Mrs Pargeter 05; Mrs Pargeter’s Plot

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧

28

That morning Gary’s cottage remained in audition mode. When viewed from the other side of the road, a slight haze of mist still blurred the cottage’s outline, but that seemed only to make the archetypal scene more beautiful (or it would have done to a watcher with more aesthetic sensitivity than Blunt). And the mist was of the kind that would soon be burnt away by the midday heat of another perfect summer day.

This was good news for the bride and groom in whose honour Gary was tying white satin ribbon across the bonnet of his new Rolls-Royce. Their special day, which would be immortalized in endless photographs – and probably a video – was going to be a perfect English summer day. If the marriage subsequently went wrong – and of course one in three marriages do – at least they wouldn’t be able to blame the weather.

The doors of the barn adjacent to the cottage were open. The building had double doors front and back; from the front the vehicles would drive out proudly on their various missions; while the back led to a yard where necessary maintenance was carried out. On the gravel drive Gary, neat in his uniform, seemed almost umbilically attached to his precious Rolls-Royce. Two other drivers, equally smart, adjusted white satin bows and buffed the already glasslike bonnets of two lesser limousines. The wedding was a good booking for the company.

Gary’s wife Denise came out of the cottage, dressed in a smart turquoise suit and white hat. It was her friend who was getting married. Gary had also been invited as a guest, but preferred to be present in his professional capacity.

“Look great, love,” he said to Denise, as she approached the car. “I’d marry you any day.”

“Well, forget it,” she said tartly. “I’m already married.”

“Damn, always a snag, isn’t there?” Gary gave his wife an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Better be off then, had we?”

She looked at her watch. “Mm. Don’t want to make the bride more nervous than she already will be.”

“OK.” With elaborate ceremony, he opened the back door of the Rolls-Royce and ushered his wife inside. He turned and waved to the two chauffeurs behind. “Time to hit the road, fellers.”

The elegant convoy of gleaming cars eased effortlessly off the gravel and on their way. Their departure was noted with approval by the two men sitting in the parked Jaguar under the trees on the other side of the road.

“Off to his wedding booking…” said Clickety Clark, who had arrived secretly in the middle of the night.

Blunt grunted.

“… leaving Mrs Pargeter and Tammy Jacket on their own,” the photographer continued gleefully.

Blunt grunted again.

“Shall we move in then?”

A third grunt, then Blunt turned the key in the ignition. The Jaguar was about to leap forward, when Clickety Clark held up a cautionary hand. “Hang about.”

Driving along the road towards the cottage was a battered old brown Maxi. They watched it park on the gravel, and saw the tall man who uncoiled himself from the driver’s seat.

“Truffler Bloody Mason,” Clickety Clark murmured.

“He still wonky?” asked Blunt.

“No. Bloody gone straight, hasn’t he? Private detective set-up he’s got now. Mason De Vere he calls himself. Works a lot with Mrs Pargeter, I’ve heard.”

Blunt watched the tall figure stoop under the low doorway as he was let into the cottage. “Shall we go and nail him too while we got the chance?”

The photographer shook his head. “No. Don’t want to take on three if we can avoid it. Give them half an hour. If he’s not out by then, we’ll think again.”

Blunt gave a curt nod and switched off the engine.

♦

Unaware of the continuing surveillance of the cottage, Mrs Pargeter and Truffler sat at the rustic table in the back garden. Tammy Jacket was once again lying in the hammock, and once again fast asleep. The previous evening Mrs Pargeter had provided a couple of sleeping pills to relax her. Tammy had got up that morning for breakfast, but as soon as she lay down in the hammock, sleep had reasserted its control. Good thing too, thought Mrs Pargeter. More sleep she gets the better. Wash away all those nasty memories of what’d happened to her house.

“Never too early for a nice glass of Chardonnay.” Mrs Pargeter announced, as she poured out two, for herself and Truffler.

“I’d go along with that,” he replied mournfully, and took a grateful sip. “Mm, that’s good.”

She looked at him expectantly. “So?”

“It was Brazil Rita went to,” Truffler confirmed.

“Good.” Mrs Pargeter’s eyes glowed with the satisfaction of a correct conjecture. “So it’s got to be tied up with what I told you about Willie Cass.”

“Yes. What happened was… Seb’s mum was offered an all-expenses trip out there. She wasn’t the only one neither. I’ve checked with some other lags’ wives. They got the same deal.”

“So what was the deal?”

“Viewing trip. To see the show villa.”

“The one Concrete built? Or rather the one Concrete and Willie built?”

“That’s right.”

Mrs Pargeter chuckled. “So it was like timeshare marketing? A party of lags’ wives sent off to Brazil to check out the amenities?”

“That sort of idea, yes. Except it wasn’t a party of them. Each one went out on her own. Got the guided tour of the show villa and was then offered a very good deal on one of the other villas on the estate.”

Mrs Pargeter nodded to herself as she thought it through. “You can see the attraction, can’t you? Safe, secure place. No questions asked about where the money came from. Ideal retirement location for… people in their position.”

“Exactly.” Truffler Mason warmed to his theme. “The potential purchasers were very carefully targeted. All of them villains getting near retirement age. All with quite a bit of money stashed away, but money they might have had difficulty investing in the… er, more traditional manner.”

“I’m with you.”

Truffler elaborated further. “Blunt’d keep his ear to the ground when he was inside until he found someone suitable. He’d sound them out, get them interested, and then Clickety Clark’d come in to do the sales pitch to the wives.”

“And do you reckon that’s all he did?” Mrs Pargeter asked thoughtfully.

“Well, I’d assumed that…” But the look on her face told Truffler she had another idea. “What’re you thinking?”

Mrs Pargeter pieced it together as she went along. “Listen. The wives were taken out to Brazil individually…”

“Right.”

“And we know that Concrete himself only built one villa…”

“But we’ve seen the photograph of the completed estate,” Truffler objected.

“A photograph,” Mrs Pargeter explained patiently, “which someone so wanted not to be seen that they smashed up the Jackets’ house to find it.”

Truffler stroked his chin while he took in the implications of this.

“I wouldn’t have thought,” Mrs Pargeter went on, “given his skills in post-production work, that doctoring a photograph like that would have presented Clickety Clark with too much of a problem…”

“Got you!” Truffler Mason snapped his fingers. “You think all the lags have laid out money on the same villa? The rest of the estate doesn’t exist?”

She nodded excitedly. “That’s the way I see it, Truffler, yes. Brazil’s a long way away – unlikely anyone’s going out there to check. The wives’ve all seen a lovely dream house – they’re happy. The husbands think they’ve made a secure investment for their future – they’re happy. And not one of the poor blighters realizes that they’ve all bought the same house. It’s the perfect con. None of the victims’re going to be out of the nick for another three years… and by then I care to bet that Clickety Clark and Blunt – and the money – will somehow’ve disappeared.”

Truffler nodded along with the explanation, until he saw a snag. “But then why did they frame Concrete? What’d they got to gain from that?”

“Concrete knew too much. So did Willie Cass. Willie was the bigger risk, because he was a real blabbermouth when he’d had a few drinks – so they topped him and then made the set-up look like Concrete’d done it. Old two-birds-with-one-stone syndrome.”

“But if Concrete’s in prison,” said Truffler, “then surely there’s a danger he’s going to meet the very people who’ve been conned out of their money?”

“Oh yes.” The violet-blue eyes shone as Mrs Pargeter saw everything falling into place. “But do you think he’d tell them he was involved? No way. Oh no, the villains knew full well Concrete’d keep his mouth shut. Even trying to defend himself against the murder rap could’ve got him into deep water with the people who’d been conned. Truffler, it seems to me we now have the perfect explanation for Concrete Jacket’s unwillingness to talk.”

“Do you think he was actually in on the con then?”

Mrs Pargeter shook her head firmly. “I’d say he went to Brazil in good faith and did the building because they made him a good offer. Then he found out what was really going on and realized they’d got him.”

Truffler Mason grunted agreement, and rose urgently to his feet. “Right. I got contacts in South America. First thing I’m going to do is check out this estate with the one villa on it.”

She looked up at him. “And the second thing you’re going to do…?”

“The second thing I’m going to do,” said Truffler grimly, “is I’m going to find Clickety Clark and Blunt before they make any more trouble.”

♦

Had he realized how close his quarries were, Truffler Mason could have saved himself a lot of trouble. He could also have averted a lot of trouble for Mrs Pargeter and Tammy Jacket.

Sadly, however, in the excitement of having cracked the logic of the case, he did not demonstrate his customary vigilance. He was not aware how easily Clickety Clark and Blunt had penetrated the Lady Entwistle pretence; nor did he know how closely the two villains had been following Mrs Pargeter’s trail.

So, preoccupied with his own plans, Truffler Mason came straight out of the cottage, got straight into the Maxi, and drove straight off without a glance across the road to where a Jaguar lurked in the leafy shadows.

Clickety Clark nodded with satisfaction as he watched the brown wreck putter off into the distance. “Making it easy for us,” he said. “OK, let’s go!”

Blunt gunned the engine, and the Jaguar eased across the road. It slid to a halt across the entrance to Gary’s gravel drive. Nobody was going to escape from the cottage that way.