by Simon Brett
“Yes.”
“But after that first couple of days, the old Corfiot bit gets to them.”
“The old Corfiot bit?”
“Sure, they relax, don’t they?”
“Ah.”
“Place is famous for it. As a matter of fact…” Larry Lambeth looked rather sedate for a moment. “You heard of Mr Gladstone?”
“Mr Gladstone? Which Mr Gladstone?”
“The one what was Prime Minister.”
“Oh yes. Of course I’ve heard of him,” said Mrs Pargeter through her surprise.
“Well, he was out here for a while, you know, and he said he had ‘never witnessed such complete and contented idleness as at Corfu’.” Larry Lambeth enunciated the quotation with a gravity befitting its provenance.
“Really? I didn’t know that.” Mrs Pargeter was impressed. “You’re very well-read, Larry.”
“Yeah. Sure.” He looked a bit sheepish. “Actually, I only read that in a holiday brochure.”
“Never mind. It’s still very interesting.”
“Right. Anyway, so what I’m saying is… once the holidaymakers start to relax, start leaving the old villa windows open and that… well, it’s dead easy for anyone who wants to go in and nick the odd passport, isn’t it?”
“And that’s what you do? That’s the business you’ve built up?”
Larry Lambeth looked suitably pleased with himself. “Yeah, right. Found a decent little gap in the market there. Ticking over quite nicely, thanks.”
“So you just steal any passports you happen to come across?”
He was affronted. “No, come on, give me a bit of credit. It’s not a random business, highly sophisticated operation, mine. Anyway, if I took too many, it’d start to look suspicious. No, mostly I’m working on commissions.”
“Commissions?”
“Sure. Someone says to me something like – I need a passport for a man in his sixties, five foot eight, fourteen stone, balding, white hair. So then I go along the beaches till I see someone who more or less looks like that, find out where they’re staying, nick the passport.”
“But surely it gets reported as missing and then if anyone else tries to use it they get arrested?”
“Oh yeah, of course you have to make the odd adjustment to the document… change the number, the name, fiddle with the photo, that kind of stuff. But in my experience” – he gave the side of his nose a professional tap – “… the less you have to change the better.”
“So who do you get your commissions from?”
“Varies a lot. Most of my business, though, comes through Hamish Ramon Henriques.”
“Who?”
“Come on, you must know Hamish Ramon Henriques. Mr P. was working with him all the time.”
The frost returned to Mrs Pargeter’s voice. “As I said, I knew very little abut my late husband’s work.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Well, Hamish Ramon Henriques is, like, a travel agent. Rather specialist travel agent, I do have to say. But, anyway, I get a nice lot of commissions through him. He gives me the details of what he’s looking for… I find it, do the necessary doctoring… send it back to him. Nice, neat business, sweet as a nut. Incidentally” – he leant towards Mrs Pargeter in a confidential manner – “… if you ever find yourself wanting a false passport, you have only to say the word.”
“That’s extremely kind of you,” said Mrs Pargeter primly, “but I think it very unlikely that that situation will ever arise.”
“Mrs P., as the cyclist said before he drove into the bus – you never know what’s round the next corner.”
“No, that’s very true. You don’t.”
Larry Lambeth suddenly barked out some instructions in Greek and the pretty woman appeared with a basket of peaches and black cherries. She got no word of thanks as she put it down on the table, but once again the way she looked at Larry, her smile half-amused and half-insolent, suggested a closeness between them. Her task completed, she receded discreetly into the villa.
Larry bit into a peach and caught its trickling juice with his tongue. “Anyway, sorry, got a bit side-tracked there. What we really should be doing, like, is finding out who done in your mate Joyce.”
“Yes.”
“And you reckon the reason behind it’s something back in England?”
“I think it must be. At least there are certainly things I’d like to find out from England. Some information about Joyce’s husband, for a start.”
“Well, pretty obvious what you got to do then, isn’t it, Mrs P.?”
“What?”
Larry Lambeth looked at his watch. “They’re two hours back in England, so, yes, I’d say this was the perfect time to ring Truffler Mason, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Pargeter. “I think it well could be.”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧
Fifteen
“Hello. Mason de Vere Detective Agency.”
The voice, as ever, sounded as if it had just received information from an unimpeachable source that Armageddon had arrived.
“Truffler, it’s Mrs Pargeter.”
“You don’t know how good it is to hear from you.” The gloom in Truffler Mason’s voice deepened. Not only was the world about to end; he’d also discovered that hell did exist and, what’s more, it was compulsory.
Mrs Pargeter, who knew his manner of old, took the words at face value. “Very sweet of you to say so. It’s good to hear you too, Truffler.”
“Everything all right out there?” Anxiety joined the terminal depression in his voice. “I hope Larry Lambeth made contact. I told him to keep an eye on you.”
“I’m calling from Larry’s now. Thank you very much for setting that up.”
“Least I could do. When I think how your late husband looked after – no, nurtured, that’s the word – when I think how your late husband nurtured me in my career… well, whatever I do for you’s going to be too little.”
“Thank you very much,” said Mrs Pargeter at the end of this funeral oration. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“And you’re having a good time? Everything all right, is it?”
“Oh yes, everything fine,” she replied automatically. Then, remembering, continued, “Well, except for the fact that my friend’s been murdered.”
“What!”
“My friend, Joyce Dover, who I came on this package with, was murdered last night. It was made to look like suicide, but there’s no doubt it was murder.”
“I’ll come out there straight away,” said Truffler with mournful determination.
“No, there’s no need. I’m not in any danger.” Mrs Pargeter did not give herself time to question the truth of that assertion. “You can be much more use to me in England. Listen, I want some investigation done into Joyce’s background.”
“Fine. Give me the details.”
“Are you sure you’ve got time? There aren’t other cases you should be getting on with?” A clattering and thumping was heard from the other end of the phone. “Are you all right, Truffler? What was that noise?”
“Just me clearing my desk, Mrs Pargeter. From now on, your investigation is the only thing I’m working on.”
“But, Truffler, you shouldn’t –”
“I know my priorities, thank you. Come on, tell me what you want found out.”
“All right. Well, really it’s anything about Joyce Dover’s background. And her husband’s background, which, I’ve a feeling, is just as important. His name was Chris. He died a few months back, end of March I think it was. Anything you can get on either of them – particularly anything which might give them some kind of link with Corfu.”
“OK. And what about his death?”
“What do you mean?”
“Want me to check that everything was kosher there? I mean, maybe there was something funny went on with him snuffing it. Murders do tend to breed murders,” Truffler Mason concluded lugubriously.
“Yes, you’re right. That�
�s a very good thought. As I recall, Chris died of a heart attack… or was it a brain tumour?”
“Heart attacks can be engineered easily enough.” Truffler Mason sounded as if he was speaking from gloomy experience.
“True. Yes, so anything you can find out on his death too. I don’t know how long it’ll take you, but –”
“Give me Joyce Dover’s address and I’ll call you tomorrow night. About nine. Where shall I get you – Larry’s?”
“Erm, I’m not sure. Might be better at the hotel.”
“Which hotel’s that?”
“Hotel Nausica. Agios Nikitas. I’m afraid I haven’t got the number on me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get it.”
“Sorry to put you to the trouble.”
“Mrs Pargeter, compared to some of the things I’ve had to find out in my time, dealing with International Directory Enquiries is a doddle.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I’ll give you Joyce’s address. And she has a daughter called Conchita. I’ll give you hers too.” He took down the information. “Truffler, I really am grateful to you.”
“It’s nothing. Like I say, after the way your husband looked after me, anything you need, lady, you only have to say.”
“Oh.” Once again the reminder of the late Mr Pargeter’s solicitude brought a moistness to his widow’s eye. “Well, bless you. And everything’s going well for you, Truffler, is it?”
“Absolutely fine,” said Truffler Mason, in the voice of a man over whose head the hangman has just placed a bag.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧
Sixteen
“And anything I can do?” asked Larry, as he drove her gently over the broken rocks of the track down to Agios Nikitas.
“Well, there’s lots of local stuff I need to know about. Sergeant Karaskakis, for instance, anything you can find out about him…”
“Sure.”
“I mean, presumably he’s related to people round here?”
“Oh yes. Karaskakis is very much a local name. Lots of them in Agralias. He’s probably some sort of cousin of Spiro and Theodosia and Georgio and that lot. Most people round here are.”
“Right.” Mrs Pargeter was thoughtful. “There’s certainly something sinister about him, but whether he’s criminal or not I don’t know. His insistence that Joyce committed suicide could be just because he’s not very bright and has gone for the obvious… Or it could be because he doesn’t want all the fuss of a murder enquiry – you know, anything for a quiet life.”
“Or that he thinks a murder enquiry wouldn’t do the tourist trade a lot of good, so it’s better hushed up.”
“Yes, hadn’t thought of that one, Larry. Alternatively, he could be part of a conspiracy to cover up the murder and pass it off as suicide. He might even have killed her himself. There is some connection between them. I still can’t forget the way Joyce reacted when she first saw him.”
“No, that was spooky, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Well, any information you can find out about him…”
“Leave it with me. Anything else?”
“Let me think… Ooh – Ginnie…”
“What about her?”
“Just that she’s one of the few people out here who has direct links with England. I’m not sure that she quite counts as a suspect… Or perhaps she should be… I don’t know. She’s not very keen on you, incidentally, Larry.”
“It’s mutual.”
“What’s she got against you?”
“Just that… well, none of them have got much time for me out here.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m an outsider who’s moved in.”
“But you’re not as much an outsider as the English tourists. You are Greek, after all.”
He laughed. “Yes, but the tourists only come for the odd fortnight – I’m a fixture. Fact is, just being Greek is not enough, anyway. It depends whereabouts in Greece you come from. In Agralias they’re suspicious of people from the next village. All over the island you got feuds and vendettas that have been going on for yonks. Anyone who hasn’t lived here all his life is automatically suspicious. Oh no, so far as Agios Nikitas is concerned, I’m definitely an outsider.”
“But I don’t see why that should concern Ginnie. She’s not a local either, is she?”
“She lives with one, though.”
“Does she?” asked Mrs Pargeter in surprise.
“Sure. Why do you think a nicely-brought-up English rose suddenly sets up home in Corfu?”
“I assumed it was just because she had a job out here. Pretty nice place for a girl to spend her summers, I’d have thought.”
“For a young girl, maybe. Ginnie’s a bit long in the tooth for the carefree sun-and-sea existence.”
“Yes, I suppose she is.”
“Not that it’s all that carefree an existence, anyway. Listening to endless English tourists whingeing about the fact that their drains are blocked or the minimarket doesn’t stock the right brand of baked beans.”
“See what you mean. So who does Ginnie live with? Not Spiro surely?”
“No, no. Spiro hasn’t got a woman. She lives with Georgio.”
“The balding bloke who’s always in the taverna?”
“Right. Lazy bum. Spends his life giving Ginnie grief and knocking back Spiro’s ouzo. Never seen him pay a single drachma for it either. But then of course he’s another cousin, isn’t he?”
This new piece of information explained quite a lot. Like the way Georgio had been tearing Ginnie off a strip in the taverna the night Joyce died. Possibly even why Ginnie’s face had been bruised.
The cross-currents and interconnections between the people of Agios Nikitas got more complicated by the minute.
♦
The evening was beautiful and Mrs Pargeter felt too overstimulated to go straight to bed, so she sat under the awning of the Hotel Nausica to drink a last half-litre of retsina.
She felt a degree of satisfaction. At least, through the good offices of Truffler Mason and Larry Lambeth, her own investigation into Joyce’s death was under way.
It was the progress of the official investigation that worried her. The encounter with Sergeant Karaskakis had firmly suggested that the death would be tidied up as quickly as possible, regardless of the true facts of the case. And increasingly she felt that if such a whitewash were attempted, the entire population of Agios Nikitas would close ranks in a conspiracy of silence to protect the cover-up.
She hadn’t got a lot to go on really, until her investigators reported back. All the details that had convinced her Joyce’s death was murder were up at the Villa Eleni, and Mrs Pargeter had a nasty feeling that most of them would already have been removed.
No, unless the villa were subjected to a proper forensic examination, all the evidence she had became merely circumstantial.
Except for the ouzo bottle.
She looked across to a group of German tourists who were noisily drinking ouzo. She watched as a waiter brought new glasses. She watched as the drinkers diluted the clear spirit and watched as the liquid clouded.
Mrs Pargeter gulped down the remains of her glass, left the two-thirds that remained in the retsina bottle, and rushed up to her bedroom.
Her hands trembled with excitement as she unsnapped the seal on the bottle so tastelessly disguised as a Grecian column.
A preliminary sniff confirmed her suspicion. No aniseed tang. The contents were completely odourless.
She poured some into a glass, and filled another glass from the washbasin tap. Gently she trickled water in to dilute the contents.
The liquid remained transparent. She poured in more water to make sure, but still there was not the slightest evidence of clouding.
Whatever Joyce Dover had brought to Corfu in that bottle, it wasn’t ouzo.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧
Seventeen
Mrs Pargeter thought she was dreaming. The sound of aeroplanes filled her dream. World
War Two aeroplanes. They hummed in the distance, throbbed as they drew closer, screamed as they came overhead, then screeched away into the distance. A few minutes later the pattern would be repeated; another aeroplane would roar past. She felt she should be standing on the bridge of a ship next to a duffel-coated Kenneth More.
But she wasn’t. She appeared to be in her white bedroom at the Hotel Nausica in Agios Nikitas. And so far as she could tell, she was wide awake. She pinched herself. Her flesh felt plumply and reassuringly solid.
Slipping out from the single sheet under which she had slept, Mrs Pargeter went on to the balcony. The tranquil beauty of the morning greeted her, and for a moment she thought it really must have been a dream from which she had just woken. But, even as she had the thought, she became aware of a distant humming.
It grew in intensity. The sound was unmistakably that of an aeroplane, which built in volume until confirmed by the sight of an old heavy-bodied transport appearing in the sky low above the hotel roof. The engine noise reached a crescendo, then diminished as the plane changed direction and vanished round the contour of a headland.
As she put on a beige cotton dress and fixed a brightly coloured scarf at her neck, Mrs Pargeter tried to find a rational explanation for what was going on. Albania hadn’t suddenly declared war on Greece, had it?
No, perhaps someone was making a film or a television series…? Yes, that was much more likely. So many bizarre phenomena these days could be put down to the excesses of the entertainment industry.
She got the true explanation when she was outside under the hotel’s awning having breakfast. Just as Maria was serving her with coffee and a bowl of yoghurt and honey, the plane – or perhaps another plane, it was hard to tell how many of them there were – repeated its impression of strafing the Hotel Nausica.
“What is it?” asked Mrs Pargeter. “Someone making a movie?”
Maria grinned. “No, no, they’re fire-fighting.”
“What do you mean?”
“We get lots of fires out here – particularly when there’s as little rain as there has been this year. Much of the island is difficult to reach for fire-engines, but the planes can get there.”
“So what do they do? Do they have big water-tanks?”
