by Simon Brett
“Ethereal?” Mrs Pargeter suggested.
“Yes, that’s probably it. Anyway, everything, like, glowed golden and, through the custard, I seemed to hear this voice…” He paused, distracted by the memory.
“Who was it?” she prompted. “Chainsaw Cheveley?”
“Nah, nah, it was, like…” He looked a little sheepish. “I know this sounds daft… but I reckon it was an angel.”
“An angel?”
“Yeah.”
“What did the voice say?”
“It said: ‘Fossilface O’Donahue, you done wrong. You been a bad person. You’ve hurt people. You’ve never had no sense of humour about nothing. You gotta make restitooshun’.”
“‘Restitooshun’?”
“Restitooshun,” he confirmed gravely.
“And you say this was an angel?”
“I reckon it was. I mean, I couldn’t, like, see anyone, but I reckon it was an angel, yes.”
“You don’t think it could have been just Chainsaw Cheveley having you on?”
He shook his head decidedly. “No way. Chainsaw Cheveley’s never been heard to utter a sentence of more’n two words. He couldn’t have spouted all that lot, no way.”
“Ah. So what did you do?”
“Well, immediately, I shook Chainsaw Cheveley by the hand, and I said, ‘Thank you, mate, from the bottom of my heart!’”
“And what did he do?”
“He hit me with his spare fist. He thought I was only shaking his hand to make a move on him, you see.”
“So what did you do then?”
“I turned the other cheek.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And so then he punched me on that one, and all.”
“And you still didn’t hit him back?”
“No way. From that moment I was, like, a changed man. You know, they say the leopard can’t change his stripes, but that’s exactly what I done. From that moment I decided I would devote the rest of my life to making restitooshun to those what I done wrong to.”
“How long ago did this experience happen?”
“Well, about three years, but I couldn’t do nothing about it while I was still in the nick, like. I mean, I could make myself be nice to my fellow inmates, but I couldn’t sort out none of the blokes outside. Mind you, I could make plans for what restitooshun I’d make once I was a free man again. I thought of all the people what I done wrong to.”
“Oh yes?”
“There’s a lot of them. Your husband, like I said… Truffler Mason… Concrete Jacket… That Gary, the getaway driver… Keyhole Crabbe… do you know him?” Mrs Pargeter nodded, and Fossilface continued piously, “They was all going to need some restitooshun. And Hedgeclipper Clinton, and all.”
“So was tying Hedgeclipper and his receptionist up part of the ‘restitooshun’?”
“Well, no, I haven’t got on to his restitooshun yet. I’m still working on yours – or rather your husband’s… if you know what I mean.”
She didn’t, but she felt this wasn’t the moment to ask for an explanation. “So what else have you been doing for the last three years?”
“I been working on changing my personality,” he replied.
“Oh yes. How did you set about doing that?”
He smiled proudly. “I went to see the chaplain. Never had any of that God stuff when I was a nipper, so I got him to take me through the whole business, right from the start… you know, the Garden of Eton, the whole number, right up to the Crucifaction and the Reservation… And I got him to give me books to read.”
“What – like the Bible?”
“Well, yes, a few like that, but more of them was joke books.”
“Joke books?”
“That’s right. Because, you see, it’s like what the angel said. Not only had I done wrong, but also I never had no sense of humour. That’s what distinguishes man from the animals, the chaplain said – a sense of humour.”
“Well, it’s a point of view.”
“So I been working the last three years to build up my sense of humour.”
“From the joke books?”
“Yes.” He nodded with satisfaction, then coughed. “Do you know the joke about the nervous wreck?”
“No, I don’t believe I do,” said Mrs Pargeter.
Fossilface O’Donahue chuckled. “This’ll kill you, really will. Dead good, this one. I spent most of the past three years practising telling jokes, you know.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah. All right, so here goes.” He cleared his throat again. “What lies on the bottom of the ocean and shivers?”
“Amaze me,” said Mrs Pargeter.
“A nervous wreck!” Fossilface O’Donahue pronounced ecstatically, and burst into a deep rumble of laughter.
Mrs Pargeter joined in politely, though she thought he might still have a little way to go in his joke-telling technique. Fossilface wasn’t yet quite ready for the professional stand-up comedy circuit.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” he said. “Dead good.” Mrs Pargeter smiled encouragingly. “No,” he went on, “the chaplain told me… you go about your daily life with a sense of humour and people are bound to warm to you.”
“I’m sure they will.”
“So that’s what I’ve been working on – my sense of humour. Making sure that everyone who meets me leaves with a smile on their face.”
“What an appealing idea.”
“Mm.” He waved the plastic clown mask at her. “I thought this’d give you a good laugh.”
“Oh.”
He looked disappointed. “Didn’t, though, did it? It seemed almost like you was scared of it, rather than amused by it.”
“Well, yes, of course all jokes depend for their effect on the mood of the person they’re told to, don’t they?” she said judiciously. “And the occasion.”
“Yeah. So, another time, if you was, like, in the right mood, you’d’ve thought this mask was dead funny?”
“Yes, I’m sure I would, Fossilface.”
The nickname had slipped out unintentionally. Mrs Pargeter held her breath for a second, waiting for the, reaction, but was relieved to see a smile split his craggy features.
“Good. That’s what I want to do, you see – leave people with smiles on their faces.”
“Very nice too.”
“My aim is to, like, suddenly appear from nowhere, do the restitooshun to the geezers what I done wrong to, then vanish off again.” He chuckled throatily. “Sort of like the Loan Arranger.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s another joke I learnt from one of the books while I was in the nick. This bloke, see, he goes to the bank, and there’s this other bloke sitting at a desk with a black mask on… I mean, the bloke’s got the mask on, not the desk.”
“Right.”
“And the bloke – this is the first bloke, I mean the one who come in – he says to another bloke – this is not the one sitting at the desk with the mask on…”
“It’s a third bloke, in fact.”
“It is. You got it, right, a third bloke. Anyway, this bloke – the one who’s come in – he asks the other bloke – not the one with the mask on his desk, that is, the third one – he asks him: ‘Oo’s that bloke over there?’ This is the one with the mask he’s asking about now, right?”
“Right.”
“So the other bloke – this is the third one now…”
“I’m with you.”
“He says: ‘That bloke’s our Mortgage Department. He’s the Loan Arranger!’”
Fossilface O’Donahue rumbled with laughter at his punch-line, and Mrs Pargeter too managed to summon up a little chuckle. “Very good, very good.”
“Yeah, well, the trick with jokes,” he confided, “doesn’t lie in the joke itself…”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No, it’s not the jokes – it’s the way you tell them.”
“Ah.”
“I been practising that, and all.”
“Oh, it shows, it shows.”
“Yes. You know, I’m really working on this sense of humour business.”
“So I can see.”
“And I’m going to use it in the way I make restitooshun to the people what I done wrong to.”
“Oh really?” said Mrs Pargeter, unable to disguise the edge of anxiety in her voice. She didn’t relish the loose cannon of Fossilface O’Donahue’s sense of humour coming anywhere near her.
“You bet. For instance, do you know what I done wrong to your husband?”
“No.” Mrs Pargeter wasn’t sure that she actually wanted to know.
“I cheated him out of five hundred nicker.”
“Oh dear. Well, I’m sure he would have forgiven you for –”
“Oh no, he’s going to get restitooshun for it all right – or, actually, you’re going to get restitooshun for it.”
“Thank you,” Mrs Pargeter murmured weakly.
“In fact, you already got it.”
“Have I?”
“Yes. You are the proud recipient of the first bit of restitooshun what I done since I come out…”
“Lucky me.”
“… and you’re the first one to experience the full effect of my sense of humour.”
“Really?”
“So what do you think of it, eh?”
Mrs Pargeter was perplexed. “I’m sorry. I’m not quite with you. You’ll have to explain.”
Gleefully, Fossilface O’Donahue did as he was requested. “I done your old man out of five hundred… What’s the slang for five hundred?”
It became horribly clear. “A ‘monkey’?” she suggested with resignation.
“Exactly,” a triumphant Fossilface confirmed.
Mrs Pargeter looked down at Erasmus, sleeping in his circle of debris on the carpet. “Oh yes,” she said. “Very amusing.”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧
Eleven
“The thought of Fossilface O’Donahue having developed a sense of humour,” said Truffler Mason heavily, “is almost too awful to contemplate.”
“Right. I’m afraid he hasn’t really caught on to the idea properly yet. I mean, I think that maybe he understands the general principle of humour, but he sure as hell doesn’t understand what makes something funny.”
“No, he always did have a rather ponderous approach to… well, to everything, really.”
Truffler took a contemplative sip of his champagne. They were in the bar of Greene’s Hotel, later the same evening. Having started drinking champagne, Mrs Pargeter saw no reason to stop. Fossilface O’Donahue had gone, and a touching reunion been effected between Hedgeclipper Clinton and Erasmus. The hotel manager was determined to protect the marmoset more rigorously in future.
Mrs Pargeter would not have dared to give the monkey away again, had Fossilface still been there. She had come to the conclusion that his mind worked in a very linear way, and could not deal with more than one idea at a time. While he was in the process of making his misguided ‘restitooshun’ to her, he couldn’t think about the ‘restitooshun’ he was planning for anyone else. If Fossilface discovered that Erasmus had been returned to Hedgeclipper Clinton, he was quite capable of trussing the hotel manager up all over again.
But Mrs Pargeter couldn’t help finding the thug’s incompetence slightly endearing. “I think he’s doing it all for good motives,” she said to Truffler in a conciliatory tone. “His heart’s in the right place.”
“That’s never been an acceptable excuse for anything,” the detective growled. “Fossilface O’Donahue is trouble, whatever he does. And I think I’d rather have him making trouble from bad motives than honourable ones. When you’re dealing with a dyed-in-the-wool villain, you know what to expect. Whereas you have no idea what’ll be the next idiocy committed by a born-again Robin Hood.”
“Oh, come on, give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“A very unwise thing ever to give to Fossilface O’Donahue. There’s nothing more dangerous than the zeal of the convert. They’re all the same – alcoholics, divorcees, vegetarians, smokers, Catholics…” He shuddered. “And villains who’ve seen the error of their ways are the worst of the lot.” Suddenly anxious, Truffler asked, “Who else did you say he wanted to make ‘restitooshun’ to?”
“He said there were lots, but certainly Gary, Concrete, Hedgeclipper, Keyhole Crabbe… and, er, you.”
The detective snorted. “I’d better warn the others.”
“It may be all right, Truffler. And I really mean it when I say that Fossilface will be acting from the best of motives.”
“Doesn’t matter what his motives are, that guy’s a walking disaster area. And he has this nasty habit of disappearing off the face of the earth, so you can never know where the next attack’s coming from. No, we’ve all got to be on our guard, no question.”
Mrs Pargeter sighed. She knew there was no shifting Truffler when he got an idea fixed in his mind. “Well, let’s try to forget about Fossilface for a moment, and think what we’re going to do about Concrete Jacket. It seems like it happened in another lifetime, but it was only this afternoon I went to visit him in prison… and got nothing out of him.”
“Hm.”
“Come on, Truffler, we’ve got to get this sorted.”
“If Concrete really won’t give us anything, I don’t see how we can.”
Mrs Pargeter drummed her fingers on the table. “There’s got to be a way.”
“But if he won’t open up to you, I don’t see –”
“He doesn’t really know me that well. I mean, he likes me and respects me because of my husband, but I’m not, like, one of his really close buddies.”
“No. Did you mention the late Mr Pargeter when Concrete wouldn’t talk?”
“Oh yes, I was totally shameless. Played the full ‘What about your loyalty to my late husband?’ card. Nothing. No, either Concrete’s protecting someone…”
“Or?”
“Or he’s just very scared.” For a moment Mrs Pargeter was lost in thought. “You know I was talking about me not being one of his really close buddies?”
“Uhuh?”
“Has Concrete got any really close buddies? I mean, anyone who might stand a better chance of getting something out of him than I would?”
“Well… Guy he always used to be very matey with… was Keyhole Crabbe.”
“Oh?” Even if it had not been so recently mentioned by Fossilface O’Donahue, the name would still have been very familiar. Keyhole Crabbe had been a significant cog in the late Mr Pargeter’s smoothly functioning business machine. And had indeed since that time used his specialized skills to help Mrs Pargeter investigate a murder on a housing estate called Smithy’s Loam.
“Yes,” Truffler went on. “Those two worked together a lot over the years. They was as thick as… as thick as… as thick as two close mates can be,” he concluded discreetly.
“Really?”
The detective nodded. “Those two go back a long, long way. If anyone could make old Concrete talk, it’d be Keyhole.”
A light of excitement glowed in Mrs Pargeter’s violet-blue eyes. “Well then, why don’t we –”
“One small problem, though.”
“What?”
Truffler spread his hands wide in a gesture of defeat. “Keyhole’s inside – doing a twelve-year stretch.”
Mrs Pargeter sat back in disappointment and frustration.
“Mind you,” said Truffler Mason, a twinkle lightening his lugubrious eye, “that’d present less of a problem to Keyhole than it would to most people…”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧
Twelve
In a cell in Bedford Prison the inmate on the top bunk stirred, alerted by a metallic scraping sound he heard from the direction of the door. “What’s going on?” he asked blearily, peering through the half-light.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. ‘Sonly me,” a voice replied from the gloom.
“You
going out then?”
“Just nipping down the kitchen for a cuppa.”
“Oh, right.” Reassured, the inmate on the top bunk snuggled back under his covers. “See you in the morning,” he mumbled into a yawn.
The practised hands of the man at the door eased a flexible metal probe along the narrow crack. He let out a little sigh as he felt it engage with the bolt. Gently he pressured it back till a soft click told him that the door was unlocked.
He slipped through on to the dimly lit corridor. Stowing the probe in his pocket, he took out a compact ring of picklocks, instinctively found the relevant one and locked the cell door behind him.
Then Keyhole Crabbe moved silently along the corridor to tackle his next obstacle, the door from his cell block into the main body of the prison.
♦
Three minutes later he slipped out of the front gates of Bedford Prison, listening for the bolt to spring shut behind him. By now he had a prison officer’s overcoat covering his prison uniform. Keyhole Crabbe moved out of the floodlit area and slid unobtrusively into the shadows that edged the prison walls.
Walking – almost weaving – towards him along the pavement was a man in dinner suit and black tie. The prisoner recognized the prison governor, returning from a Police Federation Masonic shindig in London.
“Evening, Governor,” said Keyhole Crabbe, with a jaunty half-salute to his temple.
“Evening,” the prison governor replied, and walked on. Then he stopped for a moment, fuddled and bemused. He felt sure he recognized that face from somewhere.
But by the time he turned round for a second look, the figure of Keyhole Crabbe had disappeared round a corner. The prison governor shook his head, shrugged, and continued on his way.
♦
Gary’s limousine was parked, as per arrangement, in a side street adjacent to the prison. “Any problems?” asked Mrs Pargeter, as Keyhole Crabbe joined her in the back and Gary eased the car into gear.
“No, doddle,” Keyhole replied. “I do it fairly regular, you know. Old lady gets lonely sleeping alone in that big bed.”
“How’s she keeping?”
“Oh, great.”
“And the kids?”
“Terrific. Would you believe there’s another one on the way?”
