Mrs. Pargeter's Plot (11 page)

But Ricky Van Hoeg showed not a flicker of the unconventional. He had, she later discovered, started working for a property company's house magazine, then moved across to Swordfish Communications as a sub-editor on
Dentifrice and Floss Monthly
. From there he'd been promoted to deputy editor of
Morris Dancers' Monthly
, and recently moved to take over
Inside Out
.

He spoke about his job with pride but without humour. He showed his guests the mock-up for the next month's cover. There was a glossy colour photograph of Wormwood Scrubs gates. Contents promised inside included:
GATE FEVER:
IS IT ALL IN THE MIND?,
HOW TO ORGANIZE A COMING-
OUT PARTY,
AMATEUR DRAMATICS FOR A CAPTIVE AUDIENCE,
MAKE YOUR PIN-
UPS REALLY LAST –
TRY SHRINKWRAPPING,
as well as regular features –
NEWS OF THE SCREWS:
WHICH ONES'
VE BEEN TRANSFERRED WHERE?,
THE GOOD NICK GUIDE –
WINSOME GREEN,
plus of course our invaluable listings:
WHO'
S IN WHERE,
HOW LONG,
WHAT FOR,
AND DID THEY DO IT?

‘All going all right then, Ricky?' asked Truffler after they had shown proper appreciation for the mock-up.

‘Excellent. Circulation on the up and up.'

‘Well, stands to reason. When you've got a prison population that's going up and up . . .'

Ricky Van Hoeg gave the detective a narrow look. He didn't want his achievements underestimated. ‘Our circulation is going up at a faster rate than the prison population,' he said coldly.

Mrs Pargeter instantly defused any potential atmosphere between the two men. ‘Obviously means you're doing a very good job, Ricky.'

‘I like to think so. Anyway, what can I do for you, Mr Mason?'

‘It's a touch of the old
quid pro quo
,' Truffler replied. ‘You remember, I helped you out with some info on the Machete Murders Retrospective you done?'

‘Yes, of course. And very useful it all turned out to be.'

‘Good. Well, now I need a bit of gen on a couple of lags, and I thought you'd be the geezer to help out.'

‘No problem. We have a variety of research resources here at
Inside Out.
If we have serious difficulty in finding out about people, we put out requests for information on the Internet. That's proved very successful. But let's start with the basic, shall we?' Ricky Van Hoeg turned to his computer and deftly punched at the keyboard. Rapidly changing images flickered across the screen. ‘Are the people in question actually inside at the moment?'

‘No, no, both very much on the loose. That's why we need to know about them.'

‘What're their names?'

‘Well, what I've got're kind of, like, nicknames . . .'

‘We have people listed on the database with their
noms de guerre
as well as their real names. Some of their aliases run into the hundreds, but . . .' Ricky Van Hoeg continued with the smug pride of a bank manager unveiling a new savings account, ‘. . . we can run a search according to any parameters you care to specify and find them within seconds. So what're the names?'

‘Clickety Clark and Blunt,' said Truffler.

Ricky Van Hoeg immediately keyed in the information. The screen split down the middle. Two photographs appeared. They were not the same poses as those Truffler had produced, but their subjects were easily recognizable.

Below Clickety Clark's picture was the record of an eighteen-month stay in Lewes Prison for forgery of a Buckingham Palace security pass a few years previously. ‘Ah,' said Mrs Pargeter fondly, ‘just after my husband passed on.'

Truffler nodded. ‘Yeah, a lot of them went off the rails round that time. Without Mr Pargeter's good sense and guidance, some come horribly unstuck.'

Mrs Pargeter did not allow herself to get misty at the recollection. ‘But look at Blunt's record! Now that is what I call “form”!'

It was indeed a very full criminal
curriculum vitae
. The wonder was, given the closeness of the sentences, how Blunt actually found the time to commit the crimes for which he was so regularly sent down. Not that his recent convictions were for major crimes. In fact, for someone with such an awesome reputation in the Grievous Bodily Harm department, they were little more than peccadilloes. Stealing cars, trashing restaurants, handling stolen videos, purloining credit cards – these were the currency of the petty criminal. The only assault on a human being Blunt had committed in the previous three years was whacking one barman in a pub, and even then the victim had only lost two teeth.

‘Seems to have gone soft in his old age,' said Mrs Pargeter.

Truffler, who had had the same thought, nodded and said judiciously, ‘Well, that was probably
his
way of going off the rails when your old man died.'

That got a rather piercing look from the violet-blue eyes, so he moved quickly on. ‘This is great, Ricky.'

‘Anything else you need? Only . . .' the editor took a none-too-discreet look at his expensive watch, ‘. . . I've got to see someone at the Home Office about getting
Inside Out
on to their regular distribution list for all staff. I think the deal's in the bag, mind you, and that could be another very healthy boost to circulation.'

‘Yes, I'm sure,' said Mrs Pargeter.

‘No, that's great, Ricky,' said Truffler. ‘Thanks for your help. If it'd be possible to have a printout of the info . . .?'

‘No problem.' Ricky Van Hoeg pressed a key and, in seconds, Clickety Clark and Blunt's details were printed out in colour. The photographer's fitted on to one sheet; Blunt's ran to seven.

In the lift, Mrs Pargeter asked Truffler what his next step in the investigation would be.

‘Try and find out what's really been going on inside the nicks.' He grinned mournfully. ‘Stan the Orang-Utan's been inside for a while. He's the kind of bloke who keeps his ear to the ground. Might have a word with his boy.'

Mrs Pargeter had never heard of Stan the Orang-Utan, but her discretion was far too finely tuned for her to ask any embarrassing questions, like how he had got his nickname. Instead, as they emerged from the lift into the foyer of Swordfish House, she observed to Truffler what a boring man she had found Ricky Van Hoeg to be. ‘I mean, I'm sure, back in the old days, people connected with crime had a bit of colour and glamour about them . . .'

‘Ah, but he's not connected with crime, you see, Mrs P. He's a pukka, legit journalist, isn't he?'

‘Well, mind you, in the old days, pukka legit journalists had a bit of colour and glamour. Never mind . . .' A smile spread across her plump, comfortable features. ‘We're going to have lunch with one of the few who still has.'

They hailed a cab to the Savoy Grill. And, as Ellie Fenchurch had promised, they all got thoroughly rat-arsed.

On the rare occasions that she did get thoroughly rat-arsed, there was nothing Mrs Pargeter liked better than to work off her intoxication with a little lavish shopping. Some of the best purchases of her life had been made when mellow with alcohol, and she was very pleased with the haul she made that afternoon. She also found, as always, that an hour or so's vigorous workout with the credit cards had the effect of clearing her head completely.

The limousine was parked outside Greene's Hotel under the approving eye of a doorman who would instantly have moved on a vehicle containing anyone other than Mrs Pargeter. Gary, loaded down with Harrods carrier bags, followed his employer into the foyer.

‘Hedgeclipper's really had this place done lovely, hasn't he?' the chauffeur observed, as they crossed the black and white marble floor. ‘Strikes me every time I come in here.'

‘Oh yes, he always did have a good eye,' Mrs Pargeter agreed.

The object of their compliments, immaculately dressed in black jacket and pinstriped trousers, was standing behind the elegant antique desk which served as the Greene's Hotel Reception. The only out-of-place element in his
soigné
image was once again the marmoset perched affectionately on his shoulder. Gary opened his mouth to make some comment on this, but was stopped by a slight shake of his employer's head.

Hedgeclipper Clinton beamed at his most favoured guest. ‘What a lovely afternoon, Mrs Pargeter.'

‘Indeed. And how's Erasmus behaving himself?'

The hotel manager shook his head and tutted. ‘He's been a little tinker this morning, I'm afraid. Smeared an orange all over my William and Mary walnut chair. Still . . .' he went on with an indulgent shrug, ‘not a lot one can do about it, is there?'

Gary's instinctive answer to this too was prevented by a look from Mrs Pargeter. Instead, the chauffeur nodded amiably to his former colleague. ‘Just saying you done a lovely job here, Hedge—' A look from the hotelier froze off the second half of the word. ‘Mr Clinton,' Gary corrected himself.

Mr Clinton was once again wreathed in smiles. ‘Thank you so much. I'm delighted you like it. And all well with you, Mrs Pargeter?' he asked solicitously.

‘Fine, thank you.'

‘No more trouble, I trust, from Fossilface O'Donahue?'

‘Not a squeak out of him. Seems to have once again vanished off the face of the earth.'

‘Good, I'm so pleased to hear that. Let's hope things stay that way,' Hedgeclipper Clinton said as he pressed an unseen button for the lift doors to open. ‘And, though it's perhaps selfish of me, may I say that I do hope that dream house of yours isn't coming along too quickly. Greene's Hotel doesn't like to lose a guest of your calibre, Mrs Pargeter.'

She grimaced wryly. ‘Have no worries on that score. Whatever the house is doing, it certainly isn't coming along too quickly.'

As the lift rose, Gary continued his musing about the success of Greene's Hotel. ‘No, Hedgeclipper really knows what's what. Got taste, that's what it is, taste. Anyone who was taught by your husband really learnt the lot. I mean, there's no way Hedgeclipper could be running a place like this without what Mr Pargeter done for him. No way I could be doing the car-hire business.'

‘Any more bookings, by the way?' asked Mrs Pargeter, always concerned about the health of Gary's business.

‘Just rung Denise,' he replied with satisfaction. ‘Got a wedding this weekend.'

‘Great.'

‘Someone she knows. Local too, so that's good. No, excellent thing to get into, weddings. Want a bit more of that kind of business.' He was silent for a moment. ‘I'm thinking of buying something old for the weddings.'

‘How do you mean – something old?' asked Mrs Pargeter as Gary drew back the lift doors and let her out on to the landing.

‘Old car. Roller, Bentley, something like that. Vintage touch. Lot of girls these days want to arrive in the church in something a bit classy.'

‘Well, if you want a loan to buy the thing, you have only to say the word.'

‘No, Mrs Pargeter, wouldn't seem right borrowing from you.'

‘Wouldn't be borrowing. I'd regard it as an investment in your business.'

Gary shook his head. ‘Kind of you, but no thanks. I'll save up what I need out of my profits. That's the best way.'

‘If you're sure . . .'

“Course I am. Something your husband used to say to me quite often: “Neither a lender nor a borrower be.”'

‘Ah yes.'

‘Always had a way with words, Mr Pargeter. Kept making up clever little sayings like that, you know.'

‘Mm,' Mrs Pargeter agreed, a little wistfully.

They had reached the door to her suite. She opened it with her key and ushered the chauffeur inside. The sitting room bore not a single trace of the devastation Erasmus had wreaked on it. Gary neatly lined up the Harrods carriers on a luggage bench.

‘Thank you so much for doing that.'

‘Pleasure, Mrs Pargeter. And you'll call me when you next need the car?'

‘Of course.' She looked at him with sudden beadiness. ‘By the way, Gary, you haven't sent me an invoice yet.'

He coloured. ‘No, well, I—'

‘Do it.'

‘Yes, Mrs Pargeter,' he said meekly.

‘Otherwise,' she continued, ‘it's going to be a very long time before you can afford to buy that Roller.'

‘Yes, yes, I know. It's just that I feel I owe you such a lot for—'

‘I expect an invoice in tomorrow's post, Gary. If you don't collect what's owing to you, you'll never save any money.'

There was no arguing with that tone in Mrs Pargeter's voice.

‘Of course not. ‘Nother thing I always remember your husband used to say: “Look after the pennies and the pounds'll look after themselves.”' Gary looked envious. ‘Wish I could come up with neat little things like that.'

‘Don't worry,' Mrs Pargeter said kindly. ‘We've all been blessed with different gifts. With my husband it was words . . .'

‘Amongst other things.'

‘Amongst other things, yes. With you, though, it's driving. My husband never actually passed his driving test, you know, so you've got the advantage of him there.'

‘Yes. Yes, I have, haven't I?' The thought seemed to cheer him. He moved to the door. ‘OK, give me a bell if you need me. And I'll see you get an invoice in the morning.'

“Bye, Gary. And if you change your mind about the loan for the Roller . . .'

The chauffeur shook his head, but with marginally less conviction than he had before. After he'd gone, Mrs Pargeter went through into the bedroom and looked benignly down at her late husband's photograph. ‘You did a good job with that boy,' she said. ‘Gary's heart's in the right place, no question.'