Mrs Pargeter 06; Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧

Twenty-Eight

Inspector Wilkinson sat at his desk, running his tongue along his top lip. His moustache, he decided, was nearly long enough to chew. What should he do – trim it that evening when he got home, or let it grow until he’d got something that was really worth chewing? God, life was difficult. Decisions, decisions. It was no fun being a senior detective.

His telephone rang. He resented the intrusion. He’d rather it had rung after he’d made the decision about whether or not to trim his moustache.

He deliberately let the phone ring on while he lit another cigarette, then answered it. “Hello? Wilkinson.”

“It’s Sergeant Hughes, sir.”

“Oh yes? I thought it was your day off.”

“It is, sir. I’m in Dover.”

“Nipping over the Channel on a quick booze cruise, are you?”

“No, sir. I’m working.”

Wilkinson was appalled. “On your day off?” That kind of thing hadn’t happened in the Inspector’s young day.

“Yes, sir. I’ve been following up a lead on the art thefts.”

“Hughes, I have told you before. I am in charge of this case. In our business, if you have lots of different people running off in all directions without telling anyone… well, anarchy ensues.”

“I know, sir, but –”

“Everyone should know their place. I mean, what would have happened to this great country of ours throughout its history if people hadn’t done what they were told? A good copper obeys orders. All the great men of our history have obeyed orders. Alfred the Great, Drake, Nelson –”

“Actually, Nelson didn’t.”

“What?”

“Nelson was quite famous for not obeying orders, sir. In the summer of 1799, he was ordered to take his ships to Minorca, but he thought the French threat would be towards Naples, so he disobeyed. And then, of course, at the Battle of Copenhagen in 1801, he famously raised the telescope to his blind eye and said, ‘I really do not see the signal’, and then –”

“All right, Hughes,” Wilkinson interrupted testily, “all right! There’s another thing you should remember if you’re hoping to get anywhere in the Police Force.”

“And what’s that, sir?”

“Nobody likes a smart-arse.” Wilkinson harrumphed, removed his cigarette to offload its accumulation of ash, and ran the tip of his tongue along the line of his moustache.

“But, sir, I’ve been following a lead, and it’s led somewhere!”

“Well, that’s a novelty in this business,” said the Inspector sarcastically. “What lead is this, Hughes?”

“You know I’ve been going back through the old files connected with the art thefts…”

“I thought I told you to stop doing that.”

Sergeant Hughes ignored the reprimand and went on, “Well, I came across this reference to a top-level informant…”

“Are you talking about the one who called himself ‘Posey Narker’?”

“Yes, sir.”

Inspector Wilkinson let out a world-weary sigh. “Sergeant, Posey Narker has long since gone to ground. There’s been nothing heard from him since the death of the late Mr Pargeter.”

“I know that, sir, but I still thought it might be worth ringing his number.”

“Why?”

“Just on the off chance.”

“Just on the off chance?” The repetition dripped with scorn. “Hughes, a good copper doesn’t do anything just on the off chance. A good copper works things out in detail, he plans, he uses his intellect. Good heavens, where do you think the Met would be if all our detectives went around doing things just on the off chance? Can you name a single occasion on which anyone got a result from doing something just on the off chance?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“I got a result this morning, sir, just on the off chance.” Hughes couldn’t keep the crowing note out of his voice.

“Oh, did you?”

“As I said, I rang the number for Posey Narker just on the off chance, and early this morning I had a call back. Untraceable, mobile number he was calling from, but he gave me some very useful information.”

“Really, Hughes?” Inspector Wilkinson spoke as if to an overtired five-year-old. “Well, you follow up on that lead when you’re next on duty, eh? For today, this is what I want you to do: you go straight back home, have a nice relaxing afternoon, watch some sport on the telly perhaps… and come in tomorrow morning ready for a proper – and authorized – day’s work.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I can’t leave Dover.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve found three of the missing paintings, sir.”

“WHAT!!!?”