by Simon Brett
Truffler said his goodbyes to Erin and passed the mobile across. As he did so, he said with satisfaction, ‘Skype. Skype’s how Tumblers done it.’
‘Skype,’ Mrs Pargeter echoed, once again talking to Erin. ‘That’s that thing where you can see people when you’re talking to them on the phone?’
‘Yes. It’d be very useful for you to use it while you’re out there, actually.’
‘Is it easy to arrange?’ asked Mrs Pargeter cautiously. Though not quite such a technophobe as Truffler, she hadn’t made many excursions into the digital world.
Erin Jarvis very quickly and simply told her how to download Skype on to her phone.
‘Right. I’ll try that the minute we finish this call. I was just thinking, though, Erin …’
‘Yes?’
‘If Haydon Brighouse was the one who laid that “Snowy” clue on ClinkedIn because he wanted to do some research into my husband’s business affairs …’
‘Mm?’
‘… then there’s a very good chance that it was Haydon Brighouse who stole the little black book from my safe in Chigwell … for the very same reason.’
‘I think you’re right, Mrs Pargeter,’ said Erin.
TWENTY
The day’s synchronicities continued. Hardly had the call ended – and before Mrs Pargeter could download Skype – the mobile rang again. It was Gary. ‘How are you, Mrs P?’ he asked solicitously.
‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘Enjoying the Greek sun. But why’re you calling? Any problems?’
‘Just something I thought you ought to know about. Truffler, and all.’
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve been approached by somebody called Haydon Brighouse …’
‘Oh yes?’ There seemed to be an inevitability in what she was about to hear. ‘What did he want?’
‘He’s been asking me questions about your husband.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Says he’s researching a book about him and his rivalry with the Lambeth Walkers.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gary.’
The chauffeur quickly covered his lapse. ‘The detail’s not important, Mrs P. What matters is how this bloke got on to me; how he knew I had anything to do with your husband. I thought those tracks had been well covered, but if he’s talking about the Lambeth Walkers, then that must mean he knows—’
Again Mrs Pargeter claimed ignorance of what he was talking about. ‘Maybe I should pass you over to Truffler …?’ she suggested. ‘He knows more about my husband’s business affairs than I do.’
‘Yeah, right. Good idea,’ said Gary.
And Truffler Mason was quickly involved in a conversation, whose details Mrs Pargeter consciously tuned out.
But a grim conclusion was forming in her mind. If Haydon Brighouse had got on to Gary, he could get on to a lot more of her late husband’s associates. He had contacts for all of them.
In other words, Gary’s call had confirmed that Haydon Brighouse was almost definitely in possession of the little black book.
The next few hours confirmed Mrs Pargeter’s worst fears. The mobile rang time after time.
Parvez the Peterman had been approached by Haydon Brighouse. So had another expert lock man, ‘Keyhole Crabbe’. ‘Hedgeclipper’ Clinton had had a call at Greene’s Hotel. ‘Ankle-deep’ Arkwright, also in the hospitality business, had been questioned too. ‘Concrete’ Jacket, texted on the site of a house he was building, had been left a message.
The list went on.
Mrs Pargeter was no longer in any doubt about it. Haydon Brighouse had got the little black book.
TWENTY-ONE
Truffler Mason looked on ruefully as Mrs Pargeter downloaded Skype on to her phone. Erin’s instructions had been simple to follow. Truffler almost found himself thinking that perhaps he should get more up to date with modern technology. But that wasn’t the main cause of his ruefulness. He felt he had let Mrs Pargeter down. He should have kept a closer watch on her; he should never have allowed the Chigwell house and its safe to be broken into. And, by letting down Mrs Pargeter, he was also letting down the memory of her husband.
‘There – that’s all loaded successfully,’ she said. Though undoubtedly cast down by the course events were taking, it took more than that to dilute her cheery outlook on the world. ‘Well, Truffler, it looks to me as if there’s little more we can do here on Atmos. We must get back to England as soon as possible. That’s where it’s all going on.’
‘You’re right. I’ll get on to HRH and make the arrangements.’
‘Yes. One thing …’
‘What?’
‘The first bit, from here to Skiathos; you’d better ask him to organize some other form of transport.’
Truffler nodded, taking her point immediately. ‘Of course. We want to avoid the attentions of Apostolos Philippoussis.’
‘Of all the Philippoussis cousins. I get the feeling they are not on our side.’ For a moment Mrs Pargeter did look downcast. ‘You know what worries me?’
‘What?’
‘All those phone calls we’ve just had, from people Haydon Brighouse tried to contact, they were all loyal to my late husband’s memory?’
‘Of course. We all are.’
‘And none of them would ever give away any information about him that … that might be misinterpreted?’
‘No way.’
‘But, on the other hand, we know there are names in that little black book of people who have turned out to be less than loyal to my husband.’
‘Yes. Julian Embridge?’ Truffler suggested. ‘“Wirecutters” Wilson?’
‘And maybe others,’ said Mrs Pargeter gloomily.
‘Possible,’ Truffler agreed. ‘There isn’t the loyalty around now that there was when I was growing up. So few people have any moral standards these days.’ He shook his head at the wickedness of the world.
‘But, Truffler, if Haydon Brighouse gets on to some of those disloyal people … well, they’re going to feed him all kinds of shameless lies about my husband’s business activities.’
‘Too true.’ Truffler Mason’s voice plumbed new depths of lugubriousness.
‘So he’s got to be stopped,’ said Mrs Pargeter, regaining her customary firmness and optimism. ‘And he will be stopped.’
‘Yes, of course he will,’ said Truffler in funereal tones. ‘I’ll get on to HRH straight away to sort out the transport back.’
Taking out his own mobile phone, he walked out of the hotel gates and a little way down the stony road to make his call. He didn’t want to announce their change of plans to the entire Philippoussis family.
Meanwhile Mrs Pargeter racked her brains for something useful she could do while she was still on Atmos. It was evening now, the sinking sun purpling the blue of the Mediterranean to a new darkness. A waiter, almost definitely another Philippoussis cousin, wearing the family moustache, came to take their drinks order. White wine for her, and Mrs Pargeter knew that Truffler would want a large Mythos beer. The waiter also asked if they would be dining in the hotel.
Mrs Pargeter looked questioningly across at Truffler, who had finished his call and was returning to the table. ‘Six in the morning,’ he said shortly. ‘We’ll be picked up by the harbour.’
So the answer to the waiter’s enquiry was ‘Yes’. There was a taverna down by the sea, but when they’d walked past it, they’d seen that the owner was yet another Philippoussis cousin. Wherever they went on Atmos, they’d be under surveillance. So dining in the Hotel Thalassa was no more of a security risk than anywhere else.
‘Would you like to eat out here?’ the waiter asked. They were sitting at one of the terrace tables nearest to the harbour.
‘Yes, it’s very pleasant,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘We can watch the sunset.’ The evening light-show would be spectacular, particularly when the last curve of the purple sun was seen through the frame of the Widowmaker rock.
‘Very good,’ said the
waiter. ‘I will bring menus when I bring your drinks.’
After the waiter had left, Mrs Pargeter suddenly had an idea. ‘Ellie Fenchurch!’ she announced.
Truffler Mason knew who she meant. ‘What about her?’
Ellie had been a teenager with aspirations to becoming a journalist when the late Mr Pargeter had taken her under his wing. He had encouraged her career ambitions and fixed work for her as a cub reporter on local newspapers. He had also taught her a lot about the dark arts of Public Relations, and in fact Ellie had acted for him in that capacity. There are far too many people out in the world far too ready to blacken the reputation of a major player in Mr Pargeter’s areas of enterprise. It was frequently necessary for someone to get into newspapers stories of his philanthropy and charitable works. And Ellie Fenchurch had proved to be very adept at such tasks.
‘She’s a journalist. She might know about Haydon Brighouse. She might have some dirt on him.’
With the synchronicity to which Mrs Pargeter was becoming accustomed, at that moment her mobile phone rang. And of course at the other end was Ellie Fenchurch.
‘Do you know a little toerag called Haydon Brighouse?’ the husky Cockney voice demanded.
‘Funny, Ellie, I was about to ask you exactly the same question. It’s strange how important that name has suddenly become to us out here.’
‘Who’s “us” and where’s “out here”?’
‘I am currently on the Greek island of Atmos in the company of one Truffler Mason.’
‘Blimey, what’re you doing out there?’
Mrs Pargeter started to explain, but was interrupted by Ellie saying, ‘It’d be easier to do this if I could see you. Do you by any chance Skype?’
‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Pargeter replied airily, as if she’d had the app on her phone for years rather than minutes.
Ellie said she’d call back. Mrs Pargeter followed the instructions Erin had given her and within minutes she could see the journalist’s face, long like the rest of her angular body. The hair was currently cut very short and the purple of a Stanley plum.
‘Nice to see you, Mrs P,’ said Ellie. ‘Move the phone back a bit so’s I can see where you are.’ Mrs Pargeter obeyed the instruction. ‘Ooh, lovely sunset you’ve got there. And Truffler’s looking very relaxed.’
‘Actually, Ellie, we’re neither of us at all relaxed. Things are getting rather uncomfortable out here.’
‘And is that in any way due to the aforementioned Haydon Brighouse?’
‘It certainly is.’
‘I’m not surprised. He was sniffing round me, asking about the old days when I worked with Mr Pargeter.’
‘Yes, he’s been doing that with a lot of my husband’s former business associates.’
‘How’s he got our contacts?’
‘I’m afraid he’s got hold of the little black book.’ And Mrs Pargeter proceeded to bring Ellie Fenchurch up to speed with everything that had been happening in the last few weeks. She concluded, ‘And I was wondering if you knew anything about him, you know, as a fellow journalist?’
‘Only things I have found out about him suggest that to call him a journalist is overstating the case. He’s nothing more than a muck-raker, devoted to besmirching the names of celebrities.’
Some people might have thought this criticism a bit rich, coming from the mouth of someone whose claim to fame was her national Sunday newspaper interview in which every week another eminent reputation was ritually shredded. But Mrs Pargeter didn’t think that, and if she had she certainly wouldn’t have said anything.
‘Well, look, Ellie, I want you to find out everything you can about Haydon Brighouse.’
‘Don’t worry, I was about to do that, anyway.’
‘Obviously if you can get any dirt on him, that’s good. But also try to find out if he’s got a publisher lined up for this book he’s currently researching.’
‘I’m sure he has. He’s done exposés on the Krays and the Richardsons, which have sold quite well among the kind of pond life who enjoy reading True Crime, so if he’s planning to do something about the rivalry between your husband’s gang and the Lambeth Walkers, then I’m sure he’ll—’
‘Sorry,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Something in her tone made Ellie change tack. ‘No, well, of course you wouldn’t, Mrs P. Don’t worry, I’ll get the full SP on Haydon Brighouse – you just leave it with me. And enjoy the rest of your holiday.’
‘Truffler and I aren’t on holiday. I’ll be back in Chigwell some time tomorrow.’
‘Right,’ said Ellie. ‘Very soon I will bombard you with information about Haydon Brighouse.’
‘Great.’
Shortly after the end of the Skype call, the Philippoussis cousin who was acting as waiter came out to lay a paper cloth on their table, tucking the ends under elastic to keep it in place should the wind get up. He proffered menus to the pair of them.
The range of dishes was surprisingly varied. There is a general rule that the further a Greek island is from the mainland and the smaller it is, the less inventive are its menus. But on Atmos the choice was considerable. The prices were considerable too. Mrs Pargeter deduced that Mendy Farstairs was not the only well-heeled foreign villa-owner on the island.
She ordered mixed mezes and moussaka. Truffler, who had a proper Englishman’s distrust of foreign food, said he would forgo a starter, and homed in on a pork chop with chips. ‘And no sauces,’ he told the waiter suspiciously, ‘unless you’ve got some ketchup.’
‘Yes, of course, sir, we have ketchup. A lot of English and American guests come to the Hotel Thalassa.’
When the food arrived it was remarkably good. But though Mrs Pargeter put away the best part of a bottle of white wine and Truffler dealt with a couple more large Mythos beers, they didn’t talk much over the meal. Partly that was for security reasons. They didn’t want to talk about anything important in the middle of the Philippoussis surveillance network, and the only things they did want to talk about were important. It was no time for small talk. So neither of them said much.
The minds of both were full of their own thoughts. Mrs Pargeter was slightly anxious about how they would make their getaway the following morning. Packing their bags and refusing to travel in one of Apostolos Philippoussis’s speedboats would surely set alarm bells ringing right through Atmos. Still, she hadn’t had any opportunity to ask Truffler about the phone call in which he’d made the arrangements. No doubt HRH had worked out an exit strategy for them. He was good at that kind of thing. In fact, getting people out of threatening circumstances was one of his greatest areas of expertise. As both Lord Lucan and Shergar could attest.
But Mrs Pargeter’s other cause for anxiety was the fact that their trip to Atmos had yielded so little in the way of information. True, they had deduced that Tumblers Tate had instructed someone – probably on Skype – how to get into her safe. And it also seemed a likely deduction that the perpetrator was Haydon Brighouse.
Now she came to think of it, where was Haydon’s mother? According to her personal assistant, Rochelle Brighouse was also supposed to be on Atmos. Where, wondered Mrs Pargeter.
She had a nagging, guilty sensation of unfinished business.
And she got the impression that Truffler was feeling the same. Though she refused coffee because she didn’t want it to keep her awake, he downed two large espressos. When he had finished the second he rose from the table. Picking up his raincoat, he said ponderously, ‘I think I’ll go and have a stroll on the beach before I turn in.’
TWENTY-TWO
She couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the heat. Amongst Hotel Thalassa’s modern amenities there was, of course, state-of-the-art air conditioning. And her bed couldn’t have been more comfortable. Her nightdress was just the right weight as well. But Mrs Pargeter felt restless, deprived of the soothing unconsciousness into which she normally slipped so easily. For a woman like her, who had never done anythin
g in her life that might have caused the smallest twinge of guilt, deep sleep was something that she had always taken for granted.
But that night it wouldn’t come. Partly it was anxiety about Truffler. Though he hadn’t spelt out his intentions, she was in no doubt that his ‘stroll on the beach’ was going to take him back to Tumblers Tate’s cottage. And after the private investigator’s first visit, she felt pretty sure that the Philippoussis family would be watching out for him. He was definitely tempting providence.
And while she had infinite faith in Truffler Mason’s sleuthing skills, she didn’t feel so confident of his abilities if the situation became violent. He was strong but no longer a young man and was likely to find himself outnumbered.
So she found herself waiting for the sound of Truffler letting himself into his room like an anxious mother whose son, having just passed his driving test, was out for his first evening alone in the car.
But she knew it wasn’t just anxiety about Truffler that was disturbing her. The feeling that she’d had earlier on the hotel terrace, that her investigations on Atmos were somehow incomplete, had returned to her with redoubled force. It was mad to have come so far and to return to England with such meagre pickings. She felt certain that the PhiliPussies cat sanctuary had more secrets to divulge.
The unaccustomed mental distress was actually making her head ache, and Mrs Pargeter, who normally eschewed all medication, found herself rooting in her handbag for some paracetamol. As she did so, her hand closed round an unfamiliar small plastic object.
She had forgotten all about it, but as she brought the device out into the light, she remembered what Parvez the Peterman had said when he gave it to her. ‘All you need to know, Mrs P, is that if you direct this towards any padlock in the world – even electronic ones or ones with a numerical code – the padlock will instantly open.’
She started to get dressed again.
The Padlock Pass did everything Parvez the Peterman had promised it would. From the balcony of her bedroom, a convenient wrought-iron spiral staircase led down to the Hotel Thalassa’s pool area, and Mrs Pargeter had negotiated that with commendable silence. There were no lights on in the main building – or indeed anywhere else that she could see. Villa Rufus too was closed down for the night. It took a few moments for her eyes to accommodate, but soon she could see quite clearly in the minimal moonlight. For the first time since she had arrived on Atmos, she felt pretty sure that her movements were unobserved.
