Mrs Pargeter 03; Mrs Pargeter’s Package

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

Six

It was over within seconds. No one except Mrs Pargeter and Larry Lambeth noticed anything amiss. Mr Safari Suit was busily ordering Mrs Safari Suit to look more relaxed for a holiday snap. Linda from South Woodham Ferrers was trying to get Craig off to sleep again, while Keith from South Woodham Ferrers, who kept saying how great it felt to be away from the office, was punching at his calculator, working out how the price of Greek white wine compared with the Lutomer Riesling from Sainsbury’s that they liked so much. The Secretary with Short Bleached Hair and the Secretary with Long Bleached Hair leant close over their lager glasses, planning their fortnight’s campaign of sexual conquest.

The man in uniform was also unaware of the effect he had had. By the time he had been clapped on the shoulder and waved on his way by Spiro, Joyce had rushed from the table to the edge of the sea, where she leant over the water shaking convulsively.

Mrs Pargeter was quickly by her side. Joyce had emptied her stomach, but still shuddered with dry retching.

“There, there, love,” said Mrs Pargeter, putting an arm round her friend’s shoulders. “You all right?”

Tears, induced either by nausea or emotion, coursed down Joyce’s cheeks, negating the vigour with which she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”

“Did you see something that frightened you?”

“What?” A wariness came into her eyes. “No, no, I didn’t see anything. Must be something I ate on the plane. Airline food’s always pretty dodgy.”

“I had the same, and I feel all right,” said Mrs Pargeter evenly.

“Something I was allergic to, perhaps.” Seeing the discreet scepticism that greeted this, Joyce tried another tack. “I’m sorry, since Chris died, I’ve just been in such a nervy state, it doesn’t take much to set me off. You know, you think you’re in control and then suddenly you’re reminded of something or you see something, and the pain of loss is right back with you.”

“Yes, I know, Joyce love.” The soothing voice hardened a little. “And what were you reminded of just now?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Did you see something just now that set you off?”

“What? No, no, I was just using that as an example. I just had a thought about Chris and… you know, the fact that I was on holiday without him and… the emotion just got the better of me.”

“Yes, of course. I see,” said Mrs Pargeter, as if the explanation satisfied her.

“Erm, is there anything I can do to help?” Larry Lambeth, who had been hovering at a discreet distance, stepped forward to the couple at the sea’s edge.

“No, thank you,” Mrs Pargeter replied. “Joyce is just not feeling very well. I think we’d better find our villa and get her to bed. Don’t you think that’d be a good idea, Joyce?”

“Yes, yes, thank you, Melita.” Joyce Dover pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped her face and blew her nose noisily.

She turned back with some trepidation to face the taverna, and seemed relieved that the policeman had disappeared. Resolutely she walked back to their table.

“I’ll just go and see Ginnie, find out exactly where the villa is,” said Mrs Pargeter.

Again the atmosphere inside the taverna seemed to come from another culture, but this time without the same sense of threat. Maybe it was the police uniform which had struck the previous sinister note.

Ginnie was in conversation with the balding man. Though Mrs Pargeter couldn’t understand a word, the tone of his voice suggested that he was tearing the rep off a strip. She kept trying to remonstrate, but never got much further than the name ‘Georgio’. The man became aware of Mrs Pargeter and stopped speaking, gesturing her presence to Ginnie with his eyebrows. He went back to his ouzo as the girl turned round. She looked flushed and upset. Older, too. The rep was well into her thirties.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Ginnie, but my friend Mrs Dover isn’t feeling very well. I think we’d better make our way to the villa now, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course.” Ginnie stood up. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Oh no, just a bit of gastric trouble. Sure she’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Yes. The villa’s only a couple of hundred yards away. I’ll walk you up there.”

“Thank you. I’d better just settle up for the meal…”

“Spiro!” Ginnie shouted, the name prefacing a torrent of Greek. Georgio added his own incomprehensible views of the subject.

Spiro appeared from the kitchen, his broad smile already in place. He flashed something in Greek, which sounded almost like an order, to Ginnie, then turned his beam on Mrs Pargeter. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d just like the bill, please. My friend’s not feeling too well, so I think I’d better get her into bed.”

“Yes. I hope she soon be better in the morning. It is a very healthy island, Corfu. The air is good, soon make her… right as rain.” He pronounced the idiom with considerable pride.

“I’m sure it will. So, if you could just tell me what I owe you…?”

His hands dismissed the idea. “No, please, I can’t work it out now. Too much trouble. You pay me next time you come to Spiro’s.”

“Oh, well, if you’re sure…?”

“Of course. No problem.”

What a nice gesture of trust. Then came the little cynical thought that of course it wasn’t just a gesture of trust; it was also a way of ensuring that nice honest English people would return to eat at the taverna again.

“Can we go now? I feel dreadful.”

It was Joyce who had spoken. She leaned weakly against the doorway.

“Yes, love. We’re sorted now and –”

Mrs Pargeter stopped. Once again Joyce had gone into her trance of horror. She was gazing over towards the bar counter. Behind it, the silent dark-haired woman now stood, mixing Nescafe into coffee cups. She did not register Joyce’s presence, but moved across the room to hand the cups to Yianni, who swirled past to deliver them to customers outside. Then the woman retreated into the kitchen. Spiro, who did not appear to have noticed anything odd, followed her.

Joyce still gazed fixedly ahead, her face a white mask of terror.

“Come on, love,” said Mrs Pargeter, taking her friend’s arm and marching her firmly out of the taverna. “You need to get to bed.”

Larry Lambeth still lurked protectively by their table. “Anything I can do, Mrs Pargeter?”

“No, really. We’ll be fine now.”

“Look, here’s my address and phone number.” He thrust a piece of paper into her hand. “There’s an Ansaphone there, so don’t hesitate to get in touch, you know, if there’s the smallest thing you need…”

“Thank you, Mr Lambeth.”

“Please call me Larry.”

“Very well, Larry. Thank you.” Mrs Pargeter had a sudden thought and moved closer to him. “There is something perhaps you can tell me.”

“Yes?” Larry Lambeth dropped his voice to a matching whisper.

“The man in uniform who was here earlier…?”

“Mm?”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Sergeant Karaskakis. From the Tourist Police.”

“Ah. And perhaps you can also tell me –”

“Right, are we set?” Ginnie bustled towards them. “The villa’s only a couple of minutes away and – ” It was the sight of Larry that stopped her in mid-sentence. She looked at him with undisguised distaste.

“Well, er, better be on my way now,” he said awkwardly, and scuttled off into the warm night.

“That man wasn’t troubling you, was he?” asked Ginnie.

“No. No, actually, he was being very helpful,” Mrs Pargeter replied.

“Oh. Well, keep an eye on him. Apparently he has some kind of criminal record back in England.”

“Really?” said Mrs Pargeter, her eyes wide with naive amazement.

“Yes, and you know what they say… once a thief, always a thief.”

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” said Mrs Pargeter righteously.