by Simon Brett
The night air was heavy, still warm on her skin, and redolent of pine resin and thyme. There were few sounds, just the recalcitrant creak of boats at anchor and the rattle of metal rigging against masts down at the harbour. From far away the occasional dog barked and, more pertinently, there was some distant feline yowling from her destination.
Mrs Pargeter stepped over the low stone wall which marked the boundaries of Villa Rufus, and advanced past the pool, through the ancient colonnades towards the enclosure at the back.
Her memory had not failed her. The wrought-iron gates at the front were secured by a chain through whose links a large and efficient-looking padlock was fixed. She raised Parvez the Peterman’s device, pointed it in the right direction and pressed the green button. With a loud metallic click the padlock immediately sprang open.
Having used the Padlock Pass’s red button to reclose the gate and hide the fact of her entrance, Mrs Pargeter advanced into the compound.
The yowling of the cats did not increase significantly with the presence of an intruder in their midst. Their level of complaint continued pretty much the same day and night. They regarded all human beings as their enemies, people who had taken them away from the delightful filth and smells of the harbourside and locked them up. It would take a lot of argument (assuming cats could understand argument) to persuade them that PhiliPussies was a charity whose aim was actually to make their lives better.
As she moved further into the sanctuary, Mrs Pargeter noticed that there were a lot of security cameras around. But the thought that her every move might be being recorded did not worry her. She doubted whether there was anyone actually monitoring the live footage of her actions. Somebody might well check through the tape the following morning, but at six o’clock she and Truffler would be heading away from Atmos in the alternative transport HRH had arranged for them. She felt safe.
She also knew exactly where she wanted to go in the PhiliPussies compound. She had no interest in the cats in their cages. They could continue their disgruntled wailing; she wouldn’t pay them any attention.
What did interest her was the spotless, state-of-the-art surgery that Costas Philippoussis had showed her with such pride. There was something she had seen there – or perhaps something that she hadn’t seen during her tour – that intrigued her. She found the right building with no problem. The metal door was locked with a hefty padlock. Mrs Pargeter pointed Parvez the Peterman’s invention straight at it and pressed the button.
Instantly the padlock clicked open, and hung, swaying slightly, from its ring. She disengaged it from the hasp and went inside.
Though unconcerned by the security cameras, she still thought switching the lights on would be a risk too far, so she extracted the LED torch from her handbag and, pointing it downwards, let the thin, strong beam illuminate her way ahead.
Her destination was the stainless steel table in the centre of the room. She remembered Costas Philippoussis’s slight change of manner when she’d asked him about microchipping the cats. He had become defensive when the subject was mentioned.
She ran the beam of her torch over the surface of the table. It was spotlessly clean. Whatever surgery might have taken place there during the day, all traces of it had been hygienically removed.
Inspecting the table more closely, Mrs Pargeter saw that along each side were rows of drawers, also made of stainless steel. She opened one at random. It was full of bandages and dressings. Another revealed a variety of gags and tubing, presumably to enable cats to breathe normally while under anaesthetic.
But the contents of the third drawer Mrs Pargeter slid open were rather different. They were two rectangular boxes made of dull grey metal. As she tried to lift one, its weight suggested that it was made of lead. Each of the boxes was closed by a small padlock.
Once again, out of the handbag came Parvez the Peterman’s little gizmo. It was directed at one of the boxes, a quick zap and the padlock sprang open. Mrs Pargeter lifted the lid.
What she saw inside the box was a collection of small pellets, each one maybe half an inch long. They were made of some dark substance that looked and felt like metal or possibly ceramic. Mrs Pargeter tried to imagine what possible medical function the pellets might serve for feline ailments, but she couldn’t think of anything. They were much too big to be microchips.
She picked up two or three of the pellets and put them in her handbag. Then her attention was drawn through the window by the sight of torch beams approaching the surgery block.
Thank God, she thought, for the Padlock Pass’s second function, its ability to relock the padlocks it had just opened. No delay fumbling with closing the surgery door. A quick press on the red button the moment she was outside and all signs of her entering the block had been covered up. By the time the torch beams reached the surgery she was safely hidden round the corner of an adjacent building.
There were two torches, held by two people. Before she could actually see them in the gloom, Mrs Pargeter identified them by their voices.
‘I just thought it would interest you …’ It was a woman talking, a woman she immediately recognized as Rochelle Brighouse. ‘I know it’s nothing to do with the case you’re working on, but any evidence of criminal activity is always interesting.’
‘Couldn’t agree more, Mum.’ Even without his use of the final word, Mrs Pargeter would have known it was Haydon. ‘Possibilities of blackmail …?’
‘You never know your luck, Haydon. Besides, you know that when you’re investigating a crime it stops you from indulging in your other little habit that—’
‘Let’s get this place open,’ said the young man brusquely, unwilling for his mother to pursue her current topic. ‘Have you got the key to the padlock?’
‘Of course I have, Haydon.’ There was a scrape of metal against metal and a certain amount of jiggling. The use of a key was much less efficient than Parvez the Peterman’s device.
But eventually the metal door swung open.
‘Right. You show me,’ said Haydon Brighouse. ‘But I should warn you, Mum, I can only really concentrate on one story at a time.’
‘I know that, love.’
‘And the story I’m concentrating on at the moment is getting all the dirt I can on the late Mr Pargeter.’
In spite of the balmy Grecian night, Mrs Pargeter found herself shivering.
TWENTY-THREE
As Mrs Pargeter had anticipated, Truffler Mason’s ‘stroll on the beach’ took him straight to Tumblers Tate’s cottage. The moon was slightly fuller than it had been on his previous visit and he could see everything very clearly, though moonlight had drained the blue colour out of the door.
Truffler raised a hand to knock, but then decided to try the latch. The door was unlocked. He pushed his way in.
The front room and the kitchen were in darkness, but soft light glowed from the terrace at the end. Truffler Mason advanced until he was standing in the doorway, looking out at the lounger on which Tumblers Tate lay in exactly the same pose as he had on their last encounter. Of Theodosia – or any of her Philippoussis cousins – there was no sign.
This time Tumblers Tate made no pretence that he was suffering from dementia. Maybe he only did that when there were witnesses. He didn’t attempt to shift from his recumbent position, but he waved a thin hand towards his visitor and said, ‘I thought I might see you again. Our last conversation was somewhat interrupted.’
‘You could say that,’ Truffler agreed.
‘In fact I was so sure you’d be coming back …’ The old man gestured to the table at his side, ‘… that I put out another brandy balloon for you. Take a seat.’
Truffler did as instructed, hanging his raincoat over the back of the chair, and watched while Tumblers poured a drink for him. Though the old man’s movements were slow, his clawlike hands showed not the slightest tremor.
The source of illumination was a single bulkhead light whose metal cage had yielded its original blackness to rust. It was
fixed to the sheer rock which backed the terrace. Around it buzzed the usual line-up of houseflies, mosquitos and kamikaze moths.
Tumblers gestured towards the insect throng as he passed the brandy across. ‘I’m afraid you’re likely to get bitten to death out here.’
‘I’ll survive,’ said Truffler.
The old man let out a dry cackle. ‘Me they don’t bother about. Can’t find enough skin on me to get a decent bite.’ He took a generous slurp of brandy before continuing. And when he did speak, his words had the quality of a prepared speech. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking quite a lot since I last saw you …’
Truffler didn’t interrupt, allowing Tumblers to pace his own narrative. ‘Thing is, it may sound like stating the obvious, but I am now very old. Not going to be long before I snuff it.’
Truffler didn’t offer any words of denial or condolence. Tumblers Tate was speaking no less than the truth.
‘And I’ve been thinking … I’m quite proud of what I’ve achieved … you know, professionally.’
‘So you should be. No one’s going to argue with the fact that you’re the best living cracksman … even if you did always work for the wrong side.’
‘Yeah, I been thinking about that too, the time I spent with the Lambeth Walkers … and some of the things that happened there … well, I’m not so proud of them.’
‘Like what?’
‘There was always a lot of violence around when the Lambeth Walkers done a job.’
‘Certainly was. They was famous for it.’
‘And at the time I kind of went along with it, because, you know, that’s how they worked and at my end of the business I didn’t have to be too hands-on about that stuff. But a lot of people got hurt … unnecessarily.’
‘How’dja mean? I’m sure the Lambeth Walkers thought it was necessary at the time.’
‘Oh yes, they did. No doubt about that. But a lot of it was just frightening people for the sake of frightening them.’
‘Well, it worked, didn’t it?’ Truffler Mason found himself in the strange position of almost defending the Lambeth Walkers, Mr Pargeter’s most bitter enemies.
‘Anyway,’ Tumblers Tate continued, ‘I don’t feel too good about some of what happened.’
‘Water under the bridge,’ Truffler suggested.
‘It was the bodies under the bridge that bothered me more. Not to mention the bodies that ended up in the cement pillars of motorway bridges.’
‘That was a different time,’ Truffler reassured. ‘And as you say, you weren’t directly involved in the violence.’
‘I was involved by association,’ Tumblers insisted.
His visitor shrugged. ‘No point in beating yourself up about it now.’
‘But I do beat myself up about it. I lie awake nights – the brandy ought to knock me out, but it doesn’t – and I think about the big disappointment of my life.’
‘What was that then?’ Truffler asked gingerly. He didn’t want to invite confessions about the old man’s failed relationships.
‘The big disappointment of my life was that I worked for the Lambeth Walkers and not for Mr Pargeter.’
Surprise caused a moment’s silence before Truffler Mason said, ‘Ah, yes, well, I can see that.’
‘There was almost never any violence around Mr Pargeter’s operations.’
‘No, there wasn’t. Except when it was absolutely necessary.’
‘Yes, whereas with the Lambeth Walkers, soon as they saw an opportunity to hurt someone …’ The old man shook his head despairingly. ‘I’d have given anything to have been Mr Pargeter’s cracksman.’
‘Did you ever let him know that?’
‘No. By the time I’d realized what I really wanted to do, I was too caught up with the Lambeth Walkers. If they’d ever found out I was thinking of defecting … well, I wouldn’t be talking to you here now.’
‘No,’ agreed Truffler, remembering some of the things that had happened to Lambeth Walkers whose loyalty had become suspect.
‘And now Mr Pargeter’s dead,’ said Tumblers Tate gloomily, ‘and I’ll be dead soon, and I can’t show him the respect that I always felt for him.’
‘No,’ said Truffler. He spoke slowly, but his thoughts were making connections fast. ‘Of course, Tumblers, there are still things you could do that would show your appreciation for the late Mr Pargeter.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘You could help out his widow.’
A smile wreathed the old man’s face. ‘Yes, that’d be good. I’d never thought about his widow. I guess I’d heard that he was married, but I didn’t know his missus was still alive.’
‘She’s very much alive,’
‘Yes, if I could help her …’
Truffler couldn’t stop himself from saying, ‘Well, what you’ve done so far has been rather the reverse of helping her.’
Tumblers Tate looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never had anything to do with Mr Pargeter’s widow.’
‘No? You’ve only broken into her safe.’
‘What?’
‘Do you deny that, within the last week, you have used Skype to instruct someone how to break into a safe in a house in Chigwell?’
‘No, I don’t deny that. Lovely bit of work, that was. Parvez the Peterman must’ve designed that. There’s no one else out there with that level of sophistication.’
‘It was Parvez who done it.’
‘Course it was. I knew I was right.’
‘And are you telling me that you didn’t know the house with the safe belonged to Mr Pargeter’s widow?’
‘I hadn’t got a clue about that. I’d never have done it if I’d known. No, I was only called on the Skype once the perpetrator was right up close to the house. So I didn’t see much of it.’
‘And you instructed the perpetrator on Skype about how to break in without leaving any signs of forcible entry?’
‘I certainly did.’
‘And you told him how to get into the safe?’
‘Yes.’
‘What I can’t understand is how you broke through the final security barrier. Surely that required Mrs Pargeter’s thumbprint to open it?’
The old man chuckled. ‘I have ways of cloning prints.’
‘How?’
Tumblers Tate looked beadily at Truffler. ‘You hoping I’m going to tell you all my trade secrets?’
‘No. No, of course not.’
‘Good. That safe, you know, it was a work of art. As I say, Parvez the Peterman didn’t make my job easy. Respect where it’s due, he’s a bright boy, that one. When I kick the bucket, he’ll be top of the league, no question.’
‘So,’ asked Truffler, ‘who was it you gave the instructions to, you know, about opening the safe?’
‘Ah, well, it was—’
‘No, let me guess.’ Truffler played the pause for all it was worth. ‘Haydon Brighouse?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘I thought so. So it was Haydon who contacted you and set the whole thing up?’
‘No, he only broke into the house and opened the safe. It was all set up by—’
Once again he was stopped by a raised hand from Truffler. ‘No, let me guess this one too. The whole thing was set up by Haydon’s mother, Rochelle Brighouse!’
‘You’re on a roll, Truffler. Dead right.’
An almost imperceptible twitch of a smile showed the private investigator’s wild elation. ‘And did you know, Tumblers, what Haydon Brighouse wanted out of the safe?’
‘No. Money, jewellery, the usual stuff, I imagine.’
Truffler couldn’t see any point in telling the old cracksman about the little black book. Instead, he asked, ‘So, is Rochelle Brighouse a crook then?’
‘And how! Apparently now she has this Public Relations agency as a front, but she’s still up to her neck in crime. Her husband died and all, like Mr Pargeter, but that didn’t stop Rochelle. She carried on the business from where
he left off.’
‘So what was her husband’s name?’
‘Well, she was married twice. First one was called Bernie Brighouse.’
‘Haydon’s dad?’
‘That’s right. And a total waste of space he was. Rochelle divorced him when Haydon was just a nipper, but she kept the surname ’cause she’d already set up her Public Relations company under that name. Then she married Gordon Edwards.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Truffler, puzzled. His knowledge of the criminal underworld was usually comprehensive.
‘Ah, no. Well, he didn’t use that name, Gordon Edwards, professionally.’
‘So what was his work monicker?’
‘Knuckles Norton.’
Truffler Mason’s shock was so great that almost a full minute went past before he could speak. When they finally came out, his words were, ‘So Rochelle Brighouse was married to the boss of the Lambeth Walkers?’
Tumblers Tate confirmed that this was the case. Truffler was again silent as he worked out the ramifications of the revelation. No wonder the late Mr Pargeter and his sister hadn’t seen a lot of each other. They were deadly rivals, and now that rivalry was being continued in a different way between their widows. Truffler couldn’t wait to hear Mrs Pargeter’s reaction when she heard the news.
‘So,’ he finally managed to ask, ‘what kind of crime is Rochelle Brighouse involved in now?’
The old man’s mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste. ‘Things I don’t approve of. When I was working with the Lambeth Walkers, yes, there was too much violence, but the crimes we were committing were good, honest, old-fashioned stuff … basically stealing money and jewels and that. We never got involved in gun-running or arming terrorists.’
