Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour (22 page)

‘What was really strange about it . . .' the Inspector went on thoughtfully, ‘was that only today, I got involved in another case which bore distinct similarities to the Chelmsford operation.'

‘How very odd,' said Mrs Pargeter, all wide-eyed interest. ‘You said there was a second occasion when you had rather bad luck . . .?'

‘Yes. This was again acting on a tip-off . . .'

‘From Posey Narker?'

Wilkinson nodded. ‘This time I would have got the whole gang. Mr Pargeter was planning a really big raid on a Hatton Garden jewellers. It was going to involve every single person who'd ever worked for him. I could have arrested the lot of them. Whole thing was set up, I'd made detailed plans to entrap them, and . . .'

‘And what?' asked Mrs Pargeter, knowing the answer.

‘And the raid never happened. Mr Pargeter died just before they were due to start.'

‘Ah.' She looked a trifle misty-eyed. ‘I see.'

‘Anyway . . .' Craig Wilkinson shook himself out of his retrospective mood. ‘That's all in the past. So far as I'm concerned, all failure is in the past. Because now I have you. And together we can ensure that everything in the rest of our lives is successful.'

‘Ye-es.' Mrs Pargeter began cautiously. ‘When you say “now you have me” . . .'

‘Sorry.' The Inspector chuckled. ‘Jumping the gun a bit there perhaps. Yes, we should get the formalities out of the way first, shouldn't we? Right, here's the official proposal. Do you want me to go down on my knees?'

‘Certainly not. Not on this carpet.'

‘Right.' He looked straight into the violet-blue eyes. ‘Mrs Pargeter, will you marry me?'

‘Oh . . .' Looking at him with an expression that mingled pity, anguish and confusion, and lying through her teeth, she replied, ‘That's one of the most difficult questions I've ever had to answer. You're a fine man, Craig . . .'

‘I know.' He nodded complacently. ‘You said that once before.'

‘Did I?'

‘Yes. When we met for that drink in Greene's Hotel. You told me that I belonged to a fine body of men, and that I was a fine man myself . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘. . . and that was the first time I realized that you felt the same way about me as I did about you.'

‘Ah. Erm, Craig . . . Yes, yes, you are a fine man, and—' she lied again, ‘there are women all over the world who would give their eye-teeth to have an offer like the one you've just made to me . . .'

He nodded, stroking the line of his moustache with satisfaction.

‘. . . and I really wish that I could say yes to your proposal . . .'

‘You can. It's easy. Just say it.'

‘I'm sorry. I can't.'

‘Why ever not?'

‘Because I'm in love with someone else.'

‘What?' Inspector Wilkinson looked as if he'd been punched in the face. ‘Then I'll go and meet this “someone else” face to face and I'll—'

‘No. No, Craig, you can't,' she said gently. ‘No one can meet him face to face. You see, he's dead.'

‘Oh.'

‘I'm sorry.' And Mrs Pargeter moved away from lies to the complete truth, as she went on, ‘I'm talking about my late husband. He was a wonderful man. We loved each other and had a perfect marriage. And, though sometimes it almost annoys me, the fact remains that I can never love another man. There was only ever going to be one love in my life. I've been fortunate enough to have had that, to have enjoyed it for many years, and I know it can never happen again.'

There was moisture in Mrs Pargeter's eyes, and it caught a reflected gleam in Craig Wilkinson's. ‘I see,' he said flatly. ‘Well, that's it really, isn't it?'

‘I'm afraid it is.'

‘Your husband, Mrs Pargeter, was a very lucky man.' She nodded. ‘And he must have been a very good man, to inspire such devotion.'

‘He was,' she agreed. ‘He was a very good man indeed.'

Wilkinson nodded ruefully. ‘So you will never be mine. That's not going to be the way I make my mark on the world.'

‘No. I'm afraid it isn't. Still,' she said encouragingly, ‘maybe things'll pick up in your professional life.'

Inspector Wilkinson let out a hollow laugh. ‘Yes, I can just see it. No,' he continued, cast down in gloom, ‘some people are destined to pass through life without making any mark at all, and I'm afraid I'm one of them.'

‘Oh . . .' said Mrs Pargeter, trying desperately to think of something that could ease the awkwardness of the situation.

A sound like a choke emerged from Craig Wilkinson's mouth, and she realized to her horror that he was fighting back tears. And he wasn't of the generation who would allow themselves to be seen crying by a woman. He rose to his feet.

‘I must go,' he announced abruptly, and walked out of the restaurant.

Leaving his folder on the table in front of him.

Mrs Pargeter reached across casually and picked it up.

The waiter/owner/cook, alerted by the sound of the door closing, emerged from the dark recesses of his kitchen. ‘Are you ready to order now?' he grunted.

‘No,' said Mrs Pargeter, extricating herself from her bench seat. ‘I don't think I'd ever be ready to order in a restaurant like this, thank you very much.'

And, clutching Sergeant Hughes's folder to her ample bosom, she walked out. Thank goodness there was still time for her to get a decent, pampering dinner at Greene's Hotel.

‘Who'd you say had compiled this little lot?' asked Truffler Mason, when he'd finished reading the contents of the folder.

‘His name's Sergeant Hughes. He's been working with Inspector Wilkinson.'

The private investigator nodded. ‘Well, he's a bright boy. Far too bright a boy to be working in the Police Force. If they start recruiting many more people of this calibre, there's going to be a whole lot of nice, smooth-running apple-carts upset.'

They were sitting in the Greene's Hotel bar. Mrs Pargeter had summoned Truffler as soon as she got back to her suite, but he hadn't arrived until after she'd finished her dinner (delicious, the perfect therapy after the rather melodramatic encounter she'd just experienced). Truffler made do with smoked salmon sandwiches, and it seemed silly for them not to be sharing a postprandial bottle of champagne. So that's what they were doing.

Mrs Pargeter had flicked through the contents of the folder, and immediately decided it needed more expert scrutiny, which was why she'd called Truffler.

‘No,' he went on, ‘so long as we're dealing with dumbos like Craggy Wilkinson, we don't have a problem. He'd get the wrong end of the stick in a relay race.'

‘Yes,' Mrs Pargeter agreed with feeling.

‘But Sergeant Hughes is clearly something else.' Truffler shook the sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘This stuffs dynamite. Got to see that it's suppressed somehow. I mean, this could do a lot of harm to a lot of people.'

‘There were rather too many familiar names in there, weren't there?'

‘Yes.' Truffler looked aggrieved. ‘And it's not as if any of them're villains. All been going absolutely straight since your husband died. All good, upright citizens doing their bit for society. No, it'd be a tragedy if any of these blokes got hassle about stuff that happened such a long time ago. A real tragedy.'

‘I agree. So what're we going to do about it? Can Jukebox Jarvis get into the police computer again and make a few changes?'

‘That may be the answer . . . so long as the boy wonder actually did this on the office computer. If he did it on a personal laptop or something, then we may have to get Keyhole Crabbe to pay a visit to wherever he lives.'

‘It'll be all right, won't it?' asked Mrs Pargeter anxiously.

‘Course it'll be all right. Best thing we've got going for us is still the fact that old Craggy Wilkinson's in charge of the case. Unless he's undergone a total character transplant, he's not going to like having some smart-arse Sergeant as a sidekick. Like all deeply stupid people, there's nothing he hates more than dealing with someone who's intelligent. I think there's a very strong chance that Wilkinson'll suppress this entire dossier without us having to do a thing.'

‘It would be wonderful if that happened, wouldn't it?'

‘Yes, it would, Mrs P. In the meantime there are other things we can do by way of damage limitation.'

‘Good.' Mrs Pargeter grinned. ‘And of course there was some information in the folder we didn't know, did we?'

‘That is very true.'

‘Particularly about Posey Narker. Information on the informant.'

‘Right,' said Truffler grimly. ‘Glad we've finally got him identified.'

‘Very interesting, wasn't it? And it makes sense of quite a few odd details. Clarifies the Rod D'Acosta connection at least.'

‘And the connection with the other gentleman,' said Truffler. He looked at his watch. ‘I asked Gary to bring the car round at ten. That is, if you don't mind another trip out, Mrs P . . .?'

‘Mind? Of course I don't mind. I wouldn't want to miss this bit, Truffler.'

Gary's limousine waited outside the exclusive mansion block, while Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason approached the tall portico and pressed the entry-phone button.

‘Yes?' Even through the crackle from the small speaker, the voice was easily identifiable.

‘Mr Chastaigne, my name is Mrs Pargeter.'

‘I don't think I know you,' Ibby Chastaigne's voice crackled back.

‘No, I don't think you do. But I want to talk to you about Rod D'Acosta.'

Toby Chastaigne's pudgy face looked tense and drawn while he closed the sliding grille. As the lift jolted into action, his eyes avoided those of his visitors.

‘The fact is,' said Mrs Pargeter easily, ‘the police are holding Mr D'Acosta and his merry men . . .'

‘What's that to me?'

‘Well, I was just thinking that the D'Acosta gang might well be prepared to talk about who their pay-master was . . .'

‘I still don't understand what you're getting at.'

The lift stopped at the second floor. Toby Chastaigne opened the double grilles and led Mrs Pargeter and Truffler to the front door of his flat.

‘What I'm getting at,' Mrs Pargeter continued evenly, ‘is the fact that I believe you were behind the theft of the paintings from Chastaigne Varleigh.'

‘That's nonsense,' Toby Chastaigne snorted, reaching into his pocket for keys. ‘I disapproved of my mother having them in the first place.'

‘I think you were intending to sell them illegally and take the profits.'

‘But I wouldn't begin to know how to sell paintings illegally.'

As he spoke, Toby Chastaigne pushed open the front door and ushered them into his flat. Mrs Pargeter looked around with interest. The charcoal-grey walls and the uncomfortable-looking metal furniture were informatively familiar.

‘No,' she said, looking straight into the flat-owner's eyes, ‘I agree you wouldn't know how to sell them yourself. But I think you know someone who could do it for you.'

Mrs Pargeter and Truffler sat in the back, as the limousine eased away from the mansion block where Toby Chastaigne lived.

‘I'm sorry,' said the private investigator. ‘I should've been on to Palings sooner.'

‘It doesn't matter.' Mrs Pargeter looked thoughtful as other bits of the jigsaw slotted into place. ‘It explains why the D'Acosta boys moved in on the paintings when they did, though. Palings must've tipped them off about our plans.'

‘Yes.' Truffler joined in the piecing-together. ‘And it was him who encouraged you to send VVO as courier.'

‘Trying to put another spanner in our works, hmm. I still feel stupid about that. Behaved like a real softie there. No, Palings took advantage of me.'

‘Not only of you, Mrs P,' said Truffler grimly. ‘He took advantage of your husband and all.'

‘Yes.'

‘If he was Posey Narker from the start . . . It doesn't bear thinking of, the number of operations he nearly ruined. We all thought it was strange the way the cops kept second-guessing us. No, we was lucky. But for the fact that old Craggy Wilkinson was in charge in most of the cases, we could have had real problems. Any DI who wasn't one carnation short of a bouquet would have done for the lot of us. Palings Price has got a lot to answer for.'

There was a silence, before, with his large hands tensed on his thighs and a shadow of menace in his voice, Truffler Mason asked, ‘What do you want done about him?'

‘Palings?'

He nodded. ‘He's been a naughty boy, and naughty boys have to be punished.'

‘Oh,' said Mrs Pargeter airily, ‘for the time being, I think we can leave that to the police. The D'Acosta boys will put them on to Toby, and Toby's bound to implicate Palings. So he'll soon be safely in custody.'

The huge hands on Thiffler's thighs relaxed. ‘You're a very forgiving woman, Mrs Pargeter.'

‘No, Thiffler,' she corrected him piously. ‘Just a good citizen who has great faith in the British legal system.'

And Mrs Pargeter smiled serenely.

But the private investigator had caught another undercurrent in her tone. ‘You said “for the time being” Palings could be left to the police . . .'

‘Yes.'

‘Meaning that you might have other plans for dealing with him later . . .?'

‘Meaning exactly that, Truffler, yes.'

‘Can't tell me what, can you?'

She gave an apologetic shake of the head. ‘Sorry. Not quite yet. I'm still just working out the details.'

Gary's limousine, as ever having a charmed life so far as traffic wardens were concerned, was parked on the double yellow lines directly outside the law courts, so the chauffeur had a perfect view of the happy scene that unfolded before him.