Mrs. Pargeter's Plot (12 page)

Suddenly she remembered something and hurried out into the sitting room. She came back, holding a bright silk blouse against her ample frontage, and again faced the photograph. ‘Nice one, this, isn't it? Really
me
, as you always used to say. Don't ask the price, though. Can't run the risk of you having a posthumous heart attack, can we? You wouldn't believe the way things've gone up since you popped your clogs, love.'

She hung the blouse in the mahogany wardrobe, and was thoughtful for a moment. Then, turning back to the photograph, she mused, ‘You know, I'm drifting on this Concrete Jacket case. No forward momentum. I think the time has come for me to
make
something happen.' Mrs Pargeter made a decision. ‘Yes, this could be exactly the right moment to get things under way.'

She grinned. ‘As you always used to say, love: “There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.”

‘Hm,' she chuckled as she reached for the Yellow Pages, ‘and no doubt Gary thinks you made up that one too.'

The two youths wore sleeveless T-shirts and the bulges of their biceps left no doubt that they worked out. Their blonded hair was as short as Velcro over their scalps, and though the only weapons they carried were wet rags and sponges, they looked menacing enough for the majority of motorists, whether they wanted their windscreens cleaned or not, to hand over the price of a quick getaway when the lights changed.

The younger youth swaggered across to the battered brown Maxi that drew up at the head of the queue just as the green light gave way to red.

‘Do your windscreen, guv?' The voice was abrasive South London and what it said was a classic example of something Latin masters have spent many generations trying to din into their charges: a question expecting the answer Yes. Though in fact ‘demanding' might be a more accurate description.

‘And what if I don't want it done?' asked the driver, a mournful, long-faced man in a brown suit.

The youth flexed his threatening biceps and loomed over the Maxi as if he could crush it like a cigarette packet. ‘Well,' he replied softly. ‘I think you might regret that decision, guv. I'm sure you wouldn't like—'

But suddenly, as he recognized the driver, his whole attitude and body language changed. The beefy frame seemed to shrink into a posture of conciliation – even supplication – as he mouthed the name, ‘Truffler'.

‘Right. I've been looking for you.' The tall man leant across to open the passenger door. ‘Get in, Seb.'

‘But I—'

‘Get in,' Truffler repeated in a voice that eliminated the option of refusal. The boy called Seb looked across at his fellow extortioner, shrugged helplessly and got into the Maxi's passenger seat. At that moment the lights changed to green and the car lurched forward.

After a few minutes of silence, ‘Truffler asked, ‘How's your dad?'

‘All right,' the boy replied, his South London rasp giving way to the rounded vowels of a public school education.

‘He's a good lad, Stan,' said Truffler. ‘You keeping in touch with him, are you, Seb?'

‘Oh yes. Saw him at Visiting on Sunday.'

‘Last time
I
saw Stan,' Truffler ruminated, ‘he said the one thing he cared about was that you didn't get into trouble with the law.'

‘I'm not in trouble with the law,' Seb protested, perhaps a little too vehemently.

The older man's tired eyes flicked across at him. ‘So what's with all this windscreen-cleaning business then?'

‘That's not illegal . . . exactly.' But the boy's colour and hesitation showed he wasn't even convincing himself.

Truffler pursed his lips and drove on towards his office.

When she brought the coffee in, Bronwen looked with undisguised admiration at Seb's physique. ‘You know,' she mused, to no one in particular, ‘I often think the answer to my problems might be a toyboy . . .'

Seb grinned, but Truffler came back at her in a tone which, by his normally gentle standards, was harsh. ‘Yeah? And I sometimes think the answer to your problems might be getting that filing finished.'

She pouted and looked round the office with mock despair. Certainly the prospect of filing the debris that covered every surface there was a daunting one.

‘You know I don't mean in here,' said Truffler. ‘This lot
is
filed.'

And it was, according to his system. The shoeboxes of papers he had gone through with Mrs Pargeter still lay piled over other layers on his desk, and the rest of the room looked as if a bomb had gone off in a paper factory. But to Truffler it all made sense. He could put his hand on any document he required within seconds.

‘I meant,' he went on sourly, ‘get on with the filing out in your office.'

With another pout, and a little wiggle of her bottom for Seb's benefit, Bronwen flounced out of the office, closing the door behind her with unnecessary force.

Seb followed her progress with a smirk, but Truffler quickly brought him back to the matter in hand. ‘You were saying about your dad having had this offer.'

The boy picked up his coffee and took a sip. ‘It wasn't exactly an offer. More like . . . an investment opportunity.'

‘And it come to him in the nick?'

‘That's right.'

‘'Cause he's . . . what? . . . three years in now, is he?'

‘Two and a half. Into a seven-year stretch. Mind you, with good behaviour and—'

‘Yes, sure, sure.' Truffler nodded impatiently. ‘So what was this “investment opportunity”?'

‘Well,' said Seb in his best Captain of School accent, ‘my father like a lot of people in the nick, he suffers financially.'

‘Right.'

‘I mean, obviously he's got a bit stashed away . . . stuff that wasn't recovered from the last job. It's a tidy sum, but, you know, with inflation and what-have-you . . .' The boy shook his head gloomily, ‘. . . well, seven years on it's not going to be worth that much.'

‘He hasn't got it on deposit or . . .?'

Seb drew his lips tight across his teeth as he explained, ‘Only in a manner of speaking. And you don't get much interest from a deposit that's six foot under Epping Forest.'

‘Ah,' said Truffler, understanding. ‘No. No, you don't.'

‘Anyway,' the boy continued, ‘the old man'll be pretty close to retirement, really, when he comes out . . . and he'll have lost a lot of his contacts, so even if he did want to get back into the business, he might find it tough . . . and, well, there's no way he's going to keep my mother in the style that she's become accustomed to on a state pension . . . so it's no surprise he was interested when he heard about this way of making his money work for him while he's inside.'

‘Do you know the details of what it was, this investment plan?' asked Truffler urgently.

But Seb shook his head. ‘No. I do know it involved Mum taking out a second mortgage on the house.'

‘Oh?'

‘Needed to raise fifty grand,' the boy explained. ‘That's the stake.' Answering the alarm in Truffler's eyes, he went on, ‘It's no problem. All be paid off again when dad gets out and reclaims the Epping Forest stash. And in the meantime that fifty grand will've doubled? Trebled? Who can say?'

Truffler looked sceptical. In his line of business he had come across too many investment opportunities guaranteed to double or treble the stake of the poor sucker who put his money into them. ‘But you don't know what the actual investment was?' he asked. Seb shook his head. ‘Or how Stan got to hear about it?'

The boy brightened. ‘Oh yes. I do know that. It was through a bloke who was in the nick with the old man.'

‘What was the bloke's name?'

‘Blunt. Does that mean anything to you?'

‘Oh yes,' said Truffler, slowly nodding his head. ‘That certainly means something to me.'

Mrs Pargeter's wardrobe was both extensive and expensive. It very firmly reflected her character. Not for her were the muted fondant colours patronized by senior members of the British Royal Family. Not for her the subtle beiges and fawns which some women of ample proportions favour as a means to anonymity, to draw attention away from their bulk.

Mrs Pargeter had never attempted to hide her dimensions. She knew that such a task was hopeless, anyway, and that apparent success at it could only be self-delusion; but, apart from that, she had never felt the need to disguise her outline. Rather she gloried in it. Mrs Pargeter had always felt herself to be the right size for the person she was – and certainly the late Mr Pargeter had never had any complaints.

He had always been a lavish provider – and even, in some cases, purchaser – of clothes for his wife. He knew her style exactly, and on his varied travels would always be on the lookout for the bold silks and cottons that so flattered her generous curves.

Since his death, Mrs Pargeter had had to do all her own shopping, but so distinct was her sartorial identity that she never had any problems making decisions about what to buy. A dress or a suit was either right for her or wrong. Trousers and hats were never right for her. Nor were tights; Mrs Pargeter always wore silk stockings. Her underwear, even though her husband was no longer around to appreciate it, remained frivolously exotic. And the right shoes for Mrs Pargeter always had surprisingly high heels, which gave a pleasing tension to her well-turned calves and ankles.

She dressed carefully for the appointment she had made following her consultation of the Yellow Pages. And she dressed excitedly, rather relishing the idea of taking on another identity. It wasn't fancy dress, though; she wore her own clothes, but selected the brightest and most ostentatious to create a heightened version of her natural style. What she was after for the encounter to come was an ensemble which breathed too much money.

And she was happy that the effect had been achieved. She had asked Hedgeclipper Clinton – and Erasmus, it was impossible these days to have one without the other – to bring up her jewellery box from the hotel safe, and selected a matching set of ruby-and-diamond necklace, bracelet and cluster earrings. They were gems which had once belonged to a Cabinet minister's mistress, but the late Mr Pargeter had thought his wife a much more suitable proprietor and had arranged the transfer of ownership in his own inimitable way. Mrs Pargeter would under normal circumstances only have worn them in the evening, but their daytime brightness gave just the right over-the-top quality to the character she was proposing to play.

When she was dressed to her satisfaction, she did a little twirl for the benefit of the late Mr Pargeter's photograph on the bedside table. ‘What do you think, love? Teetering on the edge of vulgarity – hm? Yes. Just about right, I'd say.'

She grinned and sat down on the bed. ‘Now I'm going to be a good girl,' she continued to the photograph, ‘and make sure that someone is aware of where I'm going, and what I'm going to do when I get there. I remember what you taught me, love – never take any unnecessary risks.'

She reached for the telephone.

In Truffler Mason's outer office Bronwen looked on admiringly as her boss ushered Seb out. Truffler shook an admonitory finger at the boy, saying, ‘And remember, young man – in future you keep on the right side of the law.'

Seb grinned lazily. ‘All right, all right. You sound like a blooming community policeman.' He beamed a roguish look at Bronwen and let a ripple run through his uncovered biceps. ‘See you again I hope, gorgeous.'

The secretary gazed after him dreamily as he winked and went out through the door. ‘Oh . . .' she sighed, her voice Welsher than ever in its wistfulness. ‘What would I have to have to get one like that?'

‘Plastic surgery?' her boss suggested mildly.

‘Now listen, Truffler! Don't you—' But her fury was cut short by the telephone's ringing. She snatched up the new receiver as if prepared to do Grievous Bodily Harm to that one too. ‘Hello, Mason de Vere Agency.' She looked across vindictively at Truffler. ‘Yes, the bastard is here.' Standoffishly, she thrust the phone towards him. ‘Mrs Pargeter.'

He grinned and moved towards his office. ‘I'll take it through there.'

Mrs Pargeter found herself in the unusual situation of being embarrassed. Telling Truffler what she proposed to do had seemed easy when she thought of it. Now she was actually talking to him, she could anticipate all the kinds of objection he was likely to make. So she began with a little prevarication before moving on to the real subject of her call.

‘Nothing more been heard from Fossilface O'Donahue, has it?' she fluted ingenuously.

‘Not from my end, no. I should think he's gone to ground again. Why – Hedgeclipper hasn't had any more trouble, has he?'

‘No, no. In fact, from Hedgeclipper's point of view, Fossilface has done him a favour. That bloody monkey. Hedgeclipper's just devoted to Erasmus – still walks round the hotel most of the time with the thing on his shoulder. They're inseparable.'

‘Isn't that causing problems for him professionally? I mean, doesn't the average guest somewhere as swish as Greene's Hotel find it a bit odd that the manager is always accompanied by a marmoset?'

‘Not at Greene's, no. Because the “average guest” here is an American with more money than sense, and they're “just thrilled” by what they regard as another heart-warming example of “lovable British eccentricity”.'

‘Ah. With you.' A silence. ‘Was that what you were actually ringing about, Mrs Pargeter?'

‘Well, erm . . . in a way,' she replied evasively, and moved into further delaying tactics. ‘Maybe Fossilface has given up on his campaign of “restitooshun”?'