Mrs Pargeter's Public Relations

by Simon Brett

  ‘No probs. As I told you, that’s what I spend most of my time doing.’

  ‘And for you, Charley …’

  ‘You said it was something to do with writing a non-fiction book.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Charley, I want you to write a memoir of my late husband.’

  The lunch was an extremely jolly affair. The Greene’s Hotel food was as exquisite as ever. Mrs Pargeter spelled out the details of her plans, and the two girls were delighted with the tasks assigned to them. Once that had all been sorted, the conversation became more general. Without the subject ever being mentioned, Mrs Pargeter was aware how her two guests were bonded by both having relatively recently lost their fathers.

  So jolly was the lunch that when the second bottle of champagne had been finished and the third one ordered, Mrs Pargeter found to her amazement that it was nearly a quarter to three. She must leave for her appointment with Jelly Jones.

  She proposed that the girls should stay and finish the new bottle, a suggestion to which they readily agreed.

  By the time she got down to the foyer, Hedgeclipper Clinton had seen to it that the Rolls-Royce with Gary’s driver inside was waiting directly outside the main doors.

  Mrs Pargeter asked to be taken to UCL.

  Her meeting with Jelly Jones was extremely successful. He confirmed that what she suspected was true.

  The driver took her back to Chigwell and, once in the house, Mrs Pargeter made a call to Bailey Dalrymple. At the start of the conversation he was as bonhomous as ever, but after she’d told him what she knew, his manner was markedly less relaxed.

  But he did agree that they should meet. That evening, yes, the sooner the better. And no, not at the PhiliPussies clinic in Leigh-on-Sea. Too much danger of being heard there.

  Instead he proposed that they should meet at eight o’clock in Epping Forest. Near the place where Doreen Grange’s body had been found. (Bailey didn’t actually say that, but from his directions for getting there, Mrs Pargeter recognized where it was.)

  Mrs Pargeter knew it was a trap. But she felt confident of her own safety now Truffler and Gary were back in the country. She texted to Truffler’s phone, giving exact directions for where she, Gary and Truffler should meet at seven thirty that evening.

  There were a few hours before she’d need to be driven to Epping Forest. She’d recommended that Gary’s driver should pick her up in something less flamboyant than the Roller – though she actually reckoned there was a good chance that Gary himself would drive her.

  Full of her lavish Greene’s Hotel lunch, and still with sleep to catch up on after her two bad nights, Mrs Pargeter lay on the sofa in her sitting room and drifted into blameless unconsciousness.

  And, as she did so, her last thought was that things were definitely coming to a head.

  THIRTY-THREE

  With Mrs Pargeter gone, the two girls in the private room at Greene’s Hotel had first got on to the subject of boyfriends. Neither had had particularly fruitful experiences in that area, so they had an agreeable moan together about the inadequacies of the male of the species.

  And then, inevitably, they did actually start to talk about their fathers. Charley was envious of the bonding over the archives that Erin and Jukebox Jarvis had shared during his last six months. She wished she’d had as much quality time together with ‘Silver’ Angold.

  ‘I agree. I was lucky,’ said Erin, ‘and working with Dad on all those records did kind of clarify things for me, you know, what I wanted to do with my life. It made me realize that my real aim was to spend the rest of my life doing what my father had done – except of course with all the advantages that modern technology can bring to the work.’

  ‘Did your father make demands on you, Erin? You know, tell you how he wanted you to use the archive after he was gone?’

  ‘Not really. That had all been sorted out during the time that we were updating it.’

  ‘Again you were lucky.’ Charley sighed. ‘No postmortem demands.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that your father did make demands on you, that he’s still making demands on you from beyond the grave?’

  ‘And how!’ So Charley Angold explained to Erin about the letter her father had left for her – and the burden it had imposed. ‘The trouble is,’ she concluded, ‘that my mother’s absolutely insistent that I should obey my father’s dying wish. And get a bloody book published.’

  ‘Well, at least what Mrs Pargeter was talking about today does show you a way of doing it.’

  ‘Oh yes, bless her. I was going mad trying to write a novel. The stories I wrote at school may have showed promise, but my brain just doesn’t work that way any more. Now, thank the Lord, Mrs Pargeter has shown me an escape route.’

  ‘She’s very clever,’ said Erin, and Charley nodded agreement.

  There was a silence. They sipped their champagne. Then Erin said, ‘This letter your father left you … do you have it with you?’

  ‘Not the original – that’s at home. But I do have a photocopy.’

  ‘Would you mind awfully if I had a look at it?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Charley was already rooting through her handbag. ‘Can I ask you why, though?’

  ‘’Course you can. It just sounds a bit odd. And, as someone who likes doing crosswords, I have an instinct to examine anything that sounds odd to see if it has another meaning.’

  ‘My father liked crosswords too – tried to get me interested, but I just don’t think I’ve got that kind of brain.’ Charley handed across the much-perused photocopy. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘if you can find another meaning in that – a meaning that means I don’t have to publish any kind of bloody book – I will be more than grateful to you.’

  ‘Let’s have a look …’ Erin spread the sheet of paper on the tablecloth and read it through.

  Dear Charley,

  Might your old father give you a word of advice?

  Might your old father point you in a useful direction?

  Ask who always loved you from when you were a tiny baby?

  The champion who stood up for you against everyone?

  Only me.

  You stirred in me emotions I did not know I had.

  I did not expect to feel such total love,

  Such a subtle change in my personality

  From a rough, uncaring man to a helpless father,

  Hopelessly enthralled by this perfect person

  Whose tiny life had suddenly become so important to me.

  So know my love is there forever,

  Whether I live a reasonably long time or die young.

  But there’s a last thing I want you to do for me,

  Do not think me terrible to ask this …

  But I always felt pleased when you did well at English.

  So, for me, your old Dad, please write a book,

  Get it published, into major bookstores

  And other outlets, even e-books if you must,

  So long as it is out there existing for the general public to read,

  You will know for sure that you have done the right thing by your poor old Dad

  And I will be able to rest easy wherever it is I end up.

  What kind of book you write … it doesn’t matter to me,

  So long as the thing is published in some form or other,

  Be it hardback, paperback or presentation copy.

  I know you may find it’s hard but, if you ever loved me,

  Do as this letter tells you and lo – all your wishes for future prosperity

  For you and for your mother should instantly come true.

  Follow my instructions – into your writing

  Go line by line and progress letter by letter

  Until you at last attain the moment of publication.

  Then my vast fortune will be yours – and Jasmine

  Will benefit too from that vast, vast fortune.

  My blessings always will support you both.


  There was a long silence before Erin announced, ‘Well, there’s something very strange with the layout.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that.’

  ‘It’s laid out more like a poem than anything else.’

  ‘Well, if it is a poem, it’s a bloody awful poem,’ said Charley.

  ‘Did your father like poetry?’

  ‘God, no. I never heard him mention a poem during my entire lifetime.’

  ‘Then why’s he laid this out like one …?’ Erin mused.

  ‘I’ve no idea. I tell you, I’ve looked at the thing till it’s nearly driven me mad and I still can’t see any “other meaning” in it.’

  ‘Mm.’ Erin’s mounting interest showed in the sparkle in her eyes. ‘I think there are instructions in here.’

  ‘Instructions?’

  ‘Yes, look at these lines.’ She pointed to a few towards the end.

  Do as this letter tells you and lo –

  ‘Was your father the kind of man who said, “and lo—”?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘No, I didn’t think he would.’ Erin pointed back to the lines.

  … all your wishes for future prosperity

  For you and for your mother should instantly come true.

  Follow my instructions.

  ‘“Follow my instructions” – Charley, he’s trying to tell you something.’

  ‘Yes, but what?’

  ‘There’s got to be a solution in here.’ Erin’s brow wrinkled with concentration as she read out: ‘“Go line by line and progress letter by letter” — that’s got to mean something.’

  ‘What, though?’ Charley almost screamed with frustration. Erin was seeing the letter for the first time. Charley had spent hours a day since her father’s death asking herself these same questions and coming up with no answers.

  ‘Ah,’ said Erin. ‘Ah, yes. I’ve got it.’

  ‘Tell me, for God’s sake. What have you got?’

  ‘“Go line by line and progress letter by letter”,’ Erin repeated. ‘That’s what you have to do, literally that. “Go line by line and progress letter by letter.” See?’

  Charley was too disheartened to say anything. She just shook her head.

  ‘Do you mind if I write on this?’

  ‘No. As I say, it’s only a photocopy. Do what you want with it.’

  ‘Right.’ Erin took a pen out of her handbag and started underlining letters on the page. ‘Line by line,’ she said, ‘and letter by letter … So that would mean … the first letter on the first line, the second letter on the second line, the third on the third, and so on.’

  Her pen moved swiftly until the complete message was spelled out.

  Dear Charley,

  Might your old father give you a word of advice?

  Might your old father point you in a useful direction?

  Ask who always loved you from when you were a tiny baby?

  The champion who stood up for you against everyone?

  Only me.

  You stirred in me emotions I did not know I had.

  I did not expect to feel such total love,

  Such a subtle change in my personality

  From a rough, uncaring man to a helpless father,

  Hopelessly enthralled by this perfect person

  Whose tiny life had suddenly become so important to me.

  So know my love is there forever,

  Whether I live a reasonably long time or die young.

  But there’s a last thing I want you to do for me,

  Do not think me terrible to ask this …

  But I always felt pleased when you did well at English.

  So, for me, your old Dad, please write a book,

  Get it published, into major bookstores

  And other outlets, even e-books if you must,

  So long as it is out there existing for the general public to read,

  You will know for sure that you have done the right thing by your poor old Dad

  And I will be able to rest easy wherever it is I end up.

  What kind of book you write … it doesn’t matter to me,

  So long as the thing is published in some form or other,

  Be it hardback, paperback or presentation copy.

  I know you may find it’s hard but, if you ever loved me,

  Do as this letter tells you and lo – all your wishes for future prosperity

  For you and for your mother should instantly come true.

  Follow my instructions – into your writing

  Go line by line and progress letter by letter

  Until you at last attain the moment of publication.

  Then my vast fortune will be yours – and Jasmine

  Will benefit too from that vast, vast fortune.

  My blessings always will support you both.

  The two girls read out the encoded message together: ‘“Dig where the fir tree meets the Fairy Path.”’

  Erin looked across to Charley and grinned in triumph. ‘Does the expression “the Fairy Path” mean anything to you?’

  Charley grinned back. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, Erin, it certainly does!’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It wasn’t Gary himself who picked her up. It was the same driver who’d taken her to Greene’s Hotel and back. The car was an unobtrusive Skoda Octavia.

  Once she was comfortably installed in the back, he asked if she’d like to listen to the radio, catch up on the news perhaps …?

  Mrs Pargeter said no, she’d rather travel in silence.

  As a result, she did not hear that Heathrow Airport had been closed due to a terrorist alert. Nor could Truffler Mason, Gary and Parvez the Peterman get a message to her that their flight had been stuck on the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle for four hours and was now being diverted to Manchester.

  Once arrived in the car park, Mrs Pargeter told the driver not to wait. Gary would be arriving soon and he’d drive her back to Chigwell once her business had been concluded. The June evening was still quite light. Her tryst was scheduled to take place not far from the forest edge. She walked boldly forward, longing to be reunited with Truffler and Gary.

  When she arrived at the designated clearing, it was empty. She checked her watch. Twenty past seven. She sat down on a rustic bench, confident that her bodyguards would be there within ten minutes. Truffler and Gary had always been very punctilious about punctuality.

  ‘Well, Mrs Pargeter, you’ve arrived in good time,’ said a cultured voice as Bailey Dalrymple stepped out from behind a thick-trunked fir tree. ‘Not to say rather early.’

  ‘Perhaps I couldn’t wait to see you …?’ she suggested, keeping the conversation deliberately light.

  The vet also played it cool, flopping casually down on the bench beside her and saying, ‘I found it interesting, our conversation on the phone this afternoon.’

  ‘Well, I thought it was probably time for a few home truths.’

  ‘That may have been a rather rash assumption, Mrs Pargeter. Particularly since what you describe as “home truths” are a pack of lies.’

  ‘Ah, if only I could believe that, Bailey. I do have evidence to back up my claims. I have seen both ends of the PhiliPussies operation, both in Leigh-on-Sea and on Atmos.’

  ‘But your allegations would never stand up in court.’

  ‘Oh, I think they would, Bailey. I do have extremely good lawyers. My late husband always insisted that we should have the very best lawyers.’

  ‘If you do have any doubts about the integrity of PhiliPussies, I think you would do well to address them to Mendy Farstairs.’

  ‘I don’t believe that’d do a lot of good. Mendy is totally unaware that there is anything wrong with her precious charity.’

  ‘And might not that be because there is nothing wrong with it?’

  ‘How nice it would be to think that, Bailey. Unfortunately, though, such an interpretation doesn’t tie in with the facts.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I
t’s been fortunate for you that the old days of quarantine have gone, that cats can be transported from Greece to the United Kingdom without any hassle.’

  Mrs Pargeter was really just talking for the sake of talking. She sneaked a look at her watch. Just before seven thirty. Truffler and Gary would be appearing any moment. She looked through the deepening gloom of the forest for any signs of them.

  ‘It has been convenient,’ Bailey Dalrymple agreed. ‘Keeping the animals in quarantine would just have added another complication to the challenging work done by our charity.’

  ‘And of course, while they were in quarantine, they might have undergone rather closer inspection than they now do when they travel from Atmos to Leigh-on-Sea.’

  ‘What are you saying, Mrs Pargeter?’

  ‘I am saying that, if the cats were examined more closely, the details of your smuggling operation might very soon become public knowledge.’

  ‘“Smuggling operation”?’

  ‘Yes, Bailey. When I came with my friend to see you at your clinic, I thought what you said about the clumsiness of Greek vets over microchipping was a bit dubious. But I now know why the cats from Atmos all have scars and stitches on the backs of their necks. Quite clever, really – because no customs officer is going to look too closely at a cat that was feral in the first place and has been made even more vicious by being caged in a hot minivan for days on end.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, you do, Bailey, you do.’ Mrs Pargeter reached into her handbag and produced one of the small pellets that she had found in the surgery of the Atmos cat sanctuary, the pellets Jelly Jones had identified for her so readily at UCL that afternoon. ‘You know what this is?’

  He didn’t even bother to protest his ignorance this time, so Mrs Pargeter went on, ‘Enriched uranium. Used legitimately in nuclear fuel processors, but not available for purchase by the average citizen. Of considerable value on the black market, though. There are a surprising number of aspiring terrorists who dream of making a dirty bomb. Not that it would cause anything like the same devastation as a proper nuclear device, but it would spread fear and anxiety. And, so far, the UK authorities haven’t caught on to the idea of enriched uranium pellets being smuggled into the country inside feral cats from Greece.’