by Simon Brett
‘Wow! That was quick.’
‘I am quick.’ The claim wasn’t boastful. It was just a statement of fact. ‘He went to Cheesemongers’ First School till he was eleven and then moved on to Cheesemongers’ Hall.’
‘That sounds very grand.’
‘It wasn’t at all. Both schools were in the East End – been knocked down years ago and replaced with tower blocks. And they provided state education in its most basic form. None of the pupils went on to any kind of college or university. All left at sixteen … and many much earlier. The truancy rates were very high, and a lot of them were working full-time in family businesses by the time they were fourteen. Anyway, I managed to track down the attendance registers and other records for both schools.’
Mrs Pargeter had a strong temptation to ask how on earth Erin had managed to do that so quickly, but she restrained herself. The girl’s professional secrets must be respected.
‘Well,’ Erin went on, ‘what the registers reveal is that your husband and another boy called Richard Smirke—’
‘That must be Holy.’
‘I reckon so. Anyway, they were together through both schools. Actually started on the same day.’
‘Oh, it’s very frustrating not being able to talk to Holy, isn’t it? I do hope nothing terrible’s happened to him.’
‘If Napper Johnson’s on the case, he’ll find him,’ said Erin firmly, ruling out less attractive possibilities.
‘I hope so. Sorry, Erin. You were saying that the two of them went through both schools together …?’
‘Yes, and their reports suggest that neither of them …’ The girl chose her words carefully. ‘That neither of them were particularly interested in their studies.’
‘Ah.’
‘But they were always together, and it was like they had their own little gang.’
‘Really?’
‘In fact,’ Erin went on boldly, ‘one of their teachers said that in her view both of the young men were destined for a life of crime.’
‘What a strange thing to say,’ Mrs Pargeter observed innocently.
‘Yes. But the interesting detail is that there was a third member of their gang as well.’
‘And his name wouldn’t, by any chance, have been Normington Winthrop?’ asked Mrs Pargeter eagerly.
‘Wouldn’t that have been neat? But no, the third member of the gang was called Tony Hardcastle.’
‘Never heard the name. Just a minute.’ Mrs Pargeter reached into her handbag. ‘Wait while I check whether there’s a Tony Hardcastle in my husband’s little black book.’ She flicked through the pages. ‘Oh yes, there is something here. Tony Hardcastle. Under “Armourers”.’
‘And is it one of the first names in the category?’
‘No. That’s “Normington Winthrop”, as we know. Tony Hardcastle comes quite a long way down the list. The ink’s a lot less faded than on the names above him. Also there’s a line through him. He’s been crossed out.’
‘And you say that usually means the person has died?’
‘I think so, Erin, yes.’
‘Hm. Well, it would make sense for the name to be under “Armourers”.’
‘Oh?’
‘There was a big fuss at Cheesemongers’ Hall when twelve-year-old Tony Hardcastle was discovered to have brought a gun into school one day.’
‘Blimey.’
‘An old service revolver someone had nicked during the war. It apparently caused a major panic.’
‘And this Tony Hardcastle was part of the gang with my husband and Holy Smirke?’
‘Very definitely. He was included in the list of those who that one teacher reckoned were destined for a life of crime.’
‘Right. I wonder what happened to him …?’
‘I’ll try to find out, but there seems to be no record of him anywhere. Actually, I had a thought, Mrs Pargeter …’
‘What was that, love?’
‘You remember when we were looking through all the original records that my dad had kept?’
‘Yes.’
‘And we found that some bits had been cut out?’
‘I remember.’
‘Well, we assumed those were references to Normington Winthrop.’
‘Yes.’
‘But perhaps it’s more likely, given what we know now, that they were actually references to Tony Hardcastle.’
‘It’s possible, yes.’
‘Because in all the records I checked from Cheesemongers’ First School and Cheesemongers’ Hall there was no reference anywhere to Normington Winthrop.’
Which, thought Mrs Pargeter, was hardly surprising if he was brought up in South Africa.
She felt more confused than ever.
FIFTEEN
‘It could be arson,’ Edmund Grainger suggested.
‘No, I don’t do arson,’ said Kelvin Stockett firmly. ‘I’m a burglar.’
‘Maybe just as well. If you actually bring the stuff to us then we’ll be sure no one else can lay their hands on it.’
‘And you reckon it’ll all be on the one laptop?’
‘Yes, but they’ll probably have made back-ups – external hard drives, memory sticks. I want you to clear out all that stuff.’
‘No problem.’
They were sitting in an anonymous pub near Clapham Junction on Saturday afternoon. Country and western music whinged too loudly from the speakers, but at least ensured that no one could overhear their conversation.
‘And if you do this assignment all right, Kelvin, there could be more work coming your way.’
‘From your organization?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sort of like having a permanent job?’ asked Kelvin, remembering his recent conversation with Sammy.
‘I’m not sure about that. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, nothing, don’t worry about it. Incidentally, what does your organization actually do, Mr Grainger?’
‘I don’t think there’s any need for you to know that.’
‘Very well.’ Kelvin Stockett didn’t argue.
‘And I want the job done quickly. In fact, remember the fee we agreed?’
Kelvin nodded. There was no danger of his forgetting that in a hurry. It was a very substantial sum.
‘Well,’ Edmund Grainger went on, ‘each day the job hasn’t got done a grand gets knocked off that fee.’
‘So there’s a real incentive for me to get it done sharpish.’
‘I’d say so.’
‘Right.’ That, in fact, suited Kelvin Stockett well. Sammy Pinkerton would not be in their flat that night. It was her hen party, and Mrs Pargeter had booked all the participants into Greene’s Hotel, so that when in the small hours they stumbled out of the final club they wouldn’t have to bother about getting taxis home.
Kelvin grinned as he said, ‘Tell me where the properties I’ve got to break into are.’
The man gave him the two addresses.
Edmund Grainger waited about twenty minutes after Kelvin had left the pub, then he left for the dull suburban house in the hinterland of Lavender Hill where Holy Smirke was being kept captive. The vicar had already been very helpful in providing details of Mrs Pargeter’s connections – like the addresses he had just given to Kelvin Stockett – but Edmund Grainger felt certain there was more information to come. He didn’t think it’d be too difficult to extract it from the old man. A little persuasion was all that would be required, and Edmund Grainger was a master of the arts of persuasion.
Mrs Pargeter was surprised how sedate Sammy Pinkerton’s hen night guests were when they arrived. Most of them had checked into Greene’s about five on the Saturday afternoon and spent a couple of hours exploring each other’s rooms, dressing and titivating for the evening ahead. Hairstyles were experimented with, faces were painted in a variety of styles, eyelashes and a profusion of glitter were stuck on.
All of this activity was conducted to a soundtrack of much giggling, but nobody got raucous. Perhaps they were hol
ding something back for later in the evening.
Mrs Pargeter had offered to organize dinner at Greene’s for all of them. Her plan had been to stay at home in Chigwell for the evening, but Sammy Pinkerton wouldn’t hear of it. ‘You’ve done so much, you’ve been so much a part of my wedding plans, that I really do want you there at my hen night.’
After a little more argument Mrs Pargeter had been convinced that Sammy meant what she said and agreed to attend the dinner. ‘But going on to the clubs afterwards … I don’t think that’s for me.’
‘You’ll love it, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘My presence will double the average age in places like that.’
‘Don’t you worry about a thing. Age is just a number.’
Mrs Pargeter didn’t worry when young people used that line, but she found it embarrassing to hear from her contemporaries. It usually came from women of the mutton-dressed-as-lamb tendency and contained elements of protesting too much. Mrs Pargeter knew exactly how old she was, and that was the age she felt. But she never let her advancing years inhibit her acute enjoyment of life.
‘Well, I’ll join you for the dinner and at the end of the meal make a decision about the rest of the evening.’
‘I’ve already made that decision for you, Mrs Pargeter.’
The dinner was served in Greene’s Hotel’s private Ramillies Suite. Seated next to Sammy, Mrs Pargeter looked along the table with great affection and a degree of pride. Apart from Erin she hadn’t met any of the guests before, but they had all introduced themselves with great politeness. In their glad rags they looked absolutely stunning, but the bride-to-be’s dark beauty outshone them all (which was exactly as it should be).
Mrs Pargeter raised her glass of champagne. ‘To the beginning,’ she said, ‘of what I’m sure will be a brilliant evening!’
Kelvin Stockett eased the Ford Transit van along the wet streets of South London. He had chosen carefully where he stole the vehicle from, eventually deciding on a transport parking compound owned by one of the high street banks. He knew that while they were very zealous about security in their actual branch buildings, they were relatively slack about protecting their peripheral services, so he reckoned breaking into the place would not be too much of a problem. As for alarms on the actual vehicle … well, he had ways of dealing with those.
This first part of the theft went like clockwork. Getting himself inside the compound offered no problems at all. Nor was it difficult to break into the Portakabin office to extract the relevant key.
He had taken with him magnetic number plates to put over his real ones, and he used the old trick of putting different registrations on the front and the back of the van. This could arouse unwelcome curiosity if the vehicle was parked for any length of time during the day, but when driving about by night it was a useful way of confusing witnesses.
The other big advantage of his choice of venue for the theft was that very few bank staff worked at weekends.
Driving the Transit out of the compound was easy, and when that was done he carefully closed and re-padlocked the gates so there’d be no signs of his illegal entrance and exit.
He had cased the two joints during the day and reckoned the back way was going to be favourite in both. The problems he envisaged were not to do with breaking in – he had honed his skills to such a level that there was hardly a building in London that he couldn’t have got into – but were more concerned with the amount of material he’d have to take away from both crime scenes. And until he got inside he wouldn’t actually know how much stuff there was.
Behind the first building was a small yard backed by a brick wall with a wooden gate in it. There was a space right outside, perfect for parking the Transit.
He sat for a moment, gathering his concentration for the task that lay ahead. The rain was now falling more heavily, which brought with it both a disadvantage and an advantage. Wet drainpipes and window sills would make climbing more hazardous. But on the bonus side, the weather would keep most potential witnesses indoors.
Though the rain was so hard, he didn’t put on anything waterproof. That would only make his body more slick and slippery. A black hoodie was less dangerous (and also hid his distinctively blond hair). Black jeans, black trainers with ridged soles that could grip on any surface. Black scarf across the lower part of his face. Black gloves with rubber ribbing across the palms and fingers.
The feeble padlock on the wooden gate offered little resistance. Inside the small yard he managed to heave himself up to a second-floor window sill on which he edged along towards the drainpipe.
This didn’t look as robust as he would have wished. When he touched the metal, the pipe rattled slightly in its fixings. But Kelvin knew he’d have to risk it. There was no other way he was going to make it up to the third floor.
He was very fit and a good climber, and he soon found himself adjacent to the window through which he wanted to enter the building. For reasons of noise and professional pride he had no desire to break the window, but fortunately he managed to jemmy it up without leaving a mark.
He slipped into the office and whipped out his torch. The beam travelled round the room, causing him to let out an involuntary whistle at the amount of stuff there was and in what chaos it was scattered. Though his fee was large, he was certainly going to earn it.
His torch beam landed on a wall chart calendar, its dates empty of stickers or notes of bookings. But the words picked out above it in stick-on gold letters confirmed that he had come to the right place.
They read ‘MASON DE VERE DETECTIVE AGENCY’.
Of course, when it came to it and they had finished their excellent dinner at Greene’s Hotel, there was no question of Mrs Pargeter returning straight away to Chigwell.
The bouncer on the door of the first club they visited looked slightly askance at her when she made to enter. ‘’Ere,’ he said, ‘you’re not meant to bring your mums along.’
‘Mrs Pargeter is my guest,’ said Sammy Pinkerton forcefully.
‘Also,’ the subject of the argument pointed out, ‘I am no one’s mum. I am a person in my own right, which is why I’m going to walk straight past you and enter this club.’
The bouncer was so flabbergasted that he just unhooked the velvet rope and let her in.
Inside, the music was so loud that speech was impossible. But Mrs Pargeter was soon moving sinuously to the beat.
So sinuously that it wasn’t long before a rather good-looking young man started to dance with her.
Funny, thought Mrs Pargeter, I’ve never thought of myself as a cougar … but for one night, who cares?
One of the early lessons Kelvin Stockett had learned as a burglar was that one should not always try to attain invisibility. Being seen while you’re working is not invariably a bad thing. If members of the public see someone confidently walking around, apparently doing his job, they tend not to find his or her actions suspicious.
He put this experience to good use in removing all of Truffler Mason’s files. He switched the lights on in the office and on the stairs down to the back yard. He left the back door and the wooden gate open as he kept going in for another load. He left the Transit’s sidelights on and its back gates open. He even whistled while he worked.
Though he felt quite confident about what he was doing, he was still glad that there weren’t many potential witnesses around. A couple of old men taking their dogs out to do their business took no notice of him. And a courting couple with arms all over each other showed no interest either.
Because of the volume of stuff, transferring it all from office to van took over an hour. Packing it all in the back of the Transit took time too. He piled it up carefully to leave as much space as possible. He didn’t know how much he’d be removing from his next port of call.
Mrs Pargeter thought they were in the third club – or it might have been the fourth. The sedate young ladies of the dinner at Greene’s Hotel were now rather less sedate but, though they had shed any
vestige of inhibition, none of them had yet become too raucous, maudlin or drunk. They were just having a good time.
And Mrs Pargeter was having as good a time as any of them, matching dance move for dance move, downing shot for shot, and still a magnet for young men.
At one of the clubs – or possibly someone had brought them from Greene’s Hotel – they had acquired bunny ears and devil’s horns. Mrs Pargeter, wearing the latter, was bopping away when Erin approached her through the gyrating crowd. Her bunny ears were a little askew, and her purple hair had come to little sweaty points on her forehead.
‘It’s after four, Mrs P,’ she shouted above the din. ‘I think I’d better be going.’
‘Oh, don’t do that now,’ Mrs Pargeter bellowed back. ‘There’s a room waiting for you back at Greene’s.’
‘But I was intending to get home.’
‘How long’s that going to take you?’
‘Half an hour, if I can find a cab.’
‘From here we can walk to Greene’s in five minutes,’ Mrs Pargeter roared back. ‘Stay.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Erin, drifting back through the throng into the arms of a young man who appeared to be literally panting for her.
Mrs Pargeter straightened her devil’s horns and continued dancing.
The Transit van drew up round the back of the house that used to belong to Jukebox Jarvis. Kelvin Stockett knew that a different kind of caution was required here. The Mason De Vere Detective Agency had been in an area of shops and offices with not many people around on a Saturday night. And although Sammy had told him that Erin herself would be away at the hen party, he still had to be vigilant. Now he was in suburbia, home of nosy neighbours and twitching curtains. Also, he suspected, from what he’d managed to find out about Erin Jarvis, that her security systems might be more sophisticated than Truffler’s.
He stayed in the Transit a good ten minutes before making any move and was relieved to see that no lights were switched on in the adjacent houses. Then he slipped out of the van, silently closing its door.
