to get caught, unless someone shopped him again. No, Keyhole Crabbe would be all right.

  Mrs Pargeter stayed sitting by the phone in the hall. She still felt exhausted.

  And she was in a dilemma as to what to do next.

  She remembered her late husband’s precepts about the police. What they did not know, generally speaking, they did not need to know. Ignorance in the Police Force, he had always maintained, was a natural state, and who are we, he would ask with a disarming shrug of his shoulders, to interfere with nature?

  On the other hand, this was murder. And somehow murder changed the rules.

  She went upstairs and found the address book which had proved so useful over the last weeks. The late Mr Pargeter’s listings had furnished her with a car-tracing service, a Missing Persons bureau and a lock specialist; she felt confident that it could also provide a police informer.

  There was a selection to choose from. She rang the first number and, as ever, the magic of the late Mr Pargeter’s name worked instantly.

  The man at the end of the phone took the details impassively. He asked no questions, simply agreed to make an anonymous call to the Worcestershire Constabulary, suggesting that they should inspect a certain container in a certain furniture depository.

  Mrs Pargeter put the phone down wearily. The wheels had been set in motion. Now it was only a matter of time before the police arrived in Smithy’s Loam.

  She went into the sitting-room. It was only lunch-time, but she felt in need of a drink.

  But, as she entered the room, she shivered. This, she felt sure, was where Theresa Cotton had been strangled only a fortnight before.

  But who by, that was the question. Who by?

  24

  It didn’t take long.

  No, give the British police their due (and even the late Mr Pargeter had recommended that they should be given their due – not a lot else, but certainly their due), once they had the tip-off, they acted quickly.

  On the following day, the Tuesday, the one o’clock news carried a brief announcement about a woman’s body having been found in a furniture warehouse near Worcester, and by late afternoon the police were round at Smithy’s Loam.

  They had had no problem in guessing the identity of the corpse. The records of Littlehaven’s, the removal company, showed where the furniture had come from, and that was obviously the first place to investigate. It took the minimum of enquiry to find out that the freezer’s owner had been a red-haired woman of about forty. Formal identification would have to wait until next-of-kin had been contacted (and Mrs Pargeter reckoned there might be problems contacting the most immediate next-of-kin), but the police were pretty sure that they were investigating the murder of Theresa Cotton.

  It was inevitable that one of their first ports of call should be the deceased’s former home, which was probably also the scene of her strangling. Mrs Pargeter had reconciled herself to this fact from the moment that she authorised the tip-off, and patiently awaited the police’s arrival.

  Two plain-clothes men came at about four in an unmarked car. Their inconspicuous arrival might delay the news for an hour or so, but Mrs Pargeter felt convinced it would soon be all round the close.

  She responded like the good citizen that she was, inviting them in, offering them tea, bewildered as to what on earth it could be that they had come to see her about. She gave the ingenuous appearance of someone with nothing on her conscience, into whose head the thought that their visit might be related to some shortcoming of her own did not even enter.

  (Her performance in this role was totally convincing. But then it was one which she had rehearsed quite frequently during her life with the late Mr Pargeter.)

  She was properly surprised and appalled when the police told her the suspected identity of the corpse. Yes, she had heard the item on the news, but it had never occurred to her that there had been any connection with . . . Oh dear, she felt dreadful . . . Mrs Cotton had seemed such a charming person, it was awful to think that she . . . Goodness wasn’t it a terrible world we all lived in . . .

  As tactfully as they could, without actually announcing that they thought the murder had taken place in the room where they were sitting, the police said that they might have to bring in some experts to examine the house and surroundings.

  Of course, murmured Mrs Pargeter, still in shock, of course.

  And would she mind answering a few questions about Mrs Cotton, the presumably late Mrs Cotton?

  No, of course not, murmured Mrs Pargeter, of course not. Though, it must be remembered, they had only met very briefly . . .

  In her replies to the police’s question, Mrs Pargeter stuck undeviatingly to the late Mr Pargeter’s rule about telling the truth, and nothing but the truth, though not necessarily the whole truth.

  She produced the Dunnington address that Theresa Cotton had given her, and said, truthfully enough, that she had tried to make contact about the central heating, but had been unable to obtain the number. She felt tempted to save the police a bit of time by telling them that the address was false, but was afraid that might raise too many questions about her interest in the case. Anyway, it wouldn’t take them long to find it out for themselves.

  No, she hadn’t seen Mrs Cotton during the actual change of ownership of the house. She explained how Theresa was to have moved out on the Monday, while she herself did not move in until the Wednesday.

  She was asked if she had noticed anything unusual, or if anything unusual had been said by the vendor, during her pre-purchase inspections of the property, but Mrs Pargeter was forced to answer – again strictly within the bounds of truth – ‘no’ to both questions. It had, after all, been a very simple transaction. She herself had nowhere to sell, and apparently the Cottons had had no problems with their purchase (since they weren’t buying anything, this was hardly surprising).

  Then came a question that gave her a moment’s indecision. Had she found anything in the house that the Cottons had left behind? Anything unexpected?

  For a moment she vacillated about mentioning the letter to the Church of Utter Simplicity. Her finding it had been so serendipitous, she did feel a proprietary interest in the letter as her own private clue.

  On the other hand, she did not wish to obstruct the police investigation unnecessarily. And she thought she had probably got as much as she was likely to get out of the Church of Utter Simplicity connection. Besides, the hypocritical atmosphere of the place had so repelled her that the idea of putting the wind up the members of the Church held a mischievous attraction. Although she did not think anything actually criminal (assuming that taking advantage of the gullible is not criminal) was happening there, she still doubted whether the foundation would welcome investigation. Mrs Pargeter was not by nature a vindictive person, but she did relish the idea of that unattractive Brother Michael being discomfited.

  So she produced the letter for the police. Yes, she had glanced through it, but it hadn’t meant a lot to her. Seemed to go on rather about religion. No, she hadn’t known that Mrs Cotton was religious. As she had said before, it had been a very brief acquaintance.

  At this point the policemen stopped their flow of questions and seemed to hesitate before embarking on a new course. Mrs Pargeter had the feeling that what they were about to ask was the most important part of their enquiry.

  Finally the question came. Had she had any dealings during the house purchase with Mr Cotton?

  No, she hadn’t. He had been transferred up North and started the new job. That was why the house was being sold.

  Mrs Pargeter didn’t see the point of telling the police that the new job was as much a work of fiction as the new address. Apart from avoiding questions about her own curiosity
, she wanted to give them something to do for themselves, and she was sure that the discovery of the non-existent job would give enormous satisfaction to some eager young detective. Pity to deprive him of his thrill.

  The police asked more about Rod Cotton, but she couldn’t help them. They’d never met, you see, and she hadn’t really been in Smithy’s Loam long enough to pick up any local gossip about him.

  And no, she had no idea where he might be.

  Oops! That was a bit of a lapse. She covered it up quickly. Well, that was to say, she didn’t know where he was if he wasn’t at home . . . But presumably they could contact him at the Dunnington address . . . couldn’t they?

  The two policemen thanked her for her helpfulness. They were afraid that there were almost bound to be more questions at a later date. And they hoped she would bear with the arrival of their forensic team to examine the house.

  ‘Are you saying,’ asked Mrs Pargeter in an awestruck voice which was only partly put on, ‘that you think the murder took place here?’

  ‘It’s a possibility we can’t rule out,’ came the diplomatic reply.

  ‘Oh dear. The trouble is, of course, that I’ll have moved everything, won’t I? I mean, the sort of clues you’re looking for. You know, you do when you move into a new house, don’t you? You move stuff around, and you sweep and tidy and Hoover and . . .’

  ‘Yes, I agree, Mrs Pargeter. They may not find much, but such examinations do have to be carried out.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, as I say, if you will bear with us . . . ?’

  ‘No problem. Goodness, I’d do anything to help you find the person who’s done this dreadful thing.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Pargeter. I only wish more people in this country of ours were as cooperative and public-spirited as you are.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mention it,’ said Mrs Pargeter, with a slight simper.

  The forensic team arrived soon after, and Mrs Pargeter, cooperative and public-spirited as ever, kept out of their way while they dusted for fingerprints and checked carpets and furniture throughout the house.

  Through the net curtains of her bedroom, she saw the two policemen moving in the twilight from house to house, questioning the other residents of Smithy’s Loam.