by Simon Brett
Armitage Shanks had also done a very creditable line in police officers calling from scenes of non-existent crimes. In this way, on many occasions valuable police resources had been conveniently diverted away from the venues where the real crimes were taking place. The actor got far more satisfaction from these performances than he had from many of his stage and television roles.
But after his patron’s death, like so many of the late Mr Pargeter’s employees, Armitage Shanks diversified into less hazardous areas and set up his very successful franchise – SomeoneAtTheOtherEndOfTheLine.com. This was a service which supplied exactly what it said on the tin: a real person with whom the caller could conduct a rather less real conversation. Though the company name was for a website, almost all of its actual business was conducted on the phone. An initial approach would be made online, defining the exact service required, the agreed fee and the timing of the relevant call.
Hearing a genuine human voice on the line was somehow more reassuring for listeners than seeing any number of claims spelled out on the Internet. And SomeoneAtTheOtherEndOfTheLine.com supplied those genuine human voices. It also supplied a lot of welcome work for Armitage Shanks’s many underemployed actor friends.
The applications for its services were infinite, both at the professional and at the personal level. In negotiations for the purchase of a car or a house, it was frequently useful for the seller to be able to talk on the telephone to someone who had made a higher offer. A woman resisting the advances of some amorous swain might find it convenient to have a regular – and rather muscular – boyfriend to ring up at a pivotal moment.
And, of course, it provided a wonderful service for adulterers. That section of society whose activities had already been curtailed by the introduction of the itemized phone bill and the technology that enabled the location of a mobile phone call to be pinpointed (not from the fictional conference in Lytham St Annes but from the real Travelodge in Basildon) hugely welcomed Armitage Shanks’s innovation. Thanks to the talents of his staff, the call from the adulterer’s office to his home saying he’d have to go to the fictional conference in Lytham St Annes was perfectly convincing to whoever answered the phone. Indeed, adulterers who used to get paranoid about such subterfuges grew rather blasé and skilled at saying to their wives when the phone rang, ‘Oh, could you get that, darling?’
So it was no surprise that through SomeoneAtTheOther EndOfTheLine.com, Mrs Pargeter, that afternoon in Gizmo Gilbert’s front room, was able to access exactly the service she required.
She had assured her host that his invention (for which she gently suggested a better name might be ‘The Zipper Zapper’) was brilliant, innovative and essential for the contemporary woman, whether widowed or not. But also that, given the prevalence of industrial espionage, it was essential that his copyright in the idea should be asserted as soon as possible. The world was full of conscienceless villains who would like nothing better than to steal an idea of such genius.
She therefore, while still with him, rang through to the phone line of SomeoneAtTheOtherEndOfTheLine.com. When offered a sequence of numbered options, she keyed in the one that put her through to the Legal Department. She then accessed someone who was allegedly an expert in patents’ law (though who’d, in fact, not worked at all since playing the back part of the pantomime horse in Jack and the Beanstalk at Colchester the previous Christmas).
The great beauty of the SomeoneAtTheOtherEndOfTheLine.com system was that the person in the same room as the caller – in this case Gizmo Gilbert – could hear just enough of the conversation for it to sound legitimate, but not enough for them to be able to pick up on the details.
So when, on concluding the call, Mrs Pargeter told him that she had done the deal, he had no reason to disbelieve her.
And when she told Gizmo Gilbert that the patent on ‘The Zipper Zapper’ had been registered and that he would receive by the next post a cheque for twenty-five thousand pounds (apparently from the Patent Office) as an advance against royalties on sales of the device, he could see no argument for refusing the money.
He insisted that Mrs Pargeter should put in her bag and keep the prototype of ‘The Zipper Zapper’ as a souvenir of a very serendipitous afternoon.
As she went round the corner to meet up with Gary in the Skoda Octavia, Mrs Pargeter congratulated herself on having been quite subtle.
THREE
Mrs Pargeter was a great believer in tea. Not just as a beverage, but in its more elaborate form as Afternoon Tea, as a meal. In fact, she was a great believer in all meals. The late Mr Pargeter had undertaken the education of her taste buds, as he had trained her in so many other aspects of life.
And in Mrs Pargeter’s view the best Afternoon Tea in the world was served in the Blenheim Room of Greene’s Hotel in London. Elegantly set in Mayfair, Greene’s was seamlessly managed by a gentleman called Mr Clinton (who no longer liked being addressed as ‘Hedgeclipper’ Clinton, the nickname he’d had when he worked for the late Mr Pargeter. The reason why he had been called Hedgeclipper was something nobody had ever thought polite to ask). Though Mrs Pargeter was the owner of a recently completed and very extensive mansion in Essex, when she needed to stay in London she invariably took a room in Greene’s.
These occasions caused the only rifts that ever appeared in her relationship with Hedgeclipper Clinton. Like Gary, the manager was very reluctant to charge Mrs Pargeter for the services that she enjoyed … ‘when I think of everything your late husband did for me.’ She occasionally had to get uncharacteristically firm – not to say cross – with both Gary and Hedgeclipper about their unwillingness to provide her with bills and invoices. Her late husband had been a businessman, and he had relied on those former associates, whom he set up in their careers, to behave like businessmen too.
Forewarned by her reservation, Hedgeclipper Clinton ensured that he was waiting at reception to greet Mrs Pargeter as she stepped out of Gary’s Bentley at the Greene’s Hotel doors on Monday afternoon. He rushed effusively towards her. ‘Good afternoon, my dear Mrs Pargeter,’ he said in the voice into which he had put a lot of work when he’d changed careers and gone into the hotel business. He had done a good job. Only in moments of extreme stress was a hint of his original Cockney allowed to emerge. And Hedgeclipper Clinton’s unflappable urbanity ensured that he very rarely experienced moments of extreme stress. So most of the time his voice oozed class like butter melting on toast.
‘Now, you will, of course, have your usual table in the Blenheim Room?’
‘Thank you, Hedge – er, Mr Clinton.’
‘My pleasure. And just the one guest, I gather.’
‘Yes, Samantha Pinkerton. Actually, she’s the daughter of Passport Pinkerton.’
Hedgeclipper Clinton’s face instantly blanked over. ‘I’m afraid I’m not familiar with anyone of that name.’
Mrs Pargeter was used to that reaction. Many of her late husband’s associates suffered unexplained moments of memory loss about the times when they had worked for him. And even she had on occasion found herself being selective in her recollections of the past.
‘Anyway, I’m afraid Passport Pinkerton has died.’
‘How very regrettable for his family.’ The hotel manager’s response was no more than a formal acknowledgement of the death of someone he didn’t know. ‘Allow me to see you to your table, Mrs Pargeter.’
The Blenheim Room, like most of the public areas of Greene’s, looked more like part of a stately home than anything so vulgarly commercial as a hotel. A few distinguished looking guests of various nationalities who were sitting there glanced up at the new arrival. They were impressed. She must be someone really important. They hadn’t been guided to their seats by the hotel manager.
‘I will arrange for your tea to be delivered forthwith, Mrs Pargeter,’ said Hedgeclipper before beating an obsequious retreat.
She looked round the room with satisfaction. The mirrored walls, curtained with great swags of green
velvet, were modelled on the interior of some French chateau, which had also supplied the inspiration for the huge chandelier hanging from the middle of the ceiling.
As ever, Mrs Pargeter felt perfectly at her ease. Growing up in Essex as a child she had never entertained the idea that rank or money might make anyone superior to her. And the generous lifestyle she had shared with her late husband meant that she was never fazed by the splendour of any hotel or restaurant. Mrs Pargeter was, as the French put it, ‘comfortable in her skin’ – and she had a splendidly lavish amount of skin to be comfortable in.
The tea had just arrived and two waiters were still setting up the display of silver cutlery and cake-stands when Hedgeclipper Clinton ushered in her guest. Samantha Pinkerton was a thin pretty girl in her early twenties. Her sloe-black eyes and dark hair suggested some Mediterranean input into her family history. The hair was centrally parted and flowed luxuriantly down to her shoulders. She wore a plain but well-cut dress in navy-blue cotton. She wore no jewellery except for a thin silver engagement band on her wedding finger.
Formally, she offered her hand to be shaken. ‘Mrs Pargeter, it’s very good to see you.’ Her voice was pure, unreconstructed Essex.
‘No problem, love. You take a seat.’ When the girl was safely ensconced and cups of tea had been poured, Mrs Pargeter went on, ‘I was very sorry to hear about your father’s death.’
Samantha nodded, and there was a glint of a tear in her eye. The memory of her loss was still raw.
‘Has the funeral happened?’
‘Yes, well, it was just a quick do in a crematorium. Not many people, really, apart from me.’
‘Oh, that’s a pity. I would have thought some of his colleagues, who used to work for my husband, would have been there.’
‘I don’t think they knew about it. Dad did kind of cut himself off from everyone when he went to Spain.’
‘Ah. Well, I’m sorry. We could’ve helped him out, I’m sure … if only we’d known where he was.’
‘I’m afraid that’s water under the bridge, really.’
‘Yes. And did you pay for the funeral, Samantha?’
‘Call me “Sammy”, please.’
‘Of course, Sammy. But did you pay for it?’
‘Yeah. Just about cleaned me out, I’m afraid.’
‘Have you got a job?’
‘I did have. Worked in a retail outlet, but the last two, three years … well, I just been looking after Dad. Didn’t have time to go out to work. I must sort something out soon.’
‘So what did you live on?’
The girl grimaced. ‘I had some savings. And my boyfriend, Kelvin, he chipped in a lot out of his … well, the money he had, until I …’ She was straying into an area she didn’t want to talk about and redirected herself. ‘We managed … Don’t know how, but we did. In that sense it was good Dad died when he did. Just got to the end of my savings. Don’t know how we’d have managed much longer.’ Something prompted a painful memory. The girl took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and pressed it to her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Pargeter again. ‘And where do you live?’
‘Kelvin and I got a flat in Southend.’
‘Lovely,’ said Mrs Pargeter. And she meant it. She had very pleasant memories of times spent in Southend with the late Mr Pargeter.
‘Well, we got the flat as long as we can keep finding the rent.’
‘Something’ll come up.’
The girl smiled gratefully through her tears, not knowing that Mrs Pargeter had already decided that she was the something that would come up. ‘I hope you’re right. The trouble is that during the last years, when I was looking after my dad, though I got very close to him, there were still lots of things he didn’t want to talk about.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like his early career, what he did before he went out to Spain.’
‘Ah. I might be able to help there.’
‘What d’you mean? Did you know him back then?’
‘No, I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but I’m sure,’ said Mrs Pargeter, thinking of the little black book, ‘that I know people who did.’
‘Well, anything you can find out …’
‘Leave it with me,’ said Mrs Pargeter with a comforting grin.
‘Thank you,’ said the girl, though her eyes were still sparkly with tears.
‘Look, you haven’t eaten anything,’ said her hostess, who believed that most human predicaments could be alleviated by food. ‘Have one of these cakes. They’re really delicious.’
‘I will in a minute,’ the girl mumbled through her handkerchief as she tried to stem the flow of tears.
Mrs Pargeter allowed her to have her cry out. It didn’t take long. Sammy wiped her nose in a businesslike way and returned the hanky to her sleeve. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Don’t apologize. I’m always in favour of a good cry when that’s what you need,’ Mrs Pargeter said, though she herself had never been seen to cry in public. She proffered a plate towards Sammy. ‘Have an eclair. I always find an eclair’s the solution to most problems. And Greene’s pastry chef makes the best eclairs in the whole wide world.’
The girl took one and immediately bit into it. Finishing her mouthful, she said, ‘You’re right. That’s bloody marvellous.’
‘You talked about your boyfriend, Kelvin …’
‘Yes. Well, he’s my fiancé, actually.’
‘Congratulations. And does that mean “fiancé” in the sense of someone you’re going to get married to?’
The dark eyes looked puzzled. ‘What else might it mean?’
‘I’m sorry, Sammy, but these days one does have to ask. Lots of young people seem to get engaged without any intention of getting married for years and years.’
‘No, Kelvin and I definitely want to get married. As soon as possible.’
‘Sad that your dad won’t be around to give you away.’
‘Well, yes, I suppose it is. Though in one way it makes it easier.’
‘Oh?’
‘Dad didn’t approve of Kelvin.’
‘Oh dear.’ Mrs Pargeter decided to hold back the question about what elements of the young man’s character were disapproved of.
‘In fact, Kelvin only asked me to marry him after Dad died. I don’t think he’d have done it while the old man was still around.’
‘And Kelvin is the right one for you? You’re sure of that?’
‘Absolutely sure.’ A large smile spread across the girl’s dark features. ‘I adore him. I can’t wait to become Mrs Stockett.’
‘Wonderful. Have you got a date for the wedding?’
‘Yes, in about a month’s time. Twenty-seventh of May.’
‘Going to be a big do?’
‘I wish,’ the girl replied glumly. ‘We’ll just about manage to scrape together enough for the registrar’s fees and the certificate.’
‘Doesn’t your fiancé, Kelvin, have a job?’
‘Not exactly, no.’ A blush suffused her pretty face. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to take money from him.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Well …’
The girl was clearly unwilling to answer, and again Mrs Pargeter didn’t press the point. Instead, she said, ‘Look, I have a proposition to put to you, Sammy. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help your dad while he was alive, but at least there’s something I can do to help you now.’
‘What?’
‘I will pay for your wedding.’
‘You mean, the registrar’s fees and everything? That’s very kind of—’
‘No, no, no. You don’t really want to get married in a registry office, do you?’
‘Well, it’s all we can afford, and—’
‘I told you, Sammy, I’m paying for everything.’
‘Yes, but we’ve got the registry office booked and finding another venue at short notice would be—’
Mrs Pargeter waved away the objection. ‘Most things can be sorted out
at short notice when you know the right people. So you go ahead and plan the wedding you’ve always wanted. Church, flowers, bridesmaids, a hundred and fifty guests. And a really good hen party, too. Whatever you want. You plan it, and I’ll pick up the tab.’
‘Ooh, Mrs Pargeter!’ The girl was clearly ecstatic at the news. ‘But are you sure?’
‘Never been surer about anything. It’s what my late husband would have wanted. He was a great philanthropist, and he left me with more than enough money to continue his good work.’
‘That’s wonderful. I can never thank you enough. Is there anything I can do for you in return?’
‘Yes, there is one thing …’
‘Oh?’
‘Invite me to the wedding, so that I can see you on the happiest day of your life.’
‘Of course we’ll do that. And you must come to the hen party too.’
‘Oh, you don’t want me there for—’
‘I very definitely do. You must come.’
‘Well, bless you, Sammy. And if you need any help with the planning – finding a venue, buying the dress, all that stuff – I’d be happy to help.’
‘I might well take you up on that, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Do. I love weddings.’ She held the plate out. ‘I think we should both have another eclair to celebrate.’
They did, and ate in reverent silence to the last delicious dollop of cream.
Then Mrs Pargeter said, in a purely conversational tone, ‘You said your father disapproved of your fiancé. Why was that?’
‘It was to do with what Kelvin does for a living.’
‘And what is that?’
‘He’s a criminal.’
FOUR
It was later that Monday evening when the phone rang in Mrs Pargeter’s large mansion near Chigwell. The house had been the dream home of her and the late Mr Pargeter. He had earmarked the plot of land and bought it, but sadly died before the project could reach completion. Sadly, before it had even reached commencement.
