by Simon Brett
The wall at the back of the garden fortunately had a gate in it, padlocked on the inside. Shinning over the wall proved easy for someone as fit as Kelvin. Once inside he used an old-fashioned picklock to deal with the padlock.
There was sufficient moonlight for him to see that he was in a very well-kept garden. He advanced across it towards the kitchen door.
When he was very close he took out his tiny torch and inspected the locks. He recognized the brand immediately from the extensive research he had done into commercially available security systems. Disabling the lock and getting into the house would not be a problem, but then he knew he’d only have thirty seconds to find and switch off the alarm.
He brought his torch beam close to the kitchen window and checked out the interior geography. He couldn’t see the alarm control box on the walls and reasoned, from his considerable experience of such things, that it was more likely to be at the front of the house. There was only one door leading off the kitchen, which he reckoned must lead to the hall. So he’d have to get through that door, find the alarm control and switch it off – all within his allotted thirty seconds.
If he was wrong about where he anticipated finding the box, then his evening’s mission would have to be aborted.
But Kelvin Stockett didn’t allow in any negative thoughts when he was working. And when he was doing a burglary job he felt more alive than he did at any other time. He was supremely confident in his own abilities. That’s how he knew it was the right career for him. Just as it had been for his father.
He took a couple of deep breaths. Then he removed a small electronic zapper from his pocket. Pointing it at the lock, he pressed the button.
With a very quiet bleep the kitchen door opened. His ribbed soles silent on the tiled floor, he dashed across the room, opened the door and found himself, as he had hoped, in a narrow hallway. And there on the wall, just at the bottom of the stairs, was fixed a metal box from which an admonitory red LED light blinked at him.
It was a matter of seconds to open the metal cover and switch the alarm off. Fortunately, he knew a way of doing this which bypassed the keypad code. He looked at his watch. Easy. He’d done it with four seconds to spare.
Now securely inside the house, he took his time to look around. The front room appeared to be an office, where the only evidence of any archive system was a gleaming state-of-the-art laptop.
Kelvin checked the thickness and extent of the blind on the main window and decided he could risk putting the lights on. Then he sat down in front of the laptop and, using a long numerical code to bypass the password, logged on. He checked out what backup systems were being used and keyed in another long numerical code which would erase all data that had been saved on Erin’s iCloud.
He then went around the room meticulously collecting memory sticks and any other electronic components which might possibly be used for storage purposes. He felt a self-congratulatory glow. This was going to be a lot easier than the raid on Truffler Mason’s office had been.
But when he looked in the back room, that confidence very quickly faded. The space was absolutely filled with library shelves of files – old cardboard files in only marginally better condition than the ones from Truffler’s place that were already filling half the Transit.
But there was no way he could give up now. Edmund Grainger’s directions had been very specific, and if Kelvin was going to claim the large fee that had been agreed he would have to clear all archival material that he found in Erin Jarvis’s house.
He settled down to the task, trying to get his mind into an attitude of Zen acceptance. Each file he moved out into the garden was one he wouldn’t have to move again (or, at least, only from the garden to the Transit).
Transferring the stuff was back-breaking toil which took him over three hours. But finally it was all crammed in and with relief he could lock the Transit’s back doors.
He then went back into the house to check that he hadn’t missed anything. Using another special code, he reset the burglar alarm and relocked both the back door and the garden gate.
Dawn strips of lighter grey were appearing in the sky as he drove towards the address he’d been given off Lavender Hill. And though he was totally exhausted, Kelvin Stockett felt the satisfaction of a job well done.
SIXTEEN
When he was busy on an investigation, Truffler Mason didn’t take much notice of weekends. He didn’t take much notice of them even when he wasn’t busy on an investigation. His flat was a dingy, unadorned place with none of those little personal touches that make a home. So the more time he spent away from it, the better.
It was no surprise then that nine o’clock on the Sunday morning found him putting the key in the lock of the bookmaker’s beneath which his office was located.
Once inside, it didn’t take him long to realize that he’d had a visitor. It was so long since he had been able to see the floor through all the clutter that he had forgotten the hideous pink linoleum that covered it.
He lowered his long body into his ancient swivel chair and surveyed the emptiness around him. Though furious, he couldn’t suppress a small feeling of sneaky admiration for the thorough job his visitor had done.
He tried to shut his mind to the effects the theft would have on his working life, the amount of irreplaceable data he had lost, and concentrate instead on trying to work out who might have committed the crime.
Truffler Mason’s line of work was one in which making enemies went with the territory. So he tried to think which of them he had recently offended. But, of course, the crime was not just a random act of vandalism. The perpetrator had not taken his phone, laptop or any other office equipment. All he had wanted was the private investigator’s files: the archive of his professional life.
That suggested it was not the action of someone for whom Truffler’s investigations had led to the closing-down of a lucrative criminal enterprise, or even to an arrest. For them, the archive would already have done its worst.
No, it had to be the work of someone who was currently under investigation. And the case Truffler was working on at that time, on behalf of Mrs Pargeter and Lady Winthrop, was the discovery of the secrets of Sir Normington Winthrop’s past. That had to be the connection to the theft of all his files.
But though he reckoned his logic was impeccable, it didn’t bring him any nearer to putting a name to the burglar in question.
Truffler looked around his bare office, his face more mournful than ever, and tried to think of some work he could do that didn’t involve consulting his files. Only one thought occurred to him. He picked up the phone and dialled Napper Johnson’s mobile number.
He knew the PR consultant didn’t work weekends, and indeed had a rather classy social life, spent on people’s yachts or in house parties at stately homes. But he reckoned he should still be able to make contact on the mobile.
His supposition proved correct. Napper answered on the third ring, his voice as ever marinated in suavity.
Truffler Mason identified himself and said, ‘Sorry to trouble you at the weekend, but I was thinking it’s been a while since we’ve heard from you.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that. I am all too well aware of my shortcomings on the case. I thought if we just followed the trail of the CCTV cameras we’d find out immediately where your kidnapped vicar was being held and have rescued him by the end of the day. Sadly, I discovered we were up against rather more sophisticated villains than I had first thought.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘They, too, appear able to hack into the Metropolitan and City police CCTV systems.’
‘Oh?’
‘This is rather embarrassing for me to say, Truffler. They’ve made me look like an idiot.’
‘I didn’t think it was possible to do that, Napper.’
‘Thank you very much for your confidence. Sadly, in this case it is misplaced.’
‘So what did they do?’
‘My staff were tracki
ng the kidnappers’ car perfectly easily … until it got south of the river.’
‘What happened then?’
‘As soon as the vehicle crossed Battersea Bridge, the CCTV feed stopped and was replaced by a video.’
‘A video of what?’
‘In the Night Garden.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve no idea what that is.’
‘Of course not. You don’t have children, do you?’
‘No.’
‘In the Night Garden is a children’s television programme of, to my mind, excessive sentimentality.’
‘Ah.’
‘Replacing the lead I was following with it was an act of sheer insolence. It was the kidnappers cocking a snook at me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not as sorry as I am, Truffler. The thought of letting Mrs Pargeter down is more than I can bear.’
‘She’ll be very sympathetic.’
‘I don’t want her sympathy. I want to be able to provide her with the service which she expects from me.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘It makes me seriously worry about whether I’m losing my touch.’
‘No way, Napper.’
But the PR man sounded unsure, his almost bombastic confidence draining out of him like air from a punctured balloon.
Truffler, who had never before been confronted by a moment of doubt from Napper Johnson, tried to reassure him. ‘I’m sure someone like you will have other ways of finding out where old Holy Smirke is being held.’
‘Of course I do, but they’re all more time-consuming than the CCTV method.’ Napper spoke more urgently, as if to dismiss his moment of vulnerability. ‘Needless to say, I’ve checked the registration number of the Toyota Prius in which the vicar was abducted. And, needless to say, the car had false plates whose numbers do not appear on the DVLA computer system. I have alerted my network of informants about the kidnap, and they are doing their best, but it’s a slow process.’
‘Hm. Do you want me to tell all this to Mrs Pargeter?’
‘No, no, please don’t, Truffler! If failure has to be admitted I would rather deliver the bad news myself. But give me a bit longer. If I’ve made no more progress by the end of tomorrow, Monday, I will ring Mrs Pargeter and tell her of my inadequacy.’
‘Very well. I won’t say anything to her till then.’
‘Thank you.’
‘By the way, Napper, are you having one of your nice country house weekends?’
‘I certainly am not! I’ve given all that up. Since my wife …’ He still couldn’t spell out the words. ‘I don’t get the pleasure I used to from such occasions, and my hosts and hostesses keep trying to set me up with unattached women. It’s very tiring.’
‘So what are you up to this weekend?’
‘I am personally scouring South London for any trace of a kidnapped vicar.’
Truffler Mason was not the only one to get bad news by phone that Sunday.
Back at Greene’s Hotel Mrs Pargeter had woken round eleven with a considerable headache, which was alleviated by the large brunch in a private room which she had ordered for the morning after the hen party.
Sammy and her guests appeared at various times and in various degrees of wanness, but they all perked up with the champagne and breakfast buffet. The old adage that ‘nothing is better for a hangover than a big fry-up’ was put to the test and proved to be very accurate. Plates piled high with bacon, sausages, black pudding, scrambled eggs, hash browns, tomatoes, mushrooms and baked beans were voraciously wolfed down by the girls. As their heads cleared, so the noise level increased while they giggled their way through reconstructing the antics of the night before.
It was about three o’clock when they all parted in the Greene’s Hotel foyer. Mrs Pargeter saw Hedgeclipper Clinton wince behind his counter at the high giggle level, and she grinned across at him. There were then lots of hugs and thank-yous as she said goodbye to the girls. Sammy Pinkerton gave her a particularly big hug and thank-you. ‘None of this would have happened without you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I loved every minute of it.’
‘I’ll see you soon.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, actually.’
‘Oh?’
‘Come on, Sammy, don’t be dozy. That’s the day you and Kelvin are going to inspect Girdstone Manor.’
‘Of course.’
‘Gary and I will pick you up at your flat in Southend at ten thirty.’
‘Great. We’ll be there.’
The Bentley was waiting outside Greene’s, and as Gary drove her back to Chigwell Mrs Pargeter felt very pleased with the way the hen party had gone. She rewarded herself with a very comforting little zizz in the car.
The first bad-news call came at about six from Erin. The girl told Mrs Pargeter exactly what she had found – or rather not found – when she got back home.
Erin tried not to allow any emotion into her voice as she spelled out what was missing. She was certainly not about to succumb to tears, but Mrs Pargeter could feel the seething anger behind her impassivity.
‘Don’t worry,’ Mrs Pargeter said. ‘We’ll find your stuff. And I’m sure some of it is duplicated in Truffler’s office. We’ll get him on the case.’
‘I don’t think that’ll help much,’ said Erin flatly. ‘I’ve just heard from Truffler.’ And she told Mrs Pargeter the second tale of woe.
‘It must be the same person behind both robberies, Erin, mustn’t it?’
‘I think it must be.’
‘We’ll track them down,’ said Mrs Pargeter with more confidence than she felt.
‘And when we do,’ said Erin, her anger spilling over, ‘I will personally kill them.’
The second call of the evening was even more distressing. This time the caller was in tears. It was Sammy.
‘What on earth’s the matter? Are you just feeling down after the excitement of last night?’
‘No, it’s nothing to do with that,’ Sammy sobbed. ‘Last night’s about the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. But when I got back home …’ Tears stopped further words from coming out.
‘Oh Gawd,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘You haven’t been burgled, have you?’
‘No. Why would you think that?’
‘Never mind, love. What has happened?’
‘It’s much worse than burglary. It’s about Kelvin.’
‘Is he all right? Has something happened to him?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know where he is! He’s not at the flat.’
‘I’m sure he’ll turn up.’
‘More to the point, he hasn’t been to the flat.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s an old girl lives in the ground-floor flat right underneath ours. She’s nosy as hell, and she doesn’t sleep very well. Always complaining about the noise if one or other of us doesn’t get back till after midnight. Well, she told me that Kelvin went out about eight o’clock yesterday evening and … he hasn’t come back since!’ Again the girl was overcome by floods of tears.
‘Sammy, I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for—’
‘I’m sure there isn’t. There’s only one explanation that makes any sense – and the sense it makes isn’t very nice.’
‘You’ve tried ringing him?’
‘Of course I have – ringing, texting, emailing. He seems to have his phone switched off.’
‘Well, maybe there’s a job he had to do that took longer than—’
‘Mrs Pargeter, when I asked Kelvin yesterday what he was going to do while I was at the hen party, he said he was going to stay in the flat, watch some telly, have an early night.’
‘Something must have made him change his mind. It needn’t be anything sinister. He just—’
‘Mrs Pargeter, it’s very sweet of you to speak up for him, but we both know what’s really happened.’
‘Do we?’
‘Of course we do. Kelvin spent last n
ight with another woman.’
‘You don’t know that. There are any number of other explanations for—’
‘I know that’s what’s happened. Before he met me, Kelvin was a bit of a Jack the Lad, popping in and out of any number of girls’ beds. So suddenly he gets the opportunity of a night on his own, with me safely in Greene’s Hotel, and what does he do? He immediately goes back to bed with one of his old girlfriends.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I do! I am absolutely certain of it.’
‘Sammy,’ said Mrs Pargeter soothingly, ‘Kelvin will come back soon with a perfectly sensible explanation for what he’s been doing, you’ll make up, and we’ll go to Girdstone Manor tomorrow to—’
‘We will not be going to Girdstone Manor tomorrow or any other day! I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs Pargeter – particularly when you’ve been so generous to me – but my engagement to Kelvin Stockett is off!’
SEVENTEEN
Mrs Pargeter woke on the Monday morning feeling uncharacteristically low. She seemed to be getting nowhere on the case, and then she’d had that upsetting call from Sammy the evening before. Things didn’t look good.
She glanced ruefully at the photograph on her bedside table. The very correct Mr Pargeter looked back at her. ‘God,’ she said, ‘I wish you were still around, so’s I could pick your brains on this one.’
Partially restored by some toast, marmalade and very strong instant coffee, at ten o’clock sharp she rang the number of Girdstone Manor and once again got through to the snooty Bookings Manager Shereen.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to postpone the inspection meeting we’d arranged for today. The young man, Kelvin, has a business commitment, which means he can’t make it.’
‘Are you sure that doesn’t mean he’s getting cold feet about the whole wedding thing?’ Shereen’s response was shrewd; she’d clearly been through every emotional ripple of many engagements.
‘Good heavens, no,’ Mrs Pargeter replied breezily. ‘They’re both as keen as ever. I’ll talk to them and get back to you to fix another date for what we were hoping to do today.’
