Mrs Pargeter 05; Mrs Pargeter’s Plot

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧

Thirty-Two

Even with its shaving-foam inscription and wake of tin cans and toilet rolls, Gary’s Rolls-Royce still contrived to appear majestic as it processed over Vauxhall Bridge. The two ladies in the back were looking somewhat better than they had when leaving their former transport at the country house hotel. Gary’s new Roller was stocked for every eventuality. There was a supply of cosmetics and toiletries in the back pocket, and the two passengers had used these to repair their make-up and hair-styles (though in Tammy Jacket’s case, not a single hair of her lacquered helmet had shifted).

Amongst its other supplies, the Rolls-Royce also had a well-stocked drinks cabinet and Mrs Pargeter, once her appearance was restored to elegance, had immediately started pouring. As she concluded her call on the earphone, she was on her third vodka Campari, while Tammy Jacket kept pace with her in brandy and ginger ale.

“It’s all right, Truffler. We’re fine.”

“I still should’ve thought. Should’ve kept my eyes skinned for those two villains when I was leaving Gary’s place.” His voice, from the other end of the phone, was heavy with self-recrimination.

“You had no means of knowing they were on to me. It was my own fault for thinking I could get away with the Lady Entwistle disguise. You warned me not to try that on, Truffler, but I just wouldn’t listen, would I?”

“No…” he agreed, slightly cheered by her redistribution of blame. “Look, is there anything else you need me to do – apart from what we’ve talked about?”

Mrs Pargeter was thoughtful for a moment before she replied, “No, no, there’s something else I need doing, but… sewing up the case against Blunt and Clickety Clark is more urgent. You get on with that.”

“OK. What was the other thing needs doing? You might as well tell me.”

“Just I think I ought to have another word with Fossilface O’Donahue. Job he done on Gary turned out for the good, as it happened, but that was pure chance. Fossilface is still a bit of a loose cannon out there. I think I ought to try to stop his programme of ‘restitooshun’.”

“Well, it’s soon going to come to a natural end, innit? Not many people left he needs to pay back, are there?”

“No, I suppose not. Still feel I should have a word with him, though. Who does he still need to make ‘restitooshun’ to, as a matter of interest?”

“Well, he’s done you… me – blast his eyes!… Keyhole Crabbe… Hedgeclipper… now Gary… I guess there’s only Concrete Jacket left, of the ones I know about. And he can’t touch Concrete while he’s in the nick, can he?”

“He touched Keyhole while he was in the nick, didn’t he?”

“Hm. You may have a point.”

“Truffler, tell me… in what way did Fossilface do the dirty on Concrete? Just so’s we know what we may be up against.”

“Worse thing he ever done to Concrete was… he didn’t call the police.”

“What do you mean?”

“Concrete was working on this complicated job. It was an art theft. Couple of paintings from a gallery in Cork Street. One was a Rembrandt, I seem to remember. Concrete’d got it worked out. Soon as he broke in, the gallery’s alarm’d sound in the local nick. Boys in blue’d set off to get him, but just when they’re near, Fossilface O’Donahue, who’s got this radio set that cuts in on their frequency, is meant to ring through, say it was a false alarm, and could they go off to deal with an environmentalists’ riot outside the Brazilian Embassy? Would’ve worked a treat… only Fossilface never made the call.”

“Ah.”

“Concrete was away from his missus four years after that.”

“Oh dear.”

“Mind you, what kind of ‘restitooshun’ Fossilface O’Donahue would plan for that… I just cannot begin to imagine.”

“No. Anyway, don’t you worry about that, Truffler. You just concentrate on what we discussed. I’ll have a go at contacting Fossilface. Talk soon – OK? Bye.”

She returned the handset to its cradle, and took a long sip from her drink.

“Truffler getting on all right then, is he?” called Gary from the front.

“He’s fine. Just sorting out the loose ends of the case. Checking whether there was anyone else involved apart from Clickety Clark and Blunt.” With a triumphant grin, Mrs Pargeter turned to Tammy. “Truffler’s going to build up a nice little dossier – all the details, all the evidence – which is guaranteed to get those two villains put away for a very long time…” She took the other woman’s hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “And then we’ll get Concrete off the hook.”

Tammy Jacket smiled her wordless gratitude.

♦

No one would have suspected that the elegant white-haired lady who stepped out of a Rolls-Royce in a street near Victoria Station had, only an hour and a half earlier, been driving a cultivator/tractor through a series of hedges. She looked exactly like someone whose sole business of the day had been a visit to a solicitor. She looked as decorous and correct as the shining brass plate on the door outside which the Rolls-Royce had parked. The plate read: Nigel Merriman – Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths.

“Sure you don’t want me to hang around?” asked Gary, as he closed the car door behind her.

“No, you go and see if Truffler needs any help.” Mrs Pargeter leant through the open back window to kiss Tammy Jacket tenderly on the cheek. “You’ll be fine, love. Take care now.” Then she turned back to Gary. “And one of your drivers will get Tammy home safely?”

The woman in the back of the car looked at her with some alarm. “It’s all right, I promise,” Mrs Pargeter reassured her. “Those two won’t come troubling you again.”

“It’s not just that,” said Tammy. “It’s the thought of going back to all the horrible mess, and seeing all my lovely things smashed and –”

“No worries,” Mrs Pargeter laid a hand on her arm. “I’ve had the place tidied up for you. Looks just like new – well, nearly.”

“Oh, Mrs Pargeter…” was all that Tammy Jacket could say. She was almost weeping with gratitude.

“Who you get to do the clean-up?” asked Gary, in a whisper.

“Guy called Meredith the Mop. Found his name in my late husband’s address book. Apparently he’s very good at tidying up after things.”

“I’ll say! He did that mop-up operation after the Crouch End Pizza House incident. Lovely job he done. Got all the burn-marks off the bar counter, filled in the bullet-holes in the walls, and nobody could imagine how he managed to get all the blood out of the table cloths. I tell you, it was –”

The chauffeur caught the expression in the violet-blue eyes that were trained on his, and decided that he’d probably said enough.

“Gary,” Mrs Pargeter intoned glacially, “I have no idea what on earth you’re talking about.” Then she leant once again in through the car window. “Chin up, Tammy. You just go home and wait for Concrete. Won’t be long now till he’s home, I promise you that.”