Mrs. Pargeter's Plot (17 page)

‘What he deserves, I think'd be nearer the mark.' Mrs Pargeter chortled. ‘And if that happens to be justice too . . . well, there's a bonus, isn't there?'

‘Yes. Thank you so much. Goodbye.'

‘Goodbye.' Mrs Pargeter switched off the phone, pushed in its aerial, and tiptoed across to the hammock. The depth of her sleep had ironed away the wrinkles of anxiety, giving Tammy Jacket's face an almost childlike innocence.

‘Don't you worry, love,' Mrs Pargeter murmured. ‘We'll soon have Concrete back for you.'

Tammy Jacket had finally woken up and gone off to have a shower before dinner. Gary had not yet returned. ‘No doubt off joyriding in his new motor,' said Denise fondly. ‘Really appreciate you lending him the money for it, Mrs Pargeter.'

‘Don't even think about it. Anyway, what we're talking about here is a business proposition. I'm now an investor in your family business. And I'm pretty shrewd about my investments. I wouldn't have lent him the money if I didn't see a profit for me in it.'

‘Well, thanks all the same. Gary'll work hard, don't you worry.'

‘I know that. I have total confidence in him. You expecting him back for dinner?'

‘Oh yes. Always back when he says he's going to be.' Denise coloured, almost embarrassed by her devotion. ‘He's a good husband to me, Gary is.'

‘Good lad all round,' Mrs Pargeter concurred.

Denise grinned with pride. ‘Now let me get you a drink. Vodka Campari was it Gary said you liked?'

Mrs Pargeter did not deny that that would be very acceptable. She stayed in the garden, her eyes half-closed, feeling the last rays of the day's sun wash over her.

When Denise reappeared with the vodka Campari, she was also holding the mobile phone. ‘Call for you, Mrs Pargeter. A Mr Mason.'

The phone was handed over, and Denise went discreetly back to her cooking.

‘Truffler. How's it going?'

‘Hasn't been great,' the Eeyore-like voice intoned. ‘Been following up a few leads on finding out where Blunt might be. No dice, though.'

‘You been on to Ricky Van Hoeg?'

‘Mm, just leaving there now. He's put requests for info on the Internet, but hasn't got any response so far.'

‘Well, we do know where Clickety Clark is – or at least where he has his base. At the worst, you could get the information out of him.'

‘Yes, I'm sure I could, but I don't want them put on their guard – not more than they are already. Don't worry, Mrs Pargeter, once I get back to the office, I'll have it sorted in no time. I'm on my way there right now.'

‘Couldn't you have phoned Bronwen and got her to give you the information?'

‘No, I couldn't. For two reasons, as it happens. One – she doesn't know her way around my filing system. I'm the only person in the world who knows the way around my filing system.'

Remembering the scattered debris of paper in the office, Mrs Pargeter had no difficulty in believing the truth of this.

‘And two – Bronwen wasn't in the office today.'

‘Oh?'

‘Had to be in court.'

Mrs Pargeter's response was instinctive. ‘What's she done?'

‘No, no, she hasn't done anything. It's to do with the divorce.'

‘Oh, right. Yes, of course.'

‘Which means not only won't I have had any work from her today, but if I stay in the office I won't get any work from her tomorrow either – just a lot of vitriol on the subject of the poor unfortunate who was her most recent husband.'

‘Oh dear.'

‘Which is why I'm going to the office to check my files
now
. At least I'll be able to work uninterrupted.'

‘Yes, of course. Well, good luck.'

‘Don't worry. I'll've got an address for Blunt by the end of the evening. If I track him down before eleven, I'll let you know. Otherwise talk in the morning, eh? Cheerio, Mrs P.'

Truffler Mason parked the Maxi outside the betting shop and reached in his pocket for the keys to his office. He lurched wearily up the narrow stairs, past the defunct travel agents on the first floor, and put his key into the lock of the shabby door that read:
MASON DE VERE DETECTIVE AGENCY.

The moment he switched on the light, he saw the full extent of the transformation. Bronwen's outer office, previously a jungle of buffs and browns, now gleamed in pale greys and charcoals. It looked like an advertisement for an office equipment company.

Her battered desk had been replaced by a minimalist glass-topped number, on which coyly perched a state-of-the-art computer, sentried by phone and answering machine. On new shelves behind the desk demurely sat a virgin photocopier, fax and printer.

The only object that remained from the office's previous incarnation was the wall-planner for the current year. There were still no stickers on it for
CURRENT COMMITMENTS,
but whereas previously its newness had put the rest of the room to shame, against all the pristine equipment it now looked tarnished and apologetic.

Of the piles of paper and folders that had once cluttered the space, there was no sign.

It only took two strides of Truffler's long legs to cross the outer office. With a sense of imminent disaster, he grasped the handle and swung the door open. He flicked the lightswitch on.

His room looked even more like something from an office-furniture catalogue than Bronwen's had. The massive black leather swivel chair could have been cut up to make a three-piece suite, with enough left over for a set of matching luggage; the desk was king-size; and the computer on it looked capable of every human activity short of making babies – though, given the speed of current technological change, quite possibly it could do that too.

Of the files, the folders, the shoeboxes full of history, the documentary fragments that represented the most exhaustive criminal archive outside the FBI, not a scrap remained.

Full of foreboding, Truffler Mason crossed to the desk. On its gleaming surface was a sheet of paper.

He groaned at the sight of the smiley face that headed it. Underneath was written:

Q:
HOW CAN YOU TELL WHEN AN IRISHMAN'S BEEN USING YOUR COMPUTER?

A:
BY THE MARKS OF CORRECTING FLUID ON THE SCREEN.

Underneath the joke was written:

I'VE CHUCKED OUT ALL YOUR OLD FILING SYSTEM AND REPLACED IT WITH THIS STATE-OF-THE-ART KIT. SORRY ABOUT THE WRONG WHAT I DONE YOU IN THE PAST AND . . . WELCOME TO THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY.

It wasn't signed, but then it didn't need to be. The style of ‘restitooshun' was all too painfully recognizable.

‘Oh, Fossilface . . .' Truffler groaned. ‘Have you any idea what you've done?'

‘Well, it is encouraging in one way,' said Mrs Pargeter soothingly.

‘What way?' Truffler Mason's voice growled from the other end of the phone.

‘With regard to his sense of humour. I mean, that Irish joke – OK, it's as old as the hills, and it wasn't very funny in the first place, but the fact remains that it
is
a joke. It has the structure of a joke; he's actually got things the right way round this time.'

‘Mrs Pargeter, I don't care if he's won the Nobel Prize for Joke Construction – what Fossilface O'Donahue has done is to destroy over twenty years of patient research. Those files of mine are entirely irreplaceable. He's, like, destroyed the whole basis of my business. He's obliterated information that Scotland Yard could only dream of possessing.'

‘I don't suppose it's possible . . .' Mrs Pargeter suggested, ‘. . . that Fossilface has actually had all your data transferred on to the new computer system he's installed. I mean, if that's happened, then he really will have done you a favour, won't he?'

‘Oh yes.' Truffler's voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Wouldn't that be wonderful? And likely too, when you're dealing with a Fairy Godmother as warped as Fossilface O'Donahue! No, that was one of the first things I checked. The only actual data that's been keyed into the computer goes as follows: “I say, I say, I say. Have you heard the one about the Lunchpack of Notre Dame?” “No, I haven't. How does it go?” “What's wrapped in cellophane and swings from a steeple?” “I don't know. What is wrapped in cellophane and swings from a steeple?” “It's the Lunchpack of Notre Dame!!!”'

‘Oh dear,' said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Clearly getting that Irish one right was just a fluke. Fossilface hasn't really caught on to the principles of joke-telling at all, has he?'

‘No, he hasn't. All he's caught on to is the only thing he was ever any good at – totally destroying people's lives.'

‘But at least now he's doing it from the best of motives. He really is trying to make “restitooshun” for the evil he's done in the past.'

‘Quite honestly, Mrs P., I'd rather have the original Fossilface than a Fossilface on the side of the angels. At least in the old days you could predict the kind of vindictive mayhem he was likely to unleash. His charity is much more threatening.'

‘Mm. You're right.' There was a silence before, very gingerly, Mrs Pargeter moved the subject on. ‘So, Truffler, you can't follow up the investigation the way you were hoping to?'

‘No.'

‘So what's going to be your next line of approach?'

‘Well, I'm rather limited for choices now, aren't I? I'll go and talk to Rita Gertler.'

A puzzled ‘Mm?'

Truffler explained. ‘Seb's Mum. You know, old Stan the Orang-Utan's wife.'

‘Oh, right.'

‘Maybe get a lead there.' But, even by Truffler's dour standards, he didn't sound hopeful. With an effort, he forced a more positive note into his voice. ‘Don't you worry, Mrs Pargeter. Only a minor setback. I'll find Blunt for you. He can't be far away.'

Neither of them could possibly know how accurate Truffler Mason's words were. Blunt was at that moment less than fifty metres away from Mrs Pargeter. He was sitting in his Jaguar under the shadow of some trees, keeping surveillance on Gary's cottage.

It was one of those summer nights which would never get properly dark. Blunt detected movement and shook himself out of the reptilian doze in which he normally conducted surveillance operations. He could lie for hours like a crocodile, immobile with half-closed eyes, apparently unaware and unthreatening. But when something happened, he would be instantly awake. And, like the crocodile, instantly ready to wreak havoc.

The front door of the cottage opened and his quarry, resplendent in a cream négligé, emerged into the front garden. The moonlight shone on the silk, lending a ghostly outline to Mrs Pargeter's ample curves.

Blunt waited to see what would happen next. Clickety Clark had said they should try to snatch her if they got the chance, but Blunt was always wary of acting on his own initiative. A suggestion from Clix wasn't the same as an order from higher up. And would they want just Mrs Pargeter on her own? Wouldn't they want him to bring the Jacket woman as well? Blunt didn't want to make a rash move that might get him into trouble later on.

On the other hand, it would be nice to get a pat on the back for pulling off something good . . . And, after all, she was just one elderly lady on her own. No problems about overpowering her, trussing her up in the back of the Jaguar and delivering the spoils back to London. Mrs Pargeter was getting uncomfortably close to the truth; soon she might – perhaps she already did – know the details of the scam in which Blunt and Clickety Clark were involved. Having come this far, so near to getting away with it, so near to dividing up all that lovely money, they didn't want their careful planning scuppered by one little old lady.

There was also an element of grudge-settling . . . The late Mr Pargeter and Blunt hadn't parted on the happiest of terms, and indeed the longest of Blunt's many prison sentences would never have happened but for the intervention into a police investigation of Mrs Pargeter's husband.

No, there were scores to be settled, all right. Blunt didn't reckon Clickety Clark would make a fuss if their quarry was delivered a little ‘roughed up' . . . The idea caught hold; his breathing grew heavier. It'd been a long time since he'd really let himself go, a long time since he'd justified his name – ‘Blunt' as in ‘Blunt Instrument'. Yes, maybe he should just––

His deliberations were interrupted by the sweep of powerful headlights turning a corner towards the cottage. Blunt shrank back into his seat, eyes once again in crocodile mode, as a splendid silver-grey vintage Rolls-Royce came to rest outside the garden gate. The woman in the cream négligé moved forward to greet the driver.

‘Wondered where you were,' Blunt heard Mrs Pargeter's voice say. ‘Denise was beginning to get a bit worried about you.'

‘Sorry. Got carried away. Just had to take her out again after supper. She's such a beauty, I can't stop driving her,' said the chauffeur's voice.

‘Glad you're pleased with it – her.'

‘Pleased? That's an understatement. Step inside, Mrs P. Just have a look at her.'

Mrs Pargeter did as she was bidden, and when the passenger door closed, Blunt could hear no more of their conversation. His eyelids lowered even further, till they were only a paper's breadth apart. But he remained vigilant.

Inside the car, Mrs Pargeter was properly appreciative of all the features lovingly detailed by
Gary
. She nodded approvingly at the polished chestnut dashboard, the array of gleaming metal instruments, the leather plushness of the upholstery. It had clearly been a good buy.

‘I can't thank you enough,' Gary kept saying.

‘Oh, for heaven's sake. It was a business loan. An investment. I firmly intend to make money out of my stake in your company.'