by Simon Brett
“And now she’s dead, it’ll go to Conchita? Joyce left a will, presumably?”
“Yes, everything will all be as straightforward as it can be in a situation where both spouses die within such a short time—which is not of course completely straightforward because the legal requirements—”
Mrs. Pargeter was in no mood to be delayed by this sort of stuff. “But basically Conchita gets the lot?”
“Their daughter will inherit everything, yes.”
“Hm. Back to this letter Chris left for his wife . . .”
The solicitor looked pained. Perhaps he imagined Mrs. Pargeter had forgotten raising the subject. If so, he had seriously underestimated his quarry.
“What about the letter, Mrs. Pargeter?”
“Do you have a copy?”
“No. Well, that is to say, yes, I do have a copy, but I don’t think you’ll—”
“Could I see it please?”
“You’ll be very disappointed if you—”
“Could I see it please?”
Mrs. Pargeter had a knack of raising the impact of her speech without raising its volume. Her intonation on the second “Could I see it please?” was only marginally different from that on the first, but its force was recognizably greater.
Mr. Fisher-Metcalf crumbled instantly in the face of its power. He pressed an old-fashioned bell-push on his desk and the wan secretary trickled in. She was given instructions on where to find the relevant document and went out to trawl through the dusty box-files.
“Tell me,” Mrs. Pargeter asked, “to your knowledge, did Chris Dover ever have any contacts with Greece—Corfu in particular?”
The solicitor shook his head. “Never went there, I’m sure. Never mentioned any connections either. No . . . Well, except there was one incident which I suppose . . . But no. I’m afraid I have to answer no.”
Before Mrs. Pargeter had time to ask more about the one mysterious “incident,” the secretary had seeped back into the room bearing an open box-file. “I’ve been right through, but I can’t see any—”
“Give it to me.” Her boss stretched out an imperious hand. “I’ll find it. You go.” Before the girl was fully out of the door, he commented to Mrs. Pargeter, “So difficult to get staff with any gumption these days. Girl I had before was really efficient, but . . . she went. And the money some of the kids expect to be paid these days. It’s not as if they’re properly trained, either . . .”
As he wittered on about the inadequacies of modern youth, he riffled through papers in the file. Then, with satisfaction, he extracted one flimsy sheet and held it out towards his visitor. “This is the copy, though, as I say, I don’t think it’ll help you much.”
It was a slightly smudged carbon, which read:
My Dearest Joyce,
I am sorry that when you receive this I will be dead. Thank you for all you have done for me. I always hoped that there would be no secrets between us, but that proved to be impossible. Still, if you really do want to know the truth, this will explain one or two things.
Your loving (but now deceased) husband,
Chris
Her eyes rose to meet a sardonic stare from Mr. Fisher-Metcalf. “Not a great deal of help, is it, Mrs. Pargeter?”
“No. Surely there must have been something else with it? An enclosure of some kind?”
“There was no enclosure. No, just the one sheet of paper. And of course what you’re holding there is only the copy, so that’s completely useless.”
It took her a couple of seconds to catch on. “You mean there was something written on the back of the original? In that chemical . . . whatever it was?”
Mr. Fisher-Metcalf nodded graciously. “Phenolphthalein. Yes, you’re right. Chris had used his favorite method once again.”
“Did Joyce know what to do to make the writing come out? Was she expecting it?”
“No. She had no idea. I had to explain to her what I thought was likely to have happened.”
“And you were right? There was something written on the back?”
Again he inclined his head. “There was.”
“So did you see it? Did she put on the sodium carbonate while you were present?”
“I put on the first bit myself. Mrs. Dover was somewhat skeptical when I told her where I expected the message to be, so I soaked a cloth in sodium carbonate”—he indicated a bottle on his shelf—“and demonstrated it for her. Just one sweep across the paper and lettering appeared straightaway. It comes up in a purplish color, actually.”
“So did you see the whole letter?”
“No.” He sounded rather put out. “For some reason Mrs. Dover did not seem to trust my discretion.”
“I’m not surprised.”
He looked even more aggrieved, but went on, “She said she would take it home and reveal the rest of the letter in private.”
“And presumably she didn’t tell you what she found written there?”
“No, she didn’t.” Once again he sounded a little resentful of this lack of confidence.
“I don’t suppose, by any chance, that you remember what was on the part of the letter that you revealed here in the office . . . ?”
Mr. Fisher-Metcalf smiled smugly. “As a matter of fact, I do. My memory, you know,” he said with some pride, “is almost photographic. A very useful faculty for a solicitor.”
Even for a bent one. But Mrs. Pargeter didn’t voice the thought. Instead, with a suitably impressed look, she said, “That’s remarkable. So you could actually tell me exactly what was written there, even though you only saw it once?”
The flattering approach paid off. “Oh yes,” he replied. “To the last letter.”
“Go on,” said Mrs. Pargeter in mock-disbelief.
“The sodium carbonate only revealed part of the first word, but that ended ‘K-I-T-A-S.’ Then there was a full stop, and it went on, ‘If you want to find out, the explanation for everything will be found behind the old man’s p—’”
“‘The old man’s p—’?” Mrs. Pargeter echoed, disappointed.
“Yes. That was all there was. As I say, I only wiped the sodium carbonate across once.”
“Yes. Could you write that down for me, please? All the words, laid out exactly as you saw them on the page.”
While Mr. Fisher-Metcalf did as he was asked, Mrs. Pargeter’s mind was racing. No doubt there were plenty of other words that ended “K-I-T-A-S,” but all she could think of was “Agios Nikitas.” And, if that was what Chris Dover had written in his letter, it was the first positive proof she had of a connection between the dead man and Corfu.
What “the old man’s p—” might be she could not at that moment begin to imagine.
chapter
TWENTY-EIGHT
* * *
Mr. Fisher-Metcalf finished writing and handed the piece of paper across to her. “Well, Mrs. Pargeter, I don’t think that you can deny I have been very helpful to you . . . answered all your questions very fully . . . but I am a busy man and I would really appreciate it if you would leave now. I’ll get my secretary to—”
His finger froze above the bell-push at Mrs. Pargeter’s words. “I’ll go when I’m ready, thank you. When I’ve got all the information I require from you.”
“But—”
Her hand came to rest on the sheaf of papers Truffler Mason had given her. “Don’t let us forget,” she said with steely charm, “who is in charge of this interview.”
Mr. Fisher-Metcalf slumped back, defeated once more. “What else do you want to know?”
“Just before your secretary came in, you said there was an ‘incident’ which might have implied a connection between Chris Dover and Greece . . .”
“Did I? I don’t recall—”
“Yes, you did, Mr. Fisher-Metcalf. Come on, I haven’t got time to waste. What was it?”
As ever, faced with any kind of attack, he capitulated instantly. “Well . . . about three years ago, someone did come round to my office enquiri
ng about Mr. Dover. He wanted to find out as much as he could about how much Mr. Dover was worth, about his business affairs and so on. Of course I told him it was improper for me ever to disclose any details of my clients’ affairs and . . .”
“And that poor blighter didn’t have anything to blackmail you with, eh?” Mrs. Pargeter asked genially, her hand still gently on top of Truffler’s collection of papers.
“Well, er . . .” Mr. Fisher-Metcalf eased a finger round the inside of his shirt collar. “Well, I said I couldn’t tell him anything, but he persisted . . . kept coming round, trying to pump information out of my then secretary, that kind of thing . . .”
“Did he get any information?”
“Certainly not from me.”
“And from your then secretary?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. She certainly didn’t mention telling him anything, and she was . . . well, she was an efficient girl . . . left the job soon afterwards, unfortunately . . . but she was nothing like that dreadful illiterate creature who’s sitting out there now . . . I mean, there doesn’t seem to be any concept of training young people these days—”
Mrs. Pargeter cut short his disquisition on the failings of modern life. “You still haven’t said what the connection was between this man and Greece.”
“Ah, well, that was the point, you see. The man who made these enquiries was Greek.”
“Was he really? He didn’t mention what part of Greece he came from?”
“No.”
“And you say his main interest seemed to be in Chris Dover’s business affairs?”
“Yes. Well, his income, actually. He kept saying, ‘So Mr. Dover is a very rich man, yes?’”
“Did he really?”
“Yes.”
A new thought came into Mrs. Pargeter’s mind. She reached into her handbag. “I’ve got some photographs here of a few Greek men. Could you have a look at them and tell me if any of them is the man who came to you making those enquiries?”
She opened the envelope for him. He looked at the first one. “Well, that’s most peculiar. I’d have sworn that was—”
She glanced across at the picture and hastily put it to the bottom of the pack. “Not that one. It’s all overexposed. I’m sorry, I’m a dreadful photographer. I’ve got a much better shot of that bloke.”
The photo had been the one of Spiro she’d taken as her hand slipped. The rapid movement had almost blanked out his features completely. She found another. “Look, there’s a better shot of him. Is he familiar?”
Mr. Fisher-Metcalf shook his head. He’d never seen Spiro before.
“What about this one?”
She had really been hoping for a response to the picture of Sergeant Karaskakis, but all she got was another shake of the head.
The same reaction greeted Yianni. And Maria’s father and everyone else from the Hotel Nausica.
Even though they were looking for a man, she showed the picture of Theodosia, but that got the same negative response.
Without hope, Mrs. Pargeter showed Mr. Fisher-Metcalf the penultimate photograph.
“That’s him,” the solicitor said. “That’s the one.”
The photograph was of Georgio.
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Well, look here’s another one of him with—”
“Good heavens!” Mr. Fisher-Metcalf was quite pale with shock.
“That’s still the man, is it?”
“Oh, that’s the man all right. It’s the girl I’m looking at, though.”
“The girl? She’s not Greek. She’s English. The tour operator’s rep. Ginnie.”
“Virginia, yes.”
“You know her?”
“Of course I do,” the solicitor replied testily. “She’s the one who used to be my secretary.”
chapter
TWENTY-NINE
* * *
Mrs. Pargeter reckoned she had found out all she was going to find out in London, and a speedy return to Corfu was of the essence. Remembering Hamish Ramon Henriques’s offer, she hailed a cab outside Mr. Fisher-Metcalf’s office and gave the driver the Berkeley Square address.
It was a constant source of surprise to Mrs. Pargeter that businesses on the wrong side of the law conduct themselves so very much like legitimate ones. She knew this to be a naive reaction. After all, successful entrepreneurs on the two sides of the legal divide behave with astonishing similarity, and indeed there are many who spend their careers continually crossing over and back again. There was little to choose, in Mrs. Pargeter’s view, between the morality of the corporate raider and that of the armed raider.
And yet, in spite of this knowledge, she was still surprised by the discreet brass plate reading “H.R.H. Travel” on the splendid Berkeley Square portico.
The smiling, immaculately groomed girl on Reception wore a charcoal gray uniform with a discreet “H.R.H.” logo in gold thread on the breast pocket. A gold badge on the other side gave her name. “Lauren.”
“Good morning. Can I help you?”
“Yes. My name is Mrs. Pargeter . . .”
“Of course. H.R.H. said we might be expecting you.”
“Oh.”
The girl deftly pressed a button on her console. “Sharon. Mrs. Pargeter is here. Could you come and collect her? Thanks. If you’d just like to take a seat . . . ?”
Mrs. Pargeter sat on the gray leather sofa and thumbed through the brochures on the low table. Except for their emphasis on Spanish and South American destinations, they were interchangeable with the literature that would have been found in any other travel agent.
“If you’d like to come this way . . .”
Sharon proved to be another smiling, immaculately groomed girl in the same charcoal gray H.R.H. uniform as Lauren. She led the visitor to a lift, then through a long, neat office where more smiling, immaculately groomed girls in uniforms sat over computers and telephones. Mrs. Pargeter caught snatches of their beautifully enunciated conversations as she passed.
“ . . . so could I just check this? The party will consist of yourself, two heavies and a getaway driver? Yes. What? Oh, we’ll certainly reserve accommodation for a hostage as well if you think that’s a possibility . . .”
“ . . . yes, all the Jacuzzis in the Imperial Hotel are bulletproof . . .”
“ . . . so you’ll arrive in Caracas on Tuesday at eleven A.M. The plastic surgeon is booked for ten o’clock the following morning. No, don’t worry, he’s got a copy of the new passport photograph, so he’ll ensure that that’s what you look like . . .”
“ . . . in that part of the world there’s usually no problem about getting ammunition from Room Service . . .”
Mrs. Pargeter felt reassured. It was really comforting to know that one was dealing with an organization of such efficiency.
Hamish Ramon Henriques had his office door and his arms wide open to greet her. The sunlight through the window behind him brought a sparkle to the white fringes of his Quixotic hair and mustache.
“Mrs. Pargeter, what a pleasure! I trust your morning’s meeting was satisfactory.”
“Yes, I managed to get quite a lot of information, thank you.”
“Excellent, excellent. And what can I do for you now?”
“Well, I don’t think I’m going to get anything else, so I really would like to be back in Corfu as soon as possible. If that’s not too much trouble . . .” she added modestly.
“Nothing is too much trouble for our favored clients. And when the client is none other than the widow of the late Mr. Pargeter . . .” A very Latin gesture encompassed the degree of honor and pleasure that it would be to help her out.
“Oh, thank you so much.”
“Right, let’s get it organized straightaway.”
He swept into the outer office with Mrs. Pargeter in his wake and stopped behind the chair of the first smiling, immaculately groomed girl in uniform.
“Karen, could you find me today’s fli
ghts for Corfu? All airlines.”
“Of course, H.R.H.”
Buttons were punched and lines of schedules appeared on the computer screen.
“Three o’clock Olympic looks good,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques. “Check First Class availability.”
Karen punched more buttons, looked at the screen, and grimaced. “Fully booked, I’m afraid.”
“I’d be all right in Economy,” said Mrs. Pargeter humbly. She might have been going against the late Mr. Pargeter’s principles, but knew she could cope with slumming it for three hours.
“Nonsense,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques firmly.
“Economy’s full too, anyway, H.R.H.”
“All right, Karen. Hack into Olympic’s computer.”
“Yes, H.R.H.” Her fingers fluttered knowledgeably over the keyboard.
“You’ve got today’s password?”
“Of course, H.R.H.”
Hamish Ramon Henriques smiled at Mrs. Pargeter. “Won’t take a moment.”
She was tempted to ask for an explanation of what was going on, but a lifetime spent with the late Mr. Pargeter had taught her to distinguish the appropriate occasions for enquiry and ignorance. This was undoubtedly a moment for ignorance.
“Here’s the First Class Passenger List, H.R.H.”
“Right.” He scanned the screen. “Got to be someone on their own . . . preferably foreign . . . more difficult to complain effectively if there’s a language barrier . . . this one looks good—Mr. Stratos Papadopulous. Yes, do him, Karen.”
“Very good, H.R.H.” She moved the cursor to the end of the passenger’s name and obliterated it.
“If I could just trouble you for your passport, Mrs. Pargeter . . . ?”
She handed it over and Karen filled in the details of “Mrs. Joan Frimley Wainwright” on the Passenger List. Then she pressed a few further controls.
“That just overrides all the other data,” Hamish Ramon Henriques explained, “and alters the information on the computers in Athens and Corfu.”
“But,” she couldn’t help asking, “will it really work?”
Hamish Ramon Henriques looked hurt by her lack of confidence.“Of course, Mrs. Pargeter. I pride myself on the efficiency of H.R.H. Travel. We are doing this kind of stuff all the time, you know.”
