by Simon Brett
‘I agree. But I always think one has to check very carefully how a charity is run. There are a lot of charlatans out there.’
‘You’re so right, Mendy.’
‘And of course I make sure that PhiliPussies is run according to the strictest possible moral principles.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘So,’ Mendy went on, moving into fund-raising mode, ‘were you to make a donation to us, you would know that you were dealing with a bona fide charity, whose operations would stand up to any scrutiny.’
‘Mm. I was planning,’ Mrs Pargeter lied on, ‘to have a holiday soon, island-hopping in Greece …’
‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. The weather out here is absolutely gorgeous.’
‘… and I was wondering, if it turned out that my tour took me to Atmos …’
‘You’d be most welcome any time,’ said Mendy keenly. ‘Then you could inspect the Greek end of our business, which I’m sure you will find is just as well run as the Leigh-on-Sea operation.’
‘Thank you. Well, if I am likely to come to Atmos, I’ll let you know.’
‘Splendid. And, now you’ve rung me, I’ve got your mobile number.’
‘Of course.’ Though Mrs Pargeter had the latest iPhone, she very rarely used it for anything other than making calls. Texting seemed to her more trouble than it was worth.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Mendy. ‘And remember, if you do come, Mrs Pargeter, there’s always a spare bed for you here at Villa Rufus.’
‘Got quite a lot of info very quickly,’ Erin announced. ‘Lot of people on ClinkedIn used to have connections with the Lambeth Walkers and “Knuckles” Norton.’
‘Sorry? Who?’
‘Knuckles Norton was the boss of the Lambeth Walkers.’
‘Ah.’ Mrs Pargeter did not give any indication that she’d heard the name of the gang before as Erin went on, ‘And a lot of them knew about Tumblers Tate – by reputation at least.’
‘But is he still alive?’
‘Remarkably, it seems that he is, yes. Well into his nineties, I gather, and claims to have retired a long time ago … though one or two of the replies suggested he might still take on the occasional “special job”.’
Mrs Pargeter felt pretty sure that the theft of her little black book from Chigwell would probably qualify as a ‘special job’. A special job contracted to Tumblers Tate by Rochelle Brighouse. She was angry at the thought of what her sister-in-law had done, upset by the thought of some stranger breaking into the precious security of her Chigwell mansion, and she wanted revenge. ‘So where can we find him?’ she asked. ‘Some shooshed-up South Coast retirement home?’
‘No,’ Erin replied. ‘He retired abroad.’
Mrs Pargeter knew the answer before she had to ask the question.
And sure enough, Erin said, ‘Greece. An island called Atmos.’
‘Truffler,’ she said when she got through to the Mason de Vere Detective Agency, ‘how d’you fancy a trip to Greece?’
SIXTEEN
Hamish Ramon Henriques, known universally as ‘HRH’, still had his office in Berkeley Square. Only a small brass plaque by the panelled door, which read ‘HRH Travel’, gave an indication of the vast business empire he ran from the address.
Gary always knew what car was appropriate to each situation and, visiting a building opposite Jack Barclay, London’s premier Bentley dealership, obviously required him to drive the same marque. He parked firmly on the double yellow lines outside the HRH offices and, after he had helped Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason out, used his old trick of placing a Metropolitan Police Commissioner’s cap on the back window shelf. Since first using the ploy, he had never received a ticket.
When Mrs Pargeter announced her name through the entry grille, the door was opened immediately by a perfectly groomed, grey-uniformed receptionist, who had the name ‘Karen’ on her gold badge. After fulsomely welcoming her guests, she pressed a button on her console and an equally well-groomed girl with ‘Farron’ on her badge appeared to escort the visitors to the lift. On the first floor they were greeted at the lift’s doors by another immaculately presented girl badged ‘Saffron’, who led them through an aisle between rows of grey-suited beauties busy on their phones. As they passed, Mrs Pargeter and Truffler heard snatches of their public-school-voiced conversations.
‘… don’t worry, the uranium itself will be put in a lead-lined shoe-polish tin which you can carry in your hold luggage and which will not be detected by any of the scanners …’
‘… and of course when the airbag inflates it is guaranteed to asphyxiate anyone sitting in the front passenger seat. No need to thank me, sir, that’s all part of the HRH service …’
‘… which means the name on your passport will be “Pastor Willikin van der Beer”, and your forwarding address will be The Church of the Immaculate Revelation, Santiago. Yes, sir, quite a change from Wormwood Scrubs, I agree …’
‘… then, once you get to the clubhouse, all you have to do is dismantle the Number Five iron and reassemble it into an assault rifle which has slightly more firepower than the Kalashnikov AK-47. How you use it, of course, is up to you …’
As she heard these snippets, the level of innocence in Mrs Pargeter’s violet eyes did not alter one iota. They were focused on the open office door at the end of the aisle, in which stood the benign figure of Hamish Ramon Henriques, his arms opened wide in greeting.
Though it was a few years since Mrs Pargeter had last seen him, the specialist travel agent had not changed at all. The flow of his white hair and the droop of his white moustache still instantly brought to mind images of Don Quixote. His black eyes sparkled either side of his high-ridged nose. And, despite his exotic Iberian appearance, he still dressed in the heavy tweeds of a British gentleman.
His voice too was redolent of public schools, clubs in St James’s and Lord’s Cricket Ground. ‘Mrs Pargeter,’ he rumbled, as he enveloped her in his arms, ‘it is such an enormous pleasure to see you!’
‘You too, HRH. You remember Truffler?’
‘Of course. How could I forget? When I think of the number of times he and I worked together with your late husband, which was always an enormous pleasure for both of us. I remember with particular relish the getaway hovercrafts which I organized after the raid on the Thamesside offices of …’ At a look from Mrs Pargeter, his words petered away to nothing. ‘Anyway,’ he resumed, ‘please come through into my office and let me know how the devil I can help you. If you’d like tea or coffee, Saffron will of course organize that for you.’
Mrs Pargeter asked for an Americano with hot milk on the side; Truffler wanted ‘an ordinary coffee – white, two sugars.’
‘Now, Mrs Pargeter,’ said HRH, once they were all ensconced in generous leather chairs in his office, ‘what can I do for you?’ He spread his hands wide. ‘As you know, for you I’ll do anything. When I think about how your late husband helped me, nurtured my career …’ A discreet cough from Mrs Pargeter, who sometimes heard almost too much of this kind of gratitude, did not stem the travel agent’s effusion of goodwill. ‘Change of identity, new passport, arranging travel to a destination which has no extradition treaty with the UK … just tell me what you need and I will supply it.’
‘Well, it’s not as complicated as all that stuff,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I just want you to arrange transport for me and Truffler to go to Greece.’
‘Greece again, eh? I seem to remember that’s what I was asked to fix for you last time we had dealings. Is it back to Corfu?’
‘No. This time it’s an island called Atmos.’
‘Not one I’ve heard of.’
‘I believe it’s quite small.’
‘Nearest island with an airport is Skiathos,’ said Truffler, who had done some research.
‘Oh, fine. Anyway, it’ll be no problem. I’ll get someone to take the details.’ HRH pressed a button on his desk. The door opened immediately and another grey-clad paragon appeared. ‘
Lauren, could you take the details of Mrs Pargeter’s travel requirements and sort it out, please?’
‘Of course, HRH. First class, I assume?’
‘Oh, that’d be nice,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
‘No, no, forget scheduled flights,’ said the travel agent. ‘We’ll do this with one of Barry’s private jets.’
‘And what then – the ferry from Skiathos to—?’
‘Good heavens, no, Lauren. It is Mrs Pargeter we’re dealing with here, not some odorous student backpacker. Get Apostolos to organize one of his speedboats to take her the last leg to Atmos.’
‘Very well, HRH.’
‘So, Mrs Pargeter, if you’d just tell Lauren your requirements …’
These were quickly given. The flight, it transpired, could be arranged for later that afternoon, but Mrs Pargeter, thinking of the packing she needed to do, opted for eleven o’clock from London City Airport the following morning.
Mrs Pargeter had quickly decided not to take up Mendy Farstairs’ offer of a bed at Villa Rufus. The owner’s presence might inhibit her investigative activities. So she asked about accommodation, and Lauren instantly had the information at her fingertips. Atmos, it turned out, though it had a lot of fairly primitive beds available in private houses, only boasted two hotels. One, according to Lauren’s research, was just a few rooms above a taverna, rather scruffy and noisy in the evenings. The other, the five-star Hotel Thalassa, was much more Mrs Pargeter’s style. She and Truffler were quickly booked in there for an open-ended stay beginning the next day.
Once the arrangements had been made, Mrs Pargeter reminded herself that, as a long-term associate, HRH might know something of her late husband’s sister. She had encountered uncharacteristic reticence on the subject from Truffler and Gary, and wondered whether HRH might be a little more forthcoming.
But no, his initial reaction was equally curt. Yes, he did know that the late Mr Pargeter had had a sister. But no, he knew nothing about Rochelle Brighouse.
‘She runs a company called “Rochelle Brighouse Public Relations”.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘And I have reason to believe that she has stolen the little black book which my husband left me.’
That did finally make an impression on HRH. Like all of Mr Pargeter’s former associates, he knew the inestimable value of the little black book. ‘Is this why you’re going to Atmos, Mrs Pargeter?’
‘One of the reasons.’
For a moment he stroked his trailing moustache thoughtfully. Then he said, ‘I have not met Rochelle Brighouse, but I have had dealings with her son.’
‘Haydon?’
‘Yes. He had somehow got my name and came to my office, asking me to arrange a trip for him.’
‘Where to?’
‘Costa Rica. He claimed that he had just done a major bank job in London and needed to lie low for a while.’
‘I’m not entirely sure what you’re talking about,’ said Mrs Pargeter innocently, ‘but did you make the arrangements for him?’
‘No. I didn’t believe him. I knew he was lying.’
‘How?’
‘Because I can always make a list of the complete personnel behind any bank robberies committed in London, and Haydon Brighouse certainly wasn’t involved in any of the recent ones.’
Here was one of the many occasions in her life when Mrs Pargeter refrained from asking any further questions. Where HRH got his information from was entirely his own business, and definitely not an area into which she would wish to probe.
‘So why did he come to see you and start telling lies?’
‘I can only think that he was trying to find out information about my company and how it works. Haydon Brighouse is a journalist of some kind. I know for a fact that he has written books about criminal gangs like the Krays and the Richardsons.’
‘Ah.’ Mrs Pargeter had forgotten being told that particular piece of information at the PhiliPussies reception. ‘You’re right.’
‘Also, there was a very odd thing that happened after Haydon Brighouse left my office.’
‘Oh?’
The travel agent picked up a fountain pen from his table. It was classically styled, black with gold bands and a golden pocket clip. ‘I’m a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to pens. I feel if my signature on a document is valuable – which it most certainly is – then the instrument with which I write that signature should also be valuable. It’s a little snobbery of mine, if you like.’
‘Doesn’t sound like there’s any harm in it,’ Mrs Pargeter reassured.
‘My view entirely. This one I’m holding is in fact a Montblanc Meisterstück Red Gold Fountain Pen. They cost a lot of money …’
‘I’m sure they do.’
‘… though I always think it’s rather vulgar to be too specific about the precise cost of things.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more, HRH.’
‘Anyway, I have a collection of these pens, but what happened after Haydon Brighouse had left this office that day was that the one that had been on my desk during our conversation … was no longer there.’
‘You think he’d nicked it?’
The massive shoulders shrugged. ‘What else is there to think, Mrs Pargeter?’
She was thoughtful. She remembered the disappearance of the gold cat necklace at the Baronet Hotel reception. Haydon Brighouse had been very near the display when all the lights went out. Could there be a connection between the two thefts? But for the time being she kept her thoughts to herself.
‘Strange, though,’ HRH mused. ‘I’m absolutely certain no one on my team would have taken it – there’s not a drop of criminal blood in any one of them. Same with the cleaning staff – all vetted to the highest level of security. I suppose the pen could have just been dropped, fallen into a wastepaper basket and thrown away, but that seems unlikely. No, I think young Master Brighouse must’ve taken it.’
‘Are you going to go after him and try to get it back?’
‘Oh, good heavens, no. As I say, I do have quite a collection of them. No, I just thought it was odd behaviour, a so-called journalist coming here and nicking stuff.’
‘Hm. And you think his main purpose was to get information about your operation and how everything works?’
‘I think so, yes. Not that I’m really worried about the guttersnipes of the Press,’ said HRH. ‘I have a very efficient legal department who would instantly stop at source any insinuations or adverse publicity about the legality of my business, but if there’s one thing I don’t like, it’s a snooper.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
The unpleasant moment, the thought of an outsider trying to infiltrate his perfectly run operation, had passed. Hamish Ramon Henriques beamed at his visitors.
‘Now,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘lunch at the Connaught, don’t you think?’
SEVENTEEN
The hotel was built on the ruins of an old monastery, looking down over the tiny harbour of Atmos. The little bay was a naturally sheltered semicircle, with one curve extended by the stone-built harbour wall, against which an assortment of local fishing vessels and luxury yachts were moored. On the other arm a row of rocks, resembling the ridged back of some ancient dinosaur, sloped down into the sea. In one of the rocks the motion of the water had hollowed out a narrow archway, through which small boats could pass into the open waters of the Aegean. Though it seemed inconceivable on a still summer’s day, violent storms would sometimes batter the little island of Atmos and, because of the number of fishing boats which had failed to negotiate the rocky archway, it was known locally as ‘The Widowmaker’.
Mrs Pargeter had not known until the darkly moustached owner of the hotel pointed out the view from her suite that ‘Thalassa’ was the Greek word for sea, but now she saw how appropriate the name was. The Mediterranean was a perfect deep blue, broken only by the white crests of wavelets as they approached the rocky shore.
‘Thank you, Vasilis,’ she said.
‘And Mr Mason’s room is right next door.’ He gestured as he spoke. ‘This door here leads to it. The door can be locked or left open, according to your wishes.’
Mrs Pargeter smiled inwardly at the implication of his words. Though she loved Truffler Mason dearly, the idea that they might have any physical relationship would have been as incongruous to him as it was to her. Still, hotel owners like Vasilis had to be ready for all eventualities.
So all she said was, ‘Thank you, I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable here.’
But whether she would be successful in her investigations was, of course, another matter.
‘Spoilt for choice, aren’t we?’ said Truffler. They were sitting on a vine-shielded terrace at the front of the Hotel Thalassa. The private investigator, for whom the idea of a holiday was totally alien, did not appear to possess any leisurewear. He still wore his perpetual light brown suit and a tie was tightly knotted around his neck. Over the back of the chair next to him was his inevitable beige raincoat. To Truffler’s mind, although it seemed hot enough at that moment, you never knew what horrors the weather might be storing up for you.
He was sipping a Mythos beer, Mrs Pargeter a very acceptable local white wine. Both glasses sparkled with icy condensation.
‘How d’you mean?’ she asked in response to his question.
‘Well, as to where we start investigating. Do we go after Tumblers Tate first? Or Rochelle Brighouse?’
‘Well, I think we ought—’
She was interrupted by her mobile ringing.
‘Hello?’
‘Welcome to Atmos!’
The voice was unmistakable. ‘Oh, thank you so much, Mendy.’
Mrs Pargeter didn’t ask how the woman knew of their arrival on the island. She got the feeling that there were few secrets on Atmos.
‘I was wondering whether you’d like to come over to Villa Rufus for a drink …?’
