by Simon Brett
‘You know,’ he announced after a long silence, ‘we need to talk to Veronica Chastaigne.’
Gary’s limousine insinuated itself smoothly through the anonymous suburban streets of North London. In the back, between the brown suits of Truffler Mason and Hamish Ramon Henriques, Mrs Pargeter, resplendent in silk print, sat like the filling of a particularly exotic sandwich.
She reached out and gave Truffler’s huge hand a maternal pat. ‘I hope you weren’t taking unnecessary risks.’
‘Nah.’ A rueful laugh shook his massive frame and he rubbed his chin. ‘I was all right, but there was four of them. Rod and three heavies. It’s not going to be that easy to get the stuff out.’
‘The simplest thing would be just to give the police a tip-off, you know,’ HRH suggested.
But Mrs Pargeter quickly quashed that idea. ‘No. I gave Veronica Chastaigne my word I’d get those paintings back to their rightful owners.’
The travel agent instantly accepted the logic of her words. ‘Yes, of course. I understand completely, Mrs Pargeter.’
Gary’s voice filtered through from the front of the car. ‘It’s a tricky one. We could really do with Mr Pargeter around right now. He’d see the way through this, no problem. One of the great planning brains of all time, he’d got.’
‘Exactly, Gary,’ said Mrs Pargeter, as the limousine slowed to a halt in front of the anonymous terraced house. ‘Which is the very reason why we’re going to see Jukebox. We can still take advantage of my husband’s planning brain, you know . . .’
With his spaghetti junction of computer equipment and his four guests, there was very little space in Jukebox Jarvis’s front room, but by the odd click of the mouse and the odd tap at the keyboard he steered himself deftly through the data on his screen. He fed in the complex demands of the current problem, and rattled through the proffered options until he found exactly what he wanted.
‘Chelmsford!’ Jukebox Jarvis pronounced triumphantly. His eyes sparkled through the thick glasses.
A communal smile of fulfilled recollection settled on the faces of the three men who watched him. ‘Yeah.’ An impressed Truffler Mason nodded. ‘Chelmsford, of course.’
Gary shook his head in admiration. ‘Brilliant. Lot of clever driving needed for Chelmsford, if I remember right.’
HRH grinned with satisfaction. ‘And some intriguing specialized work required on the vehicles.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Pargeter demurely, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I’m willing to be guided by you in such matters.’ She turned the full beam of her violet-blue eyes on the computer expert. ‘You’re sure Chelmsford’s the one, Jukebox?’
He nodded. ‘Definitely the closest match to what’s needed for this case.’
‘Yeah,’ Truffler agreed. ‘Only the goods are different. Chelmsford was used fivers, this time it’s paintings. Same basic strategy’d work, no problem.’
An infectious bubble of excitement was building up in all of them. It was comforting to have the quality of Jukebox Jarvis’s archives to rely on. Inside his computer system every one of the late Mr Pargeter’s greatest exploits was neatly catalogued and chronicled, providing a perfect template of action for any situation that could possibly arise. Many public companies would give half their annual profits for an infrastructure of such efficiency.
Mrs Pargeter spread the benison of her richest smile around the assembled company. ‘Right, if you say so – Chelmsford it is.’
‘Terrific,’ said Jukebox, reaching forward to his computer. ‘I’ll print out the whole plan for you.’ Gleefully, he touched a key and his printer burst into manic activity.
‘This is great, isn’t it?’ Gary spoke for all of them. ‘Almost like having Mr Pargeter back with us again.’
The other men grinned, but Mrs Pargeter, a trifle misty-eyed, murmured, ‘Almost, Gary . . . but not quite.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
A space had been cleared amidst the debris that littered Truffler Mason’s desk, and over its surface was spread out a large-scale map of South London. Mrs Pargeter and the private investigator leant over, examining it minutely. Every now and then she would trace a little route with her finger, then consult the bound folder of neatly printed notes, plans and diagrams that Jukebox Jarvis had presented to her. Mrs Pargeter’s hand would hover for a moment over each possible site, before finding some unconforming detail as a reason to reject it. Finally, her hand lingered longer over one particular network of junctions. She looked across at Truffler. ‘How about there?’
He bent down from his great height and squinted at the map. ‘Looks good.’
Mrs Pargeter double-checked with the requirements in her folder, before continuing, ‘It’s definitely the sort of loop road we’re after – and there’s the garage with a car wash.’
Truffler Mason nodded with that characteristic lethargy which, in his case, denoted huge enthusiasm. ‘Right distance from the breaker’s yard, and all. Couldn’t be better.’
‘Great.’ Mrs Pargeter’s enthusiasm never wore any disguise. It was, like most of her emotions, entirely transparent, fervent and joyous. ‘You know,’ she said with a delighted grin, ‘I think I could get good at this.’
‘You already are good at it, Mrs Pargeter,’ said Truffler.
Gary’s limousine cruised effortlessly through a leafy South London outer suburb, before coming to a stop, as an elderly lollipop man ushered some tiny anorak-swaddled schoolchildren over a crossing in the road. The man was so thin that, holding his round-topped staff, he looked like a stickman they might have drawn in class.
Gary pressed the button and the window slid soundlessly down. When his charges were safely on the other side of the road, the lollipop man waved an acknowledgement to the law-abiding driver. Then, as he recognized the face, his manner changed to one of great warmth and welcome.
‘As I live and breathe . . . Gary.’
The chauffeur stretched a hand out to shake the old man’s bony fingers. ‘Good to see you, mate. Mrs Pargeter—’ he deferred to the plump, smiling woman in the back of the limousine, ‘I’d like you to meet – Vanishing Vernon.’
‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’ She stretched her hand through from the back. The old man clasped it in both of his. ‘Oh, Mrs Pargeter . . . Is it really you? You’ve no idea what an honour this is for me.’
From the glow on his face, you’d have thought he’d just been presented with an Oscar (though – thank God – he didn’t make an acceptance speech).
Hedgeclipper Clinton’s office at Greene’s Hotel was decorated like an ante-room at Versailles. On its desk that afternoon was proudly displayed a portable television camera, firmly identified by the ‘BBC-TV’ logo. Kevin, one of the hotel’s doormen, dressed in a black and gold uniform, looked on admiringly. The expression on Mrs Pargeter’s face was more sceptical.
‘Where did you get that from, Hedgeclipper?’ she asked beadily.
He was squirming too much from embarrassment to pick her up on the use of his nickname in front of other hotel staff. ‘Well . . .’ he prevaricated. ‘I borrowed it.’ He looked at Mrs Pargeter defensively. ‘I’ll take it back.’ A look of righteousness came into his face as he thought of a justification for his actions. ‘I do pay my TV licence fee, so by rights a bit of it’s mine, anyway.’
‘I see.’ The violet-blue eyes held Hedgeclipper Clinton’s for a long, wince-making moment before giving up on pointless recrimination and turning to the doorman. ‘And you can manage with it all right, Kevin?’
He nodded complacently. ‘No problem, Mrs Pargeter. I’ve videoed all four of my mum’s weddings.’
‘Oh good.’ She now beamed back at the hotel manager. Mrs Pargeter had never been one to bear grudges for any length of time. ‘And you can do your bit, Hedgeclipper?’
‘Mrs Pargeter,’ he replied, almost offended by her doubting him, ‘being a hotel manager is like being permanently in front of the camera.’
She nodde
d, then a shadow of anxiety crossed her usually sunny face. ‘I hope this is going to work . . .’
Hedgeclipper Clinton gave her a smile of confidence verging on complacency. ‘I can assure you it will. It worked in Chelmsford, and on that occasion proved one great truth: You can never underestimate the mind-blowing stupidity of the British people when they’re offered the chance to be on television.’
‘True,’ said Mrs Pargeter, reassured.
The space under the railway arch which had been converted into a body shop was dominated by a large van. Under floodlights, three mechanics were working on it. One, protected by goggles and gloves, was using an oxyacetylene lamp to cut a long slit in the vehicle’s roof above the front seats. The second mechanic seemed only to possess a back end, the rest of his body buried, tinkering, under the bonnet; while the third was replacing the van’s ordinary tyres with large thick-treaded ones. The bodywork was painted in a greyish undercoat.
Looking on, out of the glare of the floodlights, stood Hamish Ramon Henriques and Mrs Pargeter. She was once again holding the folder of printed notes she had received from Jukebox Jarvis.
‘Going all right, is it?’ she asked.
HRH flicked up his long moustaches with satisfaction. ‘Absolutely as one would have wished. The engine in that beast’s powerful enough for a tank.’
‘Good. And the special paint job?’
‘All in hand, Mrs Pargeter. Don’t you worry.’
She caught his eye. She was enjoying this. Together they nodded, secure in their complicity.
One final preparation was required. It was made in the privacy of Jukebox Jarvis’s front room. He had received his instructions over the phone from Truffler Mason, who had of course checked everything out with Mrs Pargeter beforehand.
It was a simple job by Jukebox’s standards. All he had to do was hack into the police computer again (they’d had a rare flash of originality and, for the latest six-letter password, chosen ‘arrest’). Once inside the system, he had to check up on the duty rosters for the next day.
What he found there was potentially worrying. The police had got hold of some information from somewhere. They were clearly getting suspicious about what Rod D’Acosta had in his yard. A raid on the place was planned for the following evening. lb make matters worse, it was going to be headed up by one of the most ruthless and efficient detective inspectors in the Met.
A couple of clicks of the mouse and a few keyed-in words changed that. Within minutes, the efficient detective inspector was re-delegated to talk about Road Safety in an inner city primary school, and Inspector Wilkinson was in charge of the Rod D’Acosta investigation.
Then, just in case his new sidekick Hercule Hughes was as bright as the evidence suggested he might be, the Sergeant’s schedule was also adjusted. He was diverted to Heathrow Airport to control the horde of teenyboppers awaiting the arrival of the flight carrying the latest pop sensation, Boymeetzgirl.
Mrs Pargeter had always been in favour of celebration. Pampering when on her own was very important to her, and the good efforts of others never went unrewarded either. So, after all the planning and preparation they had put in, it seemed entirely logical that she should invite Truffler Mason, HRH, Gary, Jukebox Jarvis, Hedgeclipper Clinton, Kevin the doorman and Vanishing Vernon to a lavish dinner at Greene’s Hotel.
All were smartly dressed. Mrs Pargeter was wearing a new creation, a flowing silk number in a strident red a lesser woman could not have got away with. Specially for the occasion, she had taken out of the hotel safe the diamond choker and bracelet whose owner, before the late Mr Pargeter had decided they’d suit his adored wife, had ruled many of the United Arab Emirates. Mrs Pargeter herself looked as sparkly as the jewels.
Her party having given the Greene’s Hotel wine list an exhaustive workout, at the end of the meal had homed back in on champagne. Not the most expensive on the list – Mrs Pargeter never believed in extravagance – but one whose vintage she knew to be reliable.
After a waiter had once again recharged all their glasses, Mrs Pargeter raised hers to her guests. ‘Right, gentlemen. Good luck to all of you for tomorrow.’
‘Yes,’ said Truffler. ‘And let’s just all pray it doesn’t rain. It’s been sheeting down the last couple of days. And rain could really screw things up for us.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Mrs Pargeter rested a reassuring hand on his sleeve. ‘Forecast says tomorrow’s going to be a beautiful day.’ Waving her glass towards them, she announced, ‘So, the toast is . . .’ She waited till all their glasses were raised to meet hers. ‘Chelmsford Two – the Sequel!’
There was an enthusiastic clinking as the seven male voices echoed, ‘Chelmsford Two – the Sequel!’
Then there was an equally enthusiastic slurping of champagne.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Inspector Wilkinson went into his office the next morning without enthusiasm. Attempts to interview Veronica Chastaigne had not met with success. She was still in hospital and the consultant in charge said she was far too frail to submit to any kind of questioning. When she had recovered, of course, there would be no problem. But the way the consultant said this implied slender hopes that she was ever going to recover.
So Wilkinson felt he was up against a brick wall. This sense had been exacerbated by a meeting the day before with his immediate superior, the ‘jumped-up, university-educated, pen-pushing desk-driver’, with whom the Inspector, like all good coppers, didn’t get on. His Superintendent reckoned that the arrest of Reginald Winthrop represented a result, and that therefore no further investigation was required into the series of art thefts. Wilkinson was off the case.
To rub salt in the wound, the Superintendent had also somehow found out the part that Sergeant Hughes had played in events at Dover, and was putting the young man’s name forward for some kind of commendation.
So Wilkinson approached work that day in a low mood. But for one tiny spark of a distant thought glowing in his mind, he would have been very depressed indeed. He knew for sure that the next couple of days would be depressing. Concentrating on the art thefts had spared him other, more tedious jobs, but now that he was off the case, his boss was going to ensure that he got the most tedious available.
That day he was down to give a lecture on Road Safety at an inner city primary school. The last officer who’d been landed with that number had come back having had his wallet stolen, his eye blacked by a stone that had been thrown at him, and with the left-hand side of his car sprayed fluorescent green.
But when Inspector Wilkinson actually looked at the printout of the daily roster, he could hardly believe his eyes. Could hardly believe his luck either. The Road Safety duty had been apportioned to one of the toughest and most successful inspectors in the unit, a man who was on record as saying, with considerable frequency, ‘School visits are for braindead wimps.’
While he, Craig Wilkinson, had been given instead one of the most attractive assignments for years.
It was a raid on a suspicious breaker’s yard, where stolen goods were thought to be hidden. And the yard was believed to belong to Rod D’Acosta, a South London villain on whom they’d been trying for years to get enough evidence to make a conviction stick.
This was terrific news for Wilkinson. The operation would involve taking a large squad of men, some of them armed. It would make him, as their leader, look impressive, while putting him at minimal personal risk. It would involve bulletproof vests, searchlights and lots of shouting through loudspeakers. It was the kind of rare job opportunity, the chance to play cops ’n’ robbers, for which Inspector Wilkinson – and indeed most of his colleagues – had joined the Police Force.
He turned away from the printout, then had another, rather dampening thought. Was this wonderful assignment destined to be spoiled, like so much of what he’d done over the previous two weeks, by the presence of Sergeant Hughes?
But no. Wilkinson’s luck held. More than held, it was very good. The list told him that, in
stead of the odious Hughes, he’d been allocated the support of a new female detective sergeant, who’d been the subject of much ribald suggestion and erotic aspiration in the canteen.
Inspector Wilkinson preened his moustache, which wasn’t growing as quickly as he’d hoped it would. That didn’t worry him at that moment, though, because he was thinking of the female DS. She’d be really impressed when she saw him masterminding the raid on Rod D’Acosta’s yard. She couldn’t fail to look on him with respect after the operation was completed. Yes, he might be in with a chance there. Power, he knew, was a great aphrodisiac.
To complete his euphoria, Wilkinson saw that Sergeant Hughes had been allocated to one of the real short-straw duties. Policing teenyboppers at Heathrow. What was known round the station as a ‘not a dry seat in the house’ patrol.
Tee-hee. Serve the cocky little smart-arse bloody well right.
Wilkinson went to check the details of the D’Acosta operation with the detectives who’d been working on it. They seemed rather miffed that, after all the graft their regular inspector had put in setting the raid up, he was not scheduled to complete the job. Still, they couldn’t argue with the roster and, with varying degrees of bad grace, they gave Wilkinson the information he required.
It was perfect. Surveillance from four in the afternoon, then slam in hard at around eight when it was dark. Going through the stuff in the yard’d take an hour top-weight. There’d still be time for Inspector Wilkinson to go to the pub near the station afterwards to accept the plaudits of his inferiors.
To build himself up for the day ahead, he went down to the canteen to wallow in the grease of an All-Day Breakfast.
It was while he was sitting there over his congealing eggs that a pale shadow of recollection crossed Inspector Wilkinson’s sunny mood. He found himself thinking back, as he so often did, to the one big failure of his life. The biggest failure. The moment when he had been so close to success and when his plans had suddenly gone pear-shaped.
