by Simon Brett
The ride was as smooth as a dream of flying. Very relaxing. Mrs Pargeter knew that she would sleep even better than usual that night. (Not that she ever actually had trouble sleeping. At ease with herself, Mrs Pargeter’s nights were always as sleek as the sheen on her silk stockings.)
Only as they drew up once more outside the cottage, while Gary was deliberating whether to leave the Roller outside or lock it up for the night, did a troubling thought enter Mrs Pargeter’s mind. ‘Gary,’ she said, ‘you remember Fossilface O’Donahue, don’t you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you know that he’s embarked on this orgy of misguided charity, bringing “restitooshun” to everyone he’s wronged in the past?’
‘Yeah, I heard a bit about that.’
‘Well, I’ve suddenly remembered that your name was on the list of people he wanted to make “restitooshun” to.’
‘Oh. Right. I’ll be on the lookout.’
‘So I was wondering . . . what wrong did he do you in the past? I mean, if we know the area in which he might be trying to make it up to you, perhaps we’ll have a chance of stopping him from messing anything else up.’
‘Good thinking. All right, well . . . Fossilface O’Donahue done the dirty on me in connection with a matter of transport. Bound to be, wasn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, I remember you mentioned something. About a getaway car. He didn’t drain the petrol tank, did he?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, thinking of what had happened to Hedgeclipper Clinton.
‘No, no, it was different from that. Quite as destructive, mind you. What Fossilface done was, he put nails in the tyres . . . not so’s to puncture them straight away, but so’s the nails’d work themselves in once you was up and running. I was up and running fast – doing ninety in the outside lane of the M1 – when the first tyre went. Dead hairy, swirling round like Torvill and Dean I was, nearly lost control. Tell you, Mrs P., if your husband hadn’t insisted on me doing that skid-pan training before he let me work for him, I’d’ve been a goner. He was a really caring employer, you know, Mr Pargeter was. Thought of everything.’
‘True,’ his widow replied distractedly. She was too concerned with thoughts of Fossilface O’Donahue to take much notice of yet another compliment. ‘Hm, so knowing the way Fossilface’s mind works – or trying to get into the perverse workings of Fossilface’s mind – maybe we should be on the lookout for some kind of “restitooshun” involving tyres?’
‘Any idea what?’
Mrs Pargeter shrugged. ‘If I had the skills to predict that, I’d win the National Lottery every week.’
‘Right.’ Gary yawned. ‘I’m for bed. It’s a mild night. Maybe I will leave the Roller out for—’
‘I’d lock it up if I were you,’ said Mrs Pargeter firmly. ‘I’m not having my investment put at risk.’
She went back to the cottage and bed. Gary drove the Rolls-Royce into the converted barn, and locked the large doors front and back. Then he too went to bed.
Neither Mrs Pargeter nor Gary knew that all their actions were still being watched.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The next stage of Truffler Mason’s enquiries, forced on him by the loss of his archives, brought him up against that common British phenomenon, middle-class upward mobility. In all their researches into tribes from Poluostrov Tajmyr to Papua New Guinea, anthropologists have yet to discover a less secure social grouping than the British middle class. The status of this section of society is always fluid. They cannot find stasis, as the aristocracy and the genuine working class frequently do. The middle classes are never able to forget where they’ve come from, and spend all their time in heart-searching assessment of the number of degrees by which they are on the way up or down from that starting point.
The dilemma was well expressed by the household in which Truffler Mason found himself. Stan Gertler – known professionally as Stan the Orang-Utan, for reasons which you will either understand instinctively or which you don’t need to know about – was definitely born ‘lower middle class’. In fact, the young Stan might have slipped back quite comfortably into the working class, but for an aspiring mother who was determined to make something of her husband and her child. For there is nothing more daunting in the world than an aspiring mother with middle-class ambitions.
Stan Gertler’s social instability was then aggravated by his own marriage. Rita, with whom he fell in love as suddenly and heavily as he habitually knocked over nightwatchmen, regarded herself as ‘middle class’ – though she would more accurately have been described as ‘upper lower middle class’ – and, needless to say, her only ambition was to become ‘upper middle class’.
To this end, she moved her husband away from his Stoke Newington roots to the nice genteel suburb of Muswell Hill, and never did anything so lower-class as to ask him where his money came from but instead proceeded to spend a great deal of it on stripped pine, spice racks and Laura Ashley curtains.
When their son was born, she branded him for life with the hopefully classy name of Sebastian, and tried to use him as a crampon to pull the family further up the sheer cliffs of middle-class fulfilment. This involved sending the boy to a public school to develop both his vowels and his inbuilt antennae for the recognition and avoidance of anything ‘common’.
It had been Mrs Gertler’s hope that in time her son would meet a nice girl from the ‘upper upper middle class’ – or even, dare one hope it, ‘the aristocracy’ – to produce a new generation of children who, instinctively and without prompting, would for the rest of their days treat au pairs and waiters like dirt.
But her fond aspirations did not look likely to be realized. Sebastian was a sad disappointment to his mother. Even his expensive vowels had become deliberately roughened by that inverted snobbery to which public school boys are so prone. And his taste in women was proving to be decidedly down the tacky – not to say ‘rough trade’ – end of the market.
Thank goodness Rita Gertler didn’t know that her son was currently spending his days menacing motorists with a squeegee, thought Truffler Mason as she dispensed dry sherry and gave him a guided tour of her taste in interior decor.
‘Of course,’ she was saying, in an accent that still remained more broken glass than cut glass, ‘the sideboard’s Regency.’
‘Of course.’ Truffler looked appraisingly at the item in question. ‘Very nice, Rita. Stan always did have a wonderful eye for antiques, didn’t he?’
‘Oh, I’ll say.’
‘Knew how to pick them. Knew what he wanted, and didn’t bother with any of the other stuff.’
‘That’s so true.’
‘Wherever he went in, he always knew what to take and what to leave.’
Rita cleared her throat, indicating that the boundary of some middle-class prohibition was being approached a little too closely. Then she moved on. ‘I like to think Sebastian’s inherited some of his father’s flair.’
Sebastian, incarcerated for his mother’s benefit in a tweed sports jacket, checked shirt and paisley tie, smiled weakly.
‘Oh, what?’ asked Truffler. ‘You mean flair for—’
Rita came in firmly to divert the direction of the conversation. ‘Flair for spotting antiques. Sebastian’s doing a Fine Art course at university . . . aren’t you, Sebastian?’
‘Yes, Mummy,’ he replied, uncomfortably back in his best public school accent.
‘Very nice.’ Truffler looked blandly across at the young man. ‘That all he’s doing at the moment then, is it?’
Sebastian eased an awkward finger round the inside of his collar, as his mother said, ‘Oh yes. In three years’ time he’ll have a degree. That’s how universities work, you know.’
‘Really? I’d often wondered.’ She was unaware of his irony, as Truffler went on, ‘So his dad’ll just be out for the ceremony, won’t he?’
Rita pursed her lips, leaving Truffler in no doubt that his remark had not been in the best of taste. He hastened to cover over the gaffe. ‘Keepi
ng well, is he . . . Stan?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
The response was rather curt, but she softened when Truffler continued, ‘And you’re looking very good yourself.’
Slightly preening, she simpered back, ‘How kind. Anno Domini marches on, but one . . . endeavours to do one’s best.’
‘’Course.’ He slid the conversation seamlessly into the next stage of his investigation. ‘Look like you’ve caught the sun too, Rita. That all been in this country, has it?’
‘Oh yes. Just here, sitting out on the patio.’ She pronounced the word to rhyme with ‘ratio’.
‘Ah, right. So you haven’t been abroad since . . .’ there was a conscious effort of tact, ‘. . . since Stan’s been away?’
‘Well . . .’ Rita confided, ‘I did have one rather enjoyable little trip . . .’
‘Really?’ Truffler’s response was casually poised, as if the subject held only the mildest of interest for him.
‘It was what I believe is vulgarly known as a “freebie” . . .’
‘Nice.’ Then, as if his enquiry arose out of mere politeness, he asked, ‘Long way away, was it?’
‘Yes, it was, actually, Truffler. Rather an exotic location, as it happens . . .’
‘This all sounds very mysterious, Rita.’
She gave a coy flutter of the eyelashes, attracted to the idea of being a woman of mystery. ‘Well . . .’
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me about it?’ Truffler suggested.
He and Sebastian leant forward together, as Rita Gertler prepared to tell all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
That morning Gary’s cottage remained in audition mode. When viewed from the other side of the road, a slight haze of mist still blurred the cottage’s outline, but that seemed only to make the archetypal scene more beautiful (or it would have done to a watcher with more aesthetic sensitivity than Blunt). And the mist was of the kind that would soon be burnt away by the midday heat of another perfect summer day.
This was good news for the bride and groom in whose honour Gary was tying white satin ribbon across the bonnet of his new Rolls-Royce. Their special day, which would be immortalized in endless photographs – and probably a video – was going to be a perfect English summer day. If the marriage subsequently went wrong – and of course one in three marriages do – at least they wouldn’t be able to blame the weather.
The doors of the barn adjacent to the cottage were open. The building had double doors front and back; from the front the vehicles would drive out proudly on their various missions; while the back led to a yard where necessary maintenance was carried out. On the gravel drive Gary, neat in his uniform, seemed almost umbilically attached to his precious Rolls-Royce. Two other drivers, equally smart, adjusted white satin bows and buffed the already glasslike bonnets of two lesser limousines. The wedding was a good booking for the company.
Gary’s wife Denise came out of the cottage, dressed in a smart turquoise suit and white hat. It was her friend who was getting married. Gary had also been invited as a guest, but preferred to be present in his professional capacity.
‘Look great, love,’ he said to Denise, as she approached the car. ‘I’d marry you any day.’
‘Well, forget it,’ she said tartly. ‘I’m already married.’
‘Damn, always a snag, isn’t there?’ Gary gave his wife an affectionate peck on the cheek. ‘Better be off then, had we?’
She looked at her watch. ‘Mm. Don’t want to make the bride more nervous than she already will be.’
‘OK.’ With elaborate ceremony, he opened the back door of the Rolls-Royce and ushered his wife inside. He turned and waved to the two chauffeurs behind. ‘Time to hit the road, fellers.’
The elegant convoy of gleaming cars eased effortlessly off the gravel and on their way. Their departure was noted with approval by the two men sitting in the parked Jaguar under the trees on the other side of the road.
‘Off to his wedding booking . . .’ said Clickety Clark, who had arrived secretly in the middle of the night.
Blunt grunted.
‘. . . leaving Mrs Pargeter and Tammy Jacket on their own,’ the photographer continued gleefully.
Blunt grunted again.
‘Shall we move in then?’
A third grunt, then Blunt turned the key in the ignition. The Jaguar was about to leap forward, when Clickety Clark held up a cautionary hand. ‘Hang about.’
Driving along the road towards the cottage was a battered old brown Maxi. They watched it park on the gravel, and saw the tall man who uncoiled himself from the driver’s seat.
‘Truffler Bloody Mason,’ Clickety Clark murmured.
‘He still wonky?’ asked Blunt.
‘No. Bloody gone straight, hasn’t he? Private detective set-up he’s got now. Mason De Vere he calls himself. Works a lot with Mrs Pargeter, I’ve heard.’
Blunt watched the tall figure stoop under the low doorway as he was let into the cottage. ‘Shall we go and nail him too while we got the chance?’
The photographer shook his head. ‘No. Don’t want to take on three if we can avoid it. Give them half an hour. If he’s not out by then, we’ll think again.’
Blunt gave a curt nod and switched off the engine.
Unaware of the continuing surveillance of the cottage, Mrs Pargeter and Truffler sat at the rustic table in the back garden. Tammy Jacket was once again lying in the hammock, and once again fast asleep. The previous evening Mrs Pargeter had provided a couple of sleeping pills to relax her. Tammy had got up that morning for breakfast, but as soon as she lay down in the hammock, sleep had reasserted its control. Good thing too, thought Mrs Pargeter. More sleep she gets the better. Wash away all those nasty memories of what’d happened to her house.
‘Never too early for a nice glass of Chardonnay,’ Mrs Pargeter announced, as she poured out two, for herself and Truffler.
‘I’d go along with that,’ he replied mournfully, and took a grateful sip. ‘Mm, that’s good.’
She looked at him expectantly. ‘So?’
‘It was Brazil Rita went to,’ Truffler confirmed.
‘Good.’ Mrs Pargeter’s eyes glowed with the satisfaction of a correct conjecture. ‘So it’s got to be tied up with what I told you about Willie Cass.’
‘Yes. What happened was . . . Seb’s mum was offered an all-expenses trip out there. She wasn’t the only one neither. I’ve checked with some other lags’ wives. They got the same deal.’
‘So what was the deal?’
‘Viewing trip. ‘To see the show villa.’
‘The one Concrete built? Or rather the one Concrete and Willie built?’
‘That’s right.’
Mrs Pargeter chuckled. ‘So it was like timeshare marketing? A party of lags’ wives sent off to Brazil to check out the amenities?’
‘That sort of idea, yes. Except it wasn’t a party of them. Each one went out on her own. Got the guided tour of the show villa and was then offered a very good deal on one of the other villas on the estate.’
Mrs Pargeter nodded to herself as she thought it through. ‘You can see the attraction, can’t you? Safe, secure place. No questions asked about where the money came from. Ideal retirement location for . . . people in their position.’
‘Exactly.’ Truffler Mason warmed to his theme. ‘The potential purchasers were very carefully targeted. All of them villains getting near retirement age. All with quite a bit of money stashed away, but money they might have had difficulty investing in the . . . er, more traditional manner.’
‘I’m with you.’
Truffler elaborated further. ‘Blunt’d keep his ear to the ground when he was inside until he found someone suitable. He’d sound them out, get them interested, and then Clickety Clark’d come in to do the sales pitch to the wives.’
‘And do you reckon that’s all he did?’ Mrs Pargeter asked thoughtfully.
‘Well, I’d assumed that . . .’ But the look on her face told Truffler
she had another idea. ‘What’re you thinking?’
Mrs Pargeter pieced it together as she went along. ‘Listen. The wives were taken out to Brazil individually . . .’
‘Right.’
‘And we know that Concrete himself only built one villa . . .’
‘But we’ve seen the photograph of the completed estate,’ Truffler objected.
‘A photograph,’ Mrs Pargeter explained patiently, ‘which someone so wanted not to be seen that they smashed up the Jackets’ house to find it.’
Truffler stroked his chin while he took in the implications of this.
‘I wouldn’t have thought,’ Mrs Pargeter went on, ‘given his skills in post-production work, that doctoring a photograph like that would have presented Clickety Clark with too much of a problem . . .’
‘Got you!’ Truffler Mason snapped his fingers. ‘You think all the lags have laid out money on the same villa? The rest of the estate doesn’t exist?’
She nodded excitedly. ‘That’s the way I see it, Truffler, yes. Brazil’s a long way away – unlikely anyone’s going out there to check. The wives’ve all seen a lovely dream house – they’re happy. The husbands think they’ve made a secure investment for their future – they’re happy. And not one of the poor blighters realizes that they’ve all bought the same house. It’s the perfect con. None of the victims’re going to be out of the nick for another three years . . . and by then I care to bet that Clickety Clark and Blunt – and the money – will somehow’ve disappeared.’
Truffler nodded along with the explanation, until he saw a snag. ‘But then why did they frame Concrete? What’d they got to gain from that?’
‘Concrete knew too much. So did Willie Cass. Willie was the bigger risk, because he was a real blabbermouth when he’d had a few drinks – so they topped him and then made the set-up look like Concrete’d done it. Old two-birds-with-one-stone syndrome.’
‘But if Concrete’s in prison,’ said Truffler, ‘then surely there’s a danger he’s going to meet the very people who’ve been conned out of their money?’
‘Oh yes.’ The violet-blue eyes shone as Mrs Pargeter saw everything falling into place. ‘But do you think he’d tell them he was involved? No way. Oh no, the villains knew full well Concrete’d keep his mouth shut. Even trying to defend himself against the murder rap could’ve got him into deep water with the people who’d been conned. Truffler, it seems to me we now have the perfect explanation for Concrete Jacket’s unwillingness to talk.’
