by Simon Brett
‘Aah,’ said Mr Takachi delightedly. ‘You found my Rembrandt!’
Nestling amidst the Highlands of Scotland there is a grey stone castle, turreted like a fantasy from a fairy tale. Its grounds stretch far in every direction, encompassing forests and glens, moorland and twinkling lochs. Broad-antlered stags roam through its wildness; plump grouse nest in its lush undergrowth.
On the same day that the security guard found the Old Master in Düsseldorf, and that Mr Takachi was reunited with his Rembrandt in New York, the studded oak front door of the Scottish castle opened, and the eleventh Duke emerged into the misty morning. He wore a threadbare tartan dressing gown and an expression of disgruntlement. The eleventh Duke was of the view – particularly first thing in the morning – that during his lifetime everything had changed for the worse. You couldn’t get staff these days; the only sorts of people who could afford to run stately homes were rock stars, press barons and comparable forms of pond life; and young people had no respect for tradition.
He sniffed the unfailing freshness of the Highland air, and stretched out his creaking arms. Then he looked down to the broad doorstep for the morning’s delivery.
The usual order was there – one bottle of silver-topped milk, one strawberry yoghurt and, tucked between, a folded copy of the Scotsman. But it was what was propped against the wall behind these daily rations that took the Duke’s aristocratic breath away.
In a scrolled gilt frame stood a Raeburn portrait of a red-coated man with a romantic swath of plaid across his chest. He wore a fluffy white sporran, buckled pumps and tartan trews. One nonchalant hand rested on a tasselled sword hilt, the other held a black feathered bonnet. Behind him swirled an idealized Scottish landscape.
The man in the dressing gown picked up the picture with something approaching ecstasy. ‘My God!’ he cried. ‘The third Duke’s come home!’
And, still clutching the Raeburn to his breast, he danced a little jig of glee up and down his castle steps.
All over the world scenes of similar delight were played out, as Bennie Logan’s ‘borrowed’ paintings were returned to their rightful owners.
And as Mrs Pargeter executed the unwritten contract to Veronica Chastaigne which she regarded as a point of honour to fulfil.
Chapter Forty
Mrs Pargeter felt a warm glow of satisfaction as Gary’s limousine delivered her and Hedgeclipper Clinton back to Greene’s Hotel. The customized ambulance had been returned to its body shop underneath the arches, and she had left her uniform there. Hedgeclipper had removed his odious leisurewear and was once again dressed in sober black jacket and striped trousers. All the loose ends had been neatly tied together. Mrs Pargeter was of the opinion that the whole operation had been a very satisfactory day’s work.
‘Will you be dining in the hotel this evening?’ asked Hedgeclipper, leading her across the foyer to the lift.
‘Yes. On my own. Just a nice pampering meal. I feel I’ve deserved it.’
‘You certainly have, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘And thank you for all you did. I am so fortunate to be surrounded by people of such varied talents.’
‘Think nothing of it.’
‘There’s a career for you in television if you ever decide to give this up.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs Pargeter. Greene’s Hotel is my life,’ said the manager as he opened the lift door for her.
‘Well, I’m glad it is. I feel really comfortable here.’
‘Excellent.’ Hedgeclipper Clinton made a little bow to her. ‘That is, after all, the aim of the exercise.’
Upstairs in her suite, Mrs Pargeter looked fondly at the photograph by her bedside. ‘You know, my love, I think you’d have been quite proud of me today. We reproduced your old Chelmsford routine, and it worked a treat.’ Seeming to read some reproach in the monochrome features, she went on, slightly defensively, ‘I’m well aware that you never liked me to know anything about your work, but there was no other way this time. The paintings had to be returned. It was in a good cause, you see. You always had a lot of respect for Bennie Logan, and I’m sure you’d want his widow to be able to go to her grave in peace. And it isn’t as if I was involved in anything criminal . . .’ She twisted her fingers, nervous under the photograph’s scrutiny. ‘Well, maybe at moments it kind of veered over towards the criminal . . . I suppose technically, until the paintings were returned, we could have been said to be handling stolen goods. But that’s the worst you could charge us with. Anyway, it’s all done now. The job’s complete and there’s no evidence to link any of us with anything even mildly iffy.’
At that moment the telephone on the bedside table rang. It was Hedgeclipper Clinton calling from downstairs, and there was a note of warning – almost of fear – in his voice. ‘Mrs Pargeter, I wonder if you could come down. There are two gentlemen here who wish to speak to you on a very serious matter.’
‘Oh really?’ she said. ‘Who are they?’
‘Inspector Wilkinson and Sergeant Hughes,’ said Hedgeclipper.
Chapter Forty-One
The faces of the two detectives were grim. Hedgeclipper Clinton too looked subdued. Mrs Pargeter could not help feeling a tremor of anxiety as she crossed the foyer to greet them.
‘You haven’t met Sergeant Hughes,’ said Inspector Wilkinson.
‘No, I haven’t had the pleasure.’ She extended a gracious hand to the young man. He transferred his briefcase to his left hand and gave hers a cold, formal shake. Under the grimness of his expression there was a disturbing glimmer of cocksure triumph.
‘Hughes won’t be staying with us.’ Mrs Pargeter caught the spasm of annoyance these words sent across the Sergeant’s face. ‘You and I need to have a serious one-to-one talk, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Fine. Shall we go through to the bar?’
‘No. I don’t want to talk here. If you would be so good as to accompany me . . .?’
It was phrased as a question, but left no doubt that it was really an order. Mrs Pargeter’s unease grew. That word ‘accompany’ had overtones of too many television cop shows. ‘I must ask you to accompany me to the station.’ She had heard it spoken too often for comfort.
Mrs Pargeter didn’t dare to imagine what had gone wrong. Had VVO’s resolve finally cracked and had he shopped them all? Had Rod D’Acosta and his heavies said something to put the police on to her?
She felt rather stupid. Up until this point in her life, she had always religiously followed the instructions of the late Mr Pargeter. She had never been involved in anything that could be construed as criminal. She had had an unimpeachable record of innocence. But during the past weeks she’d got carried away. In the excitement of fulfilling Veronica Chastaigne’s request and recreating the great Chelmsford operation, Mrs Pargeter had taken a much more hands-on role in the proceedings than she should have done. She had sacrificed the Olympian detachment which she had always previously maintained from the activities of her helpers. And now it looked as if she might be about to pay for her carelessness.
‘Do you need to get a coat?’ asked Inspector Wilkinson with formal solicitude.
‘No, I’m fine. It’s still very mild for September, isn’t it?’
‘Right, if you’d care to accompany us . . .?’ That word again. ‘It’s only a short drive.’
Sergeant Hughes hurried across to open the hotel’s front door for her, and Mrs Pargeter moved elegantly and proudly across the foyer. As she passed a tense-faced Hedgeclipper Clinton, she gave an almost imperceptible flick of her eyebrow.
The instant the front door closed behind his guest and her police escort, Hedgeclipper was dialling Truffler Mason’s number.
They didn’t speak in the car. Hughes drove, with Wilkinson sitting tensely beside him. In the back Mrs Pargeter gave a not entirely convincing display of nonchalance.
When the car stopped, she couldn’t see a police station. They appeared to be in a street of shops and restaurants. But perhaps there was a hidden entr
ance to some official Metropolitan premises.
Mrs Pargeter tried to focus her mind on the plight in which she found herself. She knew what she had to do. The important thing was not to implicate anyone else. Mention no other names. She would just have to accept her own punishment, but see that she took no one else down with her.
Inspector Wilkinson said, ‘Thank you, Hughes,’ which the Sergeant reflected was out of character. Maybe his boss was trying to impress their suspect with his good manners. ‘You can take the rest of the evening off.’
‘I really think I should be with you, sir.’
‘I said you can take the rest of the evening off.’
Hughes could not argue with the severity of the tone. ‘All right, sir,’ he conceded grudgingly.
‘And give me that dossier you’ve compiled.’
The Sergeant was about to remonstrate, but realized he couldn’t. Inspector Wilkinson was in charge. If his boss ordered him to hand something across – even something as precious as the dossier he had spent so much time building up – then he had to do as he was told.
Silently, he opened his briefcase and handed over the folder.
‘Thank you,’ said Wilkinson again.
‘I hope you’ll be careful with it, sir. It’s the only copy that—’
‘Hughes, I have very considerable experience of handling highly sensitive evidence.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the Sergeant apologized.
‘Rather more experience – if I may be forgiven for pointing it out – than you have.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So I can assure you that this document will be absolutely safe in my hands.’ Hughes had no alternative but to nod acceptance of this.
Wilkinson got out of the car and opened the back door for Mrs Pargeter. ‘If you would accompany me, please . . .’
That word yet again. In trepidation she got out and stood awkwardly on the pavement. It was nearly dark now. Inspector Wilkinson tapped the roof of the car and Sergeant Hughes, invisibly seething, drove off.
There was an uncomfortable silence as they stood, looking at each other. Mrs Pargeter didn’t know where they were meant to be going, and for a moment the Inspector seemed uncertain too. Then he said abruptly, ‘I thought we could have something to eat while we talked.’
‘Fine,’ she said, surprised.
Without ceremony, he led the way into a rather shabby little restaurant. Its origins were ultimately Greek, but it was the kind of place whose menu would feature ‘English Dishes’ alongside the range of kebabs. One wall was painted with a grubby Mediterranean seaside scene. Bottles and decorated plates hung on the walls, tangled in with dusty plastic vines and dully glowing Christmas lights.
A restaurant of this kind wasn’t really Mrs Pargeter’s gastronomic style. In spite of the predicament she was in, she couldn’t help thinking of the menu at Greene’s Hotel and the dinner she had been promising herself. She wondered rather gloomily how long it would be before she could next enjoy that kind of pampering.
There was nobody else inside the restaurant, except for a surly man with three days of five o’clock shadow. He acted as waiter, and possibly owner, and probably cook. He seemed to know Inspector Wilkinson, however, and grunted some kind of greeting as he led them across to a table with a printed plastic cover. Its surface felt slightly sticky as Mrs Pargeter eased her bulk into a bench seat against the wall.
The waiter/owner/cook dumped two plastic menus down on the table and shuffled off through a lopsided beaded curtain into the kitchen.
‘Do you normally come here to conduct interrogations?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, trying to ease the atmosphere that was beginning to loom between them.
‘No,’ Wilkinson replied shortly. ‘Only when it’s special.’
‘Oh, right.’ Mrs Pargeter took in her surroundings, and wondered how many hardened criminals those dingy walls had witnessed cracking under Inspector Wilkinson’s relentless questioning.
Sergeant Hughes’s folder lay unopened on the table in front of him, and he still seemed disinclined to commence the actual grilling. Mrs Pargeter was finding the delay stressful. Now she’d got this far, she wanted to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, but at least it could be quick.
She joined her plump hands together on the sticky plastic in front of her, and looked straight into the Inspector’s eyes. He seemed thrown by this intense scrutiny, and chewed a corner of his moustache. His hands fiddled with a packet of cigarettes, taking one out to light up.
‘Right,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘What is it you want to say to me?’
‘Well . . . The fact is . . . I, er . . .’ For some reason Wilkinson was finding what he had to say difficult. And when he did say it, she could understand exactly why. ‘The fact is, Mrs Pargeter, I have fallen madly in love with you.’
Chapter Forty-Two
Mrs Pargeter was so flabbergasted that she couldn’t speak. This unfortunately gave Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson the opportunity to expand on his passion.
‘From the first moment I saw you, I knew you were the woman for me. I can’t pretend my life has been a great success. Professionally, I’ve been unlucky. I should have gone a lot further in the Police Force, but circumstances have been against me. A couple of times I got close to pulling off major coups, but on each occasion something went wrong.
‘And in my private life, I haven’t had much to write home about either. I was married, but that fell apart. Difficult profession, being a detective, if you want to keep a marriage going. Since then there have been a few other affairs – relationships, I suppose you could call them, though both words make them sound rather longer-lasting than they were.
‘But since I’ve met you, Mrs Pargeter, I know why my previous encounters with women didn’t work. I wasn’t in love, you see. Now I know what love is. It’s confusing, and wonderful, and stressful, and all-consuming. You obsess me. I have to keep seeing you. That’s why I’ve kept popping up in your life with such frequency over the last few weeks. After the first time we met, I pretended it was for professional reasons, but in fact it was just because I needed to see you.’
Had I known that at the time, thought Mrs Pargeter, it could have saved me a considerable amount of anxiety. She opened her mouth to speak, but Craig Wilkinson wasn’t finished yet.
‘You are what I’ve been looking for all my life. I always knew I was going to make my mark one way or another. For a long time, I thought it would be as a detective. I thought I’d pull off the one big operation that ensured I was remembered for ever. But to have the one great relationship would be equally satisfactory. Then my life would not have been wasted.
‘And don’t worry about money, Mrs Pargeter. I’m reasonably well paid now, and will soon be receiving a decent pension. I don’t have to pay any maintenance to my former wife, because she’s living with someone else. We could have a very nice lifestyle.’ He gestured expansively around the grubby restaurant. ‘We could eat out at this kind of level every night of the week if we wanted to.
‘And there are no logistical problems. We’re both free. I’m divorced, you’re a widow. There’s nothing to stop us following the dictates of our hearts.
‘So, go on, Mrs Pargeter, put me out of my misery. Tell me – will you marry me?’
‘You ready to order now?’ Unseen by the Inspector, the waiter/owner/cook had lumbered up behind him and broken the moment.
‘No!’ Wilkinson snapped. The ash, which had been accumulating at the end of his cigarette throughout his long oration, now dropped on to the sticky plastic tablecloth.
‘Give us another five minutes, if you would,’ said Mrs Pargeter, more politely.
Grumbling in some foreign tongue, the waiter/owner/cook shambled back behind his beaded curtain.
‘So, come on – what do you say, Mrs Pargeter?’ The Inspector smiled what he deemed to be a sexy smile. ‘Incidentally, given the circumstances, it does seem very formal for me to keep c
alling you “Mrs Pargeter”. Your first name’s Melita, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It is. But very few people use it.’ In fact the only person who’d really used it had been the late Mr Pargeter. It was a private thing between the two of them. She certainly didn’t want someone like Inspector Wilkinson using the name.
‘Ah. Anyway, I’ve had my say. You know where I stand.’
‘I certainly do.’
‘So then – what’s your answer?’
He beamed at her confidently. The awful realization hit Mrs Pargeter that Craig Wilkinson had not considered the possibility of her refusal. He had become so caught up in his own interpretation of the scenario that he had taken her positive response for granted.
She decided to play for time, while she worked out the most tactful way of letting him down gently. ‘Well, Inspector—’ she smiled, ‘Craig . . . you must give me a minute or two to gather myself together. What you’ve just said has come as rather a surprise to me.’
‘Not really?’ He seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘Surely you must have felt the electricity between us from the moment we first met?’
‘Well . . .’ Mrs Pargeter replied discreetly. ‘Not immediately, no.’
‘Oh.’ He looked surprised rather than disappointed, concluding perhaps that women were just slower than men at recognizing their destiny.
‘There were a couple of things you said, Craig, about your professional career . . .?’
‘Yes?’
‘Two occasions when you got very close to pulling off coups, but something went wrong . . .?’
He nodded, immediately blushing at the recollection.
‘Could you tell me a bit about them?’
Wilkinson grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t normally talk to anyone about this, but, given the situation between us . . .’ (Mrs Pargeter decided it would be prudent to get the information before defining too precisely what the situation between them was.) ‘I’ll tell you.’ He lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old one and ground out the butt on his side plate. ‘Both of the incidents concerned a gentleman called Mr Pargeter . . .’
