Mrs, Presumed Dead

by Simon Brett

  Mrs Pargeter was shocked. ‘You don’t mean that we’re going to find another corpse, do you?’

  ‘Oh, no. Well, if we do, it won’t be murder.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Truffler Mason was becoming uneasy. He didn’t like discussing one of his investigations until it was all neatly sewn up and delivered. ‘What I’m saying is, everything I’ve found out about Rod Cotton suggests he’s gone downhill.’

  ‘Downhill?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, eager to have the hint amplified.

  But all Truffler Mason gave her was a gnomic ‘yes’, and apologised once again that he’d really rather not say more for the moment.

  So she was left to brood on the tantalisingly small amount of information he had given her.

  Mrs Pargeter decided that she needed another treat. All this investigation was very exhausting emotionally. Fortunately, in her researches into the area before she moved, she had compiled a comprehensive list of local restaurants, and it was – in a spirit of devilment – the most expensive of these that she rang to book herself a table for dinner.

  The restaurant was in a pub just outside Dorking, though diners had a separate entrance from drinkers. Mrs Pargeter enjoyed a leisurely vodka Campari in the bar, while she perused the menu, before selecting prawns in garlic and steak au poivre. She ordered a half-bottle of Vouvray to go with the starter, and of Crozes Hermitage for the main course.

  From the restaurant bar, through a screen of wooden lattice-work, she could see into the pub, and it was with some shock that she recognised Sue Curle sitting in a private alcove of the saloon bar. Mrs Pargeter was close to the lattice and had no fear that she herself could be seen.

  Sue was not drinking alone. The man with her was a West Indian of strikingly good looks, dressed in a very smart light grey suit. Their hands were intertwined and they were talking with the urgent intensity of people who have either recently been in bed together or will soon be in bed together.

  As Mrs Pargeter looked on, Sue Curle glanced at her watch and reached suddenly across to touch her companion’s cheek. They kissed intimately, then she rose to her feet and, with a furtive look to left and right, walked out of the pub without a backward glance.

  Instinctively, Mrs Pargeter looked at her watch. The handsome West Indian rationed out the remains of his glass of wine with slow slips, occasionally checking the time, then rose and, slinging his coat over his shoulder, walked jauntily out the same way.

  Five minutes exactly by Mrs Pargeter’s watch. A familiar scenario. ‘We’d better not leave together – give me five minutes.’

  Hm, so Sue Curie’s contempt for the male sex was not total.

  Interesting . . .

  She sat over her garlic prawns and Vouvray and thought about Theresa Cotton’s murder. Or, more particularly, about the disposal of Theresa Cotton’s body.

  That was the odd element in the case. The strangling itself, given the lack of evident marks on the body, had been conducted with exemplary efficiency.

  It was the placing of the body in the freezer that struck a discordant note.

  True, the freezer had a lock, which would have prevented its falling open by mistake when being shifted by the removal men. But there remained an element of risk in the procedure. Might not the removal men have become suspicious because of the unusual weight of the freezer? Or when it arrived at the warehouse might not suspicions be raised that it hadn’t been emptied properly and could contain perishable commodities (as indeed it did)?

  Still, neither of these suspicions had arisen. In that sense, the murderer had succeeded. According to plan, the freezer had been stored away in its container, where it could have remained for some long time. As Keyhole Crabbe had said, the tightness of the polythene wrapping and the quality of the seal on the freezer lid had delayed decomposition and might well have contained the corpse’s smell.

  And maybe, Mrs Pargeter reflected, the heaviness of the freezer wouldn’t actually have raised suspicions. Since the storage of furniture was paid for according to bulk, it would have been a logical economy to fill a vacant space like an empty freezer with smaller items, and probably that was a practice to which the Littlehaven’s men were accustomed.

  But the fact remained that, even if the danger of immediate discovery was not great, the concealment of the body in the freezer could only be a temporary solution. Maybe not in the short term, but sooner or later, it was going to be discovered. And a murder enquiry, though delayed, would inevitably ensue.

  Yes, the use of the freezer brought an air of improvisation into what was otherwise a well-planned murder.

  Mrs Pargeter tried to think what motives could drive someone to dispose of a body in that way.

  It could be just the product of panic. Maybe the murderer had thought through the strangling, but not thought beyond the crime itself.

  Alternatively, the murderer may have been content to buy time. For some reason, he or she only wanted the investigation delayed, confident that by the time the body was discovered, he or she would no longer be a suspect.

  Or could it be even simpler than that? The murderer was so confident of not even being considered as a suspect that he or she made only a token attempt at disposing of the body. Maybe the murderer had such a solid alibi that the police would never crack it.

  Or maybe there was such an obvious main suspect that the murderer had no fear of being investigated at all.

  Back to Rod Cotton, thought Mrs Pargeter. Truffler Mason had said that the dead woman’s husband had gone downhill. When the police finally found him, his prospects might be even more downhill.

  27

  On the night she died, Theresa Cotton was known to have visited four of the women living in Smithy’s Loam. She had been to ‘High Bushes’ to see Fiona Burchfield-Brown, to ‘Perigord’ to see Sue Curie, to ‘Haymakers’ to see Vivvi Sprake, and to ‘Cromarty’ to see Carole Temple. Mrs Pargeter would also have put money on the fact that Theresa Cotton had been to ‘Hibiscus’ to see Jane Watson.

  It was time, Mrs Pargeter decided, that contact should be made with Mrs Nervy the Neurotic. There must be some explanation for the woman’s deeply anti-social attitude, and now that there was a murder to investigate, that explanation became rather important. Why was it that she behaved as if she were afraid of the other residents of Smithy’s Loam? There had to be a reason other than mere shyness or arrogance.

  Mrs Pargeter knew that she would have to move carefully in establishing contact with Jane Watson. She had seen the woman cut people dead in the street, she had seen her refuse even to answer her door to the inquisitive pressmen. It was going to require some kind of trick to break through that impregnable defence.

  The following morning the opportunity for just such a trick presented itself. Mrs Pargeter received another visit from the police. The same two detectives returned and asked some supplementary questions, reverting time and again to the whereabouts of Rod Cotton.

  Since Mrs Pargeter had no information at all on this subject (and had no intention of putting them in touch with Truffler Mason, who might have had some), the conversation could not progress far. She was helpful and public-spirited, as ever, but couldn’t really be of much assistance to their investigation.

  Recognising this at last, the two detectives thanked her for her patience, apologised that they might well have to be in touch again, and crossed Smithy’s Loam to ‘High Bushes’, no doubt to address similar questions to Fiona Burchfield-Brown.

  Some ten minutes later, observed by Mrs Pargeter through her net curtains, the policemen moved on to ‘Perigord’. Sue Curle must have been at the office, because the door was answered by Kirsten, smartly turned out in a new black and white striped dress. The detectives did not go in, and only talked briefly on the doorstep. Then, put off either by her ignorance or her fractured English, they left Kirsten, moving on to ‘Haymakers’ and Vivvi Sprake.

  They were there for about ten minutes, before reappearing to go and
knock at the door of ‘Hibiscus’. Jane Watson might have been able just to ignore the demands of the newspaper reporters, but she didn’t dare do that with the police. The two detectives disappeared inside the house.

  Mrs Pargeter judged the timing to perfection. She let eight minutes elapse, before putting on one of her everyday minks, going out of her front door and walking briskly across to ‘Hibiscus’.

  She rang the bell and, as she had anticipated, Jane Watson came to the door. Behind her, just emerging from the sitting-room, were the figures of the two detectives, holding their hats, as if about to leave.

  Good. Mrs Pargeter congratulated herself on her timing. With the policemen as witnesses, she felt certain that Jane Watson would maintain at least the appearance of civility. She wouldn’t want to unleash any unnecessary suspicions by suggesting dissensions among the residents of Smithy’s Loam.

  ‘Hello, I’m Mrs Pargeter. We haven’t really met properly, have we? I’m the one who’s moved into the Cottons’ house.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Jane Watson looked troubled and uncertain for a moment. Then she saw a let-out. ‘I’m sorry. The police are here, asking me some questions . . . you know, in connection with . . . what happened. Do you think it would be possible for you to call back another time . . . ?’

  ‘No, it’s no problem,’ said one of the detectives, spot on cue. ‘We’d just about finished. Don’t let us interfere with your social life.’

  ‘Well . . . er . . .’ Jane Watson looked confused. She didn’t want to invite Mrs Pargeter in, but equally she didn’t want the detectives to see her turning her new neighbour away. She succumbed. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said, standing back with not very good grace.

  ‘Thank you, dear.’ Mrs Pargeter bustled into the house, looking very pleased with herself.

  ‘May have to be in touch again, Mrs Watson,’ one of the detectives apologised. ‘Sorry, as we were only just now saying to Mrs Pargeter, these enquiries can take a hell of a long time.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Jane Watson looked weak and a little confused.

  ‘Anyway, thank you so much for your assistance.’ The two detectives made their way off down the path.

  Jane Watson closed the front door behind them and leant against it. With a defiant look at Mrs Pargeter, she demanded, ‘Now what on earth do you want?’

  The door to the sitting-room was still open. Uninvited, Mrs Pargeter moved through it, saying, ‘Just a neighbourly call . . .’

  Jane Watson followed her. ‘Look, what is this?’

  There was anger in her voice, but not the confident anger of righteousness. It was the uncertain anger of anxiety.

  Mrs Pargeter looked at her. Jane Watson’s looks were stuck in a time-warp. The Sixties. She looked like a bespectacled Mary of Peter, Paul and Mary; long blonde hair fading a bit now; pale eyes weak behind thick glasses; face, innocent of make-up, showing its lines. A marked contrast to most of the carefully coiffed and painted ladies of Smithy’s Loam.

  ‘It’s just . . .’ Mrs Pargeter began, circling round to her subject, ‘really this murder that’s made me come to see you. I mean, now we’re all going through the same thing, all being questioned by the police and what-have-you, I thought we ought to stick together . . .’

  ‘Why?’ asked Jane Watson.

  It was a disconcerting question – disconcerting chiefly because Mrs Pargeter couldn’t think of an answer to it.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ she replied accurately enough. ‘It’s just strange for me, moving into a new house and then discovering that its former owner was murdered . . .’

  Jane Watson grunted acknowledgement that that might be strange, but implied that the strangeness still did not explain Mrs Pargeter’s presence.

  ‘. . . and I was just wondering when you last saw Theresa Cotton . . . ?’

  ‘The police asked that.’

  ‘Yes, and now I’m asking it.’

  ‘But the police at least have a reason for asking,’ said Jane with mounting anger. ‘It’s their job. Whereas it’s no business of yours at all.’

  ‘I’m just interested,’ said Mrs Pargeter, with what she hoped was a disarming shrug.

  It didn’t disarm Jane Watson. ‘Everyone round here shows too much bloody interest in other people’s lives! We all have a right to privacy, and that’s something everyone should respect.’

  ‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ Mrs Pargeter agreed.

  Jane Watson’s eyes blazed. ‘Then why won’t you respect mine!’

  ‘All I want to know is whether Theresa Cotton came to say goodbye to you the evening before she died . . . ?’

  Jane reacted sharply. ‘Why? What does it matter whether she did or not?’

  ‘I just want to know,’ said Mrs Pargeter simply.

  A change came into the pale eyes behind their thick lenses; they grew more cunning. ‘I do know why you want to know.’

  ‘Oh? Really?’

  ‘Yes. I know you’re connected with them.’

  ‘Them?’ Mrs Pargeter felt she was rather losing touch with the conversation, and what Jane Watson said next didn’t dispel that impression.

  ‘I know what they’re like. Once they get their claws into you, they don’t let go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Theresa Cotton was one of them. And you’re one of them.’

  Mrs Pargeter began to fear for the woman’s sanity, as these paranoid ramblings continued.

  ‘And, oh yes, I admit it – I was one, too. But I escaped, I got away from it. And I’m never going to go back!’ The cunning in the eyes was now giving way to a gleam of madness. ‘Oh, they think they can take everything from you, but they can’t take your soul! No, that remains your own! They can’t take away your self!’

  Jane Watson was now very close. She took hold of Mrs Pargeter’s plump arms and gripped them tightly. ‘So you won’t succeed, Mrs Pargeter – or whatever your real name is! Theresa Cotton didn’t succeed, either. She came round, trying to take me back, but I was too strong for her! And I’ll be too strong for you, too!’

  She certainly was strong. Her fingers were biting like metal into Mrs Pargeter’s flesh. They were hands that would have had no difficulty in strangling someone.

  Mrs Pargeter felt a tremor of fear. ‘I must go,’ she blurted out.

  ‘Yes,’ Jane Watson hissed. ‘You shouldn’t have come in the first place!’

  With a final vindictive squeeze, she released her grip. Mrs Pargeter scuttled out of the sitting-room towards the front door.

  Jane Watson’s words followed her. ‘And I hope now you won’t try to come again! Theresa Cotton came to see me – yes, in answer to your question, she did come to see me. And look what happened to her!’

  Mrs Pargeter snatched open the front door, and burst out, breathless, into the relative calm of Smithy’s Loam.

  That woman, she thought, is mad.

  28

  The phone was ringing as Mrs Pargeter entered the front door. She snatched it up and instantly recognised Truffler Mason’s funereal tones.

  ‘Listen, I’ve found him.’ Never had such exciting news been imparted in such an unexcited way. He sounded like a tiler giving an estimate for a roof repair.

  ‘Rod? Where is he? Can I make contact with him?’

  ‘Yes, you can’ Truffler replied dubiously, ‘if you’re sure you want to.’

  ‘You don’t make it sound very attractive.’

  ‘It isn’t very attractive. Do you really need to see him?’

  She had no hesitation in saying ‘Yes’. Mrs Pargeter was now very determined that Theresa Cotton’s murderer should be unmasked, and though of course she had great respect for the abilities of the police, she rather wondered whether they would be able to do it on their own. They didn’t have the same kind of network of contacts as Truffler Mason; it might take them a very long time to trace the missing man.

  And, though Mrs Pargeter was by no means committed to the prevalent view that Rod Cotton had kille
d his wife, she knew that no investigation into the murder would be complete without an interview with the absent husband.

  Truffler did not try to dissuade her. The late Mr Pargeter, shortly before his death, had instructed the investigator to give any help his widow might require, and Truffler owed far too much to the late Mr Pargeter to dream of disobeying those orders in the smallest particular.

  He arranged with Mrs Pargeter where they should meet early the next morning. ‘Oh, and don’t dress too posh,’ he cautioned.

  ‘What, not a mink or anything like that?’

  ‘No. Goodness, no. Keep it simple. Don’t want to be conspicuous.’

  ‘All right. If you say so. Anything special I should bring?’

  ‘Some cash wouldn’t be a bad idea. And a couple of half-bottles of whisky might come in,’ Truffler Mason concluded lugubriously.

  Their rendezvous was outside the Embankment Underground station, but Mrs Pargeter did not travel there by Tube. She was a bit old, she considered, to be traipsing around by public transport so early in the morning. So, mindful of the late Mr Pargeter’s constant advice that small economies only suited small minds, she had Gary’s limousine deliver her.

  But, with Truffler Mason’s admonition about being inconspicuous freshly in her mind, she arranged for the car to deposit her outside the Sherlock Holmes pub in Northumberland Street, and walked down to the station.

  She had dressed with care – and indeed with some difficulty. Her wardrobe did not boast a great many ‘inconspicuous’ garments. The late Mr Pargeter, during his lifetime, had always encouraged her to wear bright colours. Her beautiful complexion, he constantly maintained, could cope with them, and he liked to see her looking bright and cheerful in every sense when he returned from a business trip. So most of her dresses were in jubilantly coloured silks; her coats were selected from a small armoury of minks; and the ensembles were habitually complemented by a tasteful garnish of large jewellery.

  For her encounter with Rod Cotton, she had, with some regret, relinquished all jewellery. She wore beige fur-lined boots, which not only kept out the chill rising from the pavements, but also concealed her silk stockings (she could never bring herself to wear any other kind). And she had foregone even her most humble and domestic mink, in favour of an old Burberry raincoat.