Mrs, Presumed Dead

by Simon Brett

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘I mean, once I’d decided it was finished . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mrs Pargeter cosily. ‘Very sensible.’

  She felt convinced that Vivvi Sprake had believed completely in Rod Cotton’s new job in York. So that answered the question which had prompted Mrs Pargeter to set up the interview.

  On the other hand, their conversation had also raised some new questions.

  Very interesting questions, to Mr Pargeter’s way of thinking.

  32

  That evening Mrs Pargeter lay long in a hot bath, still thinking about the murder in Smithy’s Loam. Slowly, she once again went through all the elements of the case, testing them out, linking facts and pulling them tight, checking out whether there were any holes in her logic, any details she was missing out.

  But nothing new came to her, no blinding insight into the identity of Theresa Cotton’s killer. Everything else in the case made sense; the shape, the outline was clear; but there remained a great hole at the centre. One unanswered question: who had actually done it?

  Mrs Pargeter had narrowed down the list of suspects. She was now convinced that Theresa Cotton had been killed by one of the women in Smithy’s Loam. And that the reason for the murder was something that had been said during Theresa’s conscience-clearing circuit of the other houses in the close early on the evening she died.

  To all of the women she had revealed that she knew secrets about them. But to one the secret was so important that she was prepared to kill to keep it quiet.

  Mrs Pargeter was slowly building up a list of what those secrets might be, but as yet her list was incomplete.

  When she got out of the bath and wrapped herself in a sheet-size bath towel, Mrs Pargeter felt cold. There was a draught coming from behind the curtain. Must have left the fanlight open.

  She reached up to release the prop that held the window ajar, but it wouldn’t budge. She climbed up on a bathroom chair and, with the curtain bunching round her like a cloak, tried to shift the jammed lock.

  It gave after a moment’s effort and she closed the window. She was just about to step down from the chair when she saw something that froze her where she was.

  The bathroom was on the side of the house, facing the Temples’. Up to fanlight level, the window glass was discreetly frosted, but above that it was plain. And through this plain glass Mrs Pargeter could see into Carole and Gregory Temple’s bedroom.

  The curtains were only half-drawn, which was strange.

  But not as strange as what Mrs Pargeter could see through them.

  She saw a backview which must be Carole, though somehow it didn’t look like Carole. Anyway, surely she had seen Carole’s car leaving just before running her bath . . . ?

  And why would Carole be dressing up so elaborately and preening herself in front of the mirror? She was wearing a low-backed red satin cocktail dress, stockings and silver high-heeled shoes. The ensemble didn’t conform with her customary rather dour style of dress.

  Still, perhaps she was going out to some smart function in the near future and was just testing the effect.

  But the way she was preening and parading in front of the mirror also seemed at odds with what Mrs Pargeter knew of her neighbour’s character. There was something strange in her movements, too. Could Carole Temple possibly be drunk?

  Suddenly the figure in front of the mirror turned to check the straightness of her stocking seams in the mirror.

  It wasn’t the unaccustomed heaviness of the make-up that took Mrs Pargeter by surprise – it was the moustache.

  The oddness of the figure was suddenly explained. It wasn’t Carole Temple who was preening herself in the red cocktail dress – it was her husband, Gregory.

  Hmm, thought Mrs Pargeter, now that is interesting.

  Suppose Theresa Cotton had witnessed a similar parade on a previous evening when Carole Temple had been out . . .

  And suppose she had told Carole Temple what she had seen . . .

  Might not that be the sort of secret that should be kept from spreading amongst the other residents of Smithy’s Loam?

  33

  ‘God, that bloody girl!’ said Sue Curie, relaxing as she made her way down the second of Mrs Pargeter’s generous gin and tonics. ‘She’s just so disorganised. I mean suddenly there’s this flap last week because she’s forgotten about her visa and it’s about to run out, and so I get this panic call at the office, because she’s got to go up to the Norwegian Embassy and she can’t leave the kids and . . .’ She growled. ‘God, it is nearly impossible to hold down a job and run a home at the same time.’

  ‘I thought an au pair was supposed to make it possible.’

  ‘Huh!’ was all that idea was thought to deserve.

  ‘But at least everything’s all right at work, isn’t it . . . ?’ asked Mrs Pargeter cautiously.

  ‘I suppose so . . . when I’m there. When I don’t keep getting called back home on idiotic errands.’

  ‘Yes. Actually, Sue, I don’t even know what it is you do . . . ?’

  ‘Market research company.’

  ‘Local, obviously.’

  ‘Yes, in Dorking. Started up by a bloke I used to work with before I got nailed down by marriage and children. He went on his own about five years back and it all seems to be going well. Get market research right and you can’t fail.’

  ‘A lot of companies do fail, though, don’t they?’

  ‘Ah, yes, but that’s because they don’t get it right. Geoff – that’s my boss – is a very shrewd operator. Knows what he’s doing. If a firm’s doing badly, he persuades them that they need market research to find out why they’re doing badly. If they’re doing well, he persuades them they need it to do even better.’

  ‘Sounds good. And of course it must be nice for you working with people you know.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know him that well,’ said Sue dismissively.

  ‘No, but at least if you’re with congenial people . . .’

  ‘Huh. I don’t think Geoff could ever be described as congenial,’ said Sue with some vigour. ‘He’s an absolute pig to work for. Typical male. Good at the job, but very exhausting to be with. No, I’m just very relieved to get away from the office as soon as possible every night.’

  ‘But the hours do seem to be long,’ suggested Mrs Pargeter. ‘I mean, I quite often see your car coming back, round nine, half-past.’

  ‘Yes, well, we do get very busy. When you’re a relatively new set-up, you can’t afford to turn any work down. There aren’t many of us in the company, anyway. And I think perhaps Geoff has to work a bit harder than the opposition.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, he’s coloured. Born in Jamaica. It’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m afraid there still is a bit of prejudice, even in a place like this.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Mrs Pargeter, keeping to herself the thoughts which had suddenly been set buzzing about her head. Time to change the subject. ‘Any nearer getting your divorce through, are you?’

  This got another of Sue’s bitter little ‘Huh’s. ‘No, that bastard is dragging everything out for as long as possible. Never marry a lawyer, Mrs Pargeter.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m really likely to at my age.’ It wasn’t just age that was a bar, now she came to think of it. Certain basic differences of attitude on certain issues might lead to marital discord, too.

  ‘No. Well, don’t,’ said Sue grimly. ‘That would be my advice to anyone of any age. Because the Law is just a system of institutionalised delay and if you’ve got a lawyer against you in a divorce, he can keep on finding loopholes and legal quirks and quibbles until you’re almost driven mad. And if he happens to be the person you’re trying to divorce . . . huh, well, it’s even worse.’

  ‘It must be very frustrating for you.’

  ‘You can say that again. And nothing’s sacred to a bloody lawyer. He’s quite happy for all the secrets of our marriage to be dragged through th
e courts.’

  ‘Doesn’t your husband actually want to get divorced?’

  ‘He says he doesn’t. Treated me like a dog all the time we were together and then, when I kick him out, suddenly he becomes all maudlin and pathetic and keeps on about how he misses the kids and . . . huh, snivelling little wimp.’

  ‘So is he fighting you for custody of the kids?’

  ‘He’s trying to. Mind you, he won’t succeed. I’ll see to that. There is no way I’m going to allow that bum to have more to do with my children than is absolutely necessary.’ Sue Curle made this pronouncement with an intensity that was almost frightening.

  Time to shift the subject again. ‘Well, lots of luck, Sue. I’m sure it’ll work out for you.’

  ‘Bloody well hope so.’ She suddenly remembered something. ‘Ooh, Mrs Pargeter. Next Monday.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Put it in your diary. I’m going to have this meeting about the Indian restaurant.’

  ‘What, your Women’s Action Group thing?’

  ‘That’s it. Six o’clock my place. Before the husbands get home. You will come, won’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes, I’ll come. Though I must confess I’m not sure which side I’m on . . .’

  ‘Not sure?’ Sue Curle stared at her in amazement. ‘There’s only one side to be on. We don’t want an Indian restaurant on the corner of Smithy’s Loam, do we?’

  And the contempt she put into the word ‘Indian’ confirmed her own earlier observation that there really still was a bit of prejudice about.

  ‘Well, Sue, I’ll certainly be there. Look forward to it.’ Another graceful change of subject was called for. ‘Everything settling down a bit now in Smithy’s Loam, isn’t it?’ said Mrs Pargeter pacifically.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, after the murder. I mean, no more policemen popping out asking questions at every turn . . .’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I suppose they are pretty certain that Rod killed her.’

  ‘Seems most likely, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Hmm. Goodness, though, they did go on, didn’t they? I gather they were asking everyone when they last saw Theresa . . .’

  ‘Well, they have to. That’s their job, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. No, I was quite glad I wasn’t living here at the time. After I heard all the questions everyone else had to answer. Enough to make you feel guilty even if you’ve never done anything wrong in your life.’

  Sue Curle didn’t join in the chuckle that accompanied this.

  ‘Yes, it seems,’ Mrs Pargeter went on, ‘that Theresa Cotton went round saying goodbye to everyone in the close . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Sue Curle agreed shortly.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Mrs Pargeter shook her head at her own stupidity. ‘We’ve had this conversation, haven’t we?’

  ‘I believe we did talk about it, yes.’

  ‘’Cause you said that you’d had to come home early from the office because Kirsten was up in London . . .’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And Theresa came to see you . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just to say goodbye . . . ?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sue Curle firmly. ‘Just to say goodbye.’

  There was such a thing, Mrs Pargeter reflected after her guest had left, as protesting too much. She might have suspected some of that was going on from the way Sue badmouthed her boss, even if she hadn’t seen them together looking so intimate in that pub but as it was . . .

  So Sue was trying to throw people off the scent about her relationship with Geoff. Might not that suggest that her ‘working late at the office’ was as much of a euphemism as the expression traditionally is . . . ?

  And might not knowledge of her affair be just the sort of ammunition her lawyer husband would seize on in his battle to gain custody of their children . . . ? Even to the extent of playing on the undoubted colour prejudice there was around . . . ?

  Suppose Theresa Cotton had known about the affair and ‘cleared her mind of grudges and resentments’ by telling Sue that she knew . . .

  And suppose Sue had translated Theresa’s words into a threat to tell all to her husband . . .

  Given the ferocity with which she was determined to hang on to her children, it looked as if Sue Curle was another Smithy’s Loam resident with a possible motive for murder.

  34

  Of course, there was someone else in Smithy’s Loam who might be capable of a totally irrational act like murder. Jane Watson gave every appearance of being completely mad, and, in her paranoid delusions, the permanent removal of someone who represented a threat to her might seem completely logical.

  But Mrs Pargeter didn’t like that conclusion. For a start, she had a strong prejudice against murders committed by people who were mad. She had always disliked them in crime fiction and didn’t care for them much in real life. Madness was so vague, so woolly. Any motivation and logic could be ascribed to someone who was mad. At the end of a crime book in which a madman dunnit, Mrs Pargeter always felt cheated and annoyed.

  Apart from anything else, the murder of Theresa Cotton did not look like the work of someone unhinged. It had not been an irrational act; rather the reverse, it had been a supremely rational act. Putting on one side for a moment the theory that the taking of human life is an act of madness under any circumstances, the strangling had been well thought out and executed.

  No, it was simplistic to say: Jane Watson appears to be mad, therefore Jane Watson must have killed Theresa Cotton.

  Anyway, even madness has its logic. There are reasons behind most irrational behaviour, even though those reasons often only make sense to the perpetrator of that behaviour. What Jane Watson had said to Mrs Pargeter had contained an internal logic for her, if not for anyone else.

  And the more Mrs Pargeter thought about their encounter inside ‘Hibiscus’, the more she seemed to see a logic running through Jane Watson’s behaviour. Jane had not randomly identified Mrs Pargeter as an enemy; something in her visitor’s actions or behaviour had triggered that response.

  Mrs Pargeter concentrated hard, and thought through everything that had happened that morning, and everything that had happened on every other occasion when her path had crossed with that of Jane Watson.

  It took about ten minutes of thinking back, recreating the scenes, remembering the minutiae, and then suddenly all became clear.

  The important encounter had been the one a few weeks before when Mrs Pargeter had gone across to see Fiona Burchfield-Brown and check on the identity of Theresa Cotton’s first bearded visitor. As she came out of ‘High Bushes’ she had almost bumped into Jane Watson. And Jane Watson had looked at her and run away as if scared out of her wits.

  What Mrs Pargeter had forgotten until that moment was what she had been carrying on that occasion. Held against her chest had been the booklets of the Church of Utter Simplicity.

  She began to see daylight. If one identified the ‘them’ of Jane Watson’s paranoid ramblings with the members of the Church, a kind of logic emerged.

  The police informer agreed that it was not his usual line of work. But, still, he worked a lot on the telephone and yes, of course he’d do it. Anything that the widow of the late Mr Pargeter required, whatever it was, no problem, he’d be happy to oblige.

  ‘Say you’re a television researcher,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And say you’re researching a programme into dubious religious sects. And say that your aim is to expose some of the things they do . . . like brainwashing, or putting obstacles in the way of people who want to leave.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  ‘Do assure her that your aim is to have these abuses put right. And assure her that anything she says will be treated in absolute confidence, that nobody will ever know she told you . . .’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Say I gave you her name . . .’

  ‘You, Mrs Pargeter?
’

  ‘That’s right. Say that I am determined to have the practices of this kind of place stopped at all costs . . .’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘That’ll do for the time being. Ring me back and tell me how she takes it.’

  ‘OK.’

  He rang half an hour later. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get back to you before. She talked.’

  ‘Had a lot to say?’

  ‘You could put it like that, Mrs Pargeter, yes. Very difficult to stop her once she got started. Pretty highly strung lady, I’d say.’

  Yes, highly strung, thought Mrs Pargeter, but not mad.

  ‘Anyway, I got it all. That Church does sound a pretty dodgy set-up, I must say.’

  ‘They wouldn’t let her leave?’

  ‘That seemed to be her main problem, yes. Apparently even now, five years after she got out, she still lives in fear that they’re sending off people to fetch her back in.’

  Yes, it all fitted. Mrs Pargeter thanked her unseen assistant profusely, and once again received assurances that, after all the late Mrs Pargeter had done for him, nothing was too much trouble.

  ‘No, I can fully understand,’ said Mrs Pargeter, trying to stem Jane Watson’s flow.

  ‘I’m sorry, but once I finally did get out of that place, I cracked up completely. You know, a really major breakdown. Lasted eighteen months or so. But I had help and drugs and things and gradually I began to come out of it. And then I met Roger and we got married and moved here, and I really thought things’d be all right. I mean, I was still in a strange state . . . you know, afraid of people, terrified of making contact. I’d just lost all my confidence about dealing with things. But Roger’s wonderfully supportive, I’m so lucky. And I really thought I was getting better.’

  ‘Until Theresa mentioned that she was going to join the Church, too.’

  Jane Watson became suddenly devious. ‘I didn’t say she said that.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘No, actually, the thing that sparked it all off again was seeing someone from . . . someone from . . .’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.’ . . . someone from that place, here, in Smithy’s Loam.’