by Simon Brett
The late Mr Pargeter had always planned that Gary should work for his widow. A man of great compassion and foresight, he organized future careers for most of his associates. He was an enabler, and directing Gary towards the running of a legitimate car-hire business was characteristic of his generosity. His will even left the driver enough money to buy the first few cars his enterprise required.
Mrs Pargeter had been in touch with Gary very soon after her husband’s death. His details, as well as those of many other useful contacts, were contained in what was probably the late Mr Pargeter’s most important bequest to his widow – his little black book. In its pages was preserved an invaluable list of names, men – and some women – whose particular set of skills had proved essential to the smooth running of his varied business enterprises.
And after Mr Pargeter’s death, this compendium of contacts had proved equally useful to his widow. Many of the adventures she had embarked on, many of the charitable activities she had undertaken, would have been impossible without the willing assistance of the experts who graced its pages.
As a result, Mrs Pargeter kept the little black book as a rare treasure, infinitely more valuable than the wide range of expensive jewellery with which her husband had supplied her (from a variety of sources) during his lifetime. The book was kept in a purpose-built safe behind a specially commissioned portrait of her in the Chigwell mansion, and only brought out when she needed the services of some new expert.
The safe itself was a work of great artistry, and she had actually found the person who created it for her in the little black book. He was listed there under ‘Locksmiths and Security’ and his name was Parvez the Peterman. (‘Peter’ was frequently said to be Cockney rhyming slang for a safe, though no one seemed to know the rest of the phrase it was supposed to rhyme with. A ‘Peter’ is also sometimes rhyming slang for a tan – e.g. ‘She’d got a lovely Peter when she come back from Ibiza.’ Peter Pan – tan. But as slang for a safe, the rhyme didn’t seem to offer any logic. Unless, of course, there was a long-forgotten music hall star called ‘Peter Strafe – a Banjo, a Song and a Dance’ … Unlikely.)
After he ceased to work with the late Mr Pargeter, Parvez the Peterman had become one of London’s most respected security consultants. He designed and built all kinds of surveillance systems, and his services were much used by the police, who found he had an uncanny and inexplicable insight into the criminal mind.
As his name suggested, he was of Pakistani origin. His parents had immigrated to Birmingham when he was a small child, and he had taken full advantage of the British educational system. A first-class honours degree in Engineering from Cambridge University had led him to specialize in the area of security, and a chance meeting with an investigator called Truffler Mason at a crime scene had led to his coming under the aegis of the late Mr Pargeter. In that environment he had thrived and developed into one of the country’s most skilled experts in the world of safes and surveillance. There was still the slightest trace of Pakistani origins in his voice, which otherwise sounded almost like a parody of an imperial British gentleman.
Though he stocked a variety of off-the-shelf safe designs which would baffle the most astute of cracksmen, he didn’t think any of them were good enough for the widow of his late employer. So he devised a completely new electronic system to house Mrs Pargeter’s valuables, with an unprecedented series of traps to frustrate attempts to open it. After the keying-in of a wide variety of passwords and codes, the final sesame came from Mrs Pargeter’s unique thumbprint.
When he had finished the installation, Parvez the Peterman had grinned with satisfaction. ‘Well, Mrs P, your goodies’ll be in like an Aladdin’s cave … except nobody out there’s got a magic lamp powerful enough to get into it. I tell you, there’s only one person in the history of the universe who could crack that safe.’
‘Oh, and who’s that?’ she had asked.
‘A gentleman called “Tumblers” Tate. The only person I’ve ever met who was better at this game than I am.’
‘Did he work for my husband?’
‘No, rather the reverse.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘“Tumblers” Tate worked against your husband.’
‘Oh?’
‘He worked for … how shall I put it … a rival gang. Known as the “Lambeth Walkers”. You see, the East London/Essex turf was divided up between the Lambeth Walkers, run by a geezer called Knuckles Norton …’
The froideur which had taken over Mrs Pargeter’s expression made his words dry up to a trickle and then stop. ‘Anyway,’ Parvez the Peterman picked up again, ‘“Tumblers” Tate is the only person who would ever have posed a threat to this safe, and he’s long dead.’
‘But it sounds as if you had a lot of respect for him, Parvez.’
‘How could I fail to have? He was the daddy of them all. Way ahead of the opposition. Kept inventing new stuff, not just safes and locking systems. There was a special recipe he devised for a lubricant – commercial white lithium mixed with beeswax and pine rosin. It could make any size metal door slide open in total silence – brilliant. And he …’
Parvez the Peterman seemed to see from her expression that he was losing her in all this detail. So he turned and, tapping the door of her new safe, continued, ‘You take my word for it, Mrs P, your valuables couldn’t be in a more secure place. I tell you, Fort Knox has got nothing on this little beauty.’
‘Well, thank you very much, Parvez. Now what do I owe you for …?’
He held up a hand to silence her. ‘Absolutely nothing. When I think of all the things that your husband—’
‘Parvez,’ she said quite sternly, ‘I like to pay my bills. The fact is, you have a rare expertise and your time is extremely valuable. I hate to think how long it must have taken you to make this wonderful—’
Again the hand was lifted. ‘Please, regard it as R & D.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘“Research and Development”. Something which all manufacturing companies have to factor into their budgets. In making this safe, I was also exploring new techniques. I could either have done that in the laboratory or made a practical application of it by producing a state-of-the-art safe for a client who required one. As you see, I chose to go down the second route. So making this for you was a necessary part of my company’s research programme, as a result of which you owe me nothing for it.’
‘Well …’ Eloquent though his argument had been, Mrs Pargeter was still not entirely convinced by it. She always liked to pay her way.
But before she could raise further objections, Parvez the Peterman was off on another track. ‘But I also have something else for you, Mrs P. Another product of our extremely inventive research department.’ And from his pocket he produced a small black object like a car key fob, except that it did not appear to have any key attached. ‘This is called the “Padlock Pass”.’
‘Oh?’ said Mrs Pargeter, intrigued.
‘The electronics inside this little thing are extremely complicated, so I will not attempt to explain them. All you need to know, Mrs P, is that if you direct this towards any padlock in the world – even electronic ones or ones with a numerical code – and you press this green button here … the padlock will instantly open. What’s more, if you press this red button, the padlock will instantly close itself again.’ He smiled graciously as he proffered the small device to her. ‘And this one is for you, your very own Padlock Pass. Who can say when it will come in useful for you?’ Before the issue of payment could come up again, he hastened to add, ‘We are giving them to all our clients.’
‘Well, thank you very much,’ said Mrs Pargeter, putting the gizmo away in her handbag, where it joined a small LED torch and a Swiss Army knife, the basic equipment without which she would never leave the house. ‘And, Parvez, do you give these away even to the clients who don’t pay any money for your services?’
‘We give them away particularly to such people. The clients w
ho don’t pay any money for our services are of course our most important clients.’ He made a little bow towards her. ‘Just like you, Mrs Pargeter.’
Once again she thought how blessed she was to be able to call on the skills of someone as gifted as Parvez the Peterman. It was a constant comfort to Mrs Pargeter how her late husband – and the bequest of his little black book – looked after her from beyond the grave.
It was through the contents of that book that she had made some of her closest friendships. She remembered fondly the first time she had made contact with Gary, how a single phone call to the number in the little black book had been the start of a precious working relationship and friendship.
The driver was a handsome young man, whose background was cluttered with the detritus of failed relationships. In his heart of hearts, despite the age difference between them, he thought that all those failures could be put down to the fact that he’d never met a woman who came near to matching Mrs Pargeter. But he would never have admitted such feelings to anyone – least of all to the object of his adoration.
‘How’d’you mean – “very British about the theft”?’ he asked, picking up from Mrs Pargeter’s comment in the car back from dropping Jasmine off in Romford.
‘Well, surely when a necklace worth fifteen grand’s been nicked, first thing most law-abiding citizens would do is call the police, isn’t it?’
Mrs Pargeter might have excluded herself from that generalization. Though she was undoubtedly a law-abiding citizen, some inbuilt caution prevented her from going out of her way to have dealings with the police. She thought them a fine body of men and women who did a splendid job, but a group whose company she would not for preference seek out. In this, her attitude matched that of her late husband.
‘I’d have thought so,’ Gary agreed. ‘Why, isn’t that what happened?’
‘No, it was very strange. Nobody seemed that upset – or even surprised – about the disappearance of the necklace. Just got on with things, which is what I meant when I described it as “British”. Mendy Farstairs, who was the evening’s hostess and who had actually donated the necklace to the auction, seemed totally unperturbed. Mind you, she had forgotten she owned it. Maybe, if you can so easily forget fifteen grands’-worth of kitsch cats, then you’re not going to be too worried when they get nicked. No, all she seemed to want to happen was for the evening to go ahead according to plan. She reintroduced the rather unctuous actor who was doing the auction and he did his stuff without the most expensive lot.’
‘What was the reaction of the other guests?’
‘They didn’t seem to want anything to interfere with the smooth running of the evening either. The only ones I heard show any interest in the theft seemed to think one of the hotel staff must have been responsible.’
‘Well, they might have a point,’ said Gary, who had over the years accumulated a great deal of knowledge about how the criminal classes behave. ‘You see, what we’re looking at here has to be a two-man job.’
‘Oh?’
‘One to sabotage the lights, another to make the grab.’
‘I see what you mean.’
‘So there might be a logic to thinking it was an inside job. I mean, staff members would know the layout of the Baronet Hotel, wouldn’t they? So a couple of them might have cooked it up between them.’
‘That was certainly what the people I overheard seemed to think. Mind you, I don’t think it was logic that brought them round to that opinion, just snobbery. They couldn’t imagine that a crime could be committed by “our sort of people”.’
‘Posh lot, were they?’
‘Not genuinely, no. Mostly women whose husbands had made lots of money. One of the most socially insecure sections of the British public, always at the risk of social disgrace or divorce.’
Gary chuckled.
‘Oh, incidentally …’ Mrs Pargeter suddenly remembered. ‘You worked for my husband for a long time, didn’t you?’
‘’Course I did. Best employer I ever had. When I think of the patience your husband showed when I was doing my getaway driver course, it was—’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Mrs Pargeter cut in a little frostily. ‘But what I wanted to ask, Gary, was – during the time you worked for him, did you ever meet my husband’s sister?’
‘Sister?’ the driver echoed unenthusiastically. ‘No, never met her.’
And he was silent the rest of the way back to the mansion in Chigwell.
It was two days later that Mrs Pargeter rang Mendy Farstairs. The ostensible cause for her call was to say a thank-you for the PhiliPussies reception, but the real reason was curiosity. She was still intrigued by the kind of woman who could forget fifteen grands’-worth of jewellery and then be so apparently unfazed by its disappearance.
Her thanks were perfunctorily acknowledged as Mendy moved her agenda on. ‘I hope you didn’t leave without one of our donation forms …?’
‘Oh no, I’ve got one,’ Mrs Pargeter lied. And then, adding another lie, went on, ‘I haven’t yet made up my mind how much I’m going to give.’ Whereas in fact of course she had made up her mind exactly how much she was going to give.
‘Well, do be as generous as you possibly can. I’m sure I don’t need to convince you what a good cause PhiliPussies is.’
Mrs Pargeter did not pick up on that arguable statement. Instead she said, ‘I very much admired the brave face you put on the situation at the reception, but you must have been desolated to lose that gold necklace.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Mendy Farstairs breezily. ‘I knew it couldn’t have gone far. And in fact I got it back this morning.’
‘How?’
‘Through the post.’
‘Someone posted the necklace back to you? What, in a jiffy bag?’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Pargeter’s detective antennae tingled. ‘Any covering note?’
‘No.’
‘Any indication where the package came from?’
‘No.’
‘What about the postmark?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘Well, could you have a look now to see where—?’
‘No. I threw the envelope into the waste-disposal unit. It’s all been ground up by now by the housekeeper.’
The woman spoke with a degree of satisfaction. And once again left Mrs Pargeter confused by her lack of natural curiosity. Or was her motivation something more sinister?
‘Oh,’ said Mendy, changing the subject. ‘Coincidence you meeting your sister-in-law.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Mrs Pargeter agreed.
‘I gathered from Rochelle that you hadn’t seen much of each other over the years …?’
‘The PhiliPussies reception was the first time we’d met.’
‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’
‘Is it?’ asked Mrs Pargeter flatly.
‘Well … maybe it’ll be the start of a beautiful friendship.’
‘Maybe.’ The word was uncoloured by intonation.
‘Did you make plans to meet again?’
‘No.’
‘Ah. Rochelle asked me for your contact details, so maybe you’ll hear from her.’
Mrs Pargeter didn’t think the possibility required any comment.
‘In fact, knowing Rochelle, you’ll very definitely hear from her. She’s a strong woman.’
Which was an odd thing to say. Not that it worried Mrs Pargeter. She too, when required, could be a very strong woman.
SIX
The late Mr Pargeter had taught his wife about the good things in life. And since she could no longer share them with him, she liked bestowing them on his associates. Which was why she was treating Truffler Mason to lunch at Greene’s Hotel.
The venue was managed by a Mr Clinton, known in his former life as ‘Hedgeclipper’ Clinton. He was enchanted that his late boss’s widow always stayed at Greene’s when she needed to be in London overnight. He was also gratified that she chose the
hotel’s gourmet restaurant or one of its private dining rooms for business meetings. When he considered how much Mr Pargeter had done for him, he – like Gary – did not want the widow to pay for anything. But, as with her driver, Mrs Pargeter insisted on being billed properly for all services provided for her by Greene’s Hotel. Her husband, she knew, would not have approved of her getting anything for nothing.
Truffler Mason was a tall, lugubrious figure, always dressed in an apologetic light brown suit. He always wore a tie too – he was of the generation that wore ties. And he never moved away from his base without taking a grubby beige raincoat with him. Truffler was pessimistic about most things, but particularly the English weather.
His unique set of skills, though – including tracking down missing persons who were very determined to stay missing, and extracting information from the most reluctant of whistleblowers – had made him invaluable in the business enterprises of the late Mr Pargeter. And after his boss’s demise it was natural for him to redeploy these same skills in a different direction by becoming a private investigator.
He ran a company called ‘The Mason de Vere Detective Agency’, though the ‘de Vere’ in the title was pure fabrication. Truffler had just heard from someone that two names on a letterhead gave any start-up a bit of class. He worked every hour God gave out of a rundown, dusty office above a bookie’s in South London, so always welcomed a consultation with Mrs Pargeter over lunch at Greene’s.
‘There are two things I want you to check out,’ said Mrs Pargeter as they sipped champagne and started out on their Oysters Rockefeller.
‘Anything for you, Mrs P, you know that. No case I’m working on, nothing that’s on my desk has any importance at all compared to doing a job for you.’ He sounded as doleful as a bulldog robbed of its bone, but Mrs Pargeter knew him well enough to recognize that this, in Truffler Mason, was enthusiasm.
‘I know that’s true and I appreciate it very much, but you’ve reminded me – I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Truffler.’
‘Oh dear, what have I done?’ He sounded more desolate than ever.