by Simon Brett
‘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 . . .?’
Chapter Nineteen
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 . . .’
‘Couldn’t I do that?’ Mrs Pargeter volunteered eagerly.
It was just her skittish mood of the morning finding expression, but the suggestion clearly shocked Hamish Ramon Henriques. There was a strong tone of disapproval in his voice as he said, ‘I wouldn’t want you to put yourself at any risk, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Besides,’ the gallery owner interposed, ‘smuggling old masters is actually a criminal activity . . .’
‘Oh yes.’ She was properly contrite. ‘Sorry, I got carried away there.’
Palings Price continued to spell out the situation for her. ‘And you’ve never been personally involved in anything illegal, have you?’
An innocent blush suffused her cheeks at the very idea. ‘Good heavens, no,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
Chapter Twenty
The studio of VVO still looked as cluttered, but this time Mrs Pargeter was aware of how hygienic all of its clutter was. Having met the houseproud Deirdre Winthrop, she could no longer believe in the reality of the husband’s bohemianism. The studio now appeared to her like a stage set, its dust neatly scattered, its cobwebs recently sprayed on. Even the splashes and splodges of paint on every surface no longer looked random; their exact positioning and their precise level of exuberance had been carefully calculated.
Since his last encounter with Mrs Pargeter and HRH, VVO had been busy – though not as busy as he’d have had to be if all the pictures from Chastaigne Varleigh had been saved. The fruits of his labour were there to be seen, but this time there was no fake Rubens flesh to excite charming comparisons. What VVO had been busy on was his own work, the kind of paintings which he believed he had been placed on this earth to produce.
‘Oh dear,’ thought Mrs Pargeter, as she looked at the latest creations. There were three of them. In one a lamb with a watermelon grin, wearing a pink bow whose wingspan would not have shamed a jumbo jet, cavorted in front of a quaint windmill. On the second, two lovable ducklings skidded hopelessly on an icy lake, trying to catch up with the mother and the rest of her family procession. And in the third – returning to one of the artist’s favourite themes – a winsome Scottie dog in a natty little tartan coat circled a blossom-laden tree, from whose branches a fluffy white pussy cat grinned down cheekily.
Two of the paintings were already fixed into aluminium frames, and VVO was easing the Scottie dog into the third. Empty, propped against the wall, stood the finely wrought wooden frames of the Rubens and the two Madonnas.
‘There,’ said VVO, as he screwed the last crosspiece into position at the back of the canvas.
Palings Price looked admiringly at the framed Scottie. ‘Great. And no one would ever know there was a Rubens under that piece of . . .’ Discretion intervened and his words trailed away.
‘Under that piece of what?’ asked VVO suspiciously.
‘Under that piece of very fine modern painting,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ever the conciliator. ‘I think is what Palings was about to say, isn’t that right?’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course,’ the interior designer lied.
VVO didn’t seem entirely convinced by the cover-up. ‘After I’m dead, you know,’ he said truculently, ‘the true value of my work will be recognized.’
‘Yes, VVO, I’m sure it will,’ Mrs Pargeter agreed, her soothing tone disguising the ambiguity of her words.
VVO was reassured, anyway. ‘Thank you, Mrs Pargeter. At least you recognize what I’m capable of.’
‘Oh, certainly.’ And before the painter had time to spot another double-edged compliment, she rubbed her hands together with relish and said, ‘Great, terrific. So all we need now is a courier to get the paintings down to Berne . . .’
VVO looked hopefully round the room until his glance engaged with Mrs Pargeter’s. She did feel tempted to give in to the appeal in those dog-like eyes. The skittish mood was still with her. The courier job wasn’t complicated. Surely VVO couldn’t mess it up. And the late Mr Pargeter had been renowned for constantly opening up new opportunities for his staff, trusting them with ever greater responsibilities.
But her indulgent fantasies were interrupted by the voice of Hamish Ramon Henriques. Shaking his head decidedly, the travel agent pronounced a firm ‘No.’
‘Oh, come on,’ the artist wheedled, ‘you could let me do this. It’s not fair, I’m never allowed to do any of the exciting stuff. And it’d be so easy for me to be your courier. Me and Deirdre could be going off in the camper for a continental holiday. Why not? It’s something we often do.’
But that suggestion prompted another shake of HRH’s fine Iberian head. ‘I said no. Apart from anything else, it’s always a risk entrusting this kind of thing to someone with a criminal record. The police are—’
Fury burned in the eye of VVO. ‘Now hang on a minute. Just because you’ve got a criminal record, there’s no need to imagine—’
‘How dare you!’ HRH snapped back. ‘I can assure you I do not have—’
Mrs Pargeter rai
sed her hands as if to smooth out a lumpy duvet. ‘Please, please. There’s no need to argue. I’m sure no one in this room has any kind of criminal record.’
VVO and HRH looked a little sheepish after their outburst, and Palings Price’s face was fixed in a rictus of self-righteousness. Mrs Pargeter gave a reassuring smile to all of them. ‘Good. See, no worries on that score.’
‘No,’ HRH agreed, eager to sweep the disagreement hastily under the carpet. ‘Your late husband took enormous care of the people who worked for him.’
Palings Price gave a nostalgic nod. ‘Oh yes. You know, I was just thinking, Mrs Pargeter . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘. . . what a fine man your husband was . . .’
‘Thank you.’
‘And, you know,’ the interior designer went on, ‘one of the wonderful things about him was the way he encouraged the people who worked for him by always giving them new challenges, offering them the chance to do something a little different . . .’
This so closely echoed Mrs Pargeter’s recent thoughts that she found herself nodding. Even HRH said, ‘He was excellent at that, I agree.’
‘So . . .’ Palings Price went on, ‘I think we should follow his example . . .’
‘By doing what?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
‘By letting Vincent Vin Ordinaire be our courier.’
‘Oh, please!’ the painter squealed, though the expression on HRH’s face, which had been moving towards the conciliatory, had quickly changed and was now far from endorsing the suggestion.
Palings Price gestured to the three aluminium-framed pieces of artwork. ‘I’m sure VVO’s capable of getting these three . . .’ another word hovered on his lips, but he managed in time to convert it to ‘paintings down to Fritzi in Berne.’
