Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour (15 page)

‘You mean we can go?' asked Deirdre, scarcely able to believe their luck.

‘Yes, sure. You can—' He was interrupted by a tone from the radio telephone he had clipped to his belt. ‘Excuse me a moment. Hello?' he said into the phone. ‘Who? Sergeant Hughes? No, I don't know who you are . . .'

‘Drive off,' Deirdre Winthrop hissed at her husband.

‘What?'

‘Drive
off
!'

‘Oh, really?' said the Customs Officer, with a new significance in his tone. ‘Yes, I will.' His eyes narrowed as he looked back at the Winthrops. ‘If you'd be so kind as to wait a little longer, there are just a couple of things I'd like to check . . .'

‘Oh,
Reg
!' Deirdre murmured in anguish.

Inspector Wilkinson sat at his desk, running his tongue along his top lip. His moustache, he decided, was nearly long enough to chew. What should he do – trim it that evening when he got home, or let it grow until he'd got something that was really worth chewing? God, life was difficult. Decisions, decisions. It was no fun being a senior detective.

His telephone rang. He resented the intrusion. He'd rather it had rung
after
he'd made the decision about whether or not to trim his moustache.

He deliberately let the phone ring on while he lit another cigarette, then answered it. ‘Hello? Wilkinson.'

‘It's Sergeant Hughes, sir.'

‘Oh yes? I thought it was your day off.'

‘It is, sir. I'm in Dover.'

‘Nipping over the Channel on a quick booze cruise, are you?'

‘No, sir. I'm working.'

Wilkinson was appalled. ‘On your day off?' That kind of thing hadn't happened in the Inspector's young day.

‘Yes, sir. I've been following up a lead on the art thefts.'

‘Hughes, I have told you before.
I
am in charge of this case. In our business, if you have lots of different people running off in all directions without telling anyone . . . well, anarchy ensues.'

‘I know, sir, but—'

‘Everyone should know their place. I mean, what would have happened to this great country of ours throughout its history if people hadn't done what they were told? A good copper obeys orders. All the great men of our history have obeyed orders. Alfred the Great, Drake, Nelson—'

‘Actually, Nelson didn't.'

‘What?'

‘Nelson was quite famous for not obeying orders, sir. In the summer of 1799, he was ordered to take his ships to Minorca, but he thought the French threat would be towards Naples, so he disobeyed. And then, of course, at the Battle of Copenhagen in 1801, he famously raised the telescope to his blind eye and said, “I really do not see the signal”, and then—'

‘All right, Hughes,' Wilkinson interrupted testily, ‘
all right
! There's another thing you should remember if you're hoping to get anywhere in the Police Force.'

‘And what's that, sir?'

‘Nobody likes a smart-arse.' Wilkinson harrumphed, removed his cigarette to offload its accumulation of ash, and ran the tip of his tongue along the line of his moustache.

‘But, sir, I've been following a lead, and it's led somewhere!'

‘Well, that's a novelty in this business,' said the Inspector sarcastically. ‘What lead is this, Hughes?'

‘You know I've been going back through the old files connected with the art thefts . . .'

‘I thought I told you to stop doing that.'

Sergeant Hughes ignored the reprimand and went on, ‘Well, I came across this reference to a top-level informant . . .'

‘Are you talking about the one who called himself “Posey Narker”?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Inspector Wilkinson let out a world-weary sigh. ‘Sergeant, Posey Narker has long since gone to ground. There's been nothing heard from him since the death of the late Mr Pargeter.'

‘I know that, sir, but I still thought it might be worth ringing his number.'

‘Why?'

‘Just on the off chance.'

‘
Just on the off chance
?' The repetition dripped with scorn. ‘Hughes, a good copper doesn't do anything just on the off chance. A good copper works things out in detail, he plans, he uses his intellect. Good heavens, where do you think the Met would be if all our detectives went around doing things just on the off chance? Can you name a single occasion on which anyone got a result from doing something just on the off chance?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘When?'

‘I got a result this morning, sir, just on the off chance.' Hughes couldn't keep the crowing note out of his voice.

‘Oh, did you?'

‘As I said, I rang the number for Posey Narker just on the off chance, and early this morning I had a call back. Untraceable, mobile number he was calling from, but he gave me some very useful information.'

‘Really, Hughes?' Inspector Wilkinson spoke as if to an overtired five-year-old. ‘Well, you follow up on that lead when you're next on duty, eh? For today, this is what I want you to do: you go straight back home, have a nice relaxing afternoon, watch some sport on the telly perhaps . . . and come in tomorrow morning ready for a proper – and authorized – day's work.'

‘I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I can't leave Dover.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I've found three of the missing paintings, sir.'

‘WHAT!!!?'

‘Interview with Mr Reginald Winthrop conducted at Dover Police Station on 17 September. Also present Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson, Detective Sergeant Hercule Hughes . . . Funny, I didn't know you were called Hercule.'

The Sergeant blushed. ‘My mother was a great fan of Agatha Christie, sir.'

‘And saw you becoming a great detective too, eh?'

‘I'm not sure that—'

‘A great detective is one who is prepared to put in a lot of hard slog – and also one who obeys orders, Hughes. Oh, it's fine for your amateur Belgians with fatuous curly moustaches to keep going off at tangents and “following their instincts”, “listening to the little grey cells”, but a good copper does what he's told and when he's—'

‘Sir,' Sergeant Hughes whispered, ‘this is all going on tape.'

‘Yes, yes, of course it is. Mmm.' Wilkinson cleared his throat. ‘Interview commenced at 3.17 p.m.'

The Inspector gazed into space, apparently not seeing the nervous man in a beret who sat on the other side of the table. The silence lengthened, until Sergeant Hughes made a pointed cough.

‘Hmm?' Wilkinson seemed to have difficulty dragging himself back from his reverie. In fact, it had been prompted by something he himself had said. ‘Fatuous curly moustaches'. Maybe on him that kind of thing wouldn't look fatuous. If he didn't trim his for months and trained it and covered it with pomade . . . whatever pomade might be – apple juice, he wondered . . . anyway, if he did all that, the effect might suit him rather well. And people would certainly remember what he looked like. Perhaps it was through his physical appearance that Craig Wilkinson could make his mark . . .?

‘Don't you think we should get on with the interview?' Hughes prompted again.

‘What? Oh yes.' Wilkinson fixed the painter with a beady eye. VVO looked away shiftily. ‘Mr Winthrop, we have talked at length to your wife, who maintains that she knew nothing about the contents of the van, other than the holiday luggage and other equipment whose packing she supervised. She says she knew there were three of your paintings in the back, and assumed that you had packed them with a view to trying to open up new markets for their sale on the continent. She denies knowing that there were expensive Old Masters hidden behind your artwork. And . . .' the Inspector concluded, ‘I am inclined to believe her. For that reason, she has been released from our custody.'

‘Yes, I know that,' said VVO grumpily.

‘I know you know that, but I am merely reiterating it so that all information that might be required is recorded on the tape. Now, Mr Winthrop, although I am convinced of your wife's innocence, I have yet to be in the same happy state with regard to your own involvement. I find it very hard to believe that you were unaware of what you were carrying in that camper van.'

‘Well, I was. I've told you. Why don't you listen?'

‘I do listen, Mr Winthrop, but I'm afraid what I hear does not leave me any more convinced. Whoever framed those pictures of yours must've known that the other paintings were fixed behind them. Of course, we will be checking the frames for fingerprints . . .'

VVO hadn't considered that possibility. It really could screw things up; he had no doubt his fingerprints were all over everything. Still, they hadn't checked them yet. If he kept on protesting his innocence, maybe they could be persuaded to believe him. It was a long shot, he knew, but he had to play for time. Once Truffler Mason and the others heard what had happened, he was sure they could start some kind of damage limitation operation. His own stupidity, the arrogant assumption that he could sail so close to the wind and get away with it, had landed him in this pickle, and now it was up to him to ensure that he didn't make the situation any worse. The main thing, he knew, was not to mention any names of other people involved.

VVO brought himself back to the present. Inspector Wilkinson was speaking again. ‘Maybe you have some explanation of how the paintings got to be there, Mr Winthrop . . .? If you do, I'd be fascinated to hear it.'

‘I bought them like that,' he replied brazenly. ‘I usually buy canvases ready prepared, and those three must've had the stolen paintings hidden in them before they came into my possession.'

‘I see,' said the Inspector, in a way that suggested he didn't see at all. ‘Well, of course we can check with your supplier. Was it the place you usually use?'

‘Yes.'

‘Could we have the name, please?'

VVO gave it, thinking that when – if ever – he got out of his current mess, there was one highly respectable artists' materials supplier he wouldn't be able to use again. Still, it was all taking time, all part of his delaying tactics.

‘Incidentally,' the Sergeant suddenly interposed, ‘you described them as “stolen” paintings, Mr Winthrop. Neither of us said they were stolen. How did you know?'

The older detective looked daggers at his subordinate. ‘The very question
I
had been about to ask, Hughes – if you'd given me time.'

‘Sorry, sir.'

Wilkinson stared again into the artist's eyes. VVO again turned away. ‘So, Mr Winthrop, how did you know they were stolen?'

Bluster seemed to be the appropriate response. ‘Simple, old-fashioned common sense, Inspector! How many Old Masters do you know of which aren't either in museums or private ownership? And on the rare occasions they are moved around, it's in security vans, not stuffed down the back of other paintings. Of course they were stolen!'

‘You may have a point,' Wilkinson conceded.

Sergeant Hughes leant forward. ‘Does the name “Pargeter” mean anything to you, Mr Winthrop?'

‘Will you please not interrupt, Hughes!' the Inspector snapped. ‘I am the senior officer present. I should dicate the direction this interview takes.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. I just thought, possibly catching him off guard with a sudden question might—'

‘You've watched too many cop shows, Sergeant.' Wilkinson turned to VVO with a polite smile. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘No problem.'

‘Right,' the Inspector went on. ‘Does the name “Pargeter” mean anything to you, Mr Winthrop?'

‘As in “Mrs Pargeter”,' Sergeant Hughes added eagerly.

‘No, Hughes, not as in “Mrs Pargeter”. As in “Mr Pargeter”, Mr Winthrop?'

‘No.'

‘If I'd said “Mrs Pargeter”, would that have meant any more?'

‘No.'

‘What about the name “Bennie Logan”? Does that mean anything to you?'

‘No.'

‘Fritzi the Finger?'

‘No.'

Hmm, thought Inspector Wilkinson ruefully, this is going to take a long time. VVO, though with rather more glee, had exactly the same thought.

Wilkinson ran a finger along the line of his moustache. Maybe he should trim it, after all.

Mrs Pargeter put the newspaper down ruefully. She'd read the report, and it had brought home to her the extent of her short-sightedness. Someone called Reginald Winthrop had been arrested for trying to smuggle stolen paintings out of the country. ‘Well, I'm sorry,' was all she could find to say.

‘It wasn't your fault, Mrs Pargeter,' said Hamish Ramon Henriques gallantly.

‘No, of course it wasn't,' the loyal Truffler Mason agreed.

‘Yes, it was.' She looked around HRH's office, the expression on her face as near as it ever got to gloomy. Through the half-open door, she could see neatly uniformed Sharons and Laurens and Karens busy about their business. Mrs Pargeter sighed. ‘I shouldn't have given VVO the job. I was guilty of sentimentality.'

HRH shrugged. ‘Well . . .'

She continued her self-recrimination. ‘My husband wouldn't have made that mistake.'

‘Perhaps not.'

‘“In dealings with employees,” he always said, “be always compassionate, but never indulgent.” And of course, as ever, he was right. Don't worry, I'll learn,' said Mrs Pargeter through gritted teeth.

‘Of course you will,' the travel agent reassured.

‘I've spoken to Deirdre Winthrop. I thought she'd be absolutely devastated, but in fact she's too angry for that. “Serve Reg bloody well right!” were her precise words. “That'll teach him to try and play the hero. What did he imagine – that his flirting with danger was going to turn me on? He should know by now, after twenty-four years of marriage, the only thing that turns me on is a nice quiet life.” Of course she didn't know anything about the paintings in the back of the van.'