Mrs Pargeter's Public Relations

by Simon Brett

  There was a silence, then Bailey Dalrymple asked softly, ‘Do you know how Doreen Grange died?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure she was drugged with butorphanol at her sister’s house, and probably strangled there. Then brought here for burial.’

  ‘And who do you think killed her?’

  ‘If she’d been killed out on Atmos, I would have had no doubt that Costas Philippoussis had done it. But since she was killed here, I’m afraid I have you in the frame for that particular crime, Bailey.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Couple of reasons. For a start, as a vet, you have access to the butorphanol. Then again, you’d do anything Rochelle Brighouse tells you to do.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Because old habits die hard. Because you would have done anything her husband might have told you to do back when you were working for the Lambeth Walkers.’ She was quoting from the volumes of information that Truffler Mason had emailed her.

  ‘Hm. You have done your research, Mrs Pargeter.’

  ‘Not all my own efforts. I have had help from other investigators,’ she said, thinking again of the sterling work Truffler Mason had done in Tumblers Tate’s archive.

  ‘Hm.’ Bailey Dalrymple’s voice was silky smooth as he asked, ‘And do you know why Doreen Grange was killed?’

  ‘I assume it was because she had found out information about the smuggling racket that you and Costas Philippoussis were running.’

  ‘Yes, that was the reason. But she hadn’t got nearly as much information about it as you have. So if Doreen had to die for the little that she knew, there is even more reason why, I’m afraid, Mrs Pargeter, you too have reached your last moment on earth! And sorry, with you I haven’t got time for the butorphanol!’

  Bailey Dalrymple moved very quickly. First his left hand snapped out to grab at her throat, while his right reached for something in the pocket of his tweed jacket.

  She recognized the tartan as she felt the lead tighten around her neck.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  It was after seven when the flight from Charles de Gaulle airport containing Truffler Mason, Gary and Parvez the Peterman finally landed at Manchester. And for security reasons there was another half-hour delay before the passengers were allowed off the plane and could finally use their mobile phones.

  Truffler immediately found the text from Mrs Pargeter. His long face turned pale as he said, ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Truffler!’ Mrs Pargeter tried to shout the name, but the constriction on her neck only allowed a gasp to emerge. And, anyway, no one was there to answer her summons. Truffler Mason was many miles away.

  She struggled, but Bailey Dalrymple was far too strong for her. The pain in her neck gave way to a kind of swimming sensation, as consciousness ebbed away.

  Then suddenly a jolt ran through the vet’s body and the hands tightening the lead dropped away. Mrs Pargeter heard the heavy thump of him falling off the bench on to the forest floor.

  She looked up blearily to see the grinning face of Erin Jarvis. Behind her stood Charley Angold. In Erin’s hands was the spade with which she had clearly just hit Bailey Dalrymple on the head.

  Erin fetched a bottle of water from her car, and swallowing some down made Mrs Pargeter feel better. Her neck was badly bruised and painful, but she would survive.

  Erin also brought some rope which she always kept in her car boot – you never knew when you might need some. And with it she expertly tied the still-unconscious Bailey Dalrymple to the bench so that he would not be able to move until the police arrived to arrest him for the attempted murder of Mrs Pargeter, the actual murder of Doreen Grange – and who-knew-what other crimes.

  Charley suggested calling the police straight away, but Mrs Pargeter demurred. True to her principle of being as helpful as possible to the constabulary at all times but spending the minimum amount of time in their presence, she would prefer that the police should be alerted just as she and the girls were leaving, so that when they arrived the trussed-up Bailey Dalrymple would be the only human presence in the clearing. Explanations could come later.

  For the first time she noticed that Erin wasn’t the only one with a spade. Charley was carrying one too. ‘What’s all this about then?’ She chuckled painfully. ‘Are you on Bailey Dalrymple’s side? Did he delegate you two to dig the shallow grave I was meant to be put in?’

  The girls hastened to assure her that that was not the case. And Charley explained about Erin’s unlocking of the puzzle contained in her father’s farewell letter.

  ‘Oh, that’s wonderful!’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I knew there was something odd about the way he’d written that. So you think it was like a treasure map? Instructions about how to find his stash?’

  ‘Exactly that,’ said Charley excitedly.

  ‘So that’s why you’re here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, what’s stopping you? Get digging!’

  It didn’t take long. Charley’s memories of walking the ‘Fairy Path’ while her father invented stories were very vivid, and she knew exactly where he would have hidden anything. ‘There was this little patch by the fir tree, which he used to call the “Fairy Circle”. He told me that’s where all the fairies in Epping Forest used to come to at midnight and dance around until the dawn. That’s where we must dig.’

  The Fairy Circle was grassed over and showed no signs of digging, but then who knew how long ago ‘Silver’ Angold had made his deposit in the Bank of Epping Forest?

  Charley’s intuition proved correct. The two girls had been digging less than a minute before Erin’s spade hit something metallic. More soil was removed to reveal the top of a large toolbox, made of some metal that did not corrode or rust.

  A bit more digging around the sides and the two girls lifted it free from the ground. Though covered with earth and dust, the toolbox looked remarkably robust.

  Its lid was closed with a padlock. ‘Oh,’ said Erin. ‘I haven’t got the right tools here to deal with that. Maybe we’d better get it back to your place, Charley, and—’

  ‘No need,’ said Mrs Pargeter magisterially. She extracted Parvez the Peterman’s Padlock Pass from her handbag, pointed it at the toolbox, pressed the green button and the padlock sprang open.

  ‘Wow! That’s a nice bit of kit,’ said Erin.

  ‘Very useful,’ Mrs Pargeter agreed and then, giving honour where honour was due, told the girls who had invented it.

  Both of them looked down at the box. ‘Go on, you open it, Charley,’ said Erin. ‘It’s your stuff. He was your dad, after all.’

  Mrs Pargeter and Erin were transfixed as Charley slowly raised the lid.

  Inside, not in bags or in any other kind of packaging, was a jumble of jewellery which filled the toolbox right to the top.

  True to Charley’s father’s nickname, ‘Silver’ Angold, there was lots of silver and gold.

  Mrs Pargeter smiled. Now there’d be no need for her to intervene in improving Jasmine Angold’s financial situation.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Mrs Pargeter was still in the clearing when she received a call from a very panic-stricken and apologetic Truffler Mason. He explained about the Heathrow closure and diversion to Manchester.

  ‘No worries,’ Mrs Pargeter croaked. ‘All in hand. I’m a bit tired now, but I’ll ring you in the morning and explain everything.’

  Erin and Charley asked her advice about when to alert the police to the presence of Bailey Dalrymple, still unconscious, tied to a bench in Epping Forest.

  ‘What I suggest you do,’ she replied, ‘is to take Silver Angold’s stash back to your place, Charley. Then you drive home, Erin, and call the police from there.’

  ‘Why,’ asked Charley, ‘can’t I call them?’

  ‘Because,’ Mrs Pargeter explained, ‘until you and your mum have found the right place to hide that toolbox, you don’t want the police snooping around your house, do you?’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘And, Er
in, it might be simpler if you say you were the only witness to Bailey Dalrymple’s attack on me.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Again, to keep them from snooping around Jasmine and Charley.’

  ‘Gotcha. Do you think my testimony will be enough to get him convicted?’

  ‘Probably. If you have any problems, though, Truffler’s got lots of evidence he copied from Tumblers Tate’s archive, which show that Bailey Dalrymple was involved in the uranium pellet smuggling right up to his neck.’

  Both girls looked at Mrs Pargeter in amazement. ‘Who’s Tumblers Tate?’ asked Charley. ‘And what’s all this stuff about uranium pellets?’

  ‘I haven’t got enough voice to explain now, but rest assured I will fill you in on everything as soon as I can. Now should I ring Gary’s car hire service to get me home?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Erin. ‘I’ll take you. It’s virtually on the way.’

  When Mrs Pargeter got back to Chigwell, she was too exhausted to do anything other than drink a lot of whisky and ice to anaesthetize her throat and fall into bed. She had a very good night.

  But of course when she woke up the next morning, she knew that the case was far from over.

  Rochelle and Haydon Brighouse were still both out there, and they weren’t about to take what had happened to Bailey Dalrymple lying down. There was a strong chance that they knew she’d found out about the uranium pellet smuggling. She was very far from being out of danger. The villains using Mendy Farstairs’ PhiliPussies charity as a front had committed murder at least once and, as Bailey Dalrymple’s actions the night before had revealed, would have no compunction about doing it again. And she was their prime target.

  But she didn’t let a little thing like that change her plans for the day. She had woken with a very sore throat, but otherwise fine. As promised, she rang Truffler Mason, now safely back in the Mason de Vere Detective Agency office, and brought him up to speed with recent events.

  He very quickly recognized the danger she was in. ‘I’m going to come over to the house straight away. I can’t forgive myself for not being there last night when you needed me.’

  ‘Truffler, you aren’t personally responsible for things like terrorist threats to Heathrow Airport.’

  ‘I should have seen a way round it,’ he persisted doggedly. His guilt, his feeling that he had let down the late Mr Pargeter by his absence at a moment of danger to his former boss’s widow, was not easily assuaged. ‘Anyway, you sit tight. I’ll be with you in as long as it takes.’

  ‘There’s no need to—’

  ‘There’s a very definite need to! I’m not going to let you out of my sight, Mrs P, until this whole PhiliPussies business is sorted.’

  When the phone call was finished, Mrs Pargeter did feel comforted. Truffler was safe and Truffler was going to look after her. She looked across with gratitude to the photograph of her late husband. Not for the first time, she felt very grateful for the system of protection that he had set up for her.

  Then she put the kettle on to make coffee and awaited Truffler’s arrival.

  Later that day Mrs Pargeter received the first of the expected contacts from Rochelle Brighouse. It came in the form of an email.

  I think for the time being, Melita, we have reached an impasse. Bailey Dalrymple may well be tried for murder and attempted murder, but there’s no way he’s going to implicate me. I have made clear the danger to his wife and children if he so much as mentions my name. So I’ll be in the clear there.

  I believe you have documents supplied to Truffler Mason by Tumblers Tate, which might cause trouble for me if they were shown to the police, but I don’t think you’re going to show them to the police. Those documents concern the activities of the Lambeth Walkers, particularly in relation to their rivalry with your husband’s operations. If they are made public, they’re at least as big a threat to my brother’s reputation as they are to me.

  So, as I say, we’re at an impasse … at least until Haydon’s book is published. That will really set the cat among the pigeons and – wilfully to mix metaphors – we will then enter a whole new ball game.

  Your affectionate sister-in-law,

  Rochelle

  Mrs Pargeter was not amused by the sarcastic ending to the email. She could also recognize that some of what Rochelle said was true. The only way she could expose her sister-in-law to criminal investigation did run the risk of making public a series of scurrilous lies about the business activities of her late husband. And, though she was completely confident that he had never once broken the law, proving that could be a long and tiresome process. A rather public process, too.

  The only comfort she found in the email was the fact that Rochelle had referred to Tumblers Tate ‘supplying’ Truffler Mason with documents. That meant she did not know about the secret archive behind the cottage on Atmos.

  Otherwise, though, Rochelle was right. They were at a kind of impasse.

  And the publication of Haydon Brighouse’s book did pose a serious threat.

  How fortunate that she had worked out a way of nullifying that threat.

  Mrs Pargeter set up a series of sessions with Charley Angold. The girl came to Chigwell every morning and interviewed her, recording their conversations on her iPhone. Then in the afternoons she went back to her mother’s house in Romford and wrote up Mrs Pargeter’s account. Her interviewee was very pleased with the way the project was shaping up, and Charley assured her that the deadline would be met. Though the decoding of her late father’s letter meant that she was no longer under any obligation to produce a book, her mother still thought she should “just in case that’s what Silver meant”, which suited Mrs Pargeter’s plans very well.

  Meanwhile Erin Jarvis, having successfully hacked into Haydon Brighouse’s computer, monitored all his documents and emails.

  Just before the end of the month, Charley announced that she had completed her task and, as agreed, she and Mrs Pargeter went to Erin’s house to add the final touches to the operation.

  Mrs Pargeter had read through Charley’s completed manuscript and thought it was excellent. From their interviews the girl had really captured the essence of the late Mr Pargeter. His honesty and generosity shone from her words. Mrs Pargeter’s fond recollections of the happiness of their marriage also came across with charm and clarity. And the extent of his philanthropy, about which he had modestly kept quiet during his lifetime, was staggeringly impressive.

  Erin supplied them with coffee and Mrs Pargeter was touched with how at ease the two girls were with each other. If nothing else, one very good friendship was going to come out of the case.

  But Mrs Pargeter, ever the optimist, was hoping for a lot, lot more.

  ‘Right,’ said Erin, ‘I’ve loaded Charley’s book on to my laptop. Now all we need to do is put my Remote Deletion programme to work.’

  ‘And you’re sure you’ve got the timing right?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve been checking his emails. Haydon was in touch with Puff Adder Press this morning. He told his editor he’s finished tweaking the manuscript. He’s got a lunch meeting, then as soon as he gets back home, he’ll email the complete book over.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I’m longing to see your Remote Deletion programme in action.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s not much to see. Like most software it all happens inside the computer. But have a look at this. I’m now inside Haydon’s laptop.’

  Mrs Pargeter and Charley moved to crane over Erin’s shoulders and see what was happening.

  ‘Into his documents …’ the girl went on ‘… and there’s the file called “Lambeth Walkers/Mr Pargeter”. That’s his manuscript, which as you see he last worked on at 11.43 this morning. So …’ she keyed in some code ‘… I delete that.’

  As she spoke the file name disappeared from the screen. ‘Then …’ Erin went on, tapping more keys ‘… I remove all his back-ups.’

  ‘And that even deletes the
ones on his memory sticks and the cloud?’ asked Charley.

  ‘It certainly does,’ replied Erin, with a note of triumph in her voice. ‘That particular file of Haydon Brighouse’s no longer exists anywhere in the world. Then all I have to do is summon up Charley’s manuscript … which I have already thoughtfully renamed “Lambeth Walkers/Mr Pargeter” … and …’ she matched her actions to the words ‘… drag it across into Haydon’s directory to replace his version of events.’

  She grinned at her two admiring spectators. ‘All done,’ she said.

  They only had to wait till the next day. Then a still triumphant Erin Jarvis rang Mrs Pargeter to say that Puff Adder Press had rejected Haydon Brighouse’s book. She quoted from the email, ‘… not at all what we were expecting from you. What you have written is far too bland to be of interest to the true crime enthusiast. If I’d wanted you to write a hagiography of the late Mr Pargeter, I would have told you to do so. The second half of your advance, due on delivery of the manuscript, will not be paid, and I can state quite categorically that we will never work together again.’

  Two days later Mrs Pargeter read in the Daily Mail that a man called Haydon Brighouse had been arrested for the theft of jewellery from the Cartier Boutique in Old Bond Street.

  She was unsurprised to receive a call later in the day from Rochelle Brighouse, who wanted to meet. Mrs Pargeter suggested dinner that evening at Greene’s Hotel.

  Her ever-attendant minder, Truffler Mason, insisted on accompanying her, even to such safe territory as Greene’s. But Mrs Pargeter, in her turn, insisted that her dinner with Rochelle should be tête-à-tête.

  The politeness between the two women was reminiscent of a Cold War summit. ‘I was sorry to hear about Haydon,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘Yes. His kleptomania reasserted itself,’ Rochelle admitted. ‘It’s always the case, when he hasn’t got a project. It’s an illness,’ she said defiantly. ‘My lawyers will try to get him off on medical grounds.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘You said your son hadn’t got a project …?’