by Simon Brett
The tractor was being driven by a white-haired woman in a bright silk dress. Bouncing about in the trailer behind was a copper-headed woman dressed in an unlikely miscellany of clashing garments. The pair of them were screeching up the drive at a terrifying rate.
Even more alarming, behind them, eating up the space between the two vehicles, surged a huge blue Jaguar. The two grim faces behind its windscreen were oblivious to their surroundings, obsessed only by the imperative of the chase.
The wedding party watched open-mouthed as the cultivator skidded to an untidy halt beside the fountain. The two women leapt off and rushed towards the white-ribboned Rolls-Royce. The older one opened the back door, bustled the younger inside, and leapt in after her.
The Rolls-Royce immediately burst into life, reversing, in a clatter of tin cans, away from the approaching Jaguar. The Jaguar suddenly swung right, away from the fountain, turning in a wide arc, searing through the carpet of lawns to head off the Roller if it tried to escape down the drive.
But the Rolls-Royce’s driver knew his stuff. Suddenly spinning his steering wheel, he shot across the gravel between the abandoned cultivator and the fountain.
The Jaguar, its driver realizing their quarry wasn’t making for the main gates, continued in the turning circle on which it was set, homing back towards the hotel, targeted to hit the Rolls-Royce broadsides.
The mouths of the wedding guests gaped further, and they tensed themselves for the impact.
Just at the second the smash seemed inevitable, the Rolls-Royce shot forward. Skating over the gravel on two wheels, it spun at a crazy angle before righting itself on the grass. Scoring deep furrows across the green, it sped towards the hotel gates.
The Jaguar had not had time to change course. It smashed heavily into the fountain. A stone cherub, surprised by the impact, fell on to the bonnet, bounced and smashed through the windscreen.
A second cherub, less completely dislodged, leant away from the fountain at a crazy angle. From the cornucopia held in its hands, water poured through the broken glass on to the heads of the two dazed men.
The hotel manager, drawn by the noise, came out to witness the devastation of his fountain and the ravaging of his lawns.
His jaw dropped even further than those of the wedding guests. Particularly when he caught sight of a Rolls-Royce, which trailed a cacophony of tin cans and had ‘Just Married’ sprayed in foam across its back window, disappearing at high speed out of his hotel gates.
A scream of complaining metal drew attention back to the Jaguar. It screeched backwards, spraying gravel like a nail-bomb, howled back into forward gear, and hurtled off across the lawns in pursuit of the Rolls-Royce.
The bride turned to the bridegroom, and burst into tears. ‘This is the worst day of my life!’ she wailed. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said the bridegroom, playing safe.
Chapter Thirty-One
The Rolls-Royce was a powerful beast, but it wasn’t built for speed to the same extent as the Jaguar. Blunt and Clickety Clark’s collision with the fountain had made a hell of a mess of the car’s bodywork, but didn’t seem to have affected the engine. As the two vehicles hurtled through country lanes, the gap between them narrowed inexorably.
‘Where’re you making for, Gary?’ Mrs Pargeter shouted from the back seat.
‘Back to my place!’
‘Why? Have you got staff there who can help us?’
‘No,’ Gary replied grimly. ‘I got shooters.’
‘Shooters? But I thought you didn’t approve of––’
‘I don’t as a rule. But then, as a rule, I’m not up against Blunt. No way he won’t have a gun on him.’
‘He has!’ Tammy Jacket wailed. ‘I seen it! He was about to take a potshot at us when we escaped on the tractor.’
‘I knew it. I’ve got an old sawn-off back of my barn. That’ll even up the odds a bit.’
Mrs Pargeter pursed her lips. ‘You know I don’t approve of guns unless they’re absolutely unavoidable.’
‘They’re unavoidable this time. I don’t fancy facing up to Blunt with only the natural charm of my personality to protect me.’
‘My late husband always said,’ Mrs Pargeter continued primly, ‘that those who live by the gun are extremely likely to die by the gun.’
‘Seems reasonable to me,’ the chauffeur shouted back. ‘Blunt’s lived by the gun all right, so he’ll only be getting his due.’
‘Well, Gary, if there’s any way of avoiding violence . . .’
‘Sure, sure, Mrs P. I’ll do me best. Hold on tight, we’re nearly there!’
The cottage loomed ahead like a jet-propelled chocolate box. The Jaguar was now so close behind the Rolls-Royce that Mrs Pargeter could almost count Blunt’s nasal hairs, when Gary suddenly swung the steering wheel right into his drive. He spun into the opposite lock, heading straight for the barn garage. Both sets of doors were open, so that the structure appeared like a bridge.
Just as they were steaming into the building, Gary caught sight of the banner flapping over the doorway. ‘What the hell . . .’ he mouthed in disbelief.
Mrs Pargeter looked up, and managed to read the words blazoned across the white sheet before the car swept into the barn. With a sense of doom, she recognized the logo, and the inevitable legend:
WHAT’S THE FIRST THING TO DO WHEN YOU GET YOUR OWN FLAT?
RE-TIRE.
She just had time to register that Fossilface O’Donahue’s understanding of joke structure was still improving, when her attention was seized by a shriek of ‘Good heavens, look at that lot!’ from Gary.
In the microsecond that they were inside the barn, she saw the high-heaped towers that filled the entire structure except for the narrow channel through which the Rolls-Royce sped. And she recognized that the huge piles were built up of brand-new car tyres. Fossilface O’Donahue was once again paying his dues, once again in what he thought was an appropriate fashion. In the past he’d once sabotaged one of Gary’s tyres; now the chauffeur had more tyres than he could ever possibly need. Oh yes, another triumph for the cock-eyed logic of Fossilface O’Donahue.
Gary slammed the brakes on the minute his Roller was in the maintenance yard, and reached for his door handle. ‘I’ll get the sawn-off and deal with the . . .’
His words trickled away at the sights and sounds emerging from the barn. The Jaguar, only metres behind them, had swung savagely into the narrow passageway.
Too savagely. A bumper had caught the base of one of the tyre towers, setting the whole edifice wobbling. That tower destabilized the others. A few random tyres toppled down, then little flurries of them fell; finally, in an avalanche of rubber, all the tyres in the barn collapsed inwards, burying the immobilized Jaguar under their combined weight.
‘You know,’ Mrs Pargeter observed, ‘I think, for the first time, one of Fossilface’s acts of “restitooshun” has actually done someone some good.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Even with its shaving-foam inscription and wake of tin cans and toilet rolls, Gary’s Rolls-Royce still contrived to appear majestic as it processed over Vauxhall Bridge. The two ladies in the back were looking somewhat better than they had when leaving their former transport at the country house hotel. Gary’s new Roller was stocked for every eventuality. There was a supply of cosmetics and toiletries in the back pocket, and the two passengers had used these to repair their make-up and hair-styles (though in Tammy Jacket’s case, not a single hair of her lacquered helmet had shifted).
Amongst its other supplies, the Rolls-Royce also had a well-stocked drinks cabinet and Mrs Pargeter, once her appearance was restored to elegance, had immediately started pouring. As she concluded her call on the carphone, she was on her third vodka Campari, while Tammy Jacket kept pace with her in brandy and ginger ale.
‘It’s all right, Truffler. We’re fine.’
‘I still should’ve thought. Should’ve kept my eyes skinned for those two villains when I was leaving
Gary’s place.’ His voice, from the other end of the phone, was heavy with self-recrimination.
‘You had no means of knowing they were on to me. It was my own fault for thinking I could get away with the Lady Entwistle disguise. You warned me not to try that on, Truffler, but I just wouldn’t listen, would I?’
‘No . . .’ he agreed, slightly cheered by her redistribution of blame. ‘Look, is there anything else you need me to do – apart from what we’ve talked about?’
Mrs Pargeter was thoughtful for a moment before she replied, ‘No, no, there’s something else I need doing, but . . . sewing up the case against Blunt and Clickety Clark is more urgent. You get on with that.’
‘OK. What was the other thing needs doing? You might as well tell me.’
‘Just I think I ought to have another word with Fossilface O’Donahue. Job he done on Gary turned out for the good, as it happened, but that was pure chance. Fossilface is still a bit of a loose cannon out there. I think I ought to try to stop his programme of “restitooshun”.’
‘Well, it’s soon going to come to a natural end, innit? Not many people left he needs to pay back, are there?’
‘No, I suppose not. Still feel I should have a word with him, though. Who does he still need to make “restitooshun” to, as a matter of interest?’
‘Well, he’s done you . . . me – blast his eyes! . . . Keyhole Crabbe . . . Hedgeclipper . . . now Gary . . . I guess there’s only Concrete Jacket left, of the ones I know about. And he can’t touch Concrete while he’s in the nick, can he?’
‘He touched Keyhole while he was in the nick, didn’t he?’
‘Hm. You may have a point.’
‘Truffler, tell me . . . in what way did Fossilface do the dirty on Concrete? Just so’s we know what we may be up against.’
‘Worse thing he ever done to Concrete was . . . he didn’t call the police.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Concrete was working on this complicated job. It was an art theft. Couple of paintings from a gallery in Cork Street. One was a Rembrandt, I seem to remember. Concrete’d got it worked out. Soon as he broke in, the gallery’s alarm’d sound in the local nick. Boys in blue’d set off to get him, but just when they’re near, Fossilface O’Donahue, who’s got this radio set that cuts in on their frequency, is meant to ring through, say it was a false alarm, and could they go off to deal with an environmentalists’ riot outside the Brazilian Embassy? Would’ve worked a treat . . . only Fossilface never made the call.’
‘Ah.’
‘Concrete was away from his missus four years after that.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Mind you, what kind of “restitooshun” Fossilface O’Donahue would plan for that . . . I just cannot begin to imagine.’
‘No. Anyway, don’t you worry about that, Truffler. You just concentrate on what we discussed. I’ll have a go at contacting Fossilface. Talk soon – OK? Bye.’
She returned the handset to its cradle, and took a long sip from her drink.
‘Truffler getting on all right then, is he?’ called Gary from the front.
‘He’s fine. Just sorting out the loose ends of the case. Checking whether there was anyone else involved apart from Clickety Clark and Blunt.’ With a triumphant grin, Mrs Pargeter turned to Tammy. ‘Truffler’s going to build up a nice little dossier – all the details, all the evidence – which is guaranteed to get those two villains put away for a very long time . . .’ She took the other woman’s hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘And then we’ll get Concrete off the hook.’
Tammy Jacket smiled her wordless gratitude.
No one would have suspected that the elegant white-haired lady who stepped out of a Rolls-Royce in a street near Victoria Station had, only an hour and a half earlier, been driving a cultivator/tractor through a series of hedges. She looked exactly like someone whose sole business of the day had been a visit to a solicitor. She looked as decorous and correct as the shining brass plate on the door outside which the Rolls-Royce had parked. The plate read: Nigel Merriman – Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths.
‘Sure you don’t want me to hang around?’ asked Gary, as he closed the car door behind her.
‘No, you go and see if Truffler needs any help.’ Mrs Pargeter leant through the open back window to kiss Tammy Jacket tenderly on the cheek. ‘You’ll be fine, love. Take care now.’ Then she turned back to Gary. ‘And one of your drivers will get Tammy home safely?’
The woman in the back of the car looked at her with some alarm. ‘It’s all right, I promise,’ Mrs Pargeter reassured her. ‘Those two won’t come troubling you again.’
‘It’s not just that,’ said Tammy. ‘It’s the thought of going back to all the horrible mess, and seeing all my lovely things smashed and—’
‘No worries.’ Mrs Pargeter laid a hand on her arm. ‘I’ve had the place tidied up for you. Looks just like new – well, nearly.’
‘Oh, Mrs Pargeter . . .’ was all that Tammy Jacket could say. She was almost weeping with gratitude.
‘Who you get to do the clean-up?’ asked Gary, in a whisper.
‘Guy called Meredith the Mop. Found his name in my late husband’s address book. Apparently he’s very good at tidying up after things.’
‘I’ll say! He did that mop-up operation after the Crouch End Pizza House incident. Lovely job he done. Got all the burn-marks off the bar counter, filled in the bullet-holes in the walls, and nobody could imagine how he managed to get all the blood out of the table cloths. I tell you, it was—’
The chauffeur caught the expression in the violet-blue eyes that were trained on his, and decided that he’d probably said enough.
‘Gary,’ Mrs Pargeter intoned glacially, ‘I have no idea what on earth you’re talking about.’ Then she leant once again in through the car window. ‘Chin up, Tammy. You just go home and wait for Concrete. Won’t be long now till he’s home, I promise you that.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Mrs Pargeter’s eyes sparkled as she rounded off her exposition of the case. There was something very satisfying about having all the details sorted out, all the loose ends neatly tied up. Opposite her sat Nigel Merriman, formal and impassive, giving no reaction to her revelations, but occasionally scribbling a note on the legal pad in front of him.
At the conclusion of her narrative, he asked, ‘And you say Mr Mason’ll be able to prove all this?’
She grinned confidently. ‘Oh yes, Truffler’s sorting out the evidence even as we speak. And he’s good at that sort of stuff. It’ll be rock solid, don’t you worry.’
‘Hm. And you’re sure it was just the two of them . . .’ he looked down at his pad, and fastidiously pronounced the unfamiliar names, ‘. . . Clickety Clark and Blunt . . . who organized the whole thing? You don’t think that someone else may have been organizing them?’
‘I don’t think there was anyone else, but Truffler’s checking that out, too. Don’t worry, Nigel. There’s easily enough to get Concrete Jacket off now, isn’t there?’
Nigel Merriman’s face took on the expression of professional caution that goes with the job, but he couldn’t help agreeing. ‘Oh, certainly. I don’t see how the authorities could possibly keep hold of my client if all this were to be made public. No, you’ve done extremely well, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Thank you,’ she said modestly.
There was a knock at the door behind her. ‘Come in,’ said the solicitor automatically and then continued addressing Mrs Pargeter. ‘You seem to have sorted out the whole thing with admirable efficiency. In fact, there’s really only one detail in the case you got wrong.’
‘And what was that?’ asked Mrs Pargeter combatively. She felt pretty certain she’d made sense of the whole scenario, and was confidently prepared to argue her case.
She heard the door behind her open, and saw Nigel Merriman’s eyeline move to his new visitors. His expression had changed. Now it contained something gleeful. Unpleasantly gleeful.
&
nbsp; With sickening certainty of what she was about to see, Mrs Pargeter slowly turned round.
Framed in the doorway, their faces bruised and scarred, and looking meaner than she’d ever seen them look before, were Clickety Clark and Blunt.
Chapter Thirty-Four
There was no give in the rope that tied Mrs Pargeter’s arms behind the chair and her legs to the chair legs. Her captors had made it clear that the smallest sound from her would result in her mouth being taped over with equal tightness. The outer door of the office had been firmly locked by a large key So she could only watch helplessly what was going on.
The thick curtains had been drawn, presumably to avoid anything being seen from adjacent blocks, and the lights were on. The surface of Nigel Merriman’s desk was covered with wads of banknotes, which Clickety Clark and Blunt were transferring systematically into a series of briefcases.
While they did this, the solicitor watched them, swivelling idly in his chair and playing with the point of a paperknife. He seemed much more relaxed now. His professional formality had been replaced by an impudent, almost daredevil, cheerfulness, as he spelled out the revised situation to his captive.
‘The only effect your meddling will have had on us, Mrs Pargeter, is to move our plans forward a little. We had intended to leave the country at the end of the year, but we’ve got the bulk of the money together, so . . .’ he shrugged carelessly, ‘. . . to make our departure now will represent no problem.’
As she had before in similar situations, Mrs Pargeter tried the breezy, facetious approach. ‘Oh well, if I haven’t caused you any problem, then you can just set me free, can’t you?’ she suggested.
Her flippancy raised a thin smile from Nigel Merriman, but that was the full extent of its reward. ‘Ah, Mrs Pargeter . . . if only life were that simple. You see, you do know rather a lot about us. In fact, I was impressed by how much you managed to work out . . . and of course I was grateful for the way you kept telling me all about it. But . . . I’m afraid you do know a little too much to be allowed back into circulation.’
