by Simon Brett
“I know she was murdered,” said Mrs Pargeter doggedly.
Sergeant Karaskakis shrugged. “I don’t think anyone is going to believe you unless you can produce some evidence. And,” he continued with relish, “I don’t think there’s any evidence to be produced.”
“Not out here, perhaps.” Mrs Pargeter didn’t really know why she said her next sentence; it just seemed the right thing at the time. “But I can produce evidence in England that will prove Joyce Dover was murdered.”
She was bluffing, but the bluff worked. Sergeant Karaskakis blanched and said, “But you will not be able to get to England to find it.”
“Why not? I can go back tomorrow. I know exactly what I’m looking for,” Mrs Pargeter improvised like mad to justify her new position.
“I don’t think you can go back tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“All the flights are fully booked.”
He was improvising too. Mrs Pargeter was encouraged. By pure chance, she had stumbled on something that had got the policeman worried. Maybe the solution to Joyce Dover’s murder really did lie in England.
“I’ll manage to get back,” she asserted coolly.
“No, you won’t.”
“How can you stop me?”
“I can stop you by…” He thrashed around, desperate for an idea. It came. “I can stop you,” he announced with sudden confidence, “because the investigations into Mrs Dover’s death are not yet complete. There is still the possibility, as you say, that it could have been murder. That possibility of course makes you a suspect. Which means that you will not be allowed to leave Corfu until the investigation is complete. And also means,” he continued triumphantly, “that you must hand over your passport to me until the end of the investigation.”
Mrs Pargeter took the passport out of her handbag and handed it over. Being without it would be a nuisance, but a small price to pay for the incontestable look of guilt she had seen in Sergeant Karaskakis’ eyes.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧
Twenty-Two
“Mrs Pargeter, it’d be no problem at all. I’d be delighted to do it for you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Believe me. Please believe me.” There was no doubting the sincerity in Larry Lambeth’s voice. She had phoned him the second she’d got back to the Hotel Nausica and he had arrived within twenty minutes to drive her out to his villa. Neither had voiced the thought, but both felt safer away from the prying eyes and ears of Agios Nikitas.
The Greek woman with the shy smile had produced brandy and retsina and pistachio nuts on the verandah. The impression of intimacy in her relationship with Larry was endorsed by the skimpiness of the negligee she had on. But, as ever, she knew her place and quickly disappeared back inside the villa, leaving them to talk in private.
“Fact is,” Larry continued, “you’re doing me a favour. After all Mr P. done for me, I’ve really been longing for the day when I could do something for you by way of return.”
“But you have done something for me. You’ve looked after me wonderfully since I’ve been out here.”
He dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “No, I mean something real, something professional – that’s what I’ve been wanting to do for you.”
“Well…”
“I’ll feel really good doing it. ‘Cause I’ll know, you see, I’ll know that Mr P.’d be grateful.”
“I’m sure he would have been. But it’s not going to be too difficult…?”
“Mrs P.,” he reassured her, “it’ll be a doddle. It’s only what I do for a living, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but –”
“No buts. Come on, let’s sort out the fine tuning. Now you’ll want to be off tomorrow, won’t you?”
“In an ideal world, yes. But that’s pretty tight for you, isn’t it? I mean, if it can’t be done in time, of course I’ll understand.”
“No problem at all, Mrs P. Leave it with me. My end of the business can be done by lunchtime tomorrow, no sweat.”
“But goodness knows what the chances of getting a flight are. I don’t really feel very inclined to ask Ginnie.”
“Don’t you dare. No way. Suspicious cow, that one. And she’s in far too thick with Karaskakis. No, less she knows about this, the better.”
“Well, who else do we ask?”
Larry Lambeth gave a complacent smile, put down his glass of Greek brandy, and rose from the table. “This, Mrs P., is clearly a job for HRH.”
He turned on his heel and walked quickly into the villa, leaving Mrs Pargeter to conjecture which Royal Highness might be most likely to help with her investigation.
But she felt content. Things were moving. Sergeant Karaskakis’ panic had reinforced her conviction that Joyce had been murdered. Whether the policeman himself had killed her, or was only involved in the cover-up of the killing, she could not yet be sure. But she felt completely confident that she would find out the truth.
So she looked out through the night sky to Albania, sipped her retsina, and waited for Larry Lambeth to return.
♦
He was only gone five minutes, and came back in high good humour. Rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, he sat down and topped up his tall brandy glass.
“All sorted, Mrs P., all sorted. It’s on for late tomorrow afternoon. Get confirmation of the exact details in the morning. HRH was delighted to be of service.”
“I’m sorry I have to ask,” Mrs Pargeter apologised, “but who is HRH?”
“Oh, I thought you knew. It’s Hamish Ramon Henriques. Surely I mentioned him to you?”
“Well, yes, you did, but by his full name, not just the initials. You said you did a lot of work for him.”
“Sure. And he worked a lot with Mr P. That’s why he was so delighted to hear from me, even at this time of night. When he heard the job was for you, he was over the moon. Fact is, he told me Mr P. had given him strict instructions to sort things out for you if ever you needed any help. You meant a lot to your husband, you know. He really looked after you, didn’t he, Mrs P.?”
“Yes. Yes, he did,” said Mrs Pargeter quietly.
“Still does, and all.”
“Yes.”
“Anyway, now HRH has taken it in hand, you got no worries. He is quite simply the best in the business.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Pargeter. “Good.” But she had to ask, “I’m sorry – the best what in the business?”
“Well, he’s – ” But Larry Lambeth stopped himself and said mischievously, “You’ll find out soon enough. He’s going to meet you at the airport himself.”
“Oh, really?”
“Unheard of, that. Hardly ever stirs from the office, old HRH. In fact, I can’t think of another case I’ve ever heard of when he’s gone and met the client himself.”
“Oh?”
“So I hope you’re suitably honoured.”
“Oh. Yes. I’ll say,” said Mrs Pargeter, suitably honoured but totally mystified.
Larry Lambeth spread his hands out on the table in a businesslike fashion. “Right. Better sort out exactly what the running order’s going to be for tomorrow…”
♦
They were in his car on the track down to Agios Nikitas when he suddenly had another thought. “Ooh, Mrs P., nearly forgot. Your friend’s ouzo bottle…”
“Oh’ yes. Did you check out what was in it?”
“Sure.”
“And…?”
“A very dilute solution of sodium carbonate.”
“Oh.” It was a long, long time since Mrs Pargeter had done any chemistry. “Should that mean anything to me?”
“Well, it’s quite a common laboratory chemical.”
“Poisonous?”
“Wouldn’t taste very nice, but you’d be hard put to kill yourself with it.”
“What about killing someone else?”
“No way. There are a lot of easier ways of getting rid of people.”
“Hm. So wh
at is it used for?”
“Any number of things. It’s used in glass-making…”
“Oh thanks. So far as I know, Joyce didn’t come out here to make glass.”
“It’s an ingredient in bath salts.”
“But is she likely to have brought it out in that form to use as bath salts?”
“Extremely unlikely. Particularly as almost all the villas out here have got showers rather than baths, anyway.” He bit his lip pensively. “Sodium carbonate’s used in various household cleaners. Not that different from washing soda, in some ways.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t have brought it out here as a cleaner, Larry. She’d got a travel-pack of detergent in her case, anyway.”
“Hm. Well… sodium carbonate’s also used in various water-softening processes…”
“I suppose it’s possible Joyce was worried about the effect of hard water on her skin or –”
But Larry Lambeth dismissed that idea. “Nah. You’d never bring out neat sodium carbonate for that. If you was really worried about it, you’d be much more likely to use some of the proprietary water-softening tablets.”
“Hm.” Mrs Pargeter was thoughtful. “Anything else it’s used for?”
“Well,” said Larry Lambeth, unable to suppress a giggle in his voice, “sodium carbonate is actually used in the process of extracting tungsten from wulframite.”
“Is it?” said Mrs Pargeter wryly. “Well, thank you very much. Amazing I’ve got this far into my life without knowing that, isn’t it, Larry?”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧
Twenty-Three
Mrs Pargeter spent a quiet morning, pottering round Agios Nikitas. She told Maria at breakfast that she was going on a trip to see a little more of the island. A hire-car was coming to pick her up after lunch to take her to Corfu Town for some shopping. She would stay in a hotel there, and the next day have a hire-car to take her to see the natural beauties of Paleokastritsa on the west coast. Another night in the hotel in Corfu Town, then back to Agios Nikitas.
Oh, Maria said in dismay, Mrs Pargeter should have booked the hire-car through the Hotel Nausica. The rates would have been much cheaper than through Spiro. He always put a big mark-up on everything.
Mrs Pargeter said, oh how silly of her, she would remember that another time. Then she asked if Maria would mind having her photograph taken in front of the hotel. Even better, would her father and mother and the rest of the family come out and have their photographs taken in front of the hotel? Mrs Pargeter knew she wasn’t leaving yet, but she really did want photographs of them all as souvenirs, and it was the kind of thing she might easily forget.
All the family members were delighted to have their photographs taken.
Then, pausing only to drop by the minimarket and buy a large white cotton hat and large pair of sunglasses (both of which she kept hidden in a carrier-bag), Mrs Pargeter went across to have a drink at Spiro’s. It was early for retsina, so she asked Yianni for a Sprite.
Linda from South Woodham Ferrers was at the taverna, trying unsuccessfully to get Craig, who had had a stomach upset the night before, to eat some yoghurt. Keith was working out on his calculator how much more the anti-diarrhoea medicine cost on Corfu than it did in South Woodham Ferrers. From time to time he wondered, out loud, how things were going back at the office.
The Secretary with Short Bleached Hair and the Secretary with Long Bleached Hair were sulking in the shade of Spiro’s awning, sipping Nescafe. They had been to a discotheque in Ipsos the night before, where they had both fancied the same plasterer from Bradford. He had flirted and danced with each sufficiently to start them quarrelling, and then compounded that felony by going off at the end of the evening with a hairdresser from Luton who – adding insult to injury – had a perfect tan.
The two secretaries’ sunburn had now reached a threshold of unsightliness and pain which had forced them to spend a day in the shade, but the previous night’s row still festered and they kept snapping at each other.
At a table near the taverna door sat Spiro, Georgio and Sergeant Karaskakis, together, surprisingly, with Theodosia, who had been granted a rare moment’s respite from the kitchen. Georgio was keeping a distant eye on Ginnie, who sat at a nearby table, patiently listening to more gripes from Mr and Mrs Safari Suit. The couple were wearing different clothes that day. Slightly greener in colour. Still safari suits, of course.
Spiro wandered over amiably to chat to Mrs Pargeter. He hoped she was getting over the dreadful shock of her friend’s death. It was terrible that anyone should do such a thing to themselves, wasn’t it?
Oh yes, Mrs Pargeter agreed, terrible.
Still, Spiro continued reassuringly, soon everything would be sorted out. The dead woman’s daughter had arrived to complete the formalities, did Mrs Pargeter know that?
Yes, yes, she said, she had met Conchita the night before.
How terrible, said Spiro, for a young girl to have her mother do such a thing to herself, wasn’t it?
Oh yes, Mrs Pargeter agreed, terrible.
Having fielded these commiserations, she then outlined to Spiro the plans for her trip to see a little more of the island.
Oh, he said in dismay, Mrs Pargeter should have booked the hire-car through Spiro. The rates would have been much cheaper than through the Hotel Nausica. They always put a big mark-up on everything.
Mrs Pargeter said, oh how silly of her, she would remember that another time. Then she asked if Spiro would mind having his photograph taken in front of the taverna. Even better, would Yianni and Theodosia and Georgio mind having their photographs taken in front of the taverna? Mrs Pargeter knew she wasn’t leaving yet, but she really did want photographs of all of them as souvenirs, and it was the kind of thing she might easily forget.
Spiro and his staff were delighted to have their photographs taken.
The first one Mrs Pargeter took of Spiro she wasn’t satisfied with, because her hand slipped just as she was pressing the button, but he was very happy to pose again. So were all of them, except for Theodosia, who seemed to be shy of the camera. But her brother snapped a command at her in Greek and, though still clearly unwilling, she submitted to being photographed.
Mrs Pargeter even asked Sergeant Karaskakis if she could take a snap of him. He was positively delighted to be so honoured, and could not keep a leer of triumph out of his face as the shutter clicked.
Back at the Hotel Nausica, Mrs Pargeter picked up from Reception the expected padded envelope, which had been delivered by motorcycle courier, and sat down to eat an early lunch. In the course of this, a second padded envelope was delivered for her. After lunch she went upstairs to pack her flightbag for her trip ‘to see a little more of the island’.
She was waiting outside the Hotel Nausica in a rather bulky cotton print dress and straw hat when, on the dot of two o’clock, the hire-car arrived. (It had been arranged by Larry Lambeth from a firm in Corfu Town.)
The driver was uncommunicative, which suited Mrs Pargeter well, but she did not risk opening either of the envelopes while she was in his car. Though he was from a different part of the island, she didn’t rule out the possibility of information homing straight back to Agios Nikitas.
The journey along the switchback coast road was dusty, but not unpleasant. As instructed, the driver deposited her in Corfu Town at the north end of the Esplanade. He asked for no money; Larry Lambeth had sorted that out.
There was no play that afternoon on Corfu’s famous but eternally incongruous cricket pitch. The sun was baking, and Mrs Pargeter felt drawn towards the shade of the Liston, a Parisian-style colonnade of street cafes, where tourists lounged lethargically.
But her instructions did not include stopping for a cold drink, so she moved sedately through the sunlight towards the Palace of St Michael and St George.
A car slid alongside her. The door opened. She got in the back.
“Well done,” said Larry Lambeth.
Safely inside the car,
she changed her straw hat for the new white cotton one and put on the new sunglasses. Then she unbuttoned the bright dress and slipped it off to reveal a sober, anonymous beige one beneath.
“Quite a relief to have that off,” she sighed. “Hot weather for two dresses.”
Larry Lambeth chuckled.
Mrs Pargeter finally turned her attention to the two padded envelopes. The first one contained a first class airline ticket. Olympic Airways. Five o’clock scheduled flight for that afternoon. Corfu to London Heathrow. Clipped to the ticket was a ‘With Compliments’ slip headed ‘HRH Travel’.
She turned her attention to the second envelope. “So who am I, Larry?” she asked.
“You have a look, Mrs P.”
It was a perfect job. A British passport in the name of ‘Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright’, a ‘Housewife’ whose place of birth had been ‘Norwich’. The date of birth tallied for Mrs Pargeter, as did the height. And the photograph looked astonishingly like the passport’s new holder.
“Where did you get it from, Larry?”
He shrugged. “Saw her on the beach at Kalami this morning. Right size, right age. Mind you, she was a real old biddy, hadn’t got your style at all, Mrs P.”
Mrs Pargeter’s compassion was aroused. “But won’t she be terribly upset to lose her passport?”
“Happens all the time,” said Larry callously. “She’ll survive.”
Mrs Pargeter gave another look to what really did seem to be a picture of herself. “How on earth did you fix the photograph, Larry? And how on earth did you do it so quickly?”
He grinned proudly. “Fact is, we all have our professional secrets, don’t we, Mrs P.?”
♦
Mrs Pargeter looked around anxiously at Corfu Airport, but there was no sign of the Customs officer who looked so like Sergeant Karaskakis.
There were no problems about checking in luggage, as she only had her flightbag.
There were no problems at Passport Control.
There were no problems with the flight. It left on time.
In fact, there were no problems at all.
But, in spite of that, as she sat in her first class seat, serviced by solicitous stewardesses, Mrs Pargeter was ill at ease.