Mrs Pargeter 06; Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧

Twenty-Nine

“Interview with Mr Reginald Winthrop conducted at Dover Police Station on 17 September. Also present Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson, Detective Sergeant Hercule Hughes… Funny, I didn’t know you were called Hercule.”

The Sergeant blushed. “My mother was a great fan of Agatha Christie, sir.”

“And saw you becoming a great detective too, eh?”

“I’m not sure that –”

“A great detective is one who is prepared to put in a lot of hard slog – and also one who obeys orders, Hughes. Oh, it’s fine for your amateur Belgians with fatuous curly moustaches to keep going off at tangents and ‘following their instincts’, ‘listening to the little grey cells’, but a good copper does what he’s told and when he’s –”

“Sir,” Sergeant Hughes whispered, “this is all going on tape.”

“Yes, yes, of course it is. Mmm.” Wilkinson cleared his throat. “Interview commenced at 3.17 p.m.”

The Inspector gazed into space, apparently not seeing the nervous man in a beret who sat on the other side of the table. The silence lengthened, until Sergeant Hughes made a pointed cough.

“Hmm?” Wilkinson seemed to have difficulty dragging himself back from his reverie. In fact, it had been prompted by something he himself had said. ‘Fatuous curly moustaches’. Maybe on him that kind of thing wouldn’t look fatuous. If he didn’t trim his for months and trained it and covered it with pomade… whatever pomade might be – apple juice, he wondered… anyway, if he did all that, the effect might suit him rather well. And people would certainly remember what he looked like. Perhaps it was through his physical appearance that Craig Wilkinson could make his mark…?

“Don’t you think we should get on with the interview?” Hughes prompted again.

“What? Oh yes.” Wilkinson fixed the painter with a beady eye. VVO looked away shiftily. “Mr Winthrop, we have talked at length to your wife, who maintains that she knew nothing about the contents of the van, other than the holiday luggage and other equipment whose packing she supervised. She says she knew there were three of your paintings in the back, and assumed that you had packed them with a view to trying to open up new markets for their sale on the continent. She denies knowing that there were expensive Old Masters hidden behind your artwork. And…” the Inspector concluded, “I am inclined to believe her. For that reason, she has been released from our custody.”

“Yes, I know that,” said VVO grumpily.

“I know you know that, but I am merely reiterating it so that all information that might be required is recorded on the tape. Now, Mr Winthrop, although I am convinced of your wife’s innocence, I have yet to be in the same happy state with regard to your own involvement. I find it very hard to believe that you were unaware of what you were carrying in that camper van.”

“Well, I was. I’ve told you. Why don’t you listen?”

“I do listen, Mr Winthrop, but I’m afraid what I hear does not leave me any more convinced. Whoever framed those pictures of yours must’ve known that the other paintings were fixed behind them. Of course, we will be checking the frames for fingerprints…”

VVO hadn’t considered that possibility. It really could screw things up; he had no doubt his fingerprints were all over everything. Still, they hadn’t checked them yet. If he kept on protesting his innocence, maybe they could be persuaded to believe him. It was a long shot, he knew, but he had to play for time. Once Truffler Mason and the others heard what had happened, he was sure they could start some kind of damage limitation operation. His own stupidity, the arrogant assumption that he could sail so close to the wind and get away with it, had landed him in this pickle, and now it was up to him to ensure that he didn’t make the situation any worse. The main thing, he knew, was not to mention any names of other people involved.

VVO brought himself back to the present. Inspector Wilkinson was speaking again. “Maybe you have some explanation of how the paintings got to be there, Mr Winthrop…? If you do, I’d be fascinated to hear it.”

“I bought them like that,” he replied brazenly. “I usually buy canvases ready prepared, and those three must’ve had the stolen paintings hidden in them before they came into my possession.”

“I see,” said the Inspector, in a way that suggested he didn’t see at all. “Well, of course we can check with your supplier. Was it the place you usually use?”

“Yes.”

“Could we have the name, please?”

VVO gave it, thinking that when – if ever – he got out of his current mess, there was one highly respectable artists’ materials supplier he wouldn’t be able to use again. Still, it was all taking time, all part of his delaying tactics.

“Incidentally,” the Sergeant suddenly interposed, “you described them as ‘stolen’ paintings, Mr Winthrop. Neither of us said they were stolen. How did you know?”

The older detective looked daggers at his subordinate. “The very question I had been about to ask, Hughes – if you’d given me time.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Wilkinson stared again into the artist’s eyes. VVO again turned away. “So, Mr Winthrop, how did you know they were stolen?”

Bluster seemed to be the appropriate response. “Simple, old-fashioned common sense, Inspector! How many Old Masters do you know of which aren’t either in museums or private ownership? And on the rare occasions they are moved around, it’s in security vans, not stuffed down the back of other paintings. Of course they were stolen!”

“You may have a point,” Wilkinson conceded.

Sergeant Hughes leant forward. “Does the name ‘Pargeter’ mean anything to you, Mr Winthrop?”

“Will you please not interrupt, Hughes!” the Inspector snapped. “I am the senior officer present. I should dictate the direction this interview takes.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I just thought, possibly catching him off guard with a sudden question might –”

“You’ve watched too many cop shows, Sergeant.” Wilkinson turned to VVO with a polite smile. “I’m so sorry.”

“No problem.”

“Right,” the Inspector went on. “Does the name ‘Pargeter’ mean anything to you, Mr Winthrop?”

“As in ‘Mrs Pargeter’,” Sergeant Hughes added eagerly.

“No, Hughes, not as in ‘Mrs Pargeter’. As in ‘Mr Pargeter’, Mr Winthrop?”

“No.”

“If I’d said ‘Mrs Pargeter’, would that have meant any more?”

“No.”

“What about the name ‘Bennie Logan’? Does that mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Fritzi the Finger?”

“No.”

Hmm, thought Inspector Wilkinson ruefully, this is going to take a long time. VVO, though with rather more glee, had exactly the same thought.

Wilkinson ran a finger along the line of his moustache. Maybe he should trim it, after all.