Mrs, Presumed Dead (18 page)

'. . . but the fact remains that six months ago I was feeling pretty bad about it, pretty vulnerable . . .'

'I'm sure you were. So probably you didn't respond to Rod quite as you would have done under normal circumstances . . . ?'

Vivvi seemed very grateful to Mrs Pargeter for spelling this out.

'Exactly. That was it. Under normal circumstances I would have just slapped his hand or . . . but, well, as I say I was feeling vulnerable . . .'

'And fairly angry, too, I should think.'

'Oh yes, extremely angry. So . . .'

'I don't think anyone could have blamed you,' said Mrs Pargeter comfortingly.

'No. Well, I certainly had been provoked.'

'I'll say. Tit-for-tat's pretty reasonable in my book.'

'Yes. Oh, you're very understanding, Mrs Pargeter. It really is a pleasure for me to unburden myself to someone. I've been bottling it all up and, you know, well, particularly now, after what's happened . . .'

'Yes.'

'And, I mean, Rod was a very attractive man.'

'I'm sure he was.' But all Mrs Pargeter could see in her mind's eye was the hunched, decrepit figure on the bench in Embankment Gardens.

'And, you know, he got me very relaxed and . . .'

'What, he gave you a drink?'

'Yes.' Vivvi Sprake giggled mischievously. 'Not just a drink . . .'

'Oh?'

Once again the monosyllable worked a treat. 'Recreational drugs, Mrs Pargeter.'

'Ah.'

'Cocaine.'

'Really?'

'Well, Rod was in a very stressful job, you know.'

'Yes.' Even more stressful when he lost it.

'So, anyway,' Vivvi went on, 'one thing led to another . . .'

'Or
the
other . . . ?' Mrs Pargeter offered cheekily.

Vivvi giggled. 'Yes. Exactly.'

'Just the once, was it?'

'Well . . .' She blushed. 'Once or twice. Four times, actually.'

'Oh. And did your husband ever find out?'

'No. Oh, good heavens, no. No, Nigel'd kill me if he ever found out. He's got a terrible temper.' The younger woman looked suddenly frightened. 'Mrs Pargeter, you must promise me you'll never breathe a word about this. I shouldn't have told you.'

'Don't worry. Nothing goes beyond these four walls,' Mrs Pargeter reassured her. Then suddenly she asked, 'What about Theresa?'

'Theresa?'

'Did she know about it?'

Vivvi coloured. 'No. Of course not.' But for the first time that morning, she seemed anxious to move the conversation on, rather than to linger lovingly on its details. Mrs Pargeter had a shrewd suspicion she knew what had been said when Theresa Cotton visited 'Haymakers' on the night she died.

'But the affair didn't continue . . . ?'

'No. Well, Rod started his new job and, you know, I said it ought to end . . .'

'Of course,' said Mrs Pargeter, reading between the lines and understanding that it was Rod who had said it ought to end.

Vivvi seemed suddenly struck by remorse. 'And now he's dead,' she said, wallowing in the emotion of the thought.

'Yes.'

'But, Mrs Pargeter,' she went on with sudden alarm, 'you won't breathe a word about this to anyone, will you?'

'No, of course not.'

'I shouldn't have told you.'

'Don't worry. As I said, none of it will go any further than these four walls. Promise.'

Vivvi looked relieved. 'Oh thank you, Mrs Pargeter.'

'No problem. One thing . . . ?' she added diffidently.

'Yes?'

'While this affair was going on, did you meet in the Cottons' house?'

'Good heavens, no.' Vivvi sounded appalled by the idea. 'What, have an affair in Smithy's Loam?' She spoke reverentially, as if referring to holy ground. 'Everyone'd know immediately. No, we went to a motel.'

'What, even the first time?'

'Yes. I mean, he made the pass in the house, that's when he made the suggestion, but then we agreed to meet for lunch later in the week . . .'

'At the motel?'

'Yes.' Vivvi blushed at the recollection. 'God, I felt terrible that week.'

'Hm, yes, well, I suppose you would.' Mrs Pargeter thought for a moment. 'And, Vivvi, after Rod started his new job, did you ever try to contact him?'

'In York?'

'Mm.'

'Well, I did think about it, yes, but, I don't know, I decided it probably wasn't a good idea. You know, when something's finished . . .'

'Yes . . .'

'I mean, once
I'd
decided it was finished . . .'

'Yes, of course,' said Mrs Pargeter cosily. 'Very sensible.'

She felt convinced that Vivvi Sprake had believed completely in Rod Cotton's new job in York. So that answered the question which had prompted Mrs Pargeter to set up the interview.

On the other hand, their conversation had also raised some new questions.

Very interesting questions, to Mr Pargeter's way of thinking.

CHAPTER 32

That evening Mrs Pargeter lay long in a hot bath, still thinking about the murder in Smithy's Loam. Slowly, she once again went through all the elements of the case, testing them out, linking facts and pulling them tight, checking out whether there were any holes in her logic, any details she was missing out.

But nothing new came to her, no blinding insight into the identity of Theresa Cotton's killer. Everything else in the case made sense; the shape, the outline was clear; but there remained a great hole at the centre. One unanswered question: who had actually done it?

Mrs Pargeter had narrowed down the list of suspects. She was now convinced that Theresa Cotton had been killed by one of the women in Smithy's Loam. And that the reason for the murder was something that had been said during Theresa's conscience-clearing circuit of the other houses in the close early on the evening she died.

To all of the women she had revealed that she knew secrets about them. But to one the secret was so important that she was prepared to kill to keep it quiet.

Mrs Pargeter was slowly building up a list of what those secrets might be, but as yet her list was incomplete.

When she got out of the bath and wrapped herself in a sheet-size bath towel, Mrs Pargeter felt cold. There was a draught coming from behind the curtain. Must have left the fanlight open.

She reached up to release the prop that held the window ajar, but it wouldn't budge. She climbed up on a bathroom chair and, with the curtain bunching round her like a cloak, tried to shift the jammed lock.

It gave after a moment's effort and she closed the window. She was just about to step down from the chair when she saw something that froze her where she was.

The bathroom was on the side of the house, facing the Temples'. Up to fanlight level, the window glass was discreetly frosted, but above that it was plain. And through this plain glass Mrs Pargeter could see into Carole and Gregory Temple's bedroom.

The curtains were only half-drawn, which was strange.

But not as strange as what Mrs Pargeter could see through them.

She saw a backview which must be Carole, though somehow it didn't look like Carole. Anyway, surely she had seen Carole's car leaving just before running her bath . . . ?

And why would Carole be dressing up so elaborately and preening herself in front of the mirror? She was wearing a low-backed red satin cocktail dress, stockings and silver high-heeled shoes. The ensemble didn't conform with her customary rather dour style of dress.

Still, perhaps she was going out to some smart function in the near future and was just testing the effect.

But the way she was preening and parading in front of the mirror also seemed at odds with what Mrs Pargeter knew of her neighbour's character. There was something strange in her movements, too. Could Carole Temple possibly be drunk?

Suddenly the figure in front of the mirror turned to check the straightness of her stocking seams in the mirror.

It wasn't the unaccustomed heaviness of the make-up that took Mrs Pargeter by surprise – it was the moustache.

The oddness of the figure was suddenly explained. It wasn't Carole Temple who was preening herself in the red cocktail dress – it was her husband, Gregory.

Hmm, thought Mrs Pargeter, now that
is
interesting.

Suppose Theresa Cotton had witnessed a similar parade on a previous evening when Carole Temple had been out . . .

And suppose she had told Carole Temple what she had seen . . .

Might not that be the sort of secret that should be kept from spreading amongst the other residents of Smithy's Loam?

CHAPTER 33

'God, that bloody girl!' said Sue Curle, relaxing as she made her way down the second of Mrs Pargeter's generous gin and tonics. 'She's just so disorganised. I mean suddenly there's this flap last week because she's forgotten about her visa and it's about to run out, and so I get this panic call at the office, because she's got to go up to the Norwegian Embassy and she can't leave the kids and . . .' She growled. 'God, it is nearly impossible to hold down a job and run a home at the same time.'

'I thought an
au pair
was supposed to make it possible.'

'Huh!' was all that idea was thought to deserve.

'But at least everything's all right at work, isn't it . . . ?' asked Mrs Pargeter cautiously.

'I suppose so . . . when I'm there. When I don't keep getting called back home on idiotic errands.'

'Yes. Actually, Sue, I don't even know what it is you do . . . ?'

'Market research company.'

'Local, obviously.'

'Yes, in Dorking. Started up by a bloke I used to work with before I got nailed down by marriage and children. He went on his own about five years back and it all seems to be going well. Get market research right and you can't fail.'

'A lot of companies do fail, though, don't they?'

'Ah, yes, but that's because they
don't
get it right. Geoff – that's my boss – is a very shrewd operator. Knows what he's doing. If a firm's doing badly, he persuades them that they need market research to find out
why
they're doing badly. If they're doing well, he persuades them they need it to do even better.'

'Sounds good. And of course it must be nice for you working with people you know.'

'Oh, I don't know him that well,' said Sue dismissively.

'No, but at least if you're with congenial people . . .'

'Huh. I don't think Geoff could ever be described as congenial,' said Sue with some vigour. 'He's an absolute pig to work for. Typical male. Good at the job, but very exhausting to be with. No, I'm just very relieved to get away from the office as soon as possible every night.'

'But the hours do seem to be long,' suggested Mrs Pargeter. 'I mean, I quite often see your car coming back round nine, half-past'

'Yes, well, we do get very busy. When you're a relatively new set-up, you can't afford to turn any work down. There aren't many of us in the company, anyway. And I think perhaps Geoff has to work a bit harder than the opposition.'

'Why's that?'

'Well, he's coloured. Born in Jamaica. It's a terrible thing to say, but I'm afraid there still is a bit of prejudice, even in a place like this.'

'Oh, really?' said Mrs Pargeter, keeping to herself the thoughts which had suddenly been set buzzing about her head. Time to change the subject. 'Any nearer getting your divorce through, are you?'

This got another of Sue's bitter little 'Huh's. 'No, that bastard is dragging everything out for as long as possible. Never marry a lawyer, Mrs Pargeter.'

'I don't think I'm really likely to at my age.' It wasn't just age that was a bar, now she came to think of it. Certain basic differences of attitude on certain issues might lead to marital discord, too.

'No. Well, don't,' said Sue grimly. 'That would be my advice to anyone of any age. Because the Law is just a system of institutionalised delay and if you've got a lawyer against you in a divorce, he can keep on finding loopholes and legal quirks and quibbles until you're almost driven mad. And if he happens to be the person you're trying to divorce . . . huh, well, it's even worse.'

'It must be very frustrating for you.'

'You can say that again. And nothing's sacred to a bloody lawyer. He's quite happy for all the secrets of our marriage to be dragged through the courts.'

'Doesn't your husband actually want to get divorced?'

'He says he doesn't. Treated me like a dog all the time we were together and then, when I kick him out, suddenly he becomes all maudlin and pathetic and keeps on about how he misses the kids and . . . huh, snivelling little wimp.'

'So is he fighting you for custody of the kids?'

'He's trying to. Mind you, he won't succeed. I'll see to that. There is no way I'm going to allow that bum to have more to do with
my
children than is absolutely necessary.' Sue Curle made this pronouncement with an intensity that was almost frightening.

Time to shift the subject again. 'Well, lots of luck, Sue. I'm sure it'll work out for you.'

'Bloody well hope so.' She suddenly remembered something. 'Ooh, Mrs Pargeter. Next Monday.'

'What about it?'

'Put it in your diary. I'm going to have this meeting about the Indian restaurant.'

'What, your Women's Action Group thing?'

'That's it. Six o'clock my place. Before the husbands get home. You will come, won't you?'

'Well, yes, I'll come. Though I must confess I'm not sure which side I'm on . . .'

'Not sure?' Sue Curle stared at her in amazement. 'There's only one side to be on. We don't want an Indian restaurant on the corner of Smithy's Loam, do we?'

And the contempt she put into the word 'Indian' confirmed her own earlier observation that there really still was a bit of prejudice about.

'Well, Sue, I'll certainly be there. Look forward to it.' Another graceful change of subject was called for. 'Everything settling down a bit now in Smithy's Loam, isn't it?' said Mrs Pargeter pacifically.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, after the murder. I mean, no more policemen popping out asking questions at every turn . . .'

'No.'

'I suppose they are pretty certain that Rod killed her.'

'Seems most likely, doesn't it?'

'Hmm. Goodness, though, they did go on, didn't they? I gather they were asking everyone when they last saw Theresa . . .'

'Well, they have to. That's their job, isn't it?'

'Oh, yes, yes. No, I was quite glad I wasn't living here at the time. After I heard all the questions everyone else had to answer. Enough to make you feel guilty even if you've never done anything wrong in your life.'

Sue Curle didn't join in the chuckle that accompanied this.

'Yes, it seems,' Mrs Pargeter went on, 'that Theresa Cotton went round saying goodbye to everyone in the close . . .'

'Yes,' Sue Curle agreed shortly.

'Oh, I'm sorry.' Mrs Pargeter shook her head at her own stupidity. 'We've had this conversation, haven't we?'

'I believe we did talk about it, yes.'

' 'Cause you said that you'd had to come home early from the office because Kirsten was up in London . . .'

'That's right.'

'And Theresa came to see you . . .'

'Yes.'

'Just to say goodbye . . . ?'

'That's right,' said Sue Curle firmly. 'Just to say goodbye.'