Mrs, Presumed Dead (15 page)

'
The Ballad of Reading Gaol
,' she supplied helpfully. 'My late husband was very fond of the works of Oscar Wilde.'

It was true. The late Mr Pargeter had found Wilde a great solace, especially in times of enforced idleness.
The Ballad of Reading Gaol
had been a particular favourite. That and
De Profundis
.

'Ah.' Carole Temple remained nonplussed. 'Still, as I say, it is tragic.'

'Oh, indeed,' Mrs Pargeter agreed devoutly. 'So . . . you think that Rod murdered Theresa?'

'Well, yes, of course. He was her husband.' The matter-of-fact way in which this was said did not argue a very high opinion of the institution of marriage. 'He must have done it. It's the only possible solution, isn't it?'

Well, no, thought Mrs Pargeter to herself, there are one or two other possibilities.

CHAPTER 26

'Mrs Pargeter, it's Truffler,' said the familiar bereaved voice. 'I got your message.'

'Oh, hello. Thank you for ringing back.'

'I think I'd probably have worked out for myself that it was only the man you were after.'

'Yes, I'm sorry. I was just afraid that, if you were actually out investigating, you might not have seen the papers or heard the news.'

'No, I heard. Sad business, isn't it?' Since Truffler Mason made everything sound like a sad business, his intonation did not change for this observation.

'Yes. Very sad.'

'Did you suspect that that was what had happened when you asked me to trace her?'

'I hoped it hadn't,' Mrs Pargeter replied cautiously, 'but I was rather afraid it might have done.'

Truffler Mason let out a mournful sigh. 'Of course, it means that I'm not going to be the only one trying to find the husband . . .'

'No. The police are definitely on to him. They came and talked to me.'

'Hm.'

'Still, you've got a start on them.'

'Oh yes,' Truffler Mason agreed lugubriously. 'Yes, a bit of a start, yes.'

'Are you getting anywhere?' Mrs Pargeter asked diffidently. She knew that Truffler worked at his own pace, and didn't want to appear to be nagging him.

'Yes, getting somewhere,' he admitted dolefully. 'Finding out a lot about his background – and a few other people's backgrounds. Haven't actually found him yet, of course – you'll know the minute that happens – but I've got a few leads.'

'Have you, by any chance . . .' Mrs Pargeter continued her cautious approach. '. . . found out where he went straight after leaving Smithy's Loam?'

'Well, after he was made redundant, he stayed around at home for a couple of weeks . . .'

'So I gather. Maintaining the myth that he was going on to this great new job in the North?'

'That's right.'

'Any idea what he did while he was at home for that time?'

'No, not really. Drank a lot, I think.'

And conducted his little affair with Vivvi Sprake, Mrs Pargeter reckoned.

'Then he seems to have gone off to various places. I haven't checked them all out yet. I'd really rather, if you don't mind, Mrs Pargeter, give you all the details when I've completed the investigation.'

'Yes, of course. I'm sorry, Truffler.' She wanted to ask how long he thought that might be, but again didn't want to pressurise him.

Fortunately he anticipated her unspoken question. 'I'm really moving along now, Mrs Pargeter. Hope to have some information for you within the week.'

'Thank you.'

'I'm afraid,' he went on, more dismal than ever, 'it may be rather grim when we do find him.'

Mrs Pargeter was shocked. 'You don't mean that we're going to find another corpse, do you?'

'Oh, no. Well, if we do, it won't be murder.'

'Suicide?'

'I didn't say that.' Truffler Mason was becoming uneasy. He didn't like discussing one of his investigations until it was all neatly sewn up and delivered. 'What I'm saying is, everything I've found out about Rod Cotton suggests he's gone downhill.'

'Downhill?' asked Mrs Pargeter, eager to have the hint amplified.

But all Truffler Mason gave her was a gnomic 'yes', and apologised once again that he'd really rather not say more for the moment.

So she was left to brood on the tantalisingly small amount of information he had given her.

Mrs Pargeter decided that she needed another treat. All this investigation was very exhausting emotionally. Fortunately, in her researches into the area before she moved, she had compiled a comprehensive list of local restaurants, and it was – in a spirit of devilment – the most expensive of these that she rang to book herself a table for dinner.

The restaurant was in a pub just outside Dorking, though diners had a separate entrance from drinkers. Mrs Pargeter enjoyed a leisurely vodka Campari in the bar, while she perused the menu, before selecting prawns in garlic and steak au poivre. She ordered a half-bottle of Vouvray to go with the starter, and of Crozes Hermitage for the main course.

From the restaurant bar, through a screen of wooden lattice-work, she could see into the pub, and it was with some shock that she recognised Sue Curle sitting in a private alcove of the saloon bar. Mrs Pargeter was close to the lattice and had no fear that she herself could be seen.

Sue was not drinking alone. The man with her was a West Indian of strikingly good looks, dressed in a very smart light grey suit. Their hands were intertwined and they were talking with the urgent intensity of people who have either recently been in bed together or will soon be in bed together.

As Mrs Pargeter looked on, Sue Curle glanced at her watch and reached suddenly across to touch her companion's cheek. They kissed intimately, then she rose to her feet and, with a furtive look to left and right, walked out of the pub without a backward glance.

Instinctively, Mrs Pargeter looked at her watch. The handsome West Indian rationed out the remains of his glass of wine with slow slips, occasionally checking the time, then rose and, slinging his coat over his shoulder, walked jauntily out the same way.

Five minutes exactly by Mrs Pargeter's watch. A familiar scenario. 'We'd better not leave together – give me five minutes.'

Hm, so Sue Curle's contempt for the male sex was not total.

Interesting . . .

She sat over her garlic prawns and Vouvray and thought about Theresa Cotton's murder. Or, more particularly, about the disposal of Theresa Cotton's body.

That was the odd element in the case. The strangling itself, given the lack of evident marks on the body, had been conducted with exemplary efficiency.

It was the placing of the body in the freezer that struck a discordant note.

True, the freezer had a lock, which would have prevented its falling open by mistake when being shifted by the removal men. But there remained an element of risk in the procedure. Might not the removal men have become suspicious because of the unusual weight of the freezer? Or when it arrived at the warehouse might not suspicions be raised that it hadn't been emptied properly and could contain perishable commodities (as indeed it did)?

Still, neither of these suspicions had arisen. In that sense, the murderer had succeeded. According to plan, the freezer had been stored away in its container, where it could have remained for some long time. As Keyhole Crabbe had said, the tightness of the polythene wrapping and the quality of the seal on the freezer lid had delayed decomposition and might well have contained the corpse's smell.

And maybe, Mrs Pargeter reflected, the heaviness of the freezer wouldn't actually have raised suspicions. Since the storage of furniture was paid for according to bulk, it would have been a logical economy to fill a vacant space like an empty freezer with smaller items, and probably that was a practice to which the Littlehaven's men were accustomed.

But the fact remained that, even if the danger of immediate discovery was not great, the concealment of the body in the freezer could only be a temporary solution. Maybe not in the short term, but sooner or later, it was going to be discovered. And a murder enquiry, though delayed, would inevitably ensue.

Yes, the use of the freezer brought an air of improvisation into what was otherwise a well-planned murder.

Mrs Pargeter tried to think what motives could drive someone to dispose of a body in that way.

It could be just the product of panic. Maybe the murderer had thought through the strangling, but not thought beyond the crime itself.

Alternatively, the murderer may have been content to buy time. For some reason, he or she only wanted the investigation delayed, confident that by the time the body was discovered, he or she would no longer be a suspect.

Or could it be even simpler than that? The murderer was so confident of not even being considered as a suspect that he or she made only a token attempt at disposing of the body. Maybe the murderer had such a solid alibi that the police would never crack it.

Or maybe there was such an obvious main suspect that the murderer had no fear of being investigated at all.

Back to Rod Cotton, thought Mrs Pargeter. Truffler Mason had said that the dead woman's husband had gone downhill. When the police finally found him, his prospects might be even more downhill.

CHAPTER 27

On the night she died, Theresa Cotton was known to have visited four of the women living in Smithy's Loam. She had been to 'High Bushes' to see Fiona Burchfield-Brown, to 'Perigord' to see Sue Curle, to 'Haymakers' to see Vivvi Sprake, and to 'Cromarty' to see Carole Temple. Mrs Pargeter would also have put money on the fact that Theresa Cotton had been to 'Hibiscus' to see Jane Watson.

It was time, Mrs Pargeter decided, that contact should be made with Mrs Nervy the Neurotic. There must be some explanation for the woman's deeply anti-social attitude, and now that there was a murder to investigate, that explanation became rather important. Why was it that she behaved as if she were afraid of the other residents of Smithy's Loam? There had to be a reason other than mere shyness or arrogance.

Mrs Pargeter knew that she would have to move carefully in establishing contact with Jane Watson. She had seen the woman cut people dead in the street, she had seen her refuse even to answer her door to the inquisitive pressmen. It was going to require some kind of trick to break through that impregnable defence.

The following morning the opportunity for just such a trick presented itself. Mrs Pargeter received another visit from the police. The same two detectives returned and asked some supplementary questions, reverting time and again to the whereabouts of Rod Cotton.

Since Mrs Pargeter had no information at all on this subject (and had no intention of putting them in touch with Truffler Mason, who might have had some), the conversation could not progress far. She was helpful and public-spirited, as ever, but couldn't really be of much assistance to their investigation.

Recognising this at last, the two detectives thanked her for her patience, apologised that they might well have to be in touch again, and crossed Smithy's Loam to 'High Bushes', no doubt to address similar questions to Fiona Burchfield-Brown.

Some ten minutes later, observed by Mrs Pargeter through her net curtains, the policemen moved on to 'Perigord'. Sue Curle must have been at the office, because the door was answered by Kirsten, smartly turned out in a new black and white striped dress. The detectives did not go in, and only talked briefly on the doorstep. Then, put off either by her ignorance or her fractured English, they left Kirsten, moving on to 'Haymakers' and Vivvi Sprake.

They were there for about ten minutes, before reappearing to go and knock at the door of 'Hibiscus'. Jane Watson might have been able just to ignore the demands of the newspaper reporters, but she didn't dare do that with the police. The two detectives disappeared inside the house.

Mrs Pargeter judged the timing to perfection. She let eight minutes elapse, before putting on one of her everyday minks, going out of her front door and walking briskly across to 'Hibiscus'.

She rang the bell and, as she had anticipated, Jane Watson came to the door. Behind her, just emerging from the sitting-room, were the figures of the two detectives, holding their hats, as if about to leave.

Good. Mrs Pargeter congratulated herself on her timing. With the policemen as witnesses, she felt certain that Jane Watson would maintain at least the appearance of civility. She wouldn't want to unleash any unnecessary suspicions by suggesting dissensions among the residents of Smithy's Loam.

'Hello, I'm Mrs Pargeter. We haven't really met properly, have we? I'm the one who's moved into the Cottons' house.'

'Yes . . .' Jane Watson looked troubled and uncertain for a moment. Then she saw a let-out. 'I'm sorry. The police are here, asking me some questions . . . you know, in connection with . . . what happened. Do you think it would be possible for you to call back another time . . . ?'

'No, it's no problem,' said one of the detectives, spot on cue. 'We'd just about finished. Don't let us interfere with your social life.'

'Well . . . er . . . 'Jane Watson looked confused. She didn't want to invite Mrs Pargeter in, but equally she didn't want the detectives to see her turning her new neighbour away. She succumbed. 'You'd better come in,' she said, standing back with not very good grace.

'Thank you, dear.' Mrs Pargeter bustled into the house, looking very pleased with herself.

'May have to be in touch again, Mrs Watson,' one of the detectives apologised. 'Sorry, as we were only just now saying to Mrs Pargeter, these enquiries can take a hell of a long time.'

'Yes. Yes, of course.' Jane Watson looked weak and a little confused.

'Anyway, thank you so much for your assistance.' The two detectives made their way off down the path.

Jane Watson closed the front door behind them and leant against it. With a defiant look at Mrs Pargeter, she demanded, 'Now what on earth do you want?'