Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧

Forty-One

The faces of the two detectives were grim. Hedgeclipper Clinton too looked subdued. Mrs Pargeter could not help feeling a tremor of anxiety as she crossed the foyer to greet them.

“You haven’t met Sergeant Hughes,” said Inspector Wilkinson.

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” She extended a gracious hand to the young man. He transferred his briefcase to his left hand and gave hers a cold, formal shake. Under the grimness of his expression there was a disturbing glimmer of cocksure triumph.

“Hughes won’t be staying with us.” Mrs Pargeter caught the spasm of annoyance these words sent across the Sergeant’s face. “You and I need to have a serious one-to-one talk, Mrs Pargeter.”

“Fine. Shall we go through to the bar?”

“I don’t want to talk here. If you would be so good as to accompany me…?”

It was phrased as a question, but left no doubt that it was really an order. Mrs Pargeter’s unease grew. That word ‘accompany’ had overtones of too many television cop shows. “I must ask you to accompany me to the station.” She had heard it spoken too often for comfort.

Mrs Pargeter didn’t dare to imagine what had gone wrong. Had VVO’s resolve finally cracked and had he shopped them all? Had Rod D’Acosta and his heavies said something to put the police on to her?

She felt rather stupid. Up until this point in her life, she had always religiously followed the instructions of the late Mr Pargeter. She had never been involved in anything that could be construed as criminal. She had had an unimpeachable record of innocence. But during the past weeks she’d got carried away. In the excitement of fulfilling Veronica Chastaigne’s request and recreating the great Chelmsford operation, Mrs Pargeter had taken a much more hands-on role in the proceedings than she should have done. She had sacrificed the Olympian detachment which she had always previously maintained from the activities of her helpers. And now it looked as if she might be about to pay for her carelessness.

“Do you need to get a coat?” asked Inspector Wilkinson with formal solicitude.

“No, I’m fine. It’s still very mild for September, isn’t it?”

“Right, if you’d care to accompany us…?” That word again. “It’s only a short drive.”

Sergeant Hughes hurried across to open the hotel’s front door for her, and Mrs Pargeter moved elegantly and proudly across the foyer. As she passed a tense-faced Hedgeclipper Clinton, she gave an almost imperceptible flick of her eyebrow.

The instant the front door closed behind his guest and her police escort, Hedgeclipper was dialling Truffler Mason’s number.

♦

They didn’t speak in the car. Hughes drove, with Wilkinson sitting tensely beside him. In the back Mrs Pargeter gave a not entirely convincing display of nonchalance.

When the car stopped, she couldn’t see a police station. They appeared to be in a street of shops and restaurants. But perhaps there was a hidden entrance to some official Metropolitan premises.

Mrs Pargeter tried to focus her mind on the plight in which she found herself. She knew what she had to do. The important thing was not to implicate anyone else. Mention no other names. She would just have to accept her own punishment, but see that she took no one else down with her.

Inspector Wilkinson said, “Thank you, Hughes,” which the Sergeant reflected was out of character. Maybe his boss was trying to impress their suspect with his good manners. “You can take the rest of the evening off.”

“I really think I should be with you, sir.”

“I said you can take the rest of the evening off.”

Hughes could not argue with the severity of the tone. “All right, sir,” he conceded.

“And give me that dossier you’ve compiled.”

The Sergeant was about to remonstrate, but realized he couldn’t. Inspector Wilkinson was in charge. If his boss ordered him to hand something across – even something as precious as the dossier he had spent so much time building up – then he had to do as he was told.

Silently, he opened his briefcase and handed over the folder.

“Thank you,” said Wilkinson again.

“I hope you’ll be careful with it, sir. It’s the only copy that –”

“Hughes, I have very considerable experience of handling highly sensitive evidence.”

“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant apologized.

“Rather more experience – if I may be forgiven for pointing it out – than you have.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So I can assure you that this document will be absolutely safe in my hands.” Hughes had no alternative but to nod acceptance of this.

Wilkinson got out of the car and opened the back door for Mrs Pargeter. “If you would accompany me, please…”

That word yet again. In trepidation she got out and stood awkwardly on the pavement. It was nearly dark now. Inspector Wilkinson tapped the roof of the car and Sergeant Hughes, invisibly seething, drove off.

There was an uncomfortable silence as they stood, looking at each other. Mrs Pargeter didn’t know where they were meant to be going, and for a moment the Inspector seemed uncertain too. Then he said abruptly, “I thought we could have something to eat while we talked.”

“Fine,” she said, surprised.

Without ceremony, he led the way into a rather shabby little restaurant. Its origins were ultimately Greek, but it was the kind of place whose menu would feature ‘English Dishes’ alongside the range of kebabs. One wall was painted with a grubby Mediterranean seaside scene. Bottles and decorated plates hung on the walls, tangled in with dusty plastic vines and dully glowing Christmas lights.

A restaurant of this kind wasn’t really Mrs Pargeter’s gastronomic style. In spite of the predicament she was in, she couldn’t help thinking of the menu at Greene’s Hotel and the dinner she had been promising herself. She wondered rather gloomily how long it would be before she could next enjoy that kind of pampering.

There was nobody else inside the restaurant, except for a surly man with three days of five o’clock shadow. He acted as waiter, and possibly owner, and probably cook. He seemed to know Inspector Wilkinson, however, and grunted some kind of greeting as he led them across to a table with a printed plastic cover. Its surface felt slightly sticky as Mrs Pargeter eased her bulk into a bench seat against the wall.

The waiter/owner/cook dumped two plastic menus down on the table and shuffled off through a lopsided beaded curtain into the kitchen.

“Do you normally come here to conduct interrogations?” asked Mrs Pargeter, trying to ease the atmosphere that was beginning to loom between them.

“No,” Wilkinson replied shortly. “Only when it’s special.”

“Oh, right.” Mrs Pargeter took in her surroundings, and wondered how many hardened criminals those dingy walls had witnessed cracking under Inspector Wilkinson’s relentless questioning.

Sergeant Hughes’s folder lay unopened on the table in front of him, and he still seemed disinclined to commence the actual grilling. Mrs Pargeter was finding the delay stressful. Now she’d got this far, she wanted to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. It wasn’t going to be pleasant, but at least it could be quick.

She joined her plump hands together on the sticky plastic in front of her, and looked straight into the Inspector’s eyes. He seemed thrown by this intense scrutiny, and chewed a corner of his moustache. His hands fiddled with a packet of cigarettes, taking one out to light up.

“Right,” said Mrs Pargeter. “What is it you want to say to me?”

“Well… The fact is… I…” For some reason Wilkinson was finding what he had to say difficult. And when he did say it, she could understand exactly why. “The fact is, Mrs Pargeter, I’ve fallen in love with you.”