by Simon Brett
The heat inside the vehicle and the Mediterranean landscape visible through the van’s windows – not to mention the dire quality of the road they were driving along – suggested they might still be in Greece, though probably by now on the mainland.
Fortunately for Mrs Pargeter, the concentration that he had to put into his driving meant that Costas Philippoussis had not noticed that she had woken up. She narrowed her eyes to slits so that she would still look as though she was unconscious and tried to work out how she could escape her current predicament.
The first good thing was that she wasn’t dead. When she’d seen the tartan dog lead as she lost consciousness in the PhiliPussies cat sanctuary on Atmos, part of her had feared that she was about to suffer the same fate as Doreen Grange. But with returning consciousness came the certainty that that was not an immediate danger. Rochelle Brighouse wanted her alive. She wanted her alive to tell all the contacts from the little black book to open up to her son Haydon’s questioning. In fact, to persuade them to reveal all the closely guarded secrets of the late Mr Pargeter’s business affairs.
There was no way Mrs Pargeter was going to let that happen.
Through the lashes of her half-closed eyes, she continued to assess her situation. She was attached to the bench seat with a broad chain tight around her midriff. Her arms were kept away from her body with cuffs chained to the van’s side walls, making it impossible for her to reach anything with them. Her legs had not been chained but, given how firmly her upper body was immobilized, their relative freedom was of little benefit to her.
She looked from her bodily restraints to the next level of her incarceration. She could not see behind her, but the position of the bench seat and its rigidity suggested that her cage was four-sided. No easy access to the van’s back doors then.
There was a door in the front of her cage, but that was firmly chained up. Mrs Pargeter didn’t mind that. At least it kept her safe from the slashing attentions of the cacophony of cats in the cage in front. That too had a chained door which would open on to the space where the van’s passenger seat had been removed. The vehicle had been customized for its PhiliPussies purposes.
Just the one driver, though. Mrs Pargeter had seen no evidence of roads on Atmos, so presumably the cats had been transferred from a boat to the minivan on Skiathos. Or perhaps the change of transport had been achieved at a mainland port. Mrs Pargeter had been so deeply under the effects of the butorphanol that she had no recollection of how she had arrived in her current plight.
All she knew was that her head ached wickedly, her mouth was drier than ever and her spirits had lost much of their customary bounce. For the time being she could do nothing, and she didn’t relish the prospects of what might happen when she was finally released from her incarceration.
Then, as so often happened on those rare occasions when Mrs Pargeter felt low, a new thought came bursting into her mind and irradiated its gloom.
The chains that held her to the chair and the chains that kept the two cages closed were all fastened by padlocks.
There is a lot to be said for having large breasts. Not only do they guarantee a level of masculine attention – which can sometimes become excessive – but a large cleavage can also at times serve as a very useful hiding place. In costume plays what is usually hidden in the bosom is an incriminating love letter, but the objects that Mrs Pargeter had inserted into her brassiere that morning were considerably more practical.
And one of them, of course, was Parvez the Peterman’s Padlock Pass.
Unable to use her hands to position the device correctly, Mrs Pargeter had to do a certain amount of jiggling to get it pointing in the right direction. And more jiggling to make sure that she would be putting pressure on the green opening button rather than the red closer. But she could see far enough down into her cleavage to get that right.
Then, once it was safely nuzzled between her breasts, she had to be very careful about the precise direction of its beam. She had to zap the padlocks in the correct order. For example, if she were to release the vicious cats from their cage into hers, the results could be very unpleasant.
So she made certain that the Padlock Pass was pointing directly at the foremost padlock in the minivan. Then she looked out of the vehicle’s front windows to see if the terrain was suitable for what she had in mind. They were still driving on a very bad surface, but for the time being the roadsides were too open to suit her plans. It was only when the minivan entered a thickly forested area that she knew her moment had come.
Straining against the chains that held her arms back, she hunched her shoulders forwards so that her breasts were pressing hard on the Padlock Pass between them.
The first time she made the effort, nothing happened. Nor did it the second time. Third time lucky, though.
She heard and felt the click of the green button being pressed, and was instantly rewarded by the snap of the padlock bursting open and the jangle of chains opening the heavy mesh door which separated the cats from the minivan’s front cabin.
Yowling victoriously, the feline stormtroopers crowded through the opening.
Suddenly attacked, Costas Philippoussis didn’t know what had hit him. Maybe it was just in their feral nature, or maybe they reckoned they had personal scores to settle with their captor, but all of the cats attacked him with razor-sharp teeth and extended claws.
The driver’s hands left the wheel as he tried to beat off his assailants. The minivan careered off, out of control, and smashed into a roadside tree. Costas’s body was jerked forward and his forehead met the windscreen with a satisfying thwack. He lay still.
Unhurriedly, Mrs Pargeter zapped free the padlocks on the chains that restrained her arms. With her hands free, it was easy to release the chain around her waist, then the one that secured the door of her cage.
She moved gingerly forward, not wishing to make herself another target for the ferocious felines, and slid open the van’s side door. The cats, sensing the smells of the outdoors and the freedom they represented, left their prey and rocketed out to enjoy the enticing pleasures of liberty.
Mrs Pargeter inspected Costas Philippoussis and was glad to see that he was still alive. Groans and slight movements suggested he might be coming out of his stupor, so before he became properly awake, she fixed the chains that had restrained her arms on to his wrists and padlocked the other ends to the steering wheel.
She didn’t think Costas would come to further harm if she just left him where he was. They had encountered a few other vehicles on the stony roads. Somebody would come along and release him before too long.
Mrs Pargeter picked up her belongings from the well next to the driver’s seat. She transferred the invaluable contents of her brassiere back into her handbag.
When she got out of the minivan she could smell the sea and walked towards it. As the trees began to thin out and give way to a beach, she sat down and got out her mobile phone.
She rang HRH back in Berkeley Square. He identified her exact location, on the coast of the Greek mainland just near Thessaloniki.
Within half an hour the helicopter he’d arranged had landed on the beach to pick up Mrs Pargeter and fly her away.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mrs Pargeter took advantage of HRH’s offer of a few hours in a luxury hotel before the private jet waiting at Thessaloniki would take her back to London City Airport. She felt in need of a shower and a change of clothes. Everything she had on smelt of cat.
Once she was clean and resplendent in a turquoise silk dress, she assessed her situation. Though satisfied with the way she had escaped from Costas Philippoussis and the minivan, she was far from relaxed. In fact, she was consumed by anxiety about Truffler Mason.
He was as reliable as the sun rising in the morning. If he said he was going to be somewhere at a given time, he’d be there. So the fact that he hadn’t been at Atmos harbour that morning – and the fact that he hadn’t contacted her to explain his non-appearance – meant
that something unpleasant had happened to him.
Truffler had already antagonized Yannis Philippoussis on his previous visit to Tumblers Tate’s cottage. Maybe when he arrived the second time he’d found a reception committee of Philippoussis cousins waiting for him. Maybe by the time Mrs Pargeter encountered them at the harbour, they had already dealt with Truffler Mason.
She hated to think what form their dealing might take. Though no members of the Philippoussis clan may have been directly involved in the murder of Doreen Grange, Mrs Pargeter felt pretty sure that they knew about it. She also felt that there had to be some criminal connection between the Greek and British operations of the PhiliPussies charity. But she couldn’t for the life of her work out what it might be.
She found herself to be extremely frustrated and even a bit vulnerable. Her first instinct in a situation like this would have been to ring Truffler. He could always see a way round practical challenges.
But of course ringing him was the one thing she couldn’t do.
She rang Gary instead.
‘Hi, Mrs P. How are you? Still sunning yourself on that Greek island?’
‘Hardly sunning myself, and I’m not on the island. But I am still in Greece. I’ll be flying back to London City Airport later in the day.’
‘Tell me when you get in and I’ll be there with the Roller to take you back to Chigwell.’
‘No, there’s something more urgent you need to do for me, Gary.’
And she hastily explained what had happened to Truffler Mason – or rather, she explained why she didn’t know what had happened to Truffler Mason.
‘So you reckon he’s still on the island?’
‘I can’t think where else he could be.’
‘No.’ Gary was thoughtfully silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘Look, I’ll get on to HRH to organize transport. I assume he’s sorted yours out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course. Anyway, leave it with me, Mrs P. If Truffler’s still on that island, I’ll find him.’
‘Well, do be careful. Like I say, all of the Philippoussis family seem to be unreconstructed thugs.’
Gary sounded affronted. ‘I know how to look after myself.’
‘I know you do, but I don’t think you should come out alone.’
He took this as an affront to his masculinity. ‘I can manage,’ he insisted.
‘The thing is,’ said Mrs Pargeter diplomatically, ‘that I think finding Truffler might require special skills.’
‘How’dja mean?’
‘The last time I saw Truffler, he was off to visit Tumblers Tate. Now, I don’t need to tell you that Tumblers Tate is renowned as the world’s most accomplished cracksman.’
‘I’d go along with that.’
‘Which means it might turn out, Gary, that rescuing Truffler could involve some special cracksman’s skills.’
‘With you.’
‘So I suggest you ask Parvez the Peterman if he’ll come with you.’
‘Good thinking, Mrs P.’
Shortly after the end of that call, Mrs Pargeter received a text message from HRH to say that Tumblers Tate was dead. No details, just the announcement. She worried what effect the death would have – or had had – on Truffler Mason.
It was early evening when Mrs Pargeter left Thessaloniki Airport in the private jet HRH had organized for her. He also arranged a limousine to meet her flight and take her home to Chigwell.
All very smooth and efficient. But she didn’t sleep well that night.
She was too worried about Truffler.
TWENTY-NINE
The following morning Mrs Pargeter had a call from Ellie Fenchurch. ‘I’ve got all the dirt on that conniving specimen of pond life Haydon Brighouse,’ she announced.
‘Oh, really? What have you found out?’
‘Where shall I start? He’s a kleptomaniac, did you know that?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘And he’s the kind of writer who gives journalism a bad name.’
‘Oh?’
‘He works down the lowest end of the gutter press. And that’s where he gets his ideas from – the gutter. No one can have any secrets from people like him. He’ll publish any muck he can rake up.’
Mrs Pargeter smiled inwardly. Exactly the same criticisms had frequently been levelled at Ellie herself, though she wouldn’t have recognized the description. ‘And is he aiming to publish the muck he’s raked up about my husband and the … I can’t remember the name of his supposed rivals …?’
‘The Lambeth Walkers,’ Ellie supplied. ‘Oh yes, he’s working on that. His deadline’s end of the month, three weeks’ time.’
‘Who’s his publisher?’
‘Puff Adder Press.’
‘I don’t know anything about them.’
‘You don’t want to know anything about them. They’re the pits. Everything they publish is lurid, scurrilous rubbish that only appeals to people down the pervy end of the True Crime market.’
‘So if Haydon’s book has to be delivered by the end of the month, when are they likely to publish it?’
‘Puff Adder Press don’t hang about. Minimal copy-editing, virtually no fact-checking; they get their books on sale in a couple of months.’
All Mrs Pargeter said was, ‘Hm’, but that was an inadequate expression of her disquiet. The prospective publication of a book traducing her husband’s reputation within three months was almost as worrying as the fate of Truffler Mason.
On the plane out to Skiathos, Gary and Parvez the Peterman studied closely the dossier that HRH had prepared for them. He understood the problems of landing in hostile territory. They were given details of Demetrios, the man they had to contact who would provide the boat for them on Skiathos and directions to the small cove on Atmos where they could arrive unobserved by the massed Philippoussises.
HRH’s service was nothing if not thorough.
‘Erin, love,’ asked Mrs Pargeter, ‘as you know, I’m totally ignorant when it comes to computers …’
‘No worries,’ said the voice from the other end of the line. ‘I’m not, so if you have a computer problem, all you have to do is ask me.’
‘Yes, thank you. Now I’ve heard of this thing called “hacking” …’
‘Mm.’
‘Which, as I understand it, involves getting into the data on other people’s computers …’
‘That’s right.’
‘And I just wondered … Have you ever done that, Erin?’
The girl sounded amazed that the question was being asked. ‘Of course. Do it all the time. That’s how I get most of my information.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Why – is there someone whose computer you want me to get into?’
‘Yes, there is.’ And Mrs Pargeter explained the plan that was beginning to take shape in her mind.
Everything went smoothly on Skiathos. Gary and Parvez the Peterman met the man described in HRH’s dossier. Demetrios took them to the very neat small inflatable with a large outboard motor which would be perfect for their purposes. It was moored against the jetty of a tiny cove away from the main drag of the town.
There was a small taverna on the beach. Demetrios said it was too early for them to set off for Atmos – it was important they arrived there after dark – and suggested they had a drink there while they waited.
Both of the visitors drank sparkling water. Parvez the Peterman didn’t touch alcohol for religious reasons, and Gary knew – though it’d be in a boat rather than a car – that he had some challenging driving ahead. And once again he was grateful to the late Mr Pargeter, who had ensured his training meant that he could get away just as efficiently on water as he could on land.
About the time that they sat down in the taverna, two hours behind in Chigwell Mrs Pargeter rang through to Jasmine Angold. She gave no signs of the anxiety that still clawed away at her, but asked tenderly about how her friend – and of course her friend’s new cat – were doing.
&n
bsp; ‘Oh, Nana and I have bonded completely. We were made for each other. And you know what – in spite of what that vet in Leigh-on-Sea said – Nana’s actually pregnant. We’re going to have kittens!’
Mrs Pargeter tried to sound appropriately enthusiastic. Then she asked after Charley.
‘She’s fine.’
‘Getting on with the book, is she?’
‘Not very well, I’m afraid.’
‘Jasmine, I wonder whether it’s really a good idea for her to be writing this book …’
‘She has to,’ her friend responded doggedly. ‘It was Silver’s last wish.’
‘Yes, but I—’
‘She must do it.’ That was a position on which Jasmine Angold was not going to shift.
‘I wonder … could I have a word with Charley?’
The girl’s mother sounded slightly puzzled as she said, ‘Yes. Yes, of course you can.’
‘It’s just … I’ve thought of a little project that might interest her …’
As HRH had promised, there was only a small sickle moon that night as Gary and Parvez the Peterman made landfall on Atmos. They dragged their inflatable up on to the shingle. Parvez took out the aluminium suitcase which contained all his working tools, and Gary checked that the automatic pistol was snug in his trouser pocket. Then they consulted the map that HRH had provided and set off, walking silently on the sand, towards the cottage of Tumblers Tate – or now, as they had been informed, of the late Tumblers Tate.
THIRTY
‘Charley, I’ve had a thought about the book that you’re supposed to be writing.’
‘Really? “Supposed to be” is right. I’m sorry, Mrs Pargeter, but I’m not getting anywhere on it. I’m realizing increasingly that I am just not cut out to write fiction.’
‘Does it have to be fiction?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I have a non-fiction project that I thought might interest you.’
