Mrs Pargeter 03; Mrs Pargeter’s Package

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

Twenty-Four

It was a huge relief to be safely through Passport Control at Heathrow.

And an even huger relief to have someone there to meet her.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Pargeter. I am Hamish Ramon Henriques.”

He took her hand and bowed down to kiss it. He was in his sixties, very tall and very British in dress. In spite of the mild June weather, he wore one of those three-piece tweed suits that look as if they have been marinated in family history. He had brown shoes built like rowing-boats and some sort of regimental tie. His accent epitomised the impeccable vagueness of the British upper classes.

But his face contradicted all these impressions. The skin was coffee with a dash of milk, and eyes like black olives crowded either side of the fine prow of his nose. All his features seemed lengthened, pulled down, as in a painting by El Greco. Centrally-parted white hair swept down over his ears and a long carefully-nurtured white moustache drooped over his full lips. He looked like an illustration of Don Quixote.

But he was no mere tilter at windmills. With exemplary efficiency, he whisked Mrs Pargeter through the terminal crowds and out to a limousine which waited, unmolested by traffic authorities, in the Strictly-No-Parking area directly outside the exit. The chauffeur needed no instructions but swept effortlessly through the traffic on to the M4.

“I have booked you into the Savoy,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques. “I gather you are always happy to stay there.”

“Yes. That’ll be very nice indeed, thank you.”

“I have spoken to Truffler Mason. He will meet you in the bar at six o’clock.”

“Oh, that is kind. Let’s hope he has got something to report.”

“In my experience, he is always very reliable. I have never known Truffler Mason not to come up with information in an investigation.”

“Well, that’s comforting. You’ve worked with him a lot, have you?”

Hamish Ramon Henriques made an expansive gesture. “My dear Mrs Pargeter, I have worked with everyone. Particularly of course with your late husband.” He looked soulful. “The business lost a great deal when he died, you know.”

“Yes,” Mrs Pargeter agreed pensively.

“No, he was a man with standards. Nowadays some of the people I have to work for…” – Hamish Ramon Henriques gave a very Latin shrug – “they are utterly immoral. They have no sense of right and wrong.”

Mrs Pargeter fervently endorsed this opinion. “I know, it’s dreadful, isn’t it?”

“With your late husband, one always knew where one stood. His operations were always efficient and so it was a pleasure to contribute one’s own efficiency to them.”

“And, er,” Mrs Pargeter asked cautiously, “you have always been involved in the transport side of things, have you?”

“Yes. I started in a very modest way back in the Fifties. Procuring and renting out getaway cars.”

“Oh yes?”

“But then the business expanded into other areas of transport. Obviously a lot of run-of-the-mill travel arrangements to predictable destinations… the Costa del Sol, certain South American countries… for people who needed to be out of England for a while. In fact, I once organised a trip of that kind for you and your late husband.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. To Crete. Do you remember it?”

“Certainly. We had a wonderful time. I didn’t know you arranged that.”

Hamish Ramon Henriques nodded with diffident pride. “It was my privilege. Quite tricky at the time, actually. They were looking out for him at the airports.”

“Really?” It did explain something, though. “Is that why he went on the plane dressed as a bishop?”

“Yes. The late Mr Pargeter was the Bishop of Tristan da Cunha, travelling to an Interdenominational Ecumenical Conference in Heraklion.”

“Good heavens.”

“That’s what it said on the passport. Didn’t you see it?”

Mrs Pargeter smiled apologetically. “No, he always looked after the passports. By the way,” she added, “who did I go as?”

Hamish Ramon Henriques looked bewildered. “Well, obviously – the wife of the Bishop of Tristan da Cunha. Who did you think you would have gone as?”

She giggled. “I don’t know. Thought I might have been an actress.”

Hamish Ramon Henriques didn’t see the joke. “No, no, that wouldn’t have done at all. Very important in my area of the travel business that one avoids immorality. It doesn’t do to draw attention to oneself.”

“No, no, of course not,” said Mrs Pargeter, suitably chastened. “And the company’s still going well, is it?”

“I’ll say. Everyone’s travelling more these days, so of course there’s a knock-on effect at my end of the business.”

“Good.”

“No, all going extremely well. I keep having to take on more staff. And of course I can charge rather more than the average travel agent for… you know, those little extras.”

“Little extras like what?”

He grinned. “Confidentiality… secrecy… bodyguards… not going to the police, that kind of thing.”

“Oh yes, of course. Incidentally, while we’re on the subject, do let me know what I owe you. I’d hate for you to –”

He raised his hands in horror. She had uttered blasphemy. “Mrs Pargeter, I would not dream of charging you anything. After all your late husband did for me in the early years of my business, all the work he put my way… I am almost insulted that you even mention it.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Very well. We say no more about it.”

“If you insist.”

“I do. Suffice it to say that, without your late husband’s support and faith, my company would certainly not have the pre-eminent position and reputation that it now enjoys.”

“Oh, I see. Hm. Well…” Mrs Pargeter felt that a change of subject would be appropriate, and prompted, “I dare say you’ve done some pretty big jobs in your time…?”

Hamish Ramon Henriques was more than happy to recount his triumphs. “I’ll say. Tricky one we did a few years back was that racehorse. You remember hearing about a horse called… Shergar?”

“Oh yes.”

“Well, that did present problems. I mean, easy enough to arrange transport for horses here – not so easy to fly them out to the southern hemisphere.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. Is he still out there?”

“I’ll say. Oh yes, Shergar’s going to confuse the bloodlines of international racing for a good few years yet.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask which part of the southern hemisphere it was, should I?”

“Well, of course I’d tell you, but –”

“No, shouldn’t have even raised the question.” Mrs Pargeter remembered the late Mr Pargeter’s views. “Some things better I don’t know.”

“Right.”

“So, Mr Henriques –”

“Please call me HRH. Everyone does.”

“Right. So, HRH, would you say that Shergar was the biggest job you’ve ever done?”

“Maybe. Mind you…” – he lowered his voice confidentially – “the one I’m proudest of is Lord Lucan.”

“Oh really,” said Mrs Pargeter. “You made his travel arrangements, did you?”

Hamish Ramon Henriques nodded modestly.

“Well, HRH, I don’t think I’ll ask about his destination either.”

“I’d tell you of course if you wanted to know, but… perhaps better not.”

“Right.”

“He’s still out there, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Haven’t seen him for a few years, but, er… I still get Christmas cards.”

“Ah.”

The earphone rang and the chauffeur answered it. “Crooks’ Tours.”

Hamish Ramon Henriques burst into a torrent of Spanish expletives. “Don’t you dare ever say that again!” he roared at the chauffeur.

“Sorry. Wasn’t thinking. It’s for you, Mr Henriques.”

His face still red with fury, Hamish Ramon Henriques picked up the extension.

♦

“Do please tell me,” he said, as the car bowled effortlessly along the Westway into London, “if there is any other service you require. Anything you need doing, my staff and I are at your disposal round the clock.”

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything?”

“No, I don’t think… Ooh yes, I wonder – would it be possible to get some photographs developed rather quickly?”

“Of course. Give the film to me and I will see that the prints are delivered to the Savoy within the hour.”

He took the film and handed her a printed card. “If there’s anything else you require, ring this number. Or do feel welcome to call in at our offices in Berkeley Square.”

“Thank you so much. There was one thing I wanted to ask you, HRH…”

“Ask away.”

“Have you ever, heard of someone called Chris Dover…?”

“Hm. Bloke who used to deal in arms back in the early Sixties – that the one?”

“Yes.”

“Came from South America somewhere, didn’t he?”

“Uruguay.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I just wondered if you’d ever had any dealings with him. You know, because he must have had a lot of travel arrangements, given his line of work. And of course he could have spoken Spanish to you, couldn’t he?”

“Yes. But no, I never did do anything for him. And that’s strange, really, because at that stage I was the only person in London in my line of business. There are a lot more now – I mean, HRH is still far and away the best – but there is more competition these days.”

“So you never even met Chris Dover?”

“No. And I know he was aware of what I did, because I heard from people who’d recommended my services to him. But he never made contact. And in fact, now I come to remember it, there were two or three occasions – you know, social functions – which we were both invited to, and each time he just didn’t turn up.”

“Coincidence.”

“Mmm,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques ruminatively. “More than coincidence I remember thinking at the time.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Almost as if Chris Dover was deliberately trying to avoid me.”