Mrs Pargeter's Public Relations

by Simon Brett

  ‘Well, that sounds a very nice idea.’

  ‘When you like. I see you’re having a drink on the Hotel Thalassa terrace right now.’

  ‘What?’ Though Mendy’s knowledge of their arrival had not caused any anxiety, her most recent words had given Mrs Pargeter the uneasy feeling of being under surveillance.

  The woman seemed able to read her mind. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not spying on you. It’s just that Villa Rufus is right next to the hotel. I’m the terracotta-coloured building just to your left.’

  Mrs Pargeter looked in the direction indicated. The adjacent estate was only separated from Hotel Thalassa by a low stone wall. And in front of a splendidly renovated villa stood Mendy Farstairs talking on her mobile phone. She wore a pale blue linen shirt over baggy white linen trousers, and waved when she saw Mrs Pargeter looking at her.

  ‘Why don’t you and your friend come over straight away?’

  Mrs Pargeter agreed that they would, ended the call and quickly brought Truffler up to speed with what was happening. Then she grinned and said, ‘When you asked whether we should go after Tumblers Tate or Rochelle Brighouse, I was about to say that our first port of call should be Villa Rufus. And that’s where we’re going.’

  There had been no stinting with Rufus Farstairs’ money in the conversion of his wife’s villa. (‘His wife’s’ was how he regarded it; he had no interest in spending time there. Generously, he never begrudged any expense which kept Mendy quiet and, preferably, out of the country.)

  Villa Rufus was built on another part of the monastery ruins on which the Hotel Thalassa had been constructed. It was a large, two-storey house with, Mrs Pargeter estimated, at least six upstairs bedrooms. On the swirl of gravel in front of the empty garages stood a Range Rover and an open-topped BMW sports car. The interior of the house, through which Mendy Farstairs led them, was deliciously air-conditioned, and contained more ancient Greek statuary than the average Athens museum.

  At the back of the villa, sparkling in the Mediterranean sun, was a half-Olympic-size swimming pool. The heavy air of the vine-covered terrace was stirred by invisible fans. Mendy sat her guests down on richly padded loungers, and then turned to a moustached man in a white jacket and black trousers who stood behind a drinks trolley. ‘Now Yannis will get you a drink. What would you like?’

  They opted for more of what they had been drinking at the hotel.

  ‘You are happy at Thalassa, I hope,’ said the man called Yannis. He must have seen some surprise in Mrs Pargeter’s expression because he said, ‘Of course we knew you were coming here. Vasilis who runs the hotel is my cousin. So is Apostolos who brought you here in his speedboat.’

  Mrs Pargeter realized that the man who’d so expertly skippered her from Skiathos had exactly the same moustache as Vasilis and Yannis. Small wonder that there appeared to be no secrets on Atmos.

  ‘They’re all cousins here,’ Mendy confirmed. ‘All members of the Philippoussis family.’

  ‘Like Costas, the one who runs this end of your charity?’

  ‘Exactly. And do just tell me when you want to see the cats’ sanctuary we have here.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Mrs Pargeter had to remind herself that the stated aim of her visit to Atmos, so far as Mendy Farstairs was concerned, was to assess whether PhiliPussies was a charity worthy of the investment of some of her millions. ‘Is it nearby?’

  Mendy gestured towards the end of the garden, where a colonnade of pillars, perhaps looted from some temple, marked the boundary. ‘Just through there. I’ll show you whenever you like.’

  ‘Well, maybe when we’ve finished our drinks …?’

  ‘Fine. As you like.’

  There was a silence. They sipped contentedly. Then Truffler Mason, who wasn’t a natural at making small talk, said, ‘Lovely place you’ve got here, Mrs Farstairs.’

  ‘Oh, please call me Mendy.’ Their hostess clearly couldn’t place Truffler, couldn’t quite work out why he was accompanying Mrs Pargeter. Maybe, like Vasilis, she too thought they might be an item. The very idea made it hard for Mrs Pargeter to suppress a giggle.

  ‘Well, Mendy …’ Truffler continued his heavy-handed social progress, ‘… is there quite a big expatriate community out here?’

  ‘On Atmos? Good heavens, no. It’s a tiny island, one which I’m glad to say mass tourism has yet to discover. I mean, the total population is under three hundred.’

  ‘And almost all of them have the surname Philippoussis,’ Yannis contributed.

  ‘And all have moustaches?’ Mrs Pargeter suggested slyly.

  ‘Yes.’ He erupted with laughter. ‘Especially the women!’

  This unwelcome sexist banter was not what Mrs Pargeter had been hoping to stimulate but, having worked out the direction in which Truffler’s questions were tending, she asked, ‘So are there any other Brits on the island?’

  ‘A couple of other villas have English owners,’ Mendy Farstairs replied dismissively, ‘but they’re never here. They’re not part of the Atmos community,’ she concluded with the very definite implication that she, by contrast, was part of that community. Pressing the point home, she added, ‘Whereas I am virtually an honorary Philippoussis.’

  Yannis chuckled dutifully. This was clearly a line she wheeled out with some regularity.

  Truffler persisted. ‘So there are actually no other permanent British residents on the island?’

  ‘No,’ said Mendy, then recalled something to mind. ‘Well, there is an elderly gentleman who lives in an old fisherman’s cottage down by the sea, but from all accounts he’s virtually a recluse. Bedridden, I gather. Touch of dementia too, I’ve heard. I’ve never met him.’

  Truffler Mason hid the little spurt of excitement that her words prompted in him. ‘Does he live on his own?’

  ‘There’s a woman called Theodosia who looks after him. I don’t think she lives in.’

  ‘Theodosia Philippoussis …?’ suggested Mrs Pargeter.

  Yannis let out a loud laugh as Mendy confirmed the woman’s surname.

  ‘Whereabouts is this place where he lives?’ asked Truffler casually.

  ‘You go down to the harbour, then walk along the shoreline to the right. The house is virtually on the beach. Painted white, needless to say. Red tiled roof.’

  Truffler nodded, taking in the information, and exchanged a covert look with Mrs Pargeter. She knew exactly what he was thinking.

  So she was unsurprised when, after refusing a top-up drink and saying she’d like to take up the offer of touring the cat sanctuary, Truffler Mason said he wouldn’t come with them. Picking up his raincoat, he announced that he fancied stretching his legs ‘with a stroll down to the harbour.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Mendy Farstairs led Mrs Pargeter along the side of her perfect blue swimming pool, through the displays of ancient Greek statuary towards the cat sanctuary. Overelaborate wrought-iron gates were open at the front. As they passed, Mrs Pargeter noticed a large chain and padlock hanging from one of them. Apparently the place needed tight security.

  The buildings which housed the Greek end of the PhiliPussies operation were of the same high spec as the clinic in Leigh-on-Sea, but less welcoming. There was no reception area, no cosy office for the entertainment of visitors. But then presumably there were very few visitors to the facility. It was only at the English end that potential owners came to inspect the goods on offer.

  As a result, the complex of buildings looked more like a military institution than anything else. The individual units were brick-built, but all had metal doors which could be closed with latches and padlocks.

  The behaviour of the sanctuary’s inmates was also markedly different from those in Leigh-on-Sea. The Greek cats that had been given sanctuary by Mendy Farstairs were distinctly ungrateful for her magnanimous gesture. They had enjoyed their semi-feral life round Atmos harbour, basking in the shade beneath parked cars, darting out and weaving around the wooden legs of rush-seated taverna chairs, scavenging the food
dropped (either accidentally or deliberately) by tourists, wolfing down the guts and entrails left by the fishermen on the harbour walls. They had relished the nights of caterwauling and fierce quick casual sex. Incarceration in cages – of however high a spec – was far from being their idea of fun.

  So the noise of feline complaint, which grew in volume as Mendy Farstairs and Mrs Pargeter approached the sanctuary, was fairly overpowering.

  So was the smile and bolted-on charm of Costas Philippoussis. His lips below the obligatory dark moustache were thin and the brown eyes flickered with cunning. He was all over Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘Of course I have been expecting you. I hope Apostolos Philippoussis, who is my—’

  ‘Cousin?’ Mrs Pargeter hazarded.

  ‘Yes. I hope he give you a good journey from Skiathos.’

  ‘Very pleasant, thank you.’

  ‘And I hope you have been made welcome at Hotel Thalassa by Vasilis, who, as it happens, is also—’

  ‘Your cousin?’

  ‘Yes. But please, let me show you around the sanctuary here. I gather you are perhaps maybe considering making an investment in the PhiliPussies charity.’

  ‘Perhaps maybe,’ Mrs Pargeter echoed.

  Mendy Farstairs let Costas do most of the talking during their guided tour. He was very efficient, but Mrs Pargeter got the impression that he was also quite prickly. The slightest murmur of criticism riled him. He was proud of the way he did his job and resented any disparagement of his skills.

  For example, when Mrs Pargeter asked if he had any veterinary training, Costas immediately became very defensive. ‘Of course I do. I have degrees, diplomas.’

  It wasn’t her habit to grill people, but something in the man’s manner made her distrust him. So she asked, ‘Degrees and diplomas in what?’

  ‘Well, obviously. Veterinary qualifications.’ Then he backtracked a little, which made Mrs Pargeter absolutely certain he was lying. ‘The educational system here in Greece is a little different to what you have in the UK, but my degrees and diplomas have their equivalents in your country.’

  From this Mrs Pargeter concluded he had no relevant qualifications at all. So he’d pulled the wool over Mendy Farstairs’s eyes on that subject. In how many other ways, she wondered, had Costas deceived his employer? The founder of PhiliPussies made no secret of her considerable wealth – indeed the construction of Villa Rufus and the cat sanctuary trumpeted it abroad – so she would be the perfect innocent mark for the kind of conman Mrs Pargeter increasingly, even on such short acquaintance, recognized Costas Philippoussis to be. Still, it was not the moment to challenge him. She must maintain her role of potential investor.

  The sanctuary complex contained a surgery, full of shining metal surfaces and featuring what to Mrs Pargeter’s uninformed eye looked like a state-of-the-art range of veterinary equipment. There was a gleaming stainless-steel table in the centre of the room, which somehow had to be the place where any actually surgical procedures happened. Remembering Bailey Dalrymple’s strictures on the quality of Greek microchipping, she rather tentatively brought the subject up.

  ‘So is this where you would do the microchipping of the cats?’

  ‘Of course.’ Was Mrs Pargeter being hypersensitive to detect a new caution in Costas Philippoussis’s manner? He went on, ‘It is very important that we keep a track of these animals, in case they get lost.’

  ‘Or escape back down to the harbour where they came from?’ she suggested.

  ‘Yes, but that very rarely happens. Our security here is very tight.’

  Mrs Pargeter looked through the window to the serried ranks of cages full of yowling cats and could not help but agree.

  ‘And do you do the microchipping yourself?’ she asked, mindful of Bailey Dalrymple’s reference to Greek ‘clumsiness’.

  ‘Of course. There are other helpers here, but—’

  ‘All cousins?’

  ‘Yes, all cousins,’ he replied without humour, ‘but I am the only one who has the qualifications to do surgery on the cats.’

  ‘I see. And do you actually have to do surgery?’ Mrs Pargeter persisted.

  ‘Of course I do. Some of the cats have accidents, they get into fights. Some are brought in with broken limbs. For them surgery is essential.’

  ‘No, what I actually meant was – do you have to do surgery when you microchip the cats?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I thought a microchip was a tiny—’

  ‘Mrs Pargeter, the state of veterinary practice is constantly changing. New techniques are being invented all the time, particularly in the area of microchipping.’

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘Mrs Pargeter,’ Costas Philippoussis almost bellowed, ‘with the greatest respect, I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to question me about professional issues of which you have no understanding!’

  Why is it, she thought wryly, that when people start a sentence ‘with the greatest respect’, they always go on to demonstrate no respect at all?

  The instructions to the white cottage on the beach had been very clear, and Truffler Mason soon found himself in front of its faded and paint-blistered once-blue front door. He knocked and was quickly confronted by a generously proportioned woman in a black dress with a black apron tied round her substantial middle. Truffler knew that in Greece her garments probably denoted widowed status.

  ‘You must be Theodosia Philippoussis,’ he surmised. And yes, Yannis had been right – she did have a moustache.

  ‘Theodosia Philippoussis, vai,’ she responded.

  ‘My name is Truffler Mason. I’m a friend of Mr Tate’s.’ It was somewhat stretching the meaning of the word ‘friend’, but allowable in the circumstances.

  The blankness of Theodosia’s expression suggested he could stretch whatever English words he wanted to and she still wouldn’t understand any of them.

  Truffler placed his two large hands on his chest and tried the old British trick of speaking more loudly. ‘Me – friend – Mr Tate.’

  The blankness remained blank.

  Truffler had another go. ‘Mr – Tate,’ he said very slowly and loudly.

  That got through. Theodosia nodded and repeated the words. ‘Mr – Tate.’

  Truffler gestured to the interior of the house. ‘Mr Tate – in here?’

  But that was a linguistic step too far. She didn’t understand him.

  Truffler Mason wasn’t getting anywhere, so he tried another approach. Reaching his wallet out of his back pocket, he produced a card with his photo on it. Very formally he showed this to Theodosia. ‘Police,’ he said, knowing that the word was identical in most languages.

  That did impress her. Alarm replaced the blankness of her expression. ‘Police – Mr Tate?’ she asked.

  Truffler nodded gravely as he returned the card to his wallet. No need for her to know that she had just been shown an out-of-date membership card for a gym which he had joined in a fitness frenzy some years before and only visited once.

  Theodosia stood back to let him in. The front room was white-painted and bare of anything but the most basic furniture. After the heat on the beach it was very cool, insulated by the cottage’s thick stone walls. She closed the front door, then raised her hands and pointed to a blue taverna chair with a woven rush seat, indicating that he should wait. She went through another door into the back.

  There was an open laptop on the table next to him. Its screen was blank. Truffler touched a key and the machine came out of sleep mode. He looked at the images displayed, then must have jogged something because a new window opened. He looked at its contents in puzzlement until the screen once again darkened.

  This was one of those rare occasions when Truffler Mason wished he knew a bit more about the new technology. Generally, he was quite content with his status as Luddite dinosaur, but from time to time more than a basic knowledge of computers might have proved useful. The first image he had seen on the cottage laptop had been self-explanator
y. The second, to his eyes, had meant nothing.

  And yet he felt sure it was something very simple which anyone who had a passing acquaintance with the ways of Windows would have recognized instantly. If only Erin was there with him on Atmos. Truffler thought of Erin a lot. His thoughts were in no way lascivious. ‘Paternal’ or ‘avuncular’ were more accurate adjectives. Perhaps for Truffler, Erin Jarvis was the daughter he never had.

  He didn’t dare touch the laptop again, in case he left signs of his curiosity. He looked at his watch, beginning to think he had been waiting long enough, wondering what might be delaying Theodosia, when she reappeared. She said ‘Mr Tate’ and circled a finger around the area of her temple in the international sign for mental fragility. Truffler nodded and rose to follow her.

  The room he was led into was as simple as the first, again with the minimum of furniture. There was a bare wooden table with a couple more taverna chairs, and at one end an old kitchen range and rectangular stone sink. Theodosia stood back and gestured to the open doors which led to a yard at the back.

  Truffler walked past her into the open air. The stone-floored space, backed by solid rock, was shaded by a roof of tilted bamboo so, though warmer than the interior, it was not as scorchingly hot as the beach.

  The subdued light meant that his eyes took a moment to focus. Then he saw an ancient wooden-slatted white-painted lounger, on which lay an even more ancient man.

  Tumblers Tate had aged a lot since Truffler Mason had last encountered him. That had not been a happy occasion. Normally the late Mr Pargeter’s management skills had enabled him to avoid direct confrontations with business rivals, but every now and then he and his associates had been forced to meet their enemies face to face. That is what had happened some years before when a select group of the Lambeth Walkers had met Mr Pargeter’s team one night when both had been attempting to withdraw cash from a branch of the Trustee Savings Bank in Neasden. Parvez the Peterman had been arranging entrance to the premises for Mr Pargeter, and Tumblers Tate had been doing the same job for his rivals. The result had been a lot of unpleasantness and a degree of violence. It was not an event that Truffler Mason looked back on with any enthusiasm.