Mrs Pargeter 03; Mrs Pargeter’s Package mp-3

by Simon Brett

  ♦

  The taverna was open, but there were not many customers. It was not yet one o’clock, and the lunchtime trade wouldn’t really get going for another hour. The Secretary with Short Bleached Hair and the Secretary with Long Bleached Hair sat over glasses of Sprite. Both wore bikinis that constricted their plump flesh like rubber bands; and already their white curves blushed from incautious exposure to the Mediterranean sun. They were engaging in a little come-hither banter with the beautiful Yianni, who was being polite, though clearly uninterested, as he swept round the tables with a broom made of bunches of twigs.

  At another table sat Ginnie, doing her promised problem-solving stint. Mr and Mrs Safari Suit, dressed exactly as they had been the day before, were the ones with problems, and they appeared to be bending the rep’s ears unmercifully. Ginnie, Mrs Pargeter noticed with interest, had a scratch on her face and the beginnings of a black eye, which had not been there the night before. On that detail too Mrs Pargeter did not allow herself to speculate.

  She looked cautiously towards the table where she and Joyce had sat. It was on the edge of the eating area and had not yet been reached by Yianni’s broom. She saw with relief that the flightbag still remained under her seat. Casually, she moved across, as if to look out over the bay, and picked it up.

  She had not yet decided who should be the first recipient of her dreadful news. The person she wanted to tell was Larry Lambeth. He was the most sympathetic contact she had on Corfu and she needed to share some of the emotions building up inside her. Also, his background would make him a useful sounding-board for conjecture about the crime.

  But this was a murder case and protocol must be observed. The local police should be notified as soon as possible. (Mrs Pargeter had always been a great believer in keeping the police supplied with as much information as she reckoned they could cope with.) Spiro was the one with a telephone, so presumably at some point he must be involved in contacting the police, but Mrs Pargeter decided that Ginnie should be the one to know first of Joyce Dover’s death.

  Mr and Mrs Safari Suit, however, appeared to be settled in for a long session of complaint. “I mean, the brochure,” Mr Safari Suit was saying, “didn’t indicate that the Villa Ariadne was so far up the hill, and it’s not as if my wife doesn’t have her varicose veins to contend with. I really think the tour operator should move us into another villa nearer to sea level and my wife and I are also very disappointed that the crockery supplied in the…”

  If ever Mrs Pargeter had had news that would justify breaking into a conversation, now was that moment, but it was not her style to create unnecessary shock and distress. No, she would bide her time, wait until Ginnie was free, and then break the news to her discreetly.

  So she sat down at an adjacent table, ordered a coffee from Yianni (a Nescafe – she couldn’t take that gravelly, sweet Greek stuff), and waited.

  Mr Safari Suit went on at inordinate length, but eventually, unable to think of anything else to complain about, set off to take some photographs of Mrs Safari Suit against a background of fishing boats.

  Mrs Pargeter moved across to the next table and Ginnie gave her the professional smile of someone who had just coped with one whingeing nit-picker and is fully prepared to face another. “No major problem, I hope?” she asked breezily.

  “Well, yes, I’m afraid there is. It’s Joyce.”

  “Oh dear. Still unwell, is she?”

  “Rather worse than unwell, Ginnie. Joyce is dead.”

  “What?” There was a fraction of a second’s pause. “Oh no. That’s the holiday rep’s nightmare. I’ve been lucky, I’ve never had one of my clients die on me before. Oh, how dreadful. What happened?”

  It was what had happened in the pause after Ginnie had said “What?” that interested Mrs Pargeter. There had been a grinding gear-change in the girl’s reaction, and after that gear-change she had been back in control. She had responded with appropriate concern and, if that concern had been selfish rather than compassionate, it had still been the proper response of a professional faced with a professional problem.

  But her first reaction, the one expressed in that almost breathless “What?”, had been one of naked fear.

  The fear of someone who had just had her worst imaginings realised.

  ∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

  Eleven

  Mrs Pargeter did not use the word ‘murder’. She just described, as impassively as she could manage, the scene that she had encountered in Joyce’s bedroom.

  Ginnie, whose professional control had firmly reasserted itself after that one brief lapse, nodded grimly. “I’ll see that the proper authorities are notified,” she said, and disappeared into the taverna, instructing Mrs Pargeter to wait for her. The rep was gone for some time.

  The area under the awning started to fill up with minimally-clad tourists, the level of whose tans showed, to the precise day, how far they were into their fortnight’s packages. Drinks were ordered, then the waiters came with their paper tablecloth routine, and plates of food started to appear.

  Mrs Pargeter didn’t feel hungry, and thought that it might be quite a while before she ever felt hungry again. She ordered a bottle of retsina from Yianni, but the wine tasted metallic and emetic on her tongue, so after a few sips she gave up.

  Meanwhile, in spite of the iron discipline she was trying to impose on herself, thoughts continued to seethe and bubble up in her mind.

  Ginnie came back after half an hour, accompanied by Spiro. His eyes were even darker with concern, as he sat down beside Mrs Pargeter. “I am so sorry, lady, for what has happened. It is very sad, your friend, very sad.”

  “Yes.”

  “The police will be along to the villa soon, Mrs Pargeter,” said Ginnie. “Obviously there’s no way the other holidaymakers aren’t going to find out what has happened eventually, but I’d be grateful if you could keep quiet about the death for as long as possible.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  The rep picked up her shoulder-bag. “I must go back to the office in Corfu Town. There’s going to be a lot to sort out, informing next-of-kin, that kind of thing.”

  “Joyce just had the one daughter. Conchita. I think I’ve probably got her address somewhere if…”

  Mrs Pargeter was saved the trouble of riffling through her handbag. “It’s all right. We’ll have all the details in the office.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Mrs Pargeter? I mean, I could easily call a doctor if you want some sedation or…”

  Sedation is the last thing I want after the night I’ve just had, thought Mrs Pargeter, but all she said was, “No, I’ll be fine, thank you.”

  “Spiro will keep an eye on you. Won’t you?”

  “Of course, Tchinnie. Will you have something to eat, please?”

  It was interesting, Mrs Pargeter noticed as she refused Spiro’s offer, that the Greeks couldn’t pronounce the ‘J’ sound at the beginning of ‘Ginnie’. The consonant came out as a kind of ‘Tch’. ‘Tchinnie’.

  “Mrs Pargeter, obviously you won’t want to stay in the Villa Eleni…”

  “I hadn’t really thought about that, Ginnie. I mean, I don’t mind. I’m not squeamish.”

  “I was thinking maybe you’d want to go straight back to England?”

  Oh no, not yet. Mrs Pargeter was very firm in her mind about that. She wanted to wait at least until the police investigation was under way. She wanted to be sure that her friend’s murder was getting the attention it deserved. And if it wasn’t, she didn’t rule out the possibility of doing a little mild investigating herself.

  In which event, she would be well advised to stay at the Villa Eleni. Murders are much easier to investigate if you’re actually on the scene of the crime.

  “No, I think I’ll stay around for a while,” she said coolly. “Probably find it easier to relax and get over it out here than back in England.”

  “Very well, if that�
�s what you feel. I’ll arrange to book you into the Hotel Nausica and have your belongings moved there.”

  “I’d think I’d rather stay in the villa.”

  “That would not be appropriate,” said Ginnie firmly.

  “No,” Spiro endorsed. “The police will want as little disturbance as possible. They will need to do very thorough investigation of this suicide.”

  Well, it won’t be thorough enough if they start from the premise that the death was suicide, thought Mrs Pargeter, but all she said was, “I should think having my bags moved to the hotel would cause quite a bit of disturbance.”

  “That will of course be done under police supervision,” said Ginnie. She looked at her watch. “I’ll ring through now to sort out the hotel, and get a message to you there when I know how long your bags will take.”

  “Thank you. I can manage overnight with what I’ve got here, if necessary.” Mrs Pargeter tapped her flightbag. As she did so, she remembered what else it contained. Yes, she looked forward to opening the package that Joyce had given her at Gatwick.

  “Good,” said Ginnie. “There’ll be no problem with the hotel – they’re not fully booked – so you can go up there as soon as you like. Spiro’ll show you the way.”

  “Of course. I drive you if you want.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  “Right, I’ll go and sort things out,” said Ginnie, unable to erase from her voice all traces of resentment at the inconvenience she was being put to. Then she disappeared into the taverna to phone the hotel.

  “Very sad,” said Spiro, his melancholy black eyes moist with compassion. “Sad when someone feels so bad to do this to themself.”

  “Yes, if that’s what happened…” Mrs Pargeter hazarded.

  Spiro looked shocked. “What you mean – if that is what happened?”

  She shrugged. “Well, I’m sure the police will find out the truth.”

  “Of course. Yes, of course.”

  They seemed to have run out of conversation. “Look, I’ll be fine, Spiro. I’m sure you should be getting on. You’ve got lots of customers.”

  “No problem. The boys can deal with them. No, you have had shock. I stay talk with you.”

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  Though no doubt kindly meant, this solicitude was the last thing Mrs Pargeter required. All she really wanted was to be left on her own. To give her thoughts a chance to organise themselves. Maybe to go back up to the Villa Eleni for another look round. Certainly to investigate the package in her flightbag.

  Still, if she was going to be stuck with him, she’d have to make some conversational effort. “There seem to be a lot of people on Corfu called Spiro,” she began safely.

  “Oh yes. It is the name of our saint. Saint Spiridon. You can still see his bones in Corfu Town if you want to.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “He has been good for our island, so many men are called Spiros. First son often called Spiros. My father Spiros – I Spiros – if I had a son, he would be called Spiros.”

  Mrs Pargeter looked out over the tranquil harbour and wished that this conscientious nursemaid would leave her to her own devices.

  “Very sad,” said Spiro, returning to an earlier theme. “Very sad for someone to kill themself. Your friend, Tchinnie say, lose her husband not long ago…?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very sad, death of someone close. I know. My brother die, my father die. When something like that happen, people go a little crazy.”

  “Yes.”

  “They crazy – they think they can’t go on – they kill themself – no problem.”

  “Well, it is a bit of a problem for those who are left behind.”

  “Yes, of course. I mean, no problem for them to do it. It seems the right thing to do – if you are a little crazy.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The conversation had once again trickled away, but Spiro showed no signs of leaving, so Mrs Pargeter moved on to another safe topic. “You do speak very good English.”

  “Thank you. You own taverna, you have speak English. So many English people come on holiday.” A gloomy shadow crossed his face. “Not so many this year. Number of visitors down this year. But you have to speak English all the same.”

  “Did you learn English at school?”

  “A little. But it was not my best. Science best… chemistry and so on.”

  “And did you continue your studies after school?”

  He shrugged. “Not possible. I leave school early. My father die, I have to take over taverna. Family business more important than school.”

  “Ah. Do you ever regret you couldn’t go on with your education?”

  He was a little affronted by this question and answered defensively, “Taverna is a good business. Good business for last twenty years with many tourists. Not so good last two years, but good business.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Mrs Pargeter decided to make use of the subject, since it had come up. “And you say the taverna’s a family business?”

  “Of course.”

  “So everyone working here is related?”

  “Yes. Cousins, nephews, so on. All related.”

  “And it’s your sister who works in the kitchen, isn’t it? Theodosia?”

  For the first time in their conversation, he was on his guard. “Yes, it is my sister.”

  “But she doesn’t speak?”

  “No, she cannot. From a child, she cannot. You like some food now?” he went on, changing the subject without any attempt at subtlety.

  Mrs Pargeter was not to be deflected. “Last night, as we were going up to the Villa Eleni, we met Theodosia leaving it and –”

  Spiro looked across the tables and spotted someone he urgently had to greet. “Excuse me, I see English friends from last year. Must say hello. You let me know when you want I drive you to hotel.”

  “Oh, it’s all right. The walk’ll do me good. I could do with a bit of fresh air.”

  Spiro was far too keen to get away to notice the incongruity of Mrs Pargeter’s last sentence, spoken as it was by someone sitting out of doors. He scuttled off, arms bonhomously open.

  The question about Theodosia had not been wasted. Though not yielding any information, it had at least got rid of Spiro.

  Mrs Pargeter waved to Yianni, who refused to accept any money for her coffee and retsina. She wondered idly whether it would be added to her running total from the night before, or if Spiro had waived payment as a gesture of compassion.

  Then she set off across the waterfront towards the Hotel Nausica, a pink, almost rectangular building which rose up out of the trees the other side of the bay.

  ♦

  She was half-way there before the thought struck her. Why shouldn’t she go up to the Villa Eleni and have another look round? There was no one to stop her, and if anyone did make a fuss, she could say she just needed to pick up some of her belongings.

  She took the direct path up the hillside. It was certainly no steeper than the other one, and a lot shorter. She was hardly out of breath at all when she reached the front door of the villa.

  She went in that way, ignoring the open French windows on either side. There was no reason for her approach to look surreptitious.

  As soon as she was inside, Mrs Pargeter sensed that she was not alone. Silently, she moved through into Joyce’s bedroom.

  A tall man in uniform stood there, facing the far window. He turned at the sound of her entrance. In his gloved hands, he held the bloody bottle end which had slashed Joyce Dover’s wrist.

  It was Sergeant Karaskakis.

  ∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

  Twelve

  “What are you doing here?” His English was heavily-accented but precise. Cold and efficient, like his small dark eyes and that triangle of black moustache. Mrs Pargeter was forcibly reminded of the last time she had seen Joyce and Sergeant Karaskakis together, and of her friend’s shocked reaction to the sight of him.
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br />   “Well, I’m staying here, aren’t I?” she replied pugnaciously. She sensed that the Sergeant was trying to overawe her, and Mrs Pargeter had always been very resistant to being overawed.

  “I understood you were being transferred to the hotel.”

  “Well, yes, I am, but I remembered something I wanted to pick up here.”

  “You should not have come in. The villa is closed during police investigations.”

  “And is that what you are involved in at the moment, Sergeant?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Police investigations? I always understood that nothing should be moved at the scene of a crime.”

  He looked down at the murderous piece of glass in his gloved hands. “I am a police officer. I am entitled to examine the premises.”

  “But you’re Tourist Police,” Mrs Pargeter insisted. “I didn’t know that violent deaths in Greece were investigated by the Tourist Police.”

  “Of course they are not,” Sergeant Karaskakis said tetchily. “I am merely having a preliminary look round. Then I will report back and officers from the relevant department will take over.”

  “And will the ‘officers from the relevant department’ be pleased to know that you have moved some of the evidence?”

  Her words had the effect of making him put the piece of glass back down on the floor, but there was no apology in his voice as he said, “This is not your business.”

  “I’d say it was very much my business. It’s my friend who’s dead.”

  “Yes, and of course I am very sorry about this. It is unfortunate for you at the beginning of your holiday. Also unfortunate for us. It is not good that people bring their troubles out here and do things like this. It makes for complications. Death always makes for complications.”

  Mrs Pargeter didn’t disagree.

  “I suppose,” the Sergeant went on, “that you will be returning to England now as soon as possible – yes?”

  “Well, no,” Mrs Pargeter replied firmly. “I’ve decided I’m going to stay for a while.”

  “I don’t think there is much point in that. You will not enjoy your holiday after this tragedy. It is better you should go home.”