Mrs Pargeter's Public Relations

by Simon Brett

  ‘Really?’ The girl’s manner changed instantly from lethargic to intrigued. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I wonder … would you be able to meet me for lunch at Greene’s Hotel tomorrow …?’

  Following HRH’s instructions, Gary and Parvez had no difficulty in locating Tumblers Tate’s cottage. The cracksman clicked open his box of tricks to tackle the front door lock, but when Gary pushed, it opened.

  Only when they were safely inside did they switch on their torches. Having not seen the place before, they weren’t aware of how thoroughly it had been stripped of all Tumblers Tate’s possessions. There were almost no signs of human habitation. The Philippoussis cousins might not have decided yet what use they would put the cottage to in the future, or whether they’d just leave it empty.

  When their torch beams reached the terrace at the back, they found its furniture had not been moved. The couple of chairs were still there. So was the small table, though only the nearly empty brandy bottle remained on its surface.

  And the dilapidated lounger remained in place. Of course neither Gary nor Parvez the Peterman knew how recently it had been supporting the corpse of Tumblers Tate. But the lounger was unoccupied now. The Philippoussis cousins must have removed the body for funeral and burial – or perhaps some less formal and simpler means of disposal.

  The beam of Gary’s torch found a familiar beige raincoat folded over the back of a chair. ‘Well, Truffler’s certainly been here,’ he observed.

  There was a sniffing noise behind him. He turned to see Parvez the Peterman savouring the air on the terrace as though it were a fine wine.

  ‘My nose tells me,’ he said, ‘that he might well still be here.’

  ‘Sorry to ring you so late, Erin.’

  ‘No worries, Mrs P. I’m rather a night owl. Do a lot of my best work in the small hours.’

  ‘That’s fine then. I was wondering, Erin, whether you might be free tomorrow for lunch at Greene’s Hotel …?’

  ‘What is it you can smell?’ asked Gary.

  ‘Beeswax … and a bit of pine rosin.’

  ‘So what does that mean? They probably make candles from beeswax out here. And I could smell the pine trees as we were coming along the beach.’

  ‘No, I’m talking pine rosin. It smells slightly different from the actual trees.’

  Gary shrugged. ‘OK. So how does that help us?’

  ‘Tumblers Tate made up a recipe for a lubricant, you know, to ease locks and jammed cogs and sliding doors. Worked a treat.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘And, because I can smell beeswax and pine rosin here, it suggests to me that he probably built some secret hideaway not far from where we are right now, whose door is greased by the special lubricant that he invented.’

  ‘What – here?’ Gary sprayed the beam of his torch around the terrace area. Then he focused it on the uneven paving of the floor. ‘Under that lot, do you reckon?’

  Parvez the Peterman walked along the area back and forth, his torch pointing downwards, examining every stone and speck of dust. ‘No,’ he announced finally. ‘The surface would be disturbed if anything had been opened here.’

  ‘Where then?’ asked Gary. Parvez the Peterman’s torch beam strayed towards the sheer rock wall that marked the end of the terrace. ‘You gotta be joking. That’s solid. No one could make a hideaway in that.’

  Parvez raised a finger of dissent. ‘Only one person could. And that person’s Tumblers Tate.’

  ‘Well, good luck in trying to get in there,’ said Gary disconsolately as he slumped in a chair. ‘How’re you going to do it – rub a magic lamp?’

  Parvez the Peterman opened his aluminium case. ‘I don’t have one of those, but I do have a variety of devices which might have the same effect.’

  A contemptuous ‘Huh’ was all the response he got.

  But, in spite of his apparent indifference, Gary watched intrigued as the cracksman focused a series of beams on the wall of rock. These sensors provided him with information which appeared on the screen of his laptop. So far as Gary could tell, Parvez’s approach was based on trial and error. Most of his attempts to hack into Tumblers Tate’s sophisticated electronic systems were unsuccessful, but every now and then he tested something that seemed to give him satisfaction. Gary was impressed by the patience with which Parvez tried out combination after combination. He seemed to get into a state of Zen concentration and calm.

  It was probably a couple of hours later, and the chauffeur, tired out by his rushed journey from London, was quietly dozing, when Parvez the Peterman suddenly announced, ‘We’re there!’

  ‘Er …?’ asked Gary blearily.

  ‘I’ve got through the security system.’

  The news brought the chauffeur back to instant consciousness. ‘Blimey, well done.’

  ‘Yes.’ Parvez’s lip curled in frustration. ‘We’re there, all but for one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘His last security barrier, which if I know anything about Tumblers Tate, is going to be something that isn’t electronic.’

  ‘How’d’ja mean?’

  ‘I mean it’ll be some biometric system. Retinal scanning, iris recognition, fingerprint, maybe even voice activation.’

  ‘I hope it’s not the last one,’ said Gary. ‘Since the old geezer croaked it’s going to be kinda hard to get him talking.’

  ‘It’s going to be kinda hard to get any of the other biometrical access methods either …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘… unless we can find Tumblers Tate’s body.’

  Mrs Pargeter went to bed that night, again in little expectation of sleep. She looked fondly at the photograph of her husband, and not for the first time wished he was there to sort things out. He would know how to find and rescue Truffler.

  So, though she was feeling pleased about the idea she was going to put to Charley and Erin the following day, she could only look forward to another night of anxiety.

  ‘Where do we find his body?’ asked Gary.

  ‘Well, if the Philippoussises have gone down the traditional route, they’ll probably have had his funeral already.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They tend to be quick off the mark in hot countries. So he could be buried in a graveyard by now. Might be tricky getting him out of that.’

  ‘I’m sure we could manage,’ said Gary, ever the optimist.

  ‘Alternatively, because Tumblers Tate was a crook, and involved in some of the Philippoussises’ jobs, they might just have dumped him unceremoniously in the sea, no questions asked.’

  Gary’s optimism was challenged. ‘So where do we start looking for him?’

  ‘We don’t start looking for him yet,’ said Parvez decisively. ‘There’s other things to look for first.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘The scanning device he used to recognize his retina or his iris or his fingerprint … whatever part of his body he used to open and close the place.’

  ‘You seem pretty certain that the hideaway’s here.’

  ‘Oh, it is.’ Parvez the Peterman gestured to his laptop. ‘I’ve got data on that which shows its precise location and dimensions.’ He looked with frustration at the rock face ahead of him. ‘I’ve also detected the warmth of a human body in there. It’s got to be Truffler.’

  ‘No possibility we could get a sledgehammer and some crowbars and break into the …’ The expression on Parvez’s face dried up Gary’s words at source.

  ‘No, what we’ve got to do,’ said the cracksman, ‘is to find that scanner.’

  Only a few feet away from them, inside Tumblers Tate’s vault, Truffler Mason was no longer photographing anything. The battery on his mobile had long ago run down. And he was starting to feel sleepy again. He’d begun his incarceration by reading a lot of the records of the deceased cracksman’s crimes and sleeping a little. Now the balance had changed. A few pages of the files and he’d feel the need to sleep again. His strength, he knew, was wanin
g.

  ‘Got it!’ Parvez the Peterman felt under the arm of the lounger and turned it over in triumph. The small electronic pad was revealed. ‘Looks like just a thumbprint. We’re in luck!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Gary. ‘You may know it’s a thumbprint, but I can’t help pointing out we still don’t have the thumb required. It’s still attached to Tumblers Tate’s body and we don’t know where that is.’

  ‘A detail,’ said Parvez. ‘We’ve got ways round that.’

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘Yes.’ He took a pair of goggle-like glasses out of his case and put them on. Then he picked up the empty Courvoisier bottle.

  ‘What’re those for?’

  ‘They’re for multispectral imaging.’

  ‘Yeah. And what’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘It recognizes and highlights individual fingerprints.’ Parvez peered closely at the bottle. ‘There – perfect. That’s a beauty.’

  He replaced the bottle on the table and took a small camera-like device out of his case. A quick click and he was checking some data on the laptop. ‘Great. Just print that up.’

  He pressed a couple of keys, there was a whirring noise from inside the aluminium box of tricks, and after a moment he pulled out a small rectangle of something that looked like silicone.

  He offered it to Gary for inspection. ‘See, it’s got the contour and ridges of Tumblers Tate’s thumbprint – life-size. Not bad, is it?’

  ‘But will it work?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Parvez replied with complete confidence, ‘it’ll work.’

  He pressed the indented false thumbprint against the sensor pad on the underside of the lounger’s arm.

  Instantly, silently, a section of the rock face moved forward and slid to one side.

  In the illuminated interior, Truffler Mason looked out blearily.

  ‘Gary, Parvez,’ he said. ‘How good of you to come.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Truffler was very weak, but he could stand and, he reckoned, make it to the inflatable with a couple of shoulders to lean on. In the boat, Gary promised, were food and drink for him to start building up his strength again.

  They decided they’d close up the cell again when they left. ‘There’s evidence in there,’ said Truffler, ‘that could bring down a good few major villains. We don’t want the Philippoussises getting their dirty mitts on it.’

  Then, just as he was coming out of his prison, Truffler said, ‘Ooh, there’s something there for you, Parvez.’

  ‘What?’

  A long finger was pointed at the letter on the table. Parvez the Peterman looked with surprise at his own name written on the envelope.

  He opened it, and read the contents in bewilderment. Then he read them again. As he passed the letter to the other two, a smile was crinkling around the corners of his mouth.

  What Gary and Truffler read was:

  Dear Parvez,

  I know it’ll be you. You are the only person in the world who has got the skills to break into this place. I’d like to congratulate you on that achievement. And on your many other achievements. You are the only rival I ever worried about. It was always you and me, jockeying for the top spot, with the rest nowhere. And if you’ve managed to get in here, then I think we’re level. If, on the other hand, I am dead by the time you read this letter, then there’s no question about it. You, Parvez the Peterman, are undoubtedly the best cracksman in the world. Many, many congratulations!

  Tumblers Tate

  The smile crinkling around Parvez’s mouth had now developed into a full beam.

  The sickle moon gave little light as the three men, Truffler Mason being supported on either side by Gary and Parvez, made their way back to the inflatable. Truffler was too weak to help them drag the boat over the shingle and sand to the sea. But, once it was afloat, they helped him in. Parvez plied him with dried apricots, brandy and mineral water, while Gary started up the outboard motor.

  ‘Skiathos, here we come!’ he murmured.

  It was as they passed the harbour mouth that they became aware they were being followed. Floodlight beams were suddenly switched on in the boat that roared out after them. They could see the flashes and hear the whine of gunshots, never the most encouraging form of attack for people in an inflatable.

  The lights blinded them, so they couldn’t see who was in the other vessel, but from everything they had heard they knew it must be full of Philippoussis cousins.

  ‘Hold on tight!’ Gary shrieked as he swung the boat round on its axis to evade the flying bullets.

  He looked out towards the open sea, beyond the line of rocks that formed one arm of Atmos harbour. Out there they would stand no chance. The Philippoussis cousins’ more powerful vessel would overtake and cut them down in no time.

  ‘Any ideas, Truffler?’ he shouted against the roar of the engines. ‘You’ve had time to get to know the place a bit.’

  ‘Yes,’ the rescued man said calmly. ‘Aim straight for the rocks.’

  Gary had known and trusted Truffler too long to argue. He swung the tiller on the outboard again, through nearly three hundred and sixty degrees. His passengers were hurled against the boat’s sides, as he followed instructions and made a course straight for the rocks.

  The larger vessel couldn’t manoeuvre as quickly as the inflatable, but it was soon once again following them, gaining with every second. Bullets continued to hiss around them.

  ‘There!’ Truffler Mason’s finger jabbed forward, and for the first time Gary saw thin moonlight reflecting on the sea beyond the rocks. There was a gap in them. Twisting the throttle to screeching point, he made for that gap.

  It was the Widowmaker. Narrow. Too narrow even for the inflatable, it seemed, as they hurtled towards it. But still Gary did what Truffler told him, even though he could envisage how the rocky sides of the archway would shred the rubber of their boat.

  Just as that moment seemed unavoidable, Truffler shouted, ‘Move your bodies to the right!’

  The three men did as instructed. The inflatable tipped at an angle, its outboard motor shrieking complaint at being out of the water, and slid through the narrow passage. Within seconds they were on the calm, flat, open sea beyond.

  The chasing vessel was not so lucky. Travelling too fast to be stopped, its sides jammed in the Widowmaker’s jaws. There was a splintering of timbers and a shattering of glass.

  Fortunately, no widows were made that night, but a lot of Philippoussis cousins did get extremely wet.

  In the open sea beyond, Gary cut back the power of the outboard and the inflatable chugged contentedly back towards Skiathos.

  Truffler grinned across at him. ‘Glad to see the old getaway driving instincts are still in full working order, Gary.’

  ‘Mr Pargeter taught me well,’ came the reply.

  Truffler’s mobile was out of power, but he borrowed Parvez the Peterman’s to text Mrs Pargeter and tell her he was absolutely fine.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Mrs Pargeter felt more cheerful than ever as one of Gary’s drivers helped her out of the Rolls-Royce at Greene’s Hotel soon after noon on the following day. The news of Truffler’s release had come as a wonderful relief at one o’clock in the morning, and made her realize how much she cared for him. Once she had recovered from her excitement, she slipped into the blissful sleep she had been deprived of over the previous two nights, and didn’t wake till after ten. Gary’s driver even had to wait while she bathed and dressed.

  On the way into London she made one phone call. To someone who appeared in the currently inaccessible little black book. It was listed, she remembered, under ‘Explosive Experts’ and he was called ‘Jelly Jones’. Fortunately, she remembered being told his real name by Truffler. He also told her that he had become a Professor of Chemistry at University College, London. So that was the number she rang.

  When Jelly Jones heard who was on the line he was fulsomely delighted to interrupt the lecture he was giving and talk to her. It wa
s such an honour, he’d been so privileged to work with the late Mr Pargeter, who had been one of the finest men on God’s earth, etc., etc., etc.

  Mrs Pargeter managed to break into this familiar litany to tell Jelly Jones the reason for her call. He would, of course, be delighted to be of service to her, and they fixed to meet at UCL at three thirty that afternoon.

  Hedgeclipper Clinton was, as ever, enchanted to welcome his most honoured guest into his palace of a hotel. He personally escorted her to the private room she had booked for her lunch à trois. In anticipation of her next request, a newly opened bottle of champagne stood in the ice bucket. Hedgeclipper poured a glass for Mrs Pargeter and left her to await her guests.

  She sipped the champagne as she planned what her next moves should be. The news about Truffler had lifted her mood of frustration and she felt more positive than ever. Things, she had a sense, were coming to a head. She had almost all the information she required to turn the tables on Rochelle Brighouse and to remove the threat posed by her son’s forthcoming book. It was just a matter of taking the right steps in the right order.

  Her phone blipped to alert her to an incoming text message. It was sent from Parvez the Peterman’s phone, though the message wasn’t from him.

  Just changing planes at Paris Charles de Gaulle. Be at Heathrow in less than an hour. As soon as I’ve charged my mobile, I will be forwarding you a very interesting set of documents.

  Let us know what you want us to do and where you want us to be when. We’ll be there. All the best, Truffler.

  That made her feel even better. For the plan that was forming in her head, she might well be glad of a protective escort.

  And when copies of the documents Truffler had photographed came through on her phone and she read them, her mood bordered on the ecstatic.

  Charley and Erin arrived at the same time. They had met in the lift and bonded instantly. They were already chattering away as the waiter poured champagne for them.

  After their starters had been served, Mrs Pargeter outlined what she wanted them both to do. ‘For you, Erin, it will involve hacking into someone’s computer and replacing the data in there with something new.’