by Simon Brett
‘It’s about the last job you did for me … you know, tracking down that Labour MP who hit someone because they described him as a Socialist.’
‘I done it all right,’ Truffler protested. ‘I got a result, didn’t I?’
‘Of course you got a result. You always do. But the bone I have to pick with you is about the fact that you haven’t yet invoiced me for the work!’
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I’ll do it first thing when I get back to the office.’ Then, moving the conversation on to a less contentious subject, he asked her what the two new tasks she had for him were.
‘First one,’ she replied, ‘is fairly straightforward. You know Jasmine Angold?’
‘Old “Silver” Angold’s widow?’
‘That’s the one. I’m slightly worried that she may be up against it financially.’
‘OK. There’s a daughter, isn’t there?’
‘That’s right. Charley. She lives with Jasmine in the house in Romford.’
‘And does she contribute to the family finances?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve a feeling she doesn’t. I vaguely remember Jasmine saying something about Charley having given up her job; can’t recall all the details, though.’
‘I’ll check that out.’
‘Bless you, Truffler. Of course, there might be a way of getting the money to them through Charley … you know, if Jasmine is too proud to accept charity.’
‘I’ll see what gives. But basically you want me – discreetly, of course – to find out what Jasmine’s living on?’
‘Exactly.’
Truffler Mason’s sagging face contorted into the nearest it ever got to a smile. No problems there. He’d done a similar job on many of the late Mr Pargeter’s associates and their families.
‘Next one’s a bit stranger,’ Mrs Pargeter went on. And she told Truffler about Mendy Farstairs’ bizarre reaction to the disappearance of her gold necklace at the PhiliPussies reception. ‘May be a wild-goose chase,’ she concluded. ‘Just seems odd behaviour to me. Probably nothing there, but you know how curious I get.’
‘I certainly do, Mrs P.’
‘So anything you can find out …?’
‘Discreetly, of course?’
‘Discreetly as ever, Truffler, yes.’ A new thought came to her. ‘Ooh, one other thing … At this PhiliPussies reception I met a woman who claimed to be my husband’s sister. Do you know anything about her?’
Truffler Mason’s face set as hard as the shells of the oysters they were eating. Just as Gary had done when the same subject was mentioned, he clammed up.
SEVEN
This was something Mrs Pargeter had not encountered before. All of her husband’s associates had always been very open with her. Though there were subjects – certain details of the late Mr Pargeter’s business dealings, for example – which they were too tactful to bring up, they would, generally speaking, reply with honesty to any question she might put to them.
So to have her two most trusted helpers, Gary and Truffler Mason, refuse to answer her enquiries about Rochelle Brighouse was very strange. She had tried pumping both men for further information, but without success.
All she got from Truffler was the mournful advice, ‘The less you have to do with her, the better.’
Which meant that Mrs Pargeter, who usually slept the dreamless sleep of the just, had – by her standards – a rather restless night.
And when she woke up the next morning her mind was still full of intriguing questions. What did Gary and Truffler know about Rochelle Brighouse that stopped them from talking about her? Was there ever a time when Rochelle Brighouse had been close to her brother? And, perhaps most important of all, why had the late Mr Pargeter never even mentioned the fact that he had a sister?
With that convenient synchronicity which no longer surprised Mrs Pargeter, just after nine that morning she had a phone call from Rochelle Brighouse.
‘Good morning,’ she was greeted in the confident voice of someone who had run her own public relations company for some years. ‘It was such a pleasure to meet you at the PhiliPussies event.’
‘Well, we hardly had a chance to talk properly, did we, Rochelle?’
‘No, you’re right, we didn’t. But I’m sure we can remedy that in the future.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Pargeter in an even tone which gave no indication whether she thought this was a good idea or not.
‘Anyway, not to beat about the bush …’ Rochelle Brighouse had the manner of someone who never beat about the bush. ‘I believe that my brother’s death left you an extremely wealthy woman.’
‘I can’t complain.’
‘No, maybe you can’t, but I think I can.’
‘Sorry? What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about certain things your husband did during his life for which I feel he owes me.’
‘Really? I have heard that such sentiments are quite common among siblings and can become stronger after a death in the family. Having been an only child myself, of course I couldn’t really express an opinion.’ When Mrs Pargeter got frosty, her syntax tended to become more formal.
‘What I am saying, Mrs Pargeter, is that there are certain debts – money owing to me – which my brother left unpaid at his death.’
‘Oh?’
‘And I feel that you, as his widow, should discharge those debts.’
‘My late husband’s financial affairs were always meticulously documented. He didn’t believe in laxity in such matters. It upset him to think that he owed money to anyone. But, of course, if you can provide evidence of outstanding debts to you – and the necessary paperwork – I will pass it on to my husband’s company lawyers who will deal with the matter.’
‘You haven’t enquired yet how much I’m asking for.’
‘That is true.’ Mrs Pargeter didn’t add anything else. For one thing she thought it very unlikely that Rochelle Brighouse had any legal claims on her brother’s estate. For another, she felt confident that the monies she had been left in various trusts would be more than adequate to settle any minor debts.
‘So …’ said Rochelle Brighouse, ‘you want to see some paperwork?’
‘I think that’s reasonable. After all, I have only your word for the fact that you are any relation of my husband’s.’
‘Oh, it’s true all right. Are you saying Lionel never mentioned me?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. Until you and I met at the Baronet Hotel, I had no idea that he had a sister.’
‘Hm. Well, that’s Lionel all over.’ There was a strange note of satisfaction in the woman’s voice, as if some point had been proved. ‘Incidentally, we’re not talking money.’
‘Sorry?’
‘What Lionel owed me, it wasn’t cash. Cash would be far too simple.’
‘What is it then?’
‘Oh, I don’t think I need to tell you the details yet, Mrs Pargeter. Funny, can’t get used to calling you that. So far as I’m concerned, when I say “Mrs Pargeter”, I think of our old mum.’
‘Well, I have been called “Mrs Pargeter” for a good few years and I—’
‘Oh yes, I’m sure you have.’
‘Are you going to tell me what it was that my late husband owed you?’
‘You’ll see that when you get the paperwork. Which I will deliver in my own good time.’
‘Very well, Mrs Brighouse, I will wait to receive it.’ Mrs Pargeter now wanted to end the conversation as soon as possible.
But the other woman seemed to be in no hurry. She was happy to linger on the line. ‘One thing I should tell you …’
‘Yes?’
‘A bit of advice it is really …’
Mrs Pargeter was as close to irritation as she ever got. ‘What is it then?’
‘Just be very careful if you’re going down Epping Forest way.’
‘I very rarely do go there. I—’
‘There’s a lot of secrets in Epping Forest.’ And with that
enigmatic remark, Rochelle Brighouse decided to end the conversation.
The call from Rochelle had unsettled Mrs Pargeter further, but it was not in her nature to remain unsettled for long. As the day progressed her irritation gave way to curiosity, and by the evening even that had been replaced by her customary benign thoughts.
So it was with some surprise that the following morning, when she was half-listening to the radio news, she heard this announcement:
‘The identity of a woman’s body which was found last night in a shallow grave in Epping Forest has been confirmed. It was that of a seventy-seven-year-old charity worker called Doreen Grange. Essex Constabulary have launched a murder enquiry.’
EIGHT
Though Mrs Pargeter greatly disliked crocheted cats, she didn’t think their manufacture was sufficient provocation for murder. And, like the police, she felt sure it was murder they were dealing with. Suicides may deal efficiently with the actual process of killing, but they rarely manage to bury themselves after their deaths in shallow graves in Epping Forest (which is, incidentally, London’s go-to destination for the burying of bodies in shallow graves).
Of course Mrs Pargeter knew virtually nothing about the late Doreen Grange, nor indeed the circumstances of her death. But the bizarre synchronicity of recent events had ignited her curiosity.
And once Mrs Pargeter’s curiosity had been ignited, it prompted a constant desire for more fuel, in the form of information.
So when Truffler Mason rang her with an update on Jasmine Angold’s finances (in a bad state), it was natural for her to move quickly on to the subject of Doreen Grange. ‘Do you know anything about her death?’
‘Why should I, Mrs P?’
‘Well, you’ve got very good contacts.’
‘That’s as maybe, but it doesn’t mean I know the SP on every crime that’s committed anywhere.’ He sounded more doom-laden than ever.
‘No, I’m sorry, but I thought you might possibly know someone who’d have access to that kind of information.’
‘Ah, now, Mrs P, you’re asking a completely different question. Yes, indeed, there is someone I know who might be able to provide just the information we need.’
The arrangement was to meet in a pub in Harlow at the end of the working day. The pub was an anonymous concrete slab, to which no amount of dark wood panelling, plush red velvet seats and coach lamps could give any atmosphere of conviviality.
Not that it wasn’t full. As Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason entered, conversation was almost drowning out the Muzak. Truffler cautiously inhaled the air. ‘You know what?’ he said, as if announcing the imminent end of the world, ‘this is a coppers’ pub.’
Mrs Pargeter couldn’t have made that deduction. There were few uniforms on display, but she trusted Truffler’s intuition. He had very highly tuned antennae for such things. Long experience had taught him to sniff out police presence at a hundred yards. In Mrs Pargeter’s blameless life, such skills had never been required.
‘But I thought you said your contact was in the police.’
‘He is. Bobby the Bill – that’s what we call him. His real name’s Robert McPherson. But in fact he got his nickname before he joined the police.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah, it was because of his ability to extract payment of bills from reluctant debtors. Dead good at that he was. Once he got started on them, people coughed up real quick. Anyway, the nickname turned out to be very suitable after he changed careers. He started training for the Force the minute he stopped working for your old man.’
‘Then why would he want us to meet in a coppers’ pub?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Do you think it could be some kind of trap?’
Truffler Mason firmly shook his long, horse-like head. ‘No way. Bobby the Bill’s as straight as a lollipop lady’s lollipop. If he fixed for us to meet here, he must’ve had his reasons.’
At that point they saw the object of their discussion. A thickset man, whose shaven head fitted into his torso without the intervention of a neck, rose from a corner table and waved them across. Introductions having been made, he insisted on buying the first round. Truffler Mason asked for a pint of Adnam’s, and Bobby the Bill reckoned he was ready for a second of those. Mrs Pargeter, deciding this wasn’t the sort of pub where she’d get a vodka Campari, went for a gin and tonic.
When they were all at the table and she was sipping what was clearly a double G & T, Bobby the Bill began to talk about the late Mr Pargeter and what an honour it was to meet his widow. ‘I heard so much about you when we was working together, and now I meet you in the flesh I see he didn’t exaggerate one little bit.’
Accepting the compliment, Mrs Pargeter smiled gracefully.
‘He was such a great guy to work for, your husband. Taught me everything I knew. How to stop rowdy people being rowdy, how to get information out of the quiet ones, how to be alert to conflicts what people’re trying to hide, how to recognize when people are up to some under-the-counter stuff … Oh, I may have had some natural aptitude for that kind of work, but it was Mr Pargeter who brought it out of me, kind of “nurtured my talents”, you could say.
‘And then, towards the end of his life, he done something I would never have believed possible. He actually advised me that when I stopped working for him I should go into the police force. Imagine that – advising me to become a copper. Someone who’d done what your husband had done all his life actually recommending I should go over to the other side. I mean, it’s—’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Pargeter, innocence glowing from her violet eyes, ‘but I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Bobby the Bill looked puzzled, but Truffler quickly came in with the explanation. ‘Mrs Pargeter doesn’t know everything about what her husband done.’
‘Oh?’
Truffler spelled out the guiding rule of the late Mr Pargeter’s life. ‘He was always a great believer in the principle of “need to know”. So what you didn’t need to know you didn’t know. That way you could never be made to stand up in court and talk about it.’
Comprehension slowly dawned on the policeman. ‘Because you didn’t know?’ he suggested.
‘Exactly that, Bobby,’ said Truffler.
‘Ah. Gotcha.’ He beamed at Mrs Pargeter. ‘Anyway, all I’m saying is that I’m really grateful to your husband because he, kind of, give me that career advice … you know, he reckoned my skillset was dead right for me to join the Bill, so that’s what I done. On his part it was pure … what’s that posh word for when someone does something for someone else what doesn’t do them any good? “Aluminium”, is it?’
‘“Altruism”,’ suggested Mrs Pargeter gently.
‘Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, your old man, he was full of that.’ She nodded fond agreement. ‘So, going against all his instincts, he actually pushed me into the police force. Not thinking of himself at all.’
‘Erm,’ Truffler interposed. ‘He was thinking of himself a bit.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘Well, sometimes you did give him some useful information, didn’t you? Like secret police information?’
‘Ye-es,’ Bobby the Bill conceded. ‘But only because I knew he’d use it in the right way.’
‘Of course,’ Truffler agreed reassuringly.
Mrs Pargeter was feeling uncharacteristically ill at ease. Though her respect for the police, men and women who did a very boring job with occasional efficiency, remained undiluted, she still never quite relaxed in their company. So being in a pub where every vista was peopled by coppers was not her idea of fun.
‘Are you sure that meeting in here is a good idea?’ she asked Bobby the Bill. ‘Isn’t there a great risk of our being overheard?’
‘No,’ he assured her airily. ‘Everyone’s talking so loud in here no one can hear a thing. Anyway, cops always stop listening when they’ve got a drink inside them.’ He took a long swig from his second pint. ‘I k
now I do.’
Mrs Pargeter didn’t find much comfort in his words. ‘If we could perhaps get on with what we came here for,’ she urged.
‘Yes, of course. Now what I done before you arrived, is to slip a couple of folders on to the shelf under this table, right?’
Truffler Mason reached forward and touched cardboard. ‘Right.’
‘Now you take them.’
‘OK. Do you want me to take them so’s people can see what I got?’
‘Yes, sure. More witnesses the better.’
‘Right.’ The private investigator held up what he’d found, very conspicuously.
‘Right now, Truffler, what you got there is two folders, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Blue one and a red one. Red one’s got all the guff on Doreen Grange’s murder. Now what I want you to do—’
But Bobby the Bill was prevented from further talk by a sudden quietening in the room. The assembled coppers all turned towards the door at the appearance of a tall man in a dark blue uniform with lots of gold braid on it.
‘Don’t stand on ceremony with me,’ he announced with forced joviality. ‘I’m just coming to have a pint with the boys.’
His request had little effect on the silence in the bar. Mrs Pargeter looked across interrogatively to Bobby the Bill. ‘Chief Constable,’ he mouthed back. The information did little to diminish her level of discomfort.
And it mounted considerably when the Chief Constable came straight across to their table. He clapped Bobby the Bill on the shoulder and said heartily, ‘Keeping up the good work, I see, McPherson.’
‘Doing my best, sir.’
The Chief Constable favoured Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason with a beaming smile. ‘You’re working with top-notch talent, with McPherson here,’ he said. ‘Just so’s you know that. And I would like to say how much we in the Force appreciate people like you. You make our job a lot easier.’
And with that he was across the room, showing his common touch by asking the barmaid what bitters she had on offer.
‘It’s the red file we take?’ Truffler asked for confirmation.
