Mrs. Pargeter's Plot (19 page)

‘Never too early for a nice glass of Chardonnay,' Mrs Pargeter announced, as she poured out two, for herself and Truffler.

‘I'd go along with that,' he replied mournfully, and took a grateful sip. ‘Mm, that's good.'

She looked at him expectantly. ‘So?'

‘It was Brazil Rita went to,' Truffler confirmed.

‘Good.' Mrs Pargeter's eyes glowed with the satisfaction of a correct conjecture. ‘So it's got to be tied up with what I told you about Willie Cass.'

‘Yes. What happened was . . . Seb's mum was offered an all-expenses trip out there. She wasn't the only one neither. I've checked with some other lags' wives. They got the same deal.'

‘So what was the deal?'

‘Viewing trip. ‘To see the show villa.'

‘The one Concrete built? Or rather the one Concrete and Willie built?'

‘That's right.'

Mrs Pargeter chuckled. ‘So it was like timeshare marketing? A party of lags' wives sent off to Brazil to check out the amenities?'

‘That sort of idea, yes. Except it wasn't a party of them. Each one went out on her own. Got the guided tour of the show villa and was then offered a very good deal on one of the other villas on the estate.'

Mrs Pargeter nodded to herself as she thought it through. ‘You can see the attraction, can't you? Safe, secure place. No questions asked about where the money came from. Ideal retirement location for . . . people in their position.'

‘Exactly.' Truffler Mason warmed to his theme. ‘The potential purchasers were very carefully targeted. All of them villains getting near retirement age. All with quite a bit of money stashed away, but money they might have had difficulty investing in the . . . er, more traditional manner.'

‘I'm with you.'

Truffler elaborated further. ‘Blunt'd keep his ear to the ground when he was inside until he found someone suitable. He'd sound them out, get them interested, and then Clickety Clark'd come in to do the sales pitch to the wives.'

‘And do you reckon that's all he did?' Mrs Pargeter asked thoughtfully.

‘Well, I'd assumed that . . .' But the look on her face told Truffler she had another idea. ‘What're you thinking?'

Mrs Pargeter pieced it together as she went along. ‘Listen. The wives were taken out to Brazil individually . . .'

‘Right.'

‘And we know that Concrete himself only built one villa . . .'

‘But we've seen the photograph of the completed estate,' Truffler objected.

‘A photograph,' Mrs Pargeter explained patiently, ‘which someone so wanted not to be seen that they smashed up the Jackets' house to find it.'

Truffler stroked his chin while he took in the implications of this.

‘I wouldn't have thought,' Mrs Pargeter went on, ‘given his skills in post-production work, that doctoring a photograph like that would have presented Clickety Clark with too much of a problem . . .'

‘Got you!' Truffler Mason snapped his fingers. ‘You think all the lags have laid out money on the same villa? The rest of the estate doesn't exist?'

She nodded excitedly. ‘That's the way I see it, Truffler, yes. Brazil's a long way away – unlikely anyone's going out there to check. The wives've all seen a lovely dream house – they're happy. The husbands think they've made a secure investment for their future – they're happy. And not one of the poor blighters realizes that they've all bought the same house. It's the perfect con. None of the victims're going to be out of the nick for another three years . . . and by then I care to bet that Clickety Clark and Blunt – and the money – will somehow've disappeared.'

Truffler nodded along with the explanation, until he saw a snag. ‘But then why did they frame Concrete? What'd they got to gain from that?'

‘Concrete knew too much. So did Willie Cass. Willie was the bigger risk, because he was a real blabbermouth when he'd had a few drinks – so they topped him and then made the set-up look like Concrete'd done it. Old two-birds-with-one-stone syndrome.'

‘But if Concrete's in prison,' said Truffler, ‘then surely there's a danger he's going to meet the very people who've been conned out of their money?'

‘Oh yes.' The violet-blue eyes shone as Mrs Pargeter saw everything falling into place. ‘But do you think he'd tell them he was involved? No way. Oh no, the villains knew full well Concrete'd keep his mouth shut. Even trying to defend himself against the murder rap could've got him into deep water with the people who'd been conned. Truffler, it seems to me we now have the perfect explanation for Concrete Jacket's unwillingness to talk.'

‘Do you think he was actually in on the con then?'

Mrs Pargeter shook her head firmly. ‘I'd say he went to Brazil in good faith and did the building because they made him a good offer. Then he found out what was really going on and realized they'd got him.'

Truffler Mason grunted agreement, and rose urgently to his feet. ‘Right. I got contacts in South America. First thing I'm going to do is check out this estate with the one villa on it.'

She looked up at him. ‘And the second thing you're going to do . . .?'

‘The second thing I'm going to do,' said Truffler grimly, ‘is I'm going to find Clickety Clark and Blunt before they make any more trouble.'

Had he realized how close his quarries were, Truffler Mason could have saved himself a lot of trouble. He could also have averted a lot of trouble for Mrs Pargeter and Tammy Jacket.

Sadly, however, in the excitement of having cracked the logic of the case, he did not demonstrate his customary vigilance. He was not aware how easily Clickety Clark and Blunt had penetrated the Lady Entwistle pretence; nor did he know how closely the two villains had been following Mrs Pargeter's trail.

So, preoccupied with his own plans, Truffler Mason came straight out of the cottage, got straight into the Maxi, and drove straight off without a glance across the road to where a Jaguar lurked in the leafy shadows.

Clickety Clark nodded with satisfaction as he watched the brown wreck putter off into the distance ‘Making it easy for us,' he said. ‘OK, let's go!'

Blunt gunned the engine, and the Jaguar eased across the road. It slid to a halt across the entrance to Gary's gravel drive. Nobody was going to escape from the cottage that way.

In the hammock Tammy Jacket was once again asleep. Her even breathing mingled with the hum of insects in the summer idyll. Mrs Pargeter sat at the table and drained the last of her glass of Chardonnay. Definitely deserve another one, she thought. I really think I've finally cracked what's been going on in this case.

Her hand was arrested in mid-pour by the appearance of two men round the corner of the cottage. The one she hadn't met before was carrying Gary's petrol-driven strimmer, at the end of which the circular metal blade gleamed in the sunlight.

With a steady hand, Mrs Pargeter put the wine bottle down, leaving her glass half-f. ‘Good morning, Mr Clark. Oh, sorry, of course you like to be called Clix, don't you?'

The photographer flicked his ponytail back, and grinned ominously. ‘Good morning, Mrs Pargeter. Oh, sorry. Hope you don't mind me calling you that, but I think we can dispense with the Lady Entwistle nonsense now, can't we?'

She smiled, giving the impression of a coolness she did not feel, and gestured to the Chardonnay bottle. ‘Could I offer you a drink at all?'

‘I don't think so, thank you,' said Clickety Clark.

Mrs Pargeter turned the beam of her smile on his companion. ‘And what about you? I'm sorry, we haven't actually met, but I do know who you are. I've seen a photograph of you – two photographs of you, actually. Not that I think you were looking your best in either of them.' She was starting to babble now, in the face of the man's implacable stare. ‘Still, probably prison photographers aren't the best people to encourage an air of cheerfulness in their sitters. I'm sure you'd get better pictures if you had yourself done by your friend Clix – such a clever photographer, isn't he? Sorry, I am chattering on, aren't I?' She waved again towards the wine bottle. ‘Sure I can't tempt you, Mr Blunt?'

By way of answer, his large hand seized the ripcord of the strimmer, and savagely tugged the motor into life. The petrol engine roared; the metal blade whirled. Blunt raised it and advanced towards Mrs Pargeter.

She rose from her chair and edged uneasily around the far side of the table. Blunt made a transverse sweep with the strimmer, scything through the stem of her wine-glass.

Holding her hands up to protect her face from the flying shards, Mrs Pargeter backed round the table, away from the hammock, where Tammy still slept in blissful ignorance.

Blunt continued his slow advance, the hissing strimmer held before him like a flame thrower. At his shoulder, Clickety Clark smiled unpleasantly.

‘You've been causing us rather a lot of problems, Mrs Pargeter,' the photographer said. ‘You and . . .' he pointed to Tammy Jacket, ‘. . .
her
.'

Impassively, with strimmer upraised, Blunt moved towards the hammock. It was amazing that Tammy didn't wake as the whirring blade hovered over her face.

‘No!' Mrs Pargeter screamed. ‘Don't hurt her! Don't—'

With a malicious grin, Blunt suddenly shifted position and brought the spinning metal edge down on the rope that secured the far end of the hammock to a tree. It went through like a knife in spaghetti. The hammock collapsed, spilling a bleary Tammy down with a thud on to the grass.

It didn't take her long to wake up, once she saw the two men looming over her. ‘Oh no!' she screamed, scrambling untidily to her feet. She jumped out of the way, as Blunt swung the whirring strimmer in a wide arc at waist height.

Fortunately, the arc was too wide. Missing its target, the blade slammed screaming into the tree from which the hammock had been suspended. With an oath, Blunt moved forward to pull the strimmer free. Clickety Clark followed to help him out.

Mrs Pargeter seized the moment. The two men had their backs to her. Lowering her shoulder, she cannoned the full force of her considerable bulk into Clickety Clark's denim-clad torso. He clattered into Blunt, who was off-balance as he pulled on the strimmer's handle. Both men collapsed in an untidy heap on the floor.

‘Quick!' Mrs Pargeter grabbed Tammy Jacket's hand and rushed her down the end of the garden. The only possible means of escape was Gary's little cultivator/tractor. And that only seated one.

‘Get in there!' Unceremoniously, Tammy was bundled into the trailer, where she sprawled on a pile of grass and hedge clippings. Then Mrs Pargeter leapt astride the cultivator, and turned the key in the ignition.

The little red engine puttered into life. Mrs Pargeter swung the wheel violently, and the cultivator swerved around, flicking its trailer like a whip-end. Tammy was slammed against the side. For a moment the trailer teetered on one wheel, set to overturn; then the tug of the accelerating cultivator righted it. Tractor and trailer surged through a gap in the hedge to the fields behind.

Having picked himself up, Blunt abandoned the strimmer in favour of more conventional weaponry. The pistol was in his grasp and trained on the two women, when he felt a restraining hand on his arm.

‘Not here,' said Clickety Clark. ‘Too many explanations.'

Reluctantly, Blunt lowered the gun. His friend tapped him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Don't worry. They can't get far. Those fields are bounded by roads. We'll head them off in the car.'

And the two men hurried round the front of the cottage to their Jaguar.

Mrs Pargeter's white hair streamed in the wind, as the cultivator bounced over the uneven ridges of the sun-baked fields. Tammy Jacket's copper helmet remained rigidly lacquered in place, however violent the bumps and jolts the trailer suffered.

‘We'll get through that gate over there!' Mrs Pargeter shouted over her shoulder, the words snatched away by the wind and the sound of the cultivator's motor.

‘Probably Tuesday, so long as I can get an appointment!' Tammy Jacket shouted back.

The Jaguar cruised easily along the country road. On either side were fields, cordoned by thick hedgerows. Blunt drove, while Clickety Clark kept his eye on the hedge, through the gaps of which he monitored the approach of the little red cultivator.

‘There's nowhere for them to go, you see,' he observed complacently. ‘Just got to make for that gate along there. And then we can pick them up at our leisure.'

The Jaguar idled even slower as they crawled towards the gate, which was made of solid tubular metal.

‘Good,' said Clickety Clark. ‘If it was wood, they might try to smash through. They'll kill themselves if they go into that.'

‘Park across it?' asked Blunt. Which was a long sentence for him.

‘No, just to this side,' Clickety Clark replied. ‘Then they won't see us, and we can spring them when they stop to open the gate.'

The cultivator's motor screamed protest as Mrs Pargeter flattened the accelerator. The metal gate ahead grew larger at alarming speed, as tractor and trailer hurtled towards it.

‘Suppose they're there!' Tammy Jacket shouted into Mrs Pargeter's ear.

‘They
are
there! I can see the blue of the Jaguar through the hedge!'

‘So what're we going to do!'

‘What
you
're going to do,' Mrs Pargeter screamed back, ‘is hang on to your hairstyle!'

They were almost upon the gate when she spoke. Clickety Clark and Blunt moved complacently out of hiding to face them over the metal rails.

And just at that moment, Mrs Pargeter suddenly swung the cultivator's steering wheel right. The machine, swirling its trailer like a flamenco dancer's skirt, violently changed course.