by Simon Brett
“Very little actually. Very little of the ordinary sort, anyway. Fact is, most people out here’ve got some connection with the tourist business. They know thieving and that’s only going to put the punters off, so they make sure it doesn’t happen.”
Something in his tone had alerted Mrs. Pargeter. “You say ‘very little burglary of the ordinary sort,’ Larry . . . ?”
“Yeah, well . . .” He gave a little, modest smile. “Well, yeah . . . Like I said, I got a bit of a business going on my own account.”
“Yes?”
“Fact is . . .” He still looked sheepishly proud of himself. “Fact is, you know, when I worked for Mr. P.—”
“My husband never spoke to me about the details of his work.” The temperature of Mrs. Pargeter’s voice had dropped by a sudden ten degrees.
“No, but, like, I was always good on the old documents. Need some papers nicked, need them fixed, arranged, amended, like . . . Larry Lambeth’s the bloke you want—that’s what Mr. P. always said.”
Mrs. Pargeter was more concerned about another of her husband’s dicta. “What you are ignorant of, Melita my love, you cannot stand up in court and talk about. I am very proud to be the husband of a woman who has never broken the law or been the possessor of any information about anyone else who might have broken the law.” The late Mr. Pargeter had often said that to her.
She smiled at Larry Lambeth in innocent puzzlement. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“O.K., well, look, like coming up to date . . . Fact is, when I come out here, I got quite a stash. Bought the villa, no problem, still had plenty of drax left to keep me in the style to what I had accustomed myself. But—I’m not the first to do it and I know I won’t be the last—I didn’t take inflation into account, did I?”
“Ah.”
“So, anyway, after a few years, the old mazooma’s getting a bit tight, and I start thinking to myself, like, maybe I better get something else going. Well, I don’t want to go, like, back into the old full-time racket, do I?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Mrs. Pargeter with a sweet-little-old-lady smile.
“No, right. Well, fact is, I definitely don’t want nothing full time, but I think to myself, like, I got these talents with the old documents and that—why don’t I use them? And then I remember that the only thing that’s always had a good international resale value—whatever the economic climate—is the old British passport.”
“What, so you mean you forge passports?” Mrs. Pargeter’s voice was suitably cowed by the shock of the idea.
“Not forge the whole lot, no—that’s like a big job. No, I just, like, get the passports and then I doctor them.”
“When you say you . . . get the passports . . . ?”
“Well, this is why it’s magic being out here, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Look, Mrs. P., lots of English punters come out here, don’t they?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, first couple of days they’re very good about things . . . put their cash in money belts, take their passports and valuables with them at all times, close all the shutters, lock up the old villa every time they go out . . .”
“Yes.”
“But after that first couple of days, the old Corfiot bit gets to them.”
“The old Corfiot bit?”
“Sure, they relax, don’t they?”
“Ah.”
“Place is famous for it. As a matter of fact . . .” Larry Lambeth looked rather sedate for a moment. “You heard of Mr. Gladstone?”
“Mr. Gladstone? Which Mr. Gladstone?”
“The one what was Prime Minister.”
“Oh yes. Of course I’ve heard of him,” said Mrs. Pargeter through her surprise.
“Well, he was out here for a while, you know, and he said he had ‘never witnessed such complete and contented idleness as at Corfu.’” Larry Lambeth enunciated the quotation with a gravity befitting its provenance.
“Really? I didn’t know that.” Mrs. Pargeter was impressed. “You’re very well-read, Larry.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He looked a bit sheepish. “Actually, I only read that in a holiday brochure.”
“Never mind. It’s still very interesting.”
“Right. Anyway, so what I’m saying is . . . once the holiday makers start to relax, start leaving the old villa windows open and that . . . well, it’s dead easy for anyone who wants to go in and nick the old passport, isn’t it?”
“And that’s what you do? That’s the business you’ve built up?”
Larry Lambeth looked suitably pleased with himself. “Yeah, right. Found a decent little gap in the market there. Ticking over quite nicely, thanks.”
“So you just steal any passports you happen to come across?”
He was affronted. “No, come on, give me a bit of credit. It’s not a random business, highly sophisticated operation, mine. Anyway, if I took too many, it’d start to look suspicious. No, mostly I’m working on commissions.”
“Commissions?”
“Sure. Someone says to me something like—I need a passport for a man in his sixties, five foot eight, fourteen stone, balding, white hair. So then I go along the beaches till I see someone who more or less looks like that, find out where they’re staying, nick the passport.”
“But surely it gets reported as missing and then if anyone else tries to use it they get arrested?”
“Oh yeah, of course you have to make the odd adjustment to the document . . . change the number, the name, fiddle with the photo, that kind of stuff. But in my experience”—He gave the side of his nose a professional tap—“the less you have to change the better.”
“So who do you get your commissions from?”
“Varies a lot. Most of my business, though, comes through Hamish Ramon Henriques.”
“Who?”
“Come on, you must know Hamish Ramon Henriques. Mr. P. was working with him all the time.”
The frost returned to Mrs. Pargeter’s voice. “As I said, I knew very little about my late husband’s work.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Well, Hamish Ramon Henriques is, like, a travel agent. Rather specialist travel agent, I do have to say. But, anyway, I get a nice lot of commissions through him. He gives me the details of what he’s looking for . . . I find it, do the necessary doctoring . . . send it back to him. Nice, neat business, sweet as a nut. Incidentally”—he leant towards Mrs. Pargeter in a confidential manner—“if you ever find yourself wanting a false passport, you have only to say the word.”
“That’s extremely kind of you,” said Mrs. Pargeter primly, “but I think it very unlikely that that situation will ever arise.”
“Mrs. P., as the cyclist said just before he drove into the bus—you never know what’s round the next corner.”
“No, that’s very true. You don’t.”
Larry Lambeth suddenly barked out some instructions in Greek and the pretty woman appeared with a basket of peaches and black cherries. She got no word of thanks as she put it down on the table, but once again the way she looked at Larry, her smile half amused and half insolent, suggested a closeness between them. Her task completed, she receded discreetly into the villa.
Larry bit into a peach and caught its trickling juice with his tongue. “Anyway, sorry, got a bit sidetracked there. What we really should be doing, like, is finding out who done in your mate Joyce.”
“Yes.”
“And you reckon the reason behind it’s something back in England?”
“I think it must be. At least there are certainly things I’d like to find out from England. Some information about Joyce’s husband, for a start.”
“Well, pretty obvious what you got to do then, isn’t it, Mrs. P.?”
“What?”
Larry Lambeth looked at his watch. “They’re two hours back in England, so, yes, I’d say this was the perfect time to ring Truffler Mason, wouldn’t you
?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pargeter. “I think it well could be.”
chapter
FIFTEEN
* * *
“Hello. Mason de Vere Detective Agency.”
The voice, as ever, sounded as if it had just received information from an unimpeachable source that Armageddon had arrived.
“Truffler, it’s Mrs. Pargeter.”
“You don’t know how good it is to hear from you.” The gloom in Truffler Mason’s voice deepened. Not only was the world about to end; he’d also discovered that hell did exist and, what’s more, it was compulsory.
Mrs. Pargeter, who knew his manner of old, took the words at face value. “Very sweet of you to say so. It’s good to hear you too, Truffler.”
“Everything all right out there?” Anxiety joined the terminal depression in his voice. “I hope Larry Lambeth made contact. I told him to keep an eye on you.”
“I’m calling from Larry’s now. Thank you very much for setting that up.”
“Least I could do. When I think how your late husband looked after—no, nurtured, that’s the word—when I think how your late husband nurtured me in my career . . . well, whatever I do for you’s going to be too little.”
“Thank you very much,” said Mrs. Pargeter at the end of this funeral oration. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“And you’re having a good time? Everything all right, is it?”
“Oh yes, everything fine,” she replied automatically. Then, remembering, continued, “Well, except for the fact that my friend’s been murdered.”
“What!”
“My friend, Joyce Dover, whom I came on this package with, was murdered last night. It was made to look like suicide, but there’s no doubt it was murder.”
“I’ll come out there straightaway,” said Truffler with mournful determination.
“No, there’s no need. I’m not in any danger.” Mrs. Pargeter did not give herself time to question the truth of that assertion. “You can be much more use to me in England. Listen, I want some investigation done into Joyce’s background.”
“Fine. Give me the details.”
“Are you sure you’ve got time? There aren’t other cases you should be getting on with?” A clattering and thumping was heard from the other end of the phone. “Are you all right, Truffler? What was that noise?”
“Just me clearing my desk. Mrs. Pargeter. From now on, your investigation is the only thing I’m working on.”
“But, Truffler, you shouldn’t—”
“I know my priorities, thank you. Come on, tell me what you want found out.”
“All right. Well, really it’s anything about Joyce Dover’s background. And her husband’s background, which, I’ve a feeling, is just as important. His name was Chris. He died a few months back, end of March I think it was. Anything you can get on either of them—particularly anything which might give them some kind of link with Corfu.”
“O.K. And what about his death?”
“What do you mean?”
“Want me to check that everything was kosher there? I mean, maybe there was something funny went on with him snuffing it. Murders do tend to breed murders,” Truffler Mason concluded lugubriously.
“Yes, you’re right. That’s a very good thought. As I recall, Chris died of a heart attack . . . or was it a brain tumour . . . ?”
“Heart attacks can be engineered easily enough.” Truffler Mason sounded as if he was speaking from gloomy experience.
“True. Yes, so anything you can find on his death too. I don’t know how long it’ll take you, but—”
“Give me Joyce Dover’s address and I’ll call you tomorrow night. About nine. Where shall I get you—Larry’s?”
“Erm, I’m not sure. Might be better at the hotel.”
“Which hotel’s that?”
“Hotel Nausica. Agios Nikitas. I’m afraid I haven’t got the number on me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get it.”
“Sorry to put you to the trouble.”
“Mrs. Pargeter, compared to some of the things I’ve had to find out in my time, dealing with International Directory Enquiries is a doddle.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I’ll give you Joyce’s address. And she has a daughter called Conchita. I’ll give you hers too.” He took down the information. “Truffler, I really am grateful to you.”
“It’s nothing. Like I say, after the way your husband looked after me, anything you need, lady, you only have to say.”
“Oh.” Once again the reminder of the late Mr. Pargeter’s solicitude brought a moistness to his widow’s eye. “Well, bless you. And everything’s going well for you, Truffler, is it?”
“Absolutely fine,” said Truffler Mason, in the voice of a man over whose head the hangman has just placed a bag.
chapter
SIXTEEN
* * *
“And anything I can do?” asked Larry, as he drove her gently over the broken rocks of the track down to Agios Nikitas.
“Well, there’s lots of local stuff I need to know about. Sergeant Karaskakis, for instance, anything you can find out about him . . .”
“Sure.”
“I mean, presumably he’s related to people round here?”
“Oh, yes. Karaskakis is very much a local name. Lots of them in Agralias. He’s probably some sort of cousin of Spiro and Theodosia and Georgio and that lot. Most people round here are.”
“Right.” Mrs. Pargeter was thoughtful. “There’s certainly something sinister about him, but whether he’s criminal or not I don’t know. His insistence that Joyce committed suicide could be just because he’s not very bright and has gone for the obvious . . . Or it could be because he doesn’t want all the fuss of a murder inquiry—you know, anything for a quiet life . . .”
“Or that he thinks a murder inquiry wouldn’t do the tourist trade a lot of good, so it’s better hushed up.”
“Yes, hadn’t thought of that one, Larry. Alternatively, he could be part of a conspiracy to cover up the murder and pass it off as suicide. He might even have killed her himself. There is some connection between them. I still can’t forget the way Joyce reacted when she first saw him.”
“No, that was spooky, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Well, any information you can find out about him . . .”
“Leave it with me. Anything else?”
“Let me think . . . Ooh—Ginnie . . .”
“What about her?”
“Just that she’s one of the few people out here who has direct links with England. I’m not sure that she quite counts as a suspect . . . Or perhaps she should be . . . I don’t know. She’s not very keen on you, incidentally, Larry.”
“It’s mutual.”
“What’s she got against you?”
“Just that . . . well, none of them have got much time for me out here.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an outsider who’s moved in.”
“But you’re not as much an outsider as the English tourists. You are Greek, after all.”
He laughed. “Yes, but the tourists only come for the odd fortnight—I’m a fixture. Fact is, just being Greek is not enough, anyway. It depends whereabouts in Greece you come from. In Agralias they’re suspicious of people from the next village. All over the island you got feuds and vendettas that have been going on for yonks. Anyone who hasn’t lived here all his life is automatically suspicious. Oh no, so far as Agios Nikitas is concerned, I’m definitely an outsider.”
“But I don’t see why that should concern Ginnie. She’s not a local either, is she?”
“She lives with one, though.”
“Does she?” asked Mrs. Pargeter in surprise.
“Sure. Why do you think a nicely brought-up English Rose suddenly sets up home in Corfu?”
“I assume it was just because she had a job out here. Pretty nice place for a girl to spend her summers, I’d have thought.”
“For a young girl, maybe. Ginnie’s a
bit long in the tooth for the carefree sun-and-sea existence.”
“Yes, I suppose she is.”
“Not that it’s all that carefree an existence, anyway. Listening to endless English tourists wingeing about the fact that their drains are blocked or the minimarket doesn’t stock the right brand of baked beans.”
“See what you mean. So who does Ginnie live with? Not Spiro surely?”
“No, no. Spiro hasn’t got a woman. She lives with Georgio.”
“The balding bloke who’s always in the taverna?”
“Right. Lazy bum. Spends his life giving Ginnie grief and knocking back Spiro’s ouzo. Never seen him pay a single drachma for it either. But then of course he’s another cousin, isn’t he?”
This new piece of information explained quite a lot. Like the way Georgio had been tearing Ginnie off a strip in the taverna the night Joyce died. Possibly even why Ginnie’s face had been bruised.
The crosscurrents and interconnections between the people of Agios Nikitas got more complicated by the minute.
The evening was beautiful and Mrs. Pargeter felt too overstimulated to go straight to bed, so she sat under the awning of the Hotel Nausica to drink a last half liter of retsina.
She felt a degree of satisfaction. At least, through the good offices of Truffler Mason and Larry Lambeth, her own investigation into Joyce Dover’s death was underway.
It was the progress of the official investigation that worried her. The encounter with Sergeant Karaskakis had firmly suggested that the death would be tidied up as quickly as possible, regardless of the true facts of the case. And increasingly she felt that if such a whitewash were attempted, the entire population of Agios Nikitas would close ranks in a conspiracy of silence to protect the cover-up.
She hadn’t got a lot to go on really, until her investigators reported back. All the details that had convinced her Joyce’s death was murder were up at the Villa Eleni, and Mrs. Pargeter had a nasty feeling that most of them would already have been removed.
No, unless the villa were subjected to a proper forensic examination, all the evidence she had became merely circumstantial.
