Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour (10 page)

Hedgeclipper Clinton could only nod, unable to form words but, through gasps of laughter, Truffler Mason managed to say, ‘Oh, yes, I know him. I know him all right. Your husband knew him, and all, Mrs P. I'm surprised Mr Pargeter never mentioned old “Craggy” Wilkinson to you.'

‘You know my husband never spoke to me about his work,' she said primly.

‘No, I know he didn't as a general rule, but with old Craggy I'm surprised he could keep it to himself.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, some of the things he done . . . they were just such good stories. You know, when me and the boys was working with your husband, whenever we needed a good laugh, we'd just tell another Craggy Wilkinson story. Isn't that right, Hedgeclipper?'

The hotel manager was sufficiently recovered to let out a ‘Yes,' but the sound of the emergent word only set him off again.

‘Why? What kind of things did he do?'

‘Well, let's take for instance . . .' Truffler paused for a moment, shuffling through a mental filing cabinet, spoiled for choice as to which anecdote he should produce first. ‘All right. Try this for starters.'

‘There was a job up Ponder's End,' said Truffler. ‘Bullion delivery, very hush-hush, transfer of a load of gold ingots from some arms deal a bunch of North London villains'd done with Nigeria. Mr P'd got word of it from a baggage handler at Heathrow. Goods were going to come into the country, you see, in crates marked “Tribal Artefacts”, but everyone at the airport had been bunged a bit to keep a blind eye. The baggage handler who snitched reckoned the bung wasn't big enough and he'd get a better deal from your husband. Which of course he did. Always the soul of generosity your old man was, Mrs P.

‘Anyway, like as ever, the planning of the job was meticulous. Never left any angle uncovered, Mr P didn't, sorted through everything, done dry runs, rehearsals, double-checks. Any operation he was involved in was always sweet as a nut and tight as a noose.' A wistful, nostalgic look came into Truffler's eyes. ‘He was an artist, your husband, Mrs P, a true artist.

‘Right, so the whole thing's planned. The lorry with its crate of “Tribal Artefacts” is meant to be going from Heathrow to, like, Epping Forest where the gang's going to stash it for a couple of weeks before it gets melted down and redistributed in the form of chunky identity bracelets.

‘Except, of course, it's never going to make it to Epping Forest, because in Ponder's End it's going to be diverted from its original course. And somehow the crates of “Tribal Artefacts” are going to end up in a refrigerated ice cream lorry heading due south for Penge where the ingots will end up in far more deserving pockets than those of the North London mob.

‘OK, it's all set, and then, like two days before the flight's due, Mr P gets a tip-off that the cops are on to it. Heaven knows who they got their information from. Could've been that the baggage handler was hoping to treble up his take by getting a pay-off from the filth too . . . though I still think it had the hallmarks of our friend Posey Narker.

‘Anyway, Jukebox Jarvis is doing a routine check when . . . Oh, you don't know Jukebox Jarvis, do you, Mrs P? He was your late husband's computer expert, and, before any job, he always, like, hacked into the Metropolitan Police's computer just to see if they was on to anything.'

‘Wasn't that very difficult?' asked Mrs Pargeter.

‘Not for Jukebox, no. Well, there was a six-letter security password which the cops changed every day, but since they usually alternated between “police” and “secret”, Jukebox never had too much trouble.

‘Anyway, like I said, this time we find the filth are on to us. A lot of detail they've got – time of the flight, what the crates are labelled, where the lorry's meant to be going, and the exact bit of Ponder's End where the hijacking's going to take place. They even know we're planning to take the loot off in an ice cream lorry. And we also find out that the officer in charge of the investigation is one Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson.

‘First time any of us has heard of him, but all right, forewarned is forearmed, your husband makes alternative arrangements. Not major changes – just intercepting the lorry the other side of Ponder's End, nearer to Heathrow, so that the deed's been done before we get to the bit where, the computer says, the police'll be waiting for us.

‘So, as usual, everything goes like it should. Loot gets transferred to the ice cream lorry, ice cream lorry goes down to Penge as per arrangement, where it loses itself and its contents are satisfactorily redistributed.

‘It's only later we discover what Inspector Wilkinson's done. He's only stopped another ice cream lorry and impounded it in the lock-up underneath Paddington Green Police Station. He's only arrested the driver and his mate and spent two days questioning them. Not surprisingly, they didn't have a lot to tell him. But while they're up in the interview rooms, the refrigeration's off in the lorry downstairs and its back doors have been left open and, like, next time anyone from the station has a look, they find the whole of the lock-up's awash with melted ice cream.' Truffler Mason chuckled fondly at the recollection. ‘You know, Paddington Green still smells of raspberry ripple.

‘So, anyway, Mrs P, that was your late husband's first encounter with Inspector Wilkinson. And from the very start, he realized what we were up against was a one-hundred per cent, copper-bottomed dumbo.'

Truffler Mason may have finished his anecdote, but Hedgeclipper Clinton had been waiting for some time to chip in with his own recollections of the unfortunate Wilkinson. ‘Then there was that other time,' he said, the moment Truffler paused for breath, ‘that Hampstead Music Museum job. Only a small place it was, full of biographical memorabilia from various composers, but amongst all the stuff it got was some really nice instruments, violins mostly. One Amati and a couple of Stradivariuses – and a Stradivarius cello. Well, Mrs P, as you'll remember, your old man always was a great music-lover . . . and, besides, he recognized that that lot's got quite a good resale value.

‘So, once again, the whole thing's set up beautifully. Times the curator and his staff go on and off duty checked out. Keyhole Crabbe's brought in – you remember him, locks and alarms specialist – and he checks out the security system. Finds the best thing to do is set up a little electronic jiggery-pokery that reverses the alarms – like, when they're switched on, the doors open silently; when they're switched off and a door's touched, all hell breaks loose. Dead simple.

‘Anyway, couple of days before the lift, Jukebox Jarvis does his routine hack into Scotland Yard, and blow me if he doesn't discover that they're on to this one too.'

‘Now that I'm sure was Posey Narker,' said Truffler.

‘Probably. Anyway, we find out they're on to us and, what's more, the detective in charge of the case is once again – Inspector Wilkinson.

‘Obviously, Mr P and everyone else is dead chuffed to hear this, and the plans for the job are adjusted accordingly. Cut a long story short, the instruments are all successfully liberated from their cases before old Craggy Wilkinson gets there. And he ends up spending the whole weekend locked in the museum. Not sure whether he knew much about music before, but by the time he got out, he could certainly tell his Arne from his Elgar!'

While Hedgeclipper chuckled at his witticism, Truffler Mason was quick to pick up the conversational baton. ‘Well, by now it had become a pattern. Wilkinson was entirely reliable. Whatever he had to do, we could guarantee he'd screw it up. One time he was even duped into letting us use a Panda as a getaway car. With a police driver, and all!

‘As you can imagine, Mrs P, your late husband saw the potential advantages of all this. Soon, whenever we'd got a big job coming up, he'd get Jukebox Jarvis not only to hack into the police computer for information, but to make a few changes to what he found in there. Particularly in the business of duty rosters. Jukebox'd fix it so that any time we'd got a real biggie, Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson would be slated to be in charge of the case. Then we knew nothing could go wrong. I tell you, if Wilkinson hadn't been around, the information Posey Narker was spilling could've caused a lot more trouble than it actually did. Your husband used to say that old Craggy Wilkinson was his lucky mascot.'

Again Truffler Mason roared with laughter at the recollection, and Hedgeclipper Clinton joined him. Their laughter rose to a merry crescendo, then trickled away.

Both realizing at the same time that they had heard little for some time from the third person present in the bar, they looked across at her. On Mrs Pargeter's soft, creamy brow was a wrinkle of puzzlement, and even a hint of reproach. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I'm afraid I didn't understand a single word of what you were talking about.'

Truffler Mason and Hedgeclipper Clinton fell over themselves in their confusion and assurances that they couldn't think what'd come over them, that they'd been well out of order, that they didn't wish in any way to imply that the late Mr Pargeter had at any level been connected with any activity which did not fit within the strictest parameters of the British legal system.

Eventually Mrs Pargeter inclined her head, gracefully accepting their apologies.

‘All we were really saying,' said Truffler Mason plaintively, ‘is that if Inspector Wilkinson's sniffing around you, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.'

‘Thank you.' But the puzzlement hadn't entirely left Mrs Pargeter's innocent face. ‘I can't imagine why it took you so long to tell me that.' She smiled easily, letting them off the hook. ‘Now, did you say HRH and I were going to see Palings Price tomorrow . . .?'

They were once again in the back room of ‘DENZIL PRICE INTERIORS'. Propped up on a minimalist steel chair was the Rubens that the thieves had left at Chastaigne Varleigh. Against the wall stood the two minor Madonnas which had also escaped abduction. The rich colours of the paintings spoiled the room's monochrome image, but the designer didn't seem to mind.

Mrs Pargeter and Hamish Ramon Henriques looked on in respectful silence while he made his expert assessment.

An expression of almost gastronomic relish played around Palings Price's mouth as he gazed at the painting. He wasn't quite licking his lips, but very nearly.

‘Now this is very beautiful . . .' he murmured.

‘Yes . . .' Mrs Pargeter agreed mistily. She had felt a great warmth for the fake Rubens in VVO's studio, but the sight of the real thing was even more potent. The painting's voluptuous flesh glowed down the centuries and found a welcoming glow in her own voluptuous flesh. Like called to like. Mrs Pargeter felt a sudden pang of sorrow that her husband was dead. The late Mr Pargeter would have really responded to that painting. It embodied everything he had ever looked for in a woman.

Maybe it was the conversation with Truffler and Hedgeclipper at Greene's Hotel the evening before that had set her mind on the track, but she found she'd been thinking a lot about her husband that morning. Not morbid thoughts. No, rather she had a little bubble of excitement inside her, gratitude for the wonderful years that they'd had together, and a great sense of well-being. The last shadow of disappointment about the failure to get the paintings from Chastaigne Varleigh had passed. Now she felt entirely confident that Veronica Chastaigne's request would be fulfilled, and it was stimulating to be a part of the operation that would fulfil it. Mrs Pargeter felt free and irresponsible, almost skittish.

‘One of the best examples of Rubens's mature period,' Palings Price was saying. ‘The model was his second wife Hélène Fourment.'

‘It's stunning,' Mrs Pargeter agreed. ‘My husband would really have loved it.'

‘Why particularly?' asked HRH.

‘Well, obviously, because he liked his women—' But no. She checked herself. That was private. ‘This was the sort of thing he liked,' she concluded lightly.

‘Oh. Right.'

Mrs Pargeter felt the need to move the conversation hastily on. ‘Where was it stolen from?'

‘Pantheon Gallery, Berne. In 1982,' said Palings Price. He pointed to the Madonnas. ‘Those two were taken at the same time. Big fuss when it happened. All over the international press.'

‘I'll bet it was.'

HRH ran a thoughtful hand through his splendid moustache. ‘Odd that the three paintings the thieves left at Chastaigne Varleigh should be from the same haul . . .'

‘Yes.' Mrs Pargeter seized on the thought. ‘Suggests they knew quite a lot about what they were dealing with.'

But Palings Price, who was after all an expert in these matters, was unconvinced. ‘Not necessarily,' he said. ‘Could just be coincidence.'

‘Hmm.' Mrs Pargeter sighed a contented little sigh. ‘We'll probably know more when Truffler's tracked down the rest of the stuff that was stolen.'

‘You sound very confident that he'll find it.'

‘Well, of course he will, Palings. Truffler's the best in the business, isn't he?'

‘That's true.'

Mrs Pargeter looked again at the paintings. ‘Well, at least we've got these three, so we can make a start. Do you reckon there's going to be any problem getting these back to where they came from, HRH?'

The travel agent's magnificent mane of white hair shook confidently. ‘No. Berne'll be easy. Fritzi the Finger's based in Salzburg. Your husband got him out of a few spots. He'll be honoured to help, won't he, Palings?'

‘Absolutely. This sort of job's meat and drink to him, anyway.'

HRH was thoughtful for a moment. ‘No, the only problem will be finding a courier to get the goods out of this country . . .'