by Simon Brett
And now the only sign that the minimal front room might be any kind of office was the slim laptop that sat on Erin Jarvis’s glass-topped table.
But whether employing ‘Jukebox’ Jarvis’s antiquated system or his daughter’s cutting-edge modern methods, one thing remained constant. Any information, even the tiniest detail, about the history of the late Mr Pargeter’s business activities could be summoned up instantly.
Once she had supplied her guests with coffee from the state-of-the-art Italian machine, Erin said, ‘I’m sorry to drag you over here, but I thought it might be easier to explain what’s been going on face to face.’
‘No worries, dear,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘It’s a great pleasure to see you again.’
‘You too, Mrs P. And you of course, Truffler.’
His sagging face twisted into the grimace which was the nearest he ever got to a smile. ‘Lovely to see you too, Erin. As ever.’
Truffler Mason, achingly unfashionable in his drab brown suit with his grubby beige raincoat folded across his lap, had a kind of avuncular affection for the girl with her purple asymmetrical hair and her many studs and perforations.
‘When we last spoke, Erin,’ he said, ‘you was working on some new software. How’s that going?’
‘Oh, my Remote Deletion programme … yes, going very well. I’ve tested it a few times and the results are very promising.’
‘Sorry, you’ve lost me, dear,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather clueless when it comes to computer stuff.’
‘The programme I’ve been working on,’ Erin explained, ‘enables me to get into any other computer and delete any files I want to from it.’
‘But don’t people have lots of back-ups these days?’ objected Truffler. ‘External hard drives and memory sticks and clouds and things …?’ His words ran out. That was the full extent of his IT knowledge.
‘Yes, but the genius thing about this programme I’ve invented,’ said Erin, ‘is that it can recognize where copies of the documents have been stored – and wipe those too!’
‘Blimey,’ said Truffler. ‘How does that work then?’
‘If I started explaining you’d be here all day. Probably most of tomorrow as well.’
‘And still probably not understand it.’ Mrs Pargeter smiled. ‘Anyway, your new programme isn’t what we’re here to talk about, is it, Erin?’
‘No.’ The girl went into efficient businesswoman mode. ‘Well now, are either of you active on social media?’
‘What, you mean that Facebook and Twitter nonsense?’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Good heavens, no. I don’t want people sending me photographs of their lunch.’
‘I use Facebook a bit for getting information,’ Truffler admitted reluctantly (he was unwilling to reveal any shortcoming in his anti-technology stance), ‘but I don’t use it for my social life.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t have a social life.’ This was said without any tinge of self-pity. Truffler Mason was a workaholic. There was genuinely nothing that he enjoyed more than pursuing his investigations – particularly when that involved working with Mrs Pargeter.
‘Well, I’d be lost without my social media,’ said Erin.
‘It’s a generational thing,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I’ve always preferred meeting people face to face. Then you can tell what they’re thinking as well as what they’re saying.’
Erin grinned. ‘Which is one of the reasons I invited you to come here rather than talking on the phone or emailing.’
‘Good.’
‘Anyway,’ Erin went on, ‘I use Facebook and Twitter a lot. Like you say, Truffler, very useful for finding out certain kinds of information. But there’s another online social networking service I use a lot more.’
‘I haven’t heard of any others apart from Facebook and Twitter,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
‘Oh, there are quite a few lesser-known ones. The one I’m talking about’s relatively new – and it’s directed at a very specific clientele.’
‘Oh? Who’s that then?’
‘Well, you’ve heard of people being “detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure” …?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Pargeter cautiously. ‘I’ve heard of them. Never met any, of course.’
‘No, Erin wasn’t suggesting you might have done,’ said Truffler hastily – and diplomatically.
‘A lot of good friendships are built up by people in those circumstances,’ the girl went on. ‘And when they … er, return to lives where they have more freedom … well, they like to keep in touch.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Truffler. ‘There’s a magazine for them, isn’t there? Called Inside/Out. Lets people know who’s being released when, that kind of stuff. Very useful – particularly if people are putting a team together for a big job, they like to know people’s availability. Handy for the wives and girlfriends too. Gives them a bit of warning to get their latest blokes off the scene before hubby comes home.’
Mrs Pargeter listened to this with a look of innocent incomprehension in her violet eyes, but she made no comment.
‘You’re dead right, Truffler,’ Erin continued. ‘In fact it’s the Inside/Out people behind this new social network. You know, a lot of magazines these days are ceasing to have print editions and just going online.’
‘Yeah. So, is the online version still called Inside/Out?’
‘No, they’ve got a much better name for it.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘ClinkedIn.’
‘Oh, very good, yes.’
‘Anyway, as I say, I find ClinkedIn incredibly useful for a lot of the research work that I do. It’s a very good way of contacting individuals who, er, might have reasons of their own why they don’t want to be contacted. A lot of the people who register do so under pseudonyms for … well, also for reasons of their own. And you’d be surprised how readily some blokes will grass their mates up when they know it’s being done pseudonymously.’
Again Mrs Pargeter’s face showed mild incomprehension.
‘But,’ Erin went on, warming to her theme, ‘suddenly in the last few days I’ve noticed a new clue being laid down.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh, I should have explained, Mrs Pargeter. It’s ClinkedIn jargon. When you start a new topic, it’s called “laying down a clue”, and all of the messages linked to that clue are kept together in the same “strongbox”. That’s another technical ClinkedIn term. It is, incidentally, a virtual strongbox, not a real one. But, anyway … it’s going to be simpler if I show you this on the screen.’
The laptop was instantly flipped open and Erin’s deft fingers on the keys immediately found what she was looking for. ‘That’s the first clue that was laid.’
She turned the laptop round so that her two guests could see the screen. At the top was the ClinkedIn logo of two hands joined at the wrists by a pair of handcuffs. Then below was the message, the ‘clue’ that had been ‘laid’.
It read: ‘Will anyone who has any information about the career of Mr Pargeter, who used to operate in the Essex and East London areas, please contact me through the usual ClinkedIn method.’
His widow turned pale. ‘I don’t like this,’ she said.
Her eyes travelled down the screen to the name of the person who had laid the clue. ‘Snowy’. ‘Mean anything to you, Truffler?’
He shook his long head. She looked at Erin Jarvis.
‘No,’ the girl replied to the unspoken question. ‘I’ve been through all the records. Nobody who worked for your late husband ever used the nickname “Snowy”.’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell with me either,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I haven’t seen it in the little black book he left me.’
‘I think it’s something that clue-layer has made up just to post this.’ Erin’s finger pointed at the screen.
Mrs Pargeter looked disturbed. Mr Pargeter had always managed his affairs with great discretion. He had even trained up Public Relations officers to ensure th
at his name never attracted any kind of publicity. It pained her to think how unwelcome this kind of intrusion would have been to a man whose life had been devoted to avoiding ostentation of any kind. If there was one thing Mr Pargeter had always hated, it was being the centre of attention.
‘The question is,’ said Truffler, ‘whether that message has prompted any replies.’
Erin thrust her lower jaw out ruefully, as she moved round the table and reached between them to use the keyboard. A couple of flicks of her fingers produced a screen full of messages. ‘Seems like a lot of people have memories of your late husband.’
This observation did not make Mrs Pargeter look any happier. ‘Any of the names mean anything to you, Erin?’
‘No, again I’ve checked them and all of them seem to be using nicknames made up specially for the occasion.’
Truffler Mason had been studying the screen intently. ‘And none of them do actually give any information, do they? Just, like, offer to set up meetings with Snowy, and that’s when presumably they would spill the beans.’
‘That’s quite common on ClinkedIn,’ said Erin. ‘A lot of the type of people who use it have a strong aversion to putting anything in writing.’
‘Just like your husband always recommended, Mrs P,’ said Truffler.
But for once a remark like that didn’t elicit any fond reminiscence. Mrs Pargeter looked distinctly ruffled.
‘Are there more of these messages – clues?’ Truffler asked.
Erin scrolled down with her hand and produced another screenful. ‘Again, no names I could recognize.’
‘Well, you’re not going to find any names you recognize, are you?’ said Truffler. ‘No one who was genuinely close to Mr Pargeter would have volunteered this kind of information. We all knew what he was like, how careful he was about security. That first clue from Snowy was effectively asking blokes to grass him up, and none of us who ever worked for him would dream of doing that. The only people who’re going to offer that kind of info are people who’d been his rivals, people who’d worked for the other side. Criminals,’ he concluded with distaste.
He was watching as Erin continued to scroll through an ever-increasing series of messages. Something caught his eye. ‘Just a minute – stop there!’
She did as instructed. Truffler pointed out a long finger. ‘Well, there’s a name I recognize. No attempt to disguise that one.’
They all read the words. ‘“Wirecutters” Wilson’. Mrs Pargeter and Erin Jarvis looked at him blankly. The name meant nothing to them.
Truffler’s voice was even more doom-laden than usual as he said, ‘Do you remember Streatham?’
Only the one word was required. They both knew immediately what he was talking about. ‘Streatham’ was one of the very few major jobs which had ended in failure for the late Mr Pargeter. And it had failed because some of his most trusted associates had betrayed him. Mrs Pargeter, who of course had never known any details of what was planned or what went wrong, still always blanched when she heard the word ‘Streatham’.
‘But surely that was all sorted out,’ she said. ‘Julian Embridge was the traitor on that occasion and he is detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure for a good few more years yet.’
‘Yes, Julian Embridge was the mastermind,’ Truffler agreed, ‘but there was others involved too. Among them … was “Wirecutters” Wilson.’
‘I don’t like this,’ she said for the second time.
And she meant it.
TWELVE
The following morning Mrs Pargeter had another call from Rochelle Brighouse. ‘I thought it was probably time for me to tell you what I want from you.’
‘I agree. I’ve never been a believer in beating about the bush.’
‘Nor have I.’
‘You said it wasn’t money, Rochelle.’
‘Oh no, it’s not money. One can always find money, but there are other things that are more exclusive and more valuable.’
‘You also said you’d have documentary evidence to back up your claim.’
‘Yes, I did, didn’t I? Well, I don’t think we need bother about that.’
‘Really? It’s possible my lawyers might feel differently.’
‘Melita, I’m sure you don’t really want to introduce lawyers into this.’
‘Oh? And why not?’
‘Because it’s the kind of thing that can be more effectively sorted out on a one-to-one basis. We’re both intelligent women. We’re related by marriage. I’m sure we can come to some kind of accommodation about this.’
The frostiness remained in Mrs Pargeter’s voice as she responded, ‘I would say that rather depended on what “this” is.’
‘It’s something that my brother left to you and to which I believe I have a right.’
‘And what is that?’
‘It’s the little black book in which he recorded all the names of the persons with whom he worked.’ There was a silence. ‘I’m not asking for the actual book. You can keep that. I just want a photocopy of the contents.’ Again no response. ‘You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Melita?’
‘I know exactly what you are talking about, Rochelle.’
‘And your reaction is?’
‘My reaction is that my husband left his little black book to me, and I am not about to give it away to anyone else. Even his sister. Do I make myself clear?’
‘You may think you make yourself clear, Melita, but I don’t believe you have thought through the consequences of what you are saying.’
‘Oh? And what might those consequences be?’
‘The last time we spoke, Melita …’ Mrs Pargeter didn’t like the constant repetition of her first name. She also knew that Rochelle Brighouse knew she didn’t like it, and therefore resisted saying anything on the matter. ‘… I mentioned that there were lots of secrets in Epping Forest.’
‘Yes.’
‘And then, only a few days later, Doreen Grange’s body is found there.’
‘Are you threatening me, Rochelle?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t call it threatening. Just making you aware that … there is a bigger picture.’
‘Well, it’s a picture in which I do not wish to feature.’
‘You speak as if you have any choice in the matter, Melita.’
And with that enigmatic observation, Rochelle Brighouse rang off.
Leaving Mrs Pargeter feeling somewhat uneasy. It was the fact that Rochelle knew of the existence of the little black book that troubled her. It made her wonder how much else she might know about the activities of the late Mr Pargeter.
She rang Truffler and reported the conversation she’d just had.
He sounded alarmed. ‘Do you think you’re in immediate danger? If you are, I’ll drop everything and come out to Chigwell to protect you.’
‘That’s very sweet of you, Truffler, but entirely unnecessary. Rochelle was just making idle threats – nothing to worry about.’
‘If you’re sure …’ He sounded very dubious. Like Gary, if he ever detected the mildest threat to Mrs Pargeter, he was programmed to leap instantly to her defence.
‘Absolutely sure,’ she replied firmly. ‘Now are you getting anywhere tracking down those ClinkedIn people?’
‘That’s what Erin and I are doing right now. I’m over at her place. As you know, she’s the whizz with all this online stuff.’
‘Of course.’
‘No names yet, but she thinks she’s on a very promising track and hoping to find some results soon.’
‘These are the people who responded to the original clue?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And dare I ask if you’re getting anywhere on the identity of “Snowy”?’
Truffler sounded more doleful than ever as he replied, ‘That may be more difficult.’
‘Oh well. Give Erin my love and wish her luck.’
‘Will do.’
‘And anything new on the Doreen Grange murder?’
‘Not
much yet. I’ve been in touch with Bobby the Bill. Only new information he’s got is that they may have identified the drug with which she was sedated before being strangled.’
‘What was it?’
‘New one to me. Called butorphanol.’
‘I’ve never heard of it either. Any more detail, Truffler?’
‘Yes. Apparently it’s a drug that’s very rarely used on humans …’
‘Oh?’
‘… but it’s in common use to anaesthetize animals before surgery.’
‘So vets use it?’
‘Very definitely.’
‘Hm.’
‘Anyway, Bobby the Bill says they’re waiting for the full postmortem report. Should have it in a couple of days.’
‘And then he’ll pass the contents on to us?’
‘’Course he will, Mrs P. But are you sure you’re going to be all right?’ he added anxiously.
‘I’ll be fine.’
She felt warmly reassured by Truffler Mason’s concern. Of course she’d never replace the feeling of security she had enjoyed while her husband was alive, but he had organized a very efficient protective team to look after her in his absence.
Although that thought comforted her, she still felt a level of frustration. Doreen Grange had been murdered and Mrs Pargeter felt she should be more proactive in solving the crime. But she couldn’t think what her next step in that process should be.
Since she got the report from Truffler about Jasmine Angold’s dire financial straits, Mrs Pargeter hadn’t had time to take any action to alleviate her friend’s situation. She had organized similar philanthropic help for other of her late husband’s associates, and she knew that her approach must be tactful and oblique. She was dealing with proud and upright people who would not wish to feel that they were the beneficiaries of charity.
As a result, with the help of Truffler Mason, Mrs Pargeter had devised a variety of ways to explain to people the sudden influx of money into their bank accounts. The discovery of a fictitious insurance policy taken out by a prudent husband had satisfied many widows. An inheritance from an unknown – and indeed non-existent – relative had also worked very well. And the unearthing of a stash of cash in Epping Forest (London’s go-to destination for such windfalls) never failed to convince.
