by Simon Brett
‘I must think of a good name for her.’ The decision that she was going to keep the cat had required no thought at all. ‘Something Greek …’
Mrs Pargeter’s knowledge of classical Greek literature was limited, but she thought she would probably recognize the name of whichever goddess Jasmine selected. She was therefore a little surprised when her friend said, ‘Nana.’
‘Nana?’
‘After Nana Mouskouri. She’s Greek.’
‘Oh yes, of course she is,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
Jasmine Angold turned to Bailey Dalrymple. ‘Will I be able to take Nana with me straight away?’
‘There shouldn’t be any problem with that. She’s had all her injections, got her new microchip. No, she’s good to go. All we need to do is to sort out the payment. If you’d like to come back to my office …’
Mrs Pargeter hadn’t really considered whether the cat would have to be paid for. PhiliPussies was a charity, after all, but perhaps charging for its Greek rescue cats was another one of its fundraising initiatives. She caught Jasmine’s eye. Clearly her friend hadn’t thought much about payment either.
‘How much you pay,’ Bailey Dalrymple said when once again ensconced in his club-like milieu, ‘depends really on the individual. Obviously it’s hard to put a price on a living creature like a cat.’
‘It’s not that hard,’ objected Mrs Pargeter. ‘If it’s a rare breed like a Burmese or a Siamese, then you’d expect to pay a premium. But when you’re just talking about a stray moggy who’s been rescued from outside some Greek taverna, well …’
‘But PhiliPussies is a charity,’ the vet countered. ‘And the people who take the cats from us generally recognize that and are accordingly generous.’
‘How generous?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, who was beginning to find Bailey Dalrymple’s unctuousness a little wearing.
‘There’s usually a minimum donation of two hundred and fifty pounds. Some people obviously give more.’
She looked at Jasmine Angold. If Mrs Pargeter didn’t already have information about her friend’s parlous financial situation, the expression on her face spelled out that she couldn’t readily access two hundred and fifty pounds.
Instantly Mrs Pargeter’s hand was in her handbag, then proffering a credit card to the vet. ‘Put it on this …’ Jasmine was about to object, but her friend went on firmly, ‘And you can settle up with me later.’
Bailey Dalrymple whipped a payment machine out of a desk drawer, inserted the card and asked, ‘Now how much would you like it to be, Mrs Pargeter?’
‘You said two hundred and fifty was the minimum …?’
‘Well, it’s not set in stone. It’s entirely according to what the purchaser wishes to give, but usually people start at two hundred and fifty.’ He could smell the money on Mrs Pargeter. ‘Though those who can afford it have been known to be considerably more generous.’
‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘if it’s not set in stone, and if it’s entirely according to what the purchaser wishes to give, take a hundred off my card.’ Though Mrs Pargeter was the most generous of women, if there was one thing she didn’t like, it was being ripped off.
With very bad grace, Bailey Dalrymple entered the figure quoted and passed the machine back for Mrs Pargeter to enter her PIN. Jasmine Angold looked deeply embarrassed, but at the same time comforted by the ease with which Nana had taken up residence on her lap, as if it had been her haven of choice for many years.
Mrs Pargeter, needless to say, felt no such qualm of embarrassment. And as she took the receipt that was handed to her, she reckoned it was time to take up the investigative opportunity that their visit to PhiliPussies offered.
‘Very sad about Doreen Grange,’ she observed.
‘Oh, you heard about that?’ said Bailey Dalrymple, mildly surprised.
‘It would be hard not to hear about it. The story has been all over the news media for days.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I just wasn’t aware that you knew of the connection between her and PhiliPussies.’
‘We met her at the Baronet Hotel reception.’
‘Ah.’
‘I bought one of her lovely little crocheted cats,’ Jasmine interpolated.
‘Oh. I’m afraid I didn’t see you on that occasion.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Well, now we’ve sorted out the cat for you Mrs Angold, I do have rather a busy morning ahead of me and I’m afraid I—’
Ignoring his words, Mrs Pargeter pressed on, ‘One would have thought Doreen Grange was the last person to get murdered. It’s difficult to imagine her being involved with criminals.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought she was involved with criminals. Her death was more likely just one of those sad events which happen in life. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mistaken identity, perhaps. Or she surprised an opportunistic burglar who didn’t want to be identified by any witnesses.’
‘No, it couldn’t be that. Doreen was staying with her sister Flora in Rayleigh. And there was no sign that the house had been broken into. She appears to have left in the middle of the night of her own accord.’
‘Really?’ said Bailey Dalrymple peevishly. He hadn’t anticipated that Mrs Pargeter would know so much detail about the case. ‘Well, look, I’m sorry, but as I say I do have a lot of work to—’
But Mrs Pargeter steamrollered through. ‘Is Doreen’s loss going to have a big effect on your work here at PhiliPussies?’
‘Won’t make much difference. We can always find another cat-besotted old biddy to …’ He seemed to realize that this was not the most appropriate of responses. ‘That is to say, everyone involved in the charity deeply regrets Doreen Grange’s death. She played an invaluable role in the operation of PhiliPussies, and her contribution will be sorely missed. But I am sure that, in time, we will find a suitable replacement.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you will.’
‘And now, if you could—’
But Mrs Pargeter wasn’t finished yet. ‘So who do you think might have killed Doreen Grange?’
‘I have absolutely no idea. I know nothing about the details of the case, apart from what I have seen in the television reports. Nor, in fact, did I know Doreen Grange very well. I had only met her on a couple of social occasions – you know, PhiliPussies functions like the event in Billericay.’
‘But nobody,’ Mrs Pargeter insisted, ‘hears about the murder of someone they know – however vaguely – without having some thoughts about who might have done it. It’s human nature.’
‘It may be your human nature, Mrs Pargeter, but I’m afraid mine does not involve itself in such ghoulish conjectures.’
‘Oh, go on, you must have thought of someone.’
Perhaps realizing that offering her the name of a suspect was the only way he was going to get Mrs Pargeter out of his office, and out of his hair, he conceded a suggestion. ‘The motive for the majority of murders is something domestic. Within the family. Husbands killing wives, wives killing abusive husbands, worms turning, that sort of thing. Well, we know Doreen never married, but she does seem to have been utterly loathed by her sister. If I were a police detective involved in this investigation, the first thing I would do is set up a very thorough investigation of Flora Grange.’
After Bailey Dalrymple’s office door had closed on him, Jasmine was persuaded by the green-clad girl on reception to buy a very expensive cat transporter for Nana. While she made the purchase, Mrs Pargeter noticed that, amid the wide variety of dog leads on show, a good few were tartan. Interesting.
FOURTEEN
Mrs Pargeter was thoughtful after Gary had dropped Jasmine off in Romford and continued to the mansion in Chigwell. She had a lot to think about.
And she didn’t really reckon she’d got much useful information out of Bailey Dalrymple. For him to shift the suspicion for Doreen Grange’s murder on to her sister was an obvious ploy. The fact that the two didn’t get on was well known, but they both seemed to have come to terms with the antipathy.
When two people have become used to mutual hatred – as in many marriages – it takes some sudden change of circumstances for that situation to turn to violence. If the status quo is survivable, it becomes endurable. Aspirations, on both sides, are lowered accordingly.
And Mrs Pargeter couldn’t think what change of circumstances between Doreen and Flora Grange might have led the younger sister suddenly to top the older. She recalled that Flora had implied she was a victim of blackmail by Doreen, but that again sounded like a state of affairs that had been established for a very long time.
No, she didn’t seem to be getting anywhere in her investigation into the murder of Doreen Grange.
The other thing that continued to perturb her was the arrival in her life of Rochelle Brighouse and her sister-in-law’s interest in the little black book. Most frustrating of all, Mrs Pargeter was convinced there was some connection between the two annoyances, though she couldn’t for the life of her think what it might be.
It was not in Mrs Pargeter’s nature to blame anyone other than herself for her lack of progress. Truffler Mason and Erin Jarvis, she knew, were busy trying to search out the identity of the ‘Snowy’ who had laid the clue on ClinkedIn. They were also checking out the people who had responded to the request for information about the late Mr Pargeter. These people were, by definition, Mrs Pargeter’s enemies. Nobody loyal to her husband would have dreamed of revealing any information about him.
Not for the first time since his death, she wished he was there beside her. He had always been such a practical man, so good at soothing away anxieties. Mr Pargeter had always been a solutions man; whatever problem threatened, he was always confident he could find a solution to it. And he always did.
But Mrs Pargeter knew there was no point in getting maudlin. She had had the best years of her life with her husband, but now he was dead she had to make the best of what was left to her. She too was a pragmatist.
Given that her husband wasn’t there, her next natural recourse was to his invaluable bequest to her. The little black book could help her out, as it had so often in the past. Its listings might include some undiscovered expert, whose skillset would match perfectly the requirements of her current problem.
The portrait of her in the sitting room was hinged on the left-hand side so that it opened like a window to reveal the complexities of the safe door behind. There were rows of keypads, knobs and flashing LED lights, familiar to Mrs Pargeter but impenetrable to any potential thief.
She flicked her way through the well-remembered sequence of codes until finally a small metal shutter slid up to give access to the screen behind. In a practised way Mrs Pargeter pressed her thumb against the glass.
Instantly the safe door opened.
All her jewellery, the gold ingots and the neat stacks of banknotes were exactly where they had been when she’d last accessed the interior.
But of the little black book there was no sign.
FIFTEEN
Parvez the Peterman’s dark face was as near as it could get to ashen as Mrs Pargeter once again moved back the portrait and opened the safe. ‘I feel so humiliated,’ he said. ‘When I think of all your husband did for me, and I am not even capable of keeping his wife’s valuables secure.’
She shrugged. She wasn’t denying the disastrous significance of the theft, but it was not in her nature to apportion blame. ‘I suppose for every technological advance you make in your business, there’s a whole bunch of criminals trying to work a way to get through it.’
‘Of course they are doing that. I should know. I was one of them. When I worked with Mr Pargeter, I was always trying to get one jump ahead of the villains in the other gangs …’ Something he saw in her violet eyes caused his words to dwindle into silence.
‘When you installed this safe, Peter, you said there was only one person in the world who was in with a chance of cracking it.’
‘Right. “Tumblers” Tate.’
‘But you said he was dead.’
‘Yes.’ Parvez the Peterman didn’t sound as certain as he had the first time he’d made the assertion.
‘You really don’t think there’s anyone else?’
He shook his head wryly. ‘No one with Tumblers’ level of sophistication, no. Oh, there are a lot of bright young kids coming out of university with their technology degrees who think that the fact they’ve got some letters after their names means they can get straight in at the top of the tree, but to be a proper cracksman you need to have served a long, hard apprenticeship – exactly as I did with your late husband. When I think how useless I was when I started out – I could hardly get through the simplest Chubb lock, but he was very patient. He stuck by me, ignored my early mistakes and gradually put me on to bigger and bigger jobs. I remember there was a bank vault in Neasden where …’
Once again, something he saw in Mrs Pargeter’s eyes deterred him from proceeding further with his reminiscences.
‘So you still believe the only person who could have got into this safe was Tumblers Tate?’
‘Yes, I’d definitely say so.’ There was awe in his voice. Clearly Tumblers Tate, despite working for the opposition, had been an idol for Parvez, someone by whose standards all of his own achievements must be measured and always come up short.
‘Though,’ Mrs Pargeter suggested, ‘his being dead might have made the job a little trickier.’
‘You’re right there.’ Parvez the Peterman rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully.
‘Are you sure he is dead?’
‘Well, I assume he must be. Old Anno Domini suggests that, apart from anything else. I mean, he always seemed as old as the Dead Sea Scrolls when your husband was up against him and the rest of the Lambeth Walkers. I was younger then, of course, and maybe I’d thought he was older than he was, but I’d say he had a good twenty years on me – and I’m well into my sixties now. Hm, I wish there was some way of finding out whether a villain’s dead or not …’
‘Do you know,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘I think there might be.’
Erin Jarvis answered the phone on its first ring. ‘Mrs Pargeter,’ she said, informed by her mobile screen who the caller was. ‘How lovely to hear from you.’
‘Nice to talk to you too, Erin.’
‘I wish I had more to report on the identity of “Snowy” and the others prepared to talk about working with your husband, but I’m afraid—’
‘Don’t worry about that. I’m sure you’ll get there. No, I was actually ringing about something else … something I thought you might be able to find out through ClinkedIn.’
‘Tell me what it is, Mrs Pargeter, and I’ll make every effort to get you an answer.’
‘I knew you would, Erin. Well, listen …’ She filled the girl in on everything Parvez the Peterman had told her about Tumblers Tate. ‘And all we really want to know is: Can he possibly still be alive? And if he is, where can we find him?’
‘Leave it with me, Mrs Pargeter. I’ll lay a ClinkedIn clue straight away and see what it turns up in the strongbox.’
‘Good girl, Erin.’
It never occurred to Mrs Pargeter that the theft of the little black book could be the work of anyone other than Rochelle Brighouse. She didn’t think her recently discovered sister-in-law had actually broken into the Chigwell mansion and cracked the safe herself, but she felt sure that the actual perpetrator – Tumblers Tate or whoever – was acting on Rochelle Brighouse’s orders.
She rang the mobile number she had stored on her phone. There was no reply and she was not offered the option of leaving a message.
So she went online and googled ‘Rochelle Brighouse Public Relations’. Everything she knew about the woman suggested that she would use her own name as her brand identifier.
She rang the number and asked to speak to the boss. A very well-spoken girl at the other end of the line told her that Rochelle Brighouse was on a week’s holiday. Might it help if the caller were to speak to her personal assistant?
‘No, no worri
es,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I’ll give her a bell next week. So where’s she gone to … somewhere nice?’
The well-spoken voice replied, ‘Greece. An island called Atmos.’
Though Rochelle Brighouse had her mobile firmly off, Mrs Pargeter wondered whether there might be another way of contacting her through Mendy Farstairs. The two women clearly knew each other well. But when she rang the number of the Farstairs’ (no doubt enormous) pile, the phone was answered by a woman with a thick Eastern European accent who identified herself as ‘the housekeeper’. She regretted that Mrs Farstairs was away. When asked where her employer was, the woman replied, ‘Greece. She’s at her place on Atmos.’
But she did give Mendy’s mobile number which, while the mood was on her, Mrs Pargeter rang.
It was answered immediately, even eagerly, as if Mendy Farstairs had been expecting a call. She sounded marginally disappointed when Mrs Pargeter identified herself.
‘Oh, how nice to hear from you.’ Mendy seemed puzzled as to why she was being called.
‘I just wanted to say,’ Mrs Pargeter improvised wildly, ‘that I and a friend visited the PhiliPussies clinic in Leigh-on-Sea recently and—’ she lied – ‘we were very impressed by it.’
‘Good.’ Mendy Farstairs’s tone was warmed by the flattery. ‘Bailey Dalrymple does a wonderful job there.’
‘My friend did actually buy a cat. She’s delighted with it.’
‘Oh, that’s so encouraging to hear. It makes everything we do seem worthwhile.’
Mrs Pargeter’s improvisation became more focused – and her lying more extravagant. ‘And, you know, since I came to that reception at the Baronet Hotel, I’ve been wondering whether I should make some kind of donation to PhiliPussies.’
‘Anything is always welcome.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ Mrs Pargeter went into helpless-little-woman mode. ‘It’s terribly difficult when one has a lot of money to decide where one should give it. There are so many charities around, so many conflicting claims on one’s attention and resources.’