Mrs Pargeter's Public Relations

by Simon Brett

  ‘And is that what Rochelle and Haydon Brighouse are doing?’

  ‘Haydon doesn’t do anything more than what his mum tells him. He’s a very weak personality. But Rochelle’s got herself into some pretty dark stuff.’

  ‘Haydon’s some kind of journalist, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. He’s trying to write something about the turf wars between the Lambeth Walkers and your lot.’

  ‘I heard that. Has he been on to you for information?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And did you give him any?’

  ‘Oh no. Truffler, whatever else I may be, I am at heart an old-fashioned criminal. And one thing an old-fashioned criminal never does is grass up his mates.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more. So Haydon’s not a major player in his mum’s current activities?’

  ‘No. She likes to keep a close eye on him, though, because of certain behavioural problems he has.’

  ‘What kind of—?’

  But Tumblers Tate wasn’t listening. ‘I’ve been thinking … what you said about me maybe doing a good turn for Mr Pargeter’s widow …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve thought of something I could do to help her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, like I said, as an old-fashioned criminal, I’d never grass anyone up, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t shop someone who was perpetrating the kind of crime I disapprove of.’

  Truffler caught on immediately. ‘Like, let us say … Rochelle Brighouse?’

  The old man grinned. ‘Exactly. I’ve got a whole dossier of evidence against her.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll show you. This, Truffler, is my pièce de résistance, the greatest creation of my career as a cracksman and safe designer. You think you encountered state-of-the-art … You wait till you’ve seen this.’

  He pressed something on the underside of his lounger and suddenly in the rock wall that backed the terrace two parallel cracks appeared where the surface had shown no cracks before. A large rectangular chunk of stone projected forwards and slid away like the side door of a van, revealing a subtly lit cell rather bigger than the cottage’s kitchen.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Truffler. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘That’s my secret,’ said Tumblers Tate with a sly grin. ‘There’s more than eighty years’ experience of being a cracksman gone into that design. Tell you, it’s more secure than Fort Knox, that little baby is.’ He pointed to the cell’s walls, all of which were lined with shiny metal shelves on which stood ranks of shiny metal files. ‘Entire history of my life in there, Truffler. Evidence that could bring down some of the biggest villains in the world.’ He pressed some other remote and a spotlight picked out one vertical column of files. ‘And that lot is all evidence of the crimes of Knuckles Norton.’ The light narrowed its focus to one particular shelf. ‘While that is the information which could ensure that his widow Rochelle Brighouse spent the rest of her days at Her Majesty’s pleasure.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’ asked Truffler Mason.

  ‘Of course.’ Tumblers Tate gestured towards the cell’s interior. ‘Go inside, by all means.’

  And the private investigator did as was suggested.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Back in her bed at Hotel Thalassa, Mrs Pargeter was not relaxed. Sleep continued to evade her. Partly her mind was full of the possibilities opened up by the snatch of conversation she had heard from Rochelle Brighouse and her son.

  But, more than that, as the hours dragged past, she worried increasingly about Truffler.

  Truffler raised his head from the open file he was reading. ‘Pretty inflammatory stuff here, Tumblers.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘And you don’t mind my using it, getting the information into the ears of the right people?’

  ‘Can’t think of anything I’d like better, Truffler. Like I say, I’m disappointed in myself about some of the things I got up to when I was working with the Lambeth Walkers. Stitching up Rochelle Brighouse would be a kind of payback for me, make me think I’ve done some good with my life before I snuff it.’

  ‘Good for you, Tumblers.’ Truffler looked admiringly round the cell in which he was standing. ‘This place is absolutely brilliant.’

  ‘Yes.’ The old cracksman smiled complacently. ‘Though I say it myself, I reckon I done a good job there.’

  ‘You certainly did. When it’s closed, nobody’d ever find it, would they?’

  ‘No. There’s some pretty crafty electronics in there. Though I was very impressed with what Parvez the Peterman had done with that safe in Chigwell, that’s still a few steps behind what I’ve done with this little baby here.’

  ‘And presumably it’s personalized, not just electronic codes and stuff …?’

  ‘You’re right. The final key to opening it is my own thumbprint.’

  ‘Same method Parvez used in Chigwell. So you just press your thumb on that pad on the lounger?’

  ‘That’s it. A half-competent cracksman might be able to get through the electronic numbers stuff, but only my thumbprint can actually open the place.’

  ‘And presumably nobody on the island knows that this secret cell exists?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Tumblers Tate replied contemptuously. ‘You think I’m going to tell all the Philippoussises about something like that?’

  ‘Of course you aren’t.’ Truffler let out a lugubrious chuckle. ‘So if you snuff it, nobody will ever be able to get in?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Nice work, Tumblers.’

  ‘Yes, bloody nice work.’ He sloshed brandy into his glass. ‘In fact, I done such a good job, I’m going to do a toast to myself.’ He raised the balloon and made as if to sit up. ‘Here’s to Tumblers Tate, the best cracksman in the world!’

  But before the old man could raise the glass to his lips, it dropped from his unfeeling hand to shatter on the stone floor of the terrace. The other ancient hand clutched at his chest.

  And as, from inside the secret cell, Truffler Mason watched the heavy rock door slide back into place, he realized that Tumblers Tate had indeed snuffed it.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Mrs Pargeter was suffering severe misgivings as she quietly packed her bag at the end of her sleepless vigil. She had seen no sign of Truffler, but his last instructions to her had been to be down at the harbour at ‘six in the morning’ to meet the transport that HRH had arranged. So, unable to think of any other viable course of action, she set off down to the harbour in time for a six o’clock pick-up.

  As the final act of her packing, Mrs Pargeter had transferred a couple of items from her handbag into the capacious security of her bra.

  The Hotel Thalassa was eerily silent. Nor did she meet anyone on her way down to the harbour. With her suitcase in one hand and her handbag in the other, she stood on the stone harbour wall waiting. The sun was beginning to rise behind her and flashed tentative light on to the archway of the Widowmaker rock opposite.

  The first sign that something had gone wrong was the sight of Apostolos Philippoussis’s speedboat entering the harbour, towing another speedboat whose front windows had been pierced by what looked like bullet holes.

  Mrs Pargeter turned and saw – advancing from the village towards her – Costa, Vasilis, Yannis and other moustached waiters and boatmen. Even Theodosia had joined them.

  To Mrs Pargeter, it seemed as though there were Philippoussis cousins as far as the eye could see.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Truffler Mason was profoundly frustrated. Though the door of the secret cell had closed, locking him in, the interior light had stayed on. Gloomily he checked his mobile phone and was unsurprised to see that there was no signal from his location in the middle of the living rock.

  Without hope he looked around his prison. Someone with Tumblers Tate’s level of skill was not likely to have left another exit unlocked. In fact, someone with Tumblers Tate’s skills would have ensured that there wasn’t ano
ther exit. And there wasn’t.

  The only surprise yielded by his survey of the scene was an envelope lying on a table. It was addressed to Parvez the Peterman. Maybe inside was some important information that Tumblers Tate had intended to post to his rival. Truffler didn’t open the envelope to find out. It wasn’t addressed to him, and he had high old-fashioned standards about reading other people’s mail.

  The light in the cell enabled him to see on its shelves the vast store of data that the late Tumblers Tate had accumulated during his long working life. Truffler knew how valuable all that evidence would be in solving a multitude of crimes and bringing a multitude of villains to justice.

  He also knew that he would never be able to pass over the data to the proper authorities. No one knew of the existence of the vault in which he was incarcerated. And even if anyone did know, the place could not be opened except by its recognizing the unique thumbprint of the late Tumblers Tate. And the chances of Tumblers Tate’s corpse being left in situ for long after Theodosia arrived at the cottage in the morning were rather smaller than the chances of a Premier League footballer being able to speak English.

  Truffler Mason was not given to sentimentality, least of all where his own life expectancy was concerned. A man in his line of businesses, both the one before and the one after the death of Mr Pargeter, must frequently have been in situations where he might be killed, so the risk was one that he had come to terms with.

  As a result, he settled down philosophically to read through Tumblers Tate’s extensive archive until such time as either hunger or thirst would finish him off.

  But even as he anticipated death, Truffler Mason did not lose his instincts as an investigator. The stuff he was reading was incendiary. It contained information about the Lambeth Walkers that could have sent many of their former members down for very long sentences.

  So, though he didn’t like using his mobile for anything other than making telephone calls, Truffler recognized the practicality of photographing some of the juicier documents. He might never be able to pass on the results of his researches in person, but at least the information could one day be extracted from his phone.

  He became quite engrossed in the work. As he clicked away at incriminating record after incriminating record, his only real regret was the thought of never seeing Mrs Pargeter or Erin Jarvis again.

  The Philippoussis cousins did not manhandle Mrs Pargeter back from the harbour wall. They just formed two silent lines through which she walked in the direction they wanted her to go. She knew there was no point in trying to escape.

  As she set off to run the gauntlet of their disapproval, the Philippoussis cousins’ destination was, it soon became clear, the cat sanctuary. But they knew a back way of getting there which would not alert Mendy Farstairs in Villa Rufus to their movements.

  Still not a word had been spoken as Mrs Pargeter was led back to the surgery block where she had been only a few hours earlier. They had made no attempt to restrain her, confident in their numerical advantage.

  Once inside, unwilling to be cowed by them, Mrs Pargeter pulled a chair away from the wall and sat down next to the metal table, waiting to see what would happen next.

  The Philippoussis cousins also seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone.

  Had Truffler Mason been able to pass on to her the information he’d received from Tumblers Tate, Mrs Pargeter would have been even more certain who they were waiting for. But, even without that knowledge, she was unsurprised when the door of the surgery opened to admit Rochelle Brighouse.

  The Public Relations consultant (and so much more) had a smile of triumph on her thin face. Though they hadn’t met till the PhiliPussies reception, Rochelle had resented the existence of her sister-in-law for many years. The rivalry between the late Mr Pargeter and Gordon Edwards (or Knuckles Norton) had been longstanding and vicious. To Rochelle’s mind it continued with undiminished ferocity between their widows.

  ‘So, rather on your own now, aren’t you, Melita?’ she said, somehow sensing how little Mrs Pargeter liked her first name to be used.

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ came the defiant response. ‘Truffler Mason’s on the island too, you know.’

  ‘If he’s still on the island, Melita, we’ll soon find him and neutralize any threat that he might pose. You might as well save yourself – and us – a lot of trouble by telling us where he’s gone.’

  Mrs Pargeter thought she might try responding with the truth … and a little bit of invention. ‘Last night Truffler went to see Tumblers Tate … to get him to spill the beans on a variety of crimes which could see you sent down for a long time, Rochelle.’

  The woman chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, Melita.’ But Rochelle had taken in the information and snapped out some instructions in Greek. Theodosia and Yannis Philippoussis left the surgery, presumably to check out Tumblers Tate’s cottage.

  ‘You know,’ Rochelle went on, ‘you’re going to be very useful to me, Melita.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Oh yes, you are. To me and Haydon.’

  ‘Your kleptomaniac son?’ said Mrs Pargeter defiantly.

  The adjective she’d used clearly annoyed Rochelle Brighouse. ‘Haydon is not a kleptoma—’

  ‘Oh yes, he is. It’s engrained in his nature.’ Mrs Pargeter took a punt on a new idea. ‘And you’ve spent your life trying to cover up for him. Returning the gold cat necklace he stole at that PhiliPussies reception when we first met. That’s been the story of your life, Rochelle.’

  The expression on her adversary’s face told Mrs Pargeter that her conjecture had been spot on. So did the speed with which Rochelle changed the subject. ‘Anyway, Melita, the way you’re going to be helpful to me is by giving lots of information about my late brother Lionel’s criminal activities.’

  ‘I know nothing about Lionel’s criminal activities.’ Her words were almost true.

  But Rochelle was ready for that response. ‘No, you may not know a lot, but you know a lot of people who are brimful of all kinds of dirt.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m talking about the names in your little black book.’

  ‘Ah. The little black book which your son stole, following instructions from Tumblers Tate.’

  Rochelle was clearly taken aback by the extent of Mrs Pargeter’s knowledge, but she still pressed on, ‘And all of your contacts in that little black book are going to help Haydon to write his book by spilling lots of beans about my late brother’s criminal activities.’

  Mrs Pargeter let out a light laugh. ‘Nice idea, Rochelle, but sadly not a goer. Haydon has already approached some of my contacts, and not one of them has given him the smallest crumb of information.’

  ‘No, but that situation might change.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘Your contacts from the little black book are very loyal to you, aren’t they?’

  ‘To the death.’

  ‘And they will do anything you instruct them to do?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So if you were to tell them to give Haydon all the information he requires, they would do as they’re told?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. But there is one small point you seem not to have taken into consideration, Rochelle, and that is that never, under any circumstances, would I give them instructions to spill even the smallest bean.’

  ‘You may think that at the moment, Melita, but there is one small point you seem not to have taken into consideration, and that is that I have ways of making you change your mind.’ And before Mrs Pargeter could respond, Rochelle Brighouse barked out an order. ‘Give her the butorphanol!’

  Mrs Pargeter felt her arms pinioned to her sides. The short sleeves of her top made it easy for Costas Philippoussis to stab the syringe and empty its contents into her upper arm.

  She tried to remonstrate but words failed to form on her lips.

  And, as consciousness seeped away from h
er, the last thing she saw, hanging from the metal table in the surgery, was a tartan dog lead.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  When she finally came round, Mrs Pargeter had no idea where she was. The inside of her mouth felt like coarse sandpaper. Her head ached cruelly and the jolting she was experiencing made her wonder whether she’d been put in a barrel and tipped over the edge of Niagara Falls.

  She closed her eyes, hoping that when she next opened them her situation would be clearer.

  It was. And part of her reorientation was achieved by noise. She was aware of an amazing cacophony of caterwauling. How she’d managed to sleep through it so long was a tribute to the potency of the butorphanol. It sounded as though a couple of dozen angry cats had been locked in a tin box.

  And, when she looked around, she discovered that the image was not so far from the truth. The tin box in which she and the cats were incarcerated was on wheels. In fact, it was a minivan driving over an extremely stony track.

  Mrs Pargeter’s mind made the connection. She felt pretty sure she must be in the vehicle in which the feral cats of Atmos were driven towards their finishing school at the PhiliPussies clinic in Leigh-on-Sea.

  She very quickly identified the driver. Mrs Pargeter had no difficulty in recognizing the well-muscled back view of Costas Philippoussis.

  She then checked her own position. The interior of the minivan was divided by stout metal grilles into two cages. In the front one the cats, which had a few old blankets on the floor to shield them from some of the vehicle’s motion, yowled and complained. A couple of trays of cat litter had been laid out for their use, but the evidence on the floor – and the smell – suggested that cat litter represented a level of sophistication that they had not yet aspired to.

  Some of the animals, Mrs Pargeter noticed, had shaved areas and stitches on the back of their necks, like Nana when Jasmine Angold had first seen her at Bailey Dalrymple’s clinic.

  In the smaller cage at the back of the minivan, Mrs Pargeter was seated on an upholstered bench seat and chained to the metal rails either side. It struck her that this was probably where the late Doreen Grange had sat on her journeys to and from Atmos, crocheting away at her hideous and variegated PhiliPussies.