Mrs Pargeter 02; Mrs, Presumed Dead

∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧

Twenty-Three

“Tell me what happened, Keyhole,” she said.

“Job went easy. No problem. Sorted things out in the nick…”

“Wasn’t that difficult?”

“No. Like I said, done it before. You know, wedding anniversaries, that kind of special occasion…”

“Yes.”

“Mind you, of course, any celebrations have to be on the, sort of, domestic side. Can’t really take the missus out for a nice meal, or up West for a show, you know, bit risky, that.”

“I’m sure. But, last night…”

“Oh yeah. Right. Last night. Well, as I say, no problem getting out of the nick. In many ways it’s easier, really, doing it after we’ve all been locked in. Screws aren’t looking out for trouble. They, like, relax their vigilance. I mean, during the day they –”

“Yes.”

The tension in Mrs Pargeter’s voice got through to him, and Keyhole Crabbe speeded up his narrative. “Anyway, outside the prison, met up with my mate all right. He’d got the car and organised the gear, skeleton keys and that, and off we go to Worcester. No problem finding the place. We done our homework and knew exactly where to go. Blooming great warehouse, it was.”

“What was the security like?”

“Nothing to worry about.”

“You mean there wasn’t any?”

“Oh no. They got a couple of blokes with dogs come round, you know, patrol every hour or so. And they got these alarms on the doors and windows. But my mate’s sussed it all out beforehand, so we don’t have no difficulty.”

“And no problem getting into the depository?”

“No. Three locks, all dead easy. Could’ve done them with a piece of soggy macaroni.”

“And inside?”

“Bloody big, I’ll say that – pardon my French. All these blooming great containers. That could’ve been a problem…you know, so many of them…not knowing where to look, that sort of number. Could’ve spent a long time going through everything in a big place like that. Heavy gear to move, and all.”

“But you managed?” Mrs Pargeter urged him on.

“Yes. Like I say, my mate’s good. He’d done his research on the inside of the place, too. Took me straight to the right container.”

“So you started to unpack it?”

“Yeah. Glad there was two of us. Half weigh a lot, wardrobes and that.”

“Yes?” Mrs Pargeter was finding the tension unbearable. “So where was it? What did you find?”

“You was right. It was in the freezer.”

“Oh.”

“That was locked, and all. No problem there, though…” He seemed to be slowing down again, unwilling to continue with his story.

“Come on, Keyhole. Tell me what you found.”

His voice was thick and low as he continued. “We open the freezer. There’s this something wrapped in polythene…Heavy. We pull it out. We unwrap it. And yes, it’s a body.”

“I’m sorry,” Mrs Pargeter murmured. “I’m very sorry to have put you through that.”

“Don’t worry. You had warned me, tipped me the wink, like. Not as if it was a complete surprise.” He swallowed noisily down the line. “Nasty, though.”

“Yes. And I suppose, having been in there more than a week…”

“Wasn’t too bad from that point of view, Mrs Pargeter, actually. Tightly wrapped in the polythene, good seal on the freezer lid, wasn’t in too bad a state.”

“Good.” Mrs Pargeter hesitated, unwilling to have her next, inevitable question answered. No way round it, though – had to be asked. “And who was it, Keyhole…?”

“A woman. About forty. Fully clothed. Red hair.”

Poor Theresa Cotton. Now the anxieties and uncomfortable speculations of the last few days had been proved real, Mrs Pargeter felt weak and drained. Tears, she knew, were not far away. Tears for a woman she had only met a couple of times, but whose murder seemed to dispossess her more than the deaths of friends who had been much closer.

“Tell me, Keyhole,” she murmured. “Was there anything else in the polythene? Or in the freezer?”

“All we found was a tie. Man’s tie. Some school’s Old Boys…cricket club…something like that, anyway. That was what did it.”

“She was strangled?”

“Yes.”

“Any other wounds on her?”

“Not that we could see. No blood on her clothes, nothing like that.”

“No.” That at least suggested that the attack had been a surprise. A quick death. Mrs Pargeter tried to comfort herself with the thought.

“So what did you do, Keyhole?”

“Like you said, Mrs Pargeter. Wrapped the body up, just as it had been. Back in the freezer. Freezer back in the container. All the rest of the furniture put exactly where we’d moved it from. No one’ll know we been in there.”

“And there’s no danger that any fingerprints or…?”

“Mrs Pargeter…” he said, aggrieved and offended.

She covered the gaffe as quickly as she could. “I’m so sorry, Keyhole. Wasn’t thinking.”

“No.” He sounded only partly mollified. “Look, Mrs Pargeter, I’m going to have to ring off soon…”

“Why? Where are you phoning from?”

“The Governor’s Office. About the only decent direct-dial line out in this place.”

“What, you’ve made yourself a key?”

“Of course. Well, I like to ring home every couple of days, see how the kids is getting on.”

“Yes.”

“But, anyway, the Governor’s doing an inspection and he’ll be back any minute, so I’d better scarper sharpish.”

“Mm. Well, look, Keyhole, I can’t thank you enough for – ” A sudden thought stopped her in mid-sentence. “Keyhole, one thing…”

“Yeah?”

“You’re sure there wasn’t any money in the freezer? Or in the polythene wrapping?”

“What, you mean coins or –?”

“No, notes. A lot of notes.”

“Not a sign. Nothing. Like I say, nothing but the body and the tie.”

So, although Theresa Cotton had been found, over two thousand pounds was still missing. Murders had been committed for much less, Mrs Pargeter reflected. Even in affluent surroundings like Smithy’s Loam.

“Look, Keyhole, I’m eternally in your debt for –”

“Gotta scarper!” she heard, before the phone was slammed down.

She had a momentary pang. She had got Keyhole Crabbe into this. If he were caught in the Governor’s office, all kinds of unpleasant details about his escapological feats might come to light. He could even lose his remission for good behaviour. She thought tenderly of the sweet domestic scene she had witnessed so recently in Bedford.

But the anxiety only lasted for a moment. She had confidence in Keyhole. He was far too canny an operator to get caught, unless someone shopped him again. No, Keyhole Crabbe would be all right.

♦

Mrs Pargeter stayed sitting by the phone in the hall. She still felt exhausted.

And she was in a dilemma as to what to do next.

She remembered her late husband’s precepts about the police. What they did not know, generally speaking, they did not need to know. Ignorance in the Police Force, he had always maintained, was a natural state, and who are we, he would ask with a disarming shrug of his shoulders, to interfere with nature?

On the other hand, this was murder. And somehow murder changed the rules.

She went upstairs and found the address book which had proved so useful over the last weeks. The late Mr Pargeter’s listings had furnished her with a car-tracing service, a Missing Persons bureau and a lock specialist; she felt confident that it could also provide a police informer.

There was a selection to choose from. She rang the first number and, as ever, the magic of the late Mr Pargeter’s name worked instantly.

The man at the end of the phone took the details impassively. He asked no questions, simply agreed to make an anonymous call to the Worcestershire Constabulary, suggesting that they should inspect a certain container in a certain furniture depository.

Mrs Pargeter put the phone down wearily. The wheels had been set in motion. Now it was only a matter of time before the police arrived in Smithy’s Loam.

She went into the sitting-room. It was only lunch-time, but she felt in need of a drink.

But, as she entered the room, she shivered. This, she felt sure, was where Theresa Cotton had been strangled only a fortnight before.

But who by, that was the question. Who by?