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

by Simon Brett

  “But, Truffler,” she went on, “you didn’t manage to find any connection between Chris Dover and Greece?”

  “Absolutely none. Certainly had no business dealings with Greece. Didn’t go there on holiday. So far as I can tell, he’d never been near the place.”

  “Hm.” Mrs Pargeter mused for a moment. “Incidentally, did you get in touch with the daughter?”

  “Conchita? No. I tried, but I think you’ll find it easier to contact her than I will.”

  “What?”

  “She’s on her way out to Corfu. The grisly business of taking back her mother’s body.”

  “Ah.” Mrs Pargeter wondered whether that meant the suicide verdict had already been achieved and the cover-up completed. “Right. Well, I’ll look out for her. Do you think you’re likely to find out much more about Chris Dover?”

  “Well, Mrs Pargeter, I got a lot of enquiries out. Something unexpected might come in from one of them. Though, in my experience, when you get a case like this where someone’s deliberately covered their tracks, if you don’t get a lead early on, you ain’t going to get one.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ve found out the name of a solicitor Chris Dover dealt with a lot. Mr Fisher-Metcalf. I’m going to try and get to see him. Maybe find out something there, but I’m not overoptimistic,” he concluded in the voice which had never been heard to sound even mildly optimistic, let alone overoptimistic.

  “And what about his death? Anything odd there?”

  “I’ve checked with the hospital. And his family doctor. Nothing. It was a brain tumour. Difficult thing to engineer, a brain tumour. Not like a heart attack – that’s easy.”

  “Yes. Did he look ill… you know, in photographs?” Mrs Pargeter knew Truffler’s modus operandi. His first action in investigation of anyone – alive or dead – was to get hold of photographs of the subject, and his skill in obtaining these was legendary.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a strange thing, Mrs Pargeter. I’ve done a lot of investigation on this and, do you know, as far as I can tell, not a single photograph of Chris Dover exists.”

  “Really? But surely there must have been something round the house?”

  Mrs Pargeter felt slightly guilty for having said that. Just slipped out. She was never one to pry into any of her helpers’ methods of investigation, but she knew that Truffler would already have entered and searched the Dovers’ home. Shouldn’t have mentioned it, though, she reprimanded herself. Keeping in blissful ignorance of any dubious deeds that might be going on was a talent Mrs Pargeter had refined over the years, and she wondered for a moment whether perhaps she was losing the knack. Still, it had been quite a time since the late Mr Pargeter died. Maybe she was just out of practice.

  Truffler seemed unaware of her lapse, anyway, so it didn’t matter. “No, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not in the office, neither. Company photographs, company reports, lots of that stuff, but not one of them shows a photograph of Chris Dover. Almost like he had a phobia about being photographed. Odd, that, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs Pargeter thoughtfully. “Very odd.”

  ∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

  Twenty

  As she put the phone down, Mrs Pargeter saw Maria lingering in the doorway that led to the hotel kitchen. How long the girl had been there, or how much of the telephone conversation she had overheard, was impossible to guess.

  But she gave Mrs Pargeter a large, totally unsinister smile and said, “There was a message for you about an hour ago. From someone who wondered if you could meet her at Spiro’s at ten o’clock this evening.”

  “Did she give a name?”

  “Yes. Strange name. It sounded like… Conchita Dover?”

  “Ah,” said Mrs Pargeter.

  ♦

  At first she didn’t think the girl was there. Though Mrs Pargeter hadn’t seen Conchita since she was a child and so didn’t know exactly what to expect, there was no one under Spiro’s striped awning who looked as if she had just arrived on the island, summoned by news of a dreadful tragedy. There were the usual loud groups of English, louder groups of Germans and a few Greeks, the last no doubt holidaying relatives of the management. They had all had a few rounds of drinks, their food orders were starting to arrive and everyone was very relaxed.

  Mrs Pargeter looked round again and realised there was only one person it could be. A dark-haired girl, who at first glance she had taken for a local, was sitting alone at a table, chatting to Yianni. Of course, there are certain very distinctive types right through the Mediterranean, Mrs Pargeter reminded herself. It was the Spanish blood of her father’s relatives, filtered through Uruguay, that made Conchita Dover look so at home in Agios Nikitas.

  On closer examination, the girl did look a bit too soignee to be a local. The way her thick black hair had been cut indicated an urban sophistication, which was echoed in the expensively casual flow of her designer pyjama suit.

  Mrs Pargeter approached her. “It is Conchita, isn’t it?”

  Yianni fired off one of his devastating smiles and left them to get on with the business of introduction.

  “I’m terribly sorry about what happened to Joyce, Conchita. ‘Sorry’ sounds a wretchedly inadequate word in the circumstances, but you really do have my sympathy.”

  “Thank you.” There was a hardness in the girl’s black eyes. “I wonder if she got what she really wanted.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Mother had been threatening suicide for years.”

  “What, since your father died, you mean?”

  “No, long before that. Practically since I can remember. She always was a dreadful emotional manipulator. Suicide threats used to be her ultimate weapon.”

  “Oh?” This was a new insight into Joyce Dover. Once again Mrs Pargeter was reminded how little she had really known her friend.

  “Mind you, she’d cried wolf so often, I’d long ago ceased to listen. Overdid it this time, though, didn’t she? Called her own bluff good and proper.”

  “Well…”

  “Anyway,” said Conchita, picking up her ouzo glass and taking a savage sip, “I’m not going to let it get to me. Mummy tried to control me all the time she was alive and, if she thinks she can continue the process from beyond the grave, she can forget the idea!”

  Only the rigidity of her jaw betrayed the effort with which Conchita was holding in her emotions.

  “I think using suicide as an emotional lever is utterly pathetic,” she went on. “I very much doubt whether Mummy really meant it to succeed. Probably just intended another ‘cry for help’, but cocked it up. Presumably the idea, as ever, was just to make me feel guilty. Well, if that was the intention, it isn’t going to succeed!”

  Mrs Pargeter hadn’t been prepared for this outburst of recrimination and adjusted the way she had proposed to talk to Conchita. She would hold back her suspicions about Joyce’s death for a while. Spiro’s taverna wasn’t the place for revelations of the kind she had to make.

  On the other hand, if Joyce did have a history of threatening to kill herself, that could only help what Mrs Pargeter was now convinced was an intention on Sergeant Karaskakis’ part to cover up the murder as suicide.

  “Whatever your mother’s reasons for doing it,” she announced uncontroversially, “it’s still very sad. Any premature death, however it’s caused, is sad.”

  “Huh,” said Conchita.

  Yianni pirouetted back towards their table. “Please, can I get you something, please?” he asked Mrs Pargeter.

  She ordered retsina. Conchita asked for another ouzo. The girl watched the waiter’s retreating hips, very much in the way that her mother had done only a few days before. Her thoughts on the subject seemed quite similar, too. “He’s very dishy,” she murmured.

  Mrs Pargeter agreed.

  “Be quite nice,” Conchita mused, “to indulge in a purely physical relationship w
ith someone like that. Someone who’s just beautiful, someone who doesn’t speak the language, who can only communicate with his body. I’m sick to death of men who can talk!”

  “Ah?”

  “The only reason men are able to talk, it seems to me, is so that they can bore you to tears with lies and recrimination and self-justification. God, men are so pathetic – don’t you find that?”

  Though this description certainly did not conform with Mrs Pargeter’s experience of the male sex, she didn’t want to stop Conchita’s flow, so she contented herself with a non-committal “Certainly a point of view.”

  “There are supposed to be these men around who are caring and concerned and altruistic and thoughtful and don’t spend all their time trying to screw you up, and all I can say is – I’ve never come across any of them. All the ones I meet are complete shits.”

  “What about your father?” asked Mrs Pargeter diffidently. “Did he fit into that category?”

  Conchita Dover softened instantly. “Ah, my father was something special. He was a very caring man.”

  Mrs Pargeter had heard similar views over the years from many only daughters, girls who were more than a little in love with their fathers, and whose fathers, without raising the dramatic spectre of incest, did nothing to discourage such flattering attentions. It seemed more than likely that Conchita Dover’s dissatisfaction with men as a sex arose from the inability of those she had met to measure up to the idolised Chris.

  The strong element of sexual jealousy in her next words confirmed this impression. “He was wasted on Mummy, of course. Kowtowed to her, put up with her moods, did everything she wanted, worshipped her. And she just took him for granted. When he died, I really couldn’t believe how God had got it so wrong. She was the one who should have died, not him.”

  “If that’s what you feel,” Mrs Pargeter interposed gently, “you could say that God’s adjusted the balance now. Your mother’s dead, too.”

  This statement of fact seemed to shock Conchita out of her cynicism. “Yes,” she said, “yes,” and lapsed into silence.

  “I was never lucky enough to meet your father…”

  “No.”

  “I don’t even know what he looked like…” This didn’t produce any reaction, so Mrs Pargeter added another prompt. “Do you have a photograph of him by any chance?”

  “No. No, Daddy would never have his photograph taken.” So Truffler’s surmise had been correct. “Because of the scarring on his face.”

  “Oh? I didn’t know about that.”

  “His face was quite badly scarred. He’d lost a good few layers of skin. It made his features look all sort of smoothed out…”

  “Do you know how it happened?”

  “He never said, but I think it was when he was in Uruguay. Apparently he had political disagreements with the government out there, which was why he left. I think the scarring was probably the result of torture.”

  “But he never actually said that?”

  “No. He never talked about Uruguay at all. Whenever anyone asked him about his early life, he’d just change the subject, or say some things were better forgotten.”

  “I see.” Mrs Pargeter took a sip of retsina. “Have you had any contact with the authorities out here… you know, about when they’re likely to release your mother’s body?”

  “The initial contact came through the British Consulate… that’s how I first heard about… her death. They said certain formalities would have to be gone through… I suppose the local equivalent of an inquest… but they didn’t seem to think it would take more than a few days.”

  “Presumably they were only passing on what the Greek authorities had told them?”

  “Presumably. They seemed a bit… sort of embarrassed about it. But then my mother liked embarrassing people,” Conchita added vindictively.

  “Death’s always embarrassing.”

  “Yes. “SUICIDE IN HOLIDAY PARADISE” – not the kind of headline that the tour operators are really going to welcome, is it?”

  “No.” Still Mrs Pargeter held back her knowledge of the true circumstances of Joyce Dover’s death.

  “Anyway, it was suggested that I should get out here as soon as possible. There’ll be papers to sign and that kind of thing before the body can be flown back.”

  “Of course. So, what… you wait till someone contacts you…?”

  “Mm. Some local police representative, I think. There was a message to say he would meet me here this evening.” Conchita scrabbled in her handbag. “I’ve got the name somewhere here. It was…”

  “Sergeant Karaskakis?” Mrs Pargeter supplied.

  “Yes,” said Conchita. “That’s right.”

  ∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

  Twenty-One

  “Talk of the devil,” murmured Mrs Pargeter.

  Sergeant Karaskakis looked more geometric than ever as he approached them. The horizontal line of his cap paralleled the right angles of his uniformed shoulders, and the triangle of its peak was an inverse reflection of his perfectly symmetrical moustache.

  His mouth was set in a professional smile to greet Conchita. This paled a little when he saw Mrs Pargeter. The music blaring from the taverna’s speakers changed. Bouzouki gave way to Beatles.

  He gave Mrs Pargeter a curt nod and turned to Conchita. “Miss Dover?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am Sergeant Karaskakis.”

  “How do you do?”

  “I am very sorry about the unfortunate circumstances which have brought you here, and I trust that your journey was not difficult.” This had the air of a sentence that he had practised.

  “No. It was a scheduled flight. There were no delays.”

  “Good.” The Sergeant seemed to have taken a decision to conduct the conversation as if Mrs Pargeter was not there. “Everything is proceeding as quickly as possible with the formalities, Miss Dover. I am optimistic that it will all be concluded in two or three days.”

  “Fine.”

  “And then you will be free to make your melancholy way back to England with the body.” He seemed rather pleased with this sentence, as if it was another one he had worked at and polished with the help of a dictionary.

  “Thank you. So… what happens? Do I just wait to hear from you?”

  “I will keep you informed, of course. You are staying, I believe, in Costa’s Apartments?”

  “Yes, the tour company organised that for me.” Conchita suppressed a yawn and looked at her watch. The tensions of the last couple of days were catching up with her. “I think, actually, if there isn’t anything else, I’ll get on up there. I’m pretty knackered.”

  “Knackered?” Clearly Sergeant Karaskakis’ precise textbook English didn’t encompass the niceties of slang.

  “Tired.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “So if you’ll excuse me… And Mrs Pargeter…”

  “You have a good night’s sleep, Conchita love.”

  “Thank you.” The girl waved across to Yianni and mimed writing a bill.

  “I hope,” said Sergeant Karaskakis formally, bringing out what appeared to be yet another prepared line, “that you will be able to enjoy your stay in Agios Nikitas as much as the unhappy circumstances permit.”

  “Thank you.” Conchita turned the full beam of her smile on Yianni. “Just for two ouzos, please.”

  “Yes, of course, please,” he said, blushing a little and fumbling with his notepad.

  “Got a taste for ouzo, have you?” asked Mrs Pargeter. “You been out in Greece before?”

  “No, never,” Conchita replied. “But I’ve had it in Greek restaurants in London, and my father always liked it.”

  “Oh,” said Mrs Pargeter.

  Conchita paid Yianni and gave him a substantial tip. In full consciousness of her sexuality, she flashed him a farewell smile, then picked up her handbag and rose. “See you around then,” she said to Mrs Pargeter. “And you know where to find me when you need to, Sergeant
.”

  “Of course.”

  He rose politely to see her off, but then sank down again and looked at Mrs Pargeter. An arrogant smile twitched beneath his moustache, as he spoke.

  “You will gather there have been no problems about Mrs Dover’s death.”

  “Yet,” said Mrs Pargeter defiantly.

  “There will not be any,” he countered confidently. “When all the evidence points in one direction, only a perverse person would try to disprove what is obvious.”

  “I can be very perverse.”

  “You would be very foolish to be perverse in this case – though very soon it won’t matter, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In two – perhaps three – days, the authorities out here will be satisfied to release the body. After that, it will not matter what ridiculous allegations about murder are made. The case will be over.”

  “Who are these authorities?” asked Mrs Pargeter.

  “The details do not concern you. Rest assured, all enquiries are being made in the correct way.”

  “You mean the authorities have all the relevant evidence?”

  “They have photographs, samples and reports from the scene of the incident.”

  “Whose reports?”

  He could not resist a wolfish grin as he answered, “Mine.”

  “No one else’s?”

  “Of course. Reports from police detectives as well.” He paused for a moment, enjoying the scene. “Police detectives who, as it happens, are good friends of mine. One is my cousin, as a matter of fact.”

  Just as the Customs officer at Corfu Airport had been. Mrs Pargeter knew she was up against a brick wall. Sergeant Karaskakis had got the whole case sewn up. However impartial the investigating authorities might be, he had seen to it that they were only presented with his version of events. And of course a suicide verdict would be much tidier and less disruptive than one of murder.

  He spread his hands wide in a gesture of mock-helplessness. “No, I am afraid there is nothing can be done. In two, three days it will be official that Mrs Dover killed herself. Then no further enquiry will be possible.”