by Simon Brett
‘Ah.’ He looked puzzled, and maybe even a little flattered. ‘Is it?’
‘Yes. Now what is it you’re suspecting me of?’
‘Nothing, madam. No, we’re not suspecting you of anything. It’s just, as I say, the car was seen in a certain vicinity, where a certain event took place, and we are checking to see if anything was witnessed by the owner of this vehicle.’
‘Ah, well . . .’ Mrs Pargeter smiled again. ‘You don’t want to be talking to me then. I’m not the owner of this vehicle.’
‘You’re not?’
‘No, no, this is a hire car. It’s owned by Gary.’
‘Gary?’
She pointed. ‘The chauffeur. The one who’s driving.’
‘Ah, right.’
‘Well, not driving at the moment, but sitting in the driver’s seat.’
‘I see.’ Wilkinson drew back. ‘Sorry to have troubled you, madam.’
‘No trouble at all, Inspector.’ Mrs Pargeter favoured him with the beam of her biggest smile yet. ‘I think the Metropolitan Police are a fine body of men, and if there’s anything I can ever do to help them, I can assure you I’ll do it.’
‘Thank you very much, madam. I wish more members of the public shared that admirable attitude.’
Wilkinson gave Mrs Pargeter a surprisingly long look, then nodded, and she closed the window. The Inspector moved forward and was about to tap on Gary’s window when he noticed it was already down.
‘Anything I can do to help you, Inspector?’
‘Yes, I gather you are the owner of this vehicle?’
‘That is correct, yes.’
‘Well, it was seen in the vicinity of an area where a recent crime took place and—’
‘Which area?’
‘Sorry?’
‘In the vicinity of which area was my car seen?’
‘Ah. Right. It was . . . er . . .’ Wilkinson had another go at improvisation, ‘round Tulse Hill.’
‘And when was this?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘What time of day?’
‘About 3 a.m.’
‘Sorry, no. I haven’t been to lUlse Hill since . . . ooh, I don’t know. Certainly not for the last year.’
‘Ah, right. Well, thank you for your help. And at least I have established to whom this vehicle belongs.’
‘I thought,’ Mrs Pargeter’s cool voice floated in from the back, ‘the police had a computer system to check vehicle ownership.’
‘Well, yes, we do,’ said the Inspector, confused. In fact, if he’d read the printout Sergeant Hughes had given him, he would have known that the car was registered to Gary. But the obvious was never Wilkinson’s way. ‘On the other hand, er,’ he went on, ‘it sometimes pays to double-check.’
‘Why?’
He tapped his nose shrewdly. ‘Computers are not infallible, you know.’
‘So are you saying that sometimes the old traditional methods are best?’
‘Exactly, madam. How very perceptive of you to realize that.’ The Inspector by now had his head halfway through Gary’s window so that she could get the full benefit of his smile. There was a silence.
Eventually Mrs Pargeter broke it. ‘Was there anything else we can do for you, Inspector?’
He seemed miles away. ‘What? Er, no. Nothing of importance. Thank you, I have all the information I require.’
‘Good.’
He continued to grin, with his head halfinside the car, then suddenly recovered himself. ‘Better be on my way.’
‘So should we. Shouldn’t we, Gary?’
‘Certainly should.’
‘But, er . . .’ Wilkinson became once again police-manlike and looked sourly down at Gary. ‘Next time watch parking on the double yellow lines, eh?’
‘Yes, of course, Inspector.’
‘Won’t do anything about it this time, but don’t let me catch you doing it again – right?’
‘Right.’
Still the Inspector didn’t move from the side of the car. ‘I think if that really is it,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘perhaps we’d better be moving on.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Wilkinson stood back. Gary closed his window and eased the limousine away down the road. The Inspector’s eyes followed it pensively into the distance.
‘What do you reckon all that was about?’ Gary asked Mrs Pargeter once they were under way.
‘Goodness knows.’ She chuckled easily. ‘Nothing to worry about, though.’
‘No,’ said Gary. ‘No.’ Then, after a moment he added, not quite reassured, ‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ Mrs Pargeter replied patiently, ‘neither of us has done anything wrong, have we?’
‘No. No, that’s true.’
‘So . . . was it useful?’ asked Sergeant Hughes eagerly when his superior was back in the surveillance car.
‘Oh, yes.’ The Inspector slowly stroked his chin. ‘Oh, yes. It was very useful indeed.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t be too specific on that point. Suffice it to say that there are certain moments, certain encounters in one’s life which one instantly recognizes to be of enormous significance . . .’
‘. . . if one’s a good copper . . .?’ Sergeant Hughes suggested rather sourly.
‘If one is a good copper, yes. And I’ve a feeling that that woman I have just met will prove to be extremely significant.’
‘In the case that we’re working on?’
‘Well, I think I can confidently state . . .’ But the dreamy look in the Inspector’s eye was replaced by his more customary caution. ‘Maybe it’s better I don’t answer that question for the time being.’ The Sergeant’s inward groan of annoyance was very nearly audible. ‘No, Hughes, you just take my word for it – a good copper can recognize when someone is going to be a significant factor in . . . er, any kind of operation.’
‘Yes,’ responded Sergeant Hughes, once again resigned to the role of dumb sidekick. ‘By the way, sir, what was the lady’s name?’
A shadow crossed the Inspector’s craggy face. ‘Do you know, I forgot to ask.’
Chapter Five
The following morning Gary’s limousine eased so effortlessly along the Bayswater Road that his passengers were unaware of the constant stopping and starting necessitated by the heavy traffic. As he drove, the chauffeur gave his view of the Chastaigne Varleigh job. ‘Seems to me, Mrs Pargeter, that we’re going to rather a lot of unnecessary trouble. After Mrs Chastaigne snuffs it, all you need is for someone to call the police and all the paintings’ll get back to their rightful owners anyway.’
Mrs Pargeter nodded. ‘I know, Gary. That’s what her son Ibby’s proposing to do. But Veronica Chastaigne doesn’t want her husband’s memory besmirched after she’s gone.’
‘Oh, right, got you.’ He finessed the limousine down Kensington Church Street. ‘So getting them back before she dies becomes like . . .’
‘Like a point of honour, yes.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Truffler Mason gave a lugubrious grin. ‘We’ll soon get it sorted, Mrs P. Palings Price got the best fine art knowledge in the business.’ He gestured to a narrow shopfront. ‘This is it, Gary.’
The trendily minimalist graphics over the door read: ‘DENZIL PRICE INTERIORS’. The display window was boxed in with severe grey screens. In the centre of the space, illuminated by a hidden pinpoint spotlight, stood one grey steel chair whose sharp-angled design offered all the comfort of a kebab skewer.
Gary had parked on the double yellow lines with the limousine’s back door exactly opposite the shop’s door, and he leapt out to usher Mrs Pargeter across the pavement.
She looked up at the name of the shop and murmured, ‘If it says “Denzil”, why’s he called “Palings” Price?’
‘Well, obvious,’ said Truffler. ‘’Cause he used to be a fence.’
‘Ah.’
The interior of the shop was as starkly minimalist as the window might have led one to expect. The gre
y theme was continued on the walls, floor and ceiling. The only items of furniture the room boasted were three more of the steel chairs and an angular table, clearly by the same designer. All of them showed the priority of artistic originality over comfort and function, and gave Mrs Pargeter the sensation of being in a compound surrounded by barbed wire.
Palings Price wore a voluminous suit which exactly matched the colour of the walls, and a string tie which picked out the steely gleam of the furniture. As he welcomed Truffler and Mrs Pargeter into the shop, he could not totally control a wince at the bright silk print of her dress. It threatened the uniform drabness he had worked so hard to achieve.
He gestured around the room and said, in the kind of aesthetic voice that must have got him punched a good few times at school (assuming of course that he actually had had the voice at school and not just developed it in later life), ‘This, as you see, is the current Denzil Price look.’
‘Ah.’ Mrs Pargeter looked dutifully round, then turned back to the interior designer. ‘Why?’
Palings Price was totally thrown by the question. ‘What do you mean – why?’
‘Why would anyone want to live in a room like this?’
‘Because,’ he asserted with an edge of affront, ‘there are some people around who appreciate style.’ He gestured to the chairs. ‘Please sit down.’
Mrs Pargeter eyed the steel protrusions warily. Though she carried a lot of natural upholstery with her, she still liked a chair to make some contribution of its own. She perched on the griddle that formed the seat, and winced. ‘Ooh, these people who appreciate style don’t appreciate comfort, do they?’
‘I can assure you, Mrs Pargeter,’ said Palings Price, ‘that a lot of people pay me a lot of money to make their houses look like this.’
‘What sort of people?’
The interior designer smiled smugly. ‘People who have everything.’
‘If they’ve got everything—’ Mrs Pargeter took in the vacancy around her, ‘where on earth do they put it?’
‘Elsewhere.’
‘Elsewhere?’
‘Yes.’ He waved his hands airily around the room. ‘This is not a space for putting things in – it’s a space for being in.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Pargeter’s practicality asserted itself. ‘So where do you put things?’
Palings Price hesitated for a moment, unwilling to destroy his illusion, then gave in and opened a grey door that led to the back of the shop. ‘Through here.’
Mrs Pargeter looked with satisfaction at the glory-hole revealed behind the door. There was a clutter of office equipment, old chairs and piled-up files. It lacked the levels of dust, but otherwise owed more to the Truffler Mason than the Denzil Price school of interior design.
‘Ah. That looks more comfy,’ said Mrs Pargeter, and immediately moved through to park her dented rump into the soft recesses of a broken-down armchair.
A few minutes later, Truffler was also ensconced in a comfortable chair in the back room. Only Palings Price looked ill at ease on upholstery. Maybe his bottom was of such high aesthetic sensibility that it could only appreciate furniture which made a design statement.
His eyes narrowed as he took in the typewritten list that Truffler had just handed him. He seemed surprised by its contents. ‘Well, I can tell you where most of these came from straight off. One or two’ll take a bit of research, though.’
‘We’d be very glad if you’d undertake that research for us, Palings.’
The interior designer couldn’t quite hide the wince that Truffler’s use of his nickname induced, but he quickly covered it with a bonhomous smile. ‘Of course. Anything for the widow of the late Mr Pargeter.’ She smiled her customary acknowledgement of this recurrent compliment. Palings Price looked across at the private investigator. ‘You want a list of premises robbed and dates when the goods were lifted – that right, Truffler?’
‘Right.’
The list seemed to exert a mesmeric fascination. Palings Price looked at it again, shook his head and let out a low whistle. ‘It’s good stuff, this. Some of the most famous art thefts of the last twenty years.’
‘Yes.’
‘And all together in the one collection at the moment, is it?’ Truffler Mason nodded. ‘Could I hazard a guess at the collector’s name . . .?’ Palings Price went on. ‘Lou Ronson . . .? Sultan of Arbat . . .? Sticky Fingers Frampton . . .?’
But Truffler wasn’t rising to the bait. ‘I think this is one occasion, Palings, when the less detail you know the better.’
‘Funny,’ Mrs Pargeter observed innocently. ‘That’s what my husband always used to say to me, Truffler.’
Chapter Six
‘How did Palings Price get all his knowledge of fine art?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, as the limousine sped silkily on its return journey.
‘Oh, he done all the legit training,’ Truffler replied. ‘University. Galleries. Then worked for one of the big auction houses. Left there under something of a cloud, I’m afraid.’
‘Ah.’
‘Trouble is, places like that, they tend to count the Goyas at the end of the day.’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose they would.’
‘Nothing they could pin on him, of course, but, er . . . well, mud does tend to stick, doesn’t it?’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Anyway, he never looked back, career-wise. I mean, he helped your husband in, like, an advisory capacity, but lots of other people used him too. He never worked exclusively for Mr P. Oh no, his services was very much in demand.’
Mrs Pargeter thought she probably shouldn’t enquire which particular services these were, and fortunately Truffler needed no prompting to spell it out. ‘Paling’s speciality used to be very private collections.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There’s still a lot of millionaires out there desperate to own something unique.’
‘Like a world-famous painting, say . . .?’
‘You got it.’
‘. . . that they can gloat over on their own in a gallery nobody else is allowed to enter . . .?’
Truffler nodded. ‘Palings used to procure the paintings and design the galleries where they was to be hung.’
‘Do you reckon he still does that kind of stuff?’
‘Shouldn’t think so.’ The detective let out a mournful chuckle. ‘If he can get well-heeled boneheads to pay him for painting their rooms grey, taking all the furniture out and making them sit on cheese-graters, why bother?’
Mrs Pargeter grinned agreement. The limousine had come to a rest in front of the distinguished façade of Greene’s Hotel.
‘Thanks, Gary,’ she said as the chauffeur ushered her out. ‘You’d better be off to fetch that MP from Heathrow.’
‘Right. Give us a call if you need me.’
‘Sure. Cheerio.’ And as Gary got back into the car, she called after him, ‘And don’t forget to send me an invoice!’
He grinned. This was part of a running battle between them. Gary, out of gratitude for all that the late Mr Pargeter had done for his career, was keen to provide the man’s widow with free chauffeuring. Mrs Pargeter, who knew how difficult it could be to start up a new business, was adamant about paying at the proper rate.
As the limousine slipped away, she looked up with some satisfaction at her current home.
The elegance of Greene’s Hotel, ravishingly set in one of London’s most exclusive squares, was so understated it almost hurt. The hotel provided an environment in which every whim was anticipated. No sooner had the shadow of a desire for something crossed the brain of a guest than a member of staff had glided into place with the required object neatly presented on a silver salver. The atmosphere of Greene’s was so rarefied that its guests were never allowed to think about things as mundane as money (which is just as well, considering how much their stay there is costing them).
The irony that this temple to gracious living should be run by a gentleman known in a former existence as ‘
Hedgeclipper’ Clinton was never lost on Mrs Pargeter. He was another name from the address book of the late Mr Pargeter, and had worked for her husband in rather less elegant surroundings than Greene’s Hotel. The precise nature of the services he had provided was unclear, though a clue to his methods of persuasion and enforcement could be found – by those who were interested in such matters – in his nickname. Mrs Pargeter herself was not interested. During her long and happy marriage to the late Mr Pargeter, she had quickly learnt that there were many subjects related to her husband’s business affairs in which there was no point in her taking any interest at all.
Mrs Pargeter was now a semi-permanent resident of Greene’s Hotel. She had tried other forms of accommodation, but found them wanting. She was in theory having a dream house built in which to pass her ‘declining years’, but the builder, who delighted in the nickname of ‘Concrete’ Jacket, had proved – through no fault of his own – frequently absent from the project. As a result, progress on the construction was slow, and in the interim Mrs Pargeter contented herself with the surroundings of a luxury hotel.
The shadow of desire cast across her brain that evening as she entered the hotel with Truffler Mason was for champagne. As ever, her whim was anticipated by the barman Leon (not, in this instance, a particularly difficult feat of mind-reading – Mrs Pargeter almost always felt like champagne in the early evening). Immediately the bottle was open and on ice. Two crystal glasses stood in readiness on her favourite table in the room which looked more like the library of a country house than anything so common as a bar.
Demonstrating the sense of priorities which she had maintained throughout her life, Mrs Pargeter saw the two glasses filled by Leon, Truffler toasted, and substantial swallows taken, before she moved back to business. ‘Palings seemed pretty certain that some of the paintings were from galleries abroad. Does that raise any problems, Truffler?’
‘Shouldn’t do.’
‘Oh. You mean you know how to smuggle fine art out of the country?’
He gave an arch grin. ‘No, I don’t know how to do it myself. But I know a man who does.’
Mrs Pargeter smiled and took another tingling swallow of champagne. It was wonderful, she reflected, how things interconnected. Her late husband’s network had been so well-organized. Whatever expertise was required, someone in the system would always know of the right person to call on. And they always obliged so readily. Though she regretted no longer having the husband himself, she did have the next best thing. Not a day went by without her feeling the care and love with which the late Mr Pargeter continued to look after her from beyond the grave.
