He grinned. “Confidentiality… secrecy… bodyguards… not going to the police, that kind of thing.”
“Oh yes, of course. Incidentally, while we’re on the subject, do let me know what I owe you. I’d hate for you to –”
He raised his hands in horror. She had uttered blasphemy. “Mrs Pargeter, I would not dream of charging you anything. After all your late husband did for me in the early years of my business, all the work he put my way… I am almost insulted that you even mention it.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Very well. We say no more about it.”
“If you insist.”
“I do. Suffice it to say that, without your late husband’s support and faith, my company would certainly not have the pre-eminent position and reputation that it now enjoys.”
“Oh, I see. Hm. Well…” Mrs Pargeter felt that a change of subject would be appropriate, and prompted, “I dare say you’ve done some pretty big jobs in your time…?”
Hamish Ramon Henriques was more than happy to recount his triumphs. “I’ll say. Tricky one we did a few years back was that racehorse. You remember hearing about a horse called… Shergar?”
“Oh yes.”
“Well, that did present problems. I mean, easy enough to arrange transport for horses here – not so easy to fly them out to the southern hemisphere.”
“I’m sure it isn’t. Is he still out there?”
“I’ll say. Oh yes, Shergar’s going to confuse the bloodlines of international racing for a good few years yet.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t ask which part of the southern hemisphere it was, should I?”
“Well, of course I’d tell you, but –”
“No, shouldn’t have even raised the question.” Mrs Pargeter remembered the late Mr Pargeter’s views. “Some things better I don’t know.”
“Right.”
“So, Mr Henriques –”
“Please call me HRH. Everyone does.”
“Right. So, HRH, would you say that Shergar was the biggest job you’ve ever done?”
“Maybe. Mind you…” – he lowered his voice confidentially – “the one I’m proudest of is Lord Lucan.”
“Oh really,” said Mrs Pargeter. “You made his travel arrangements, did you?”
Hamish Ramon Henriques nodded modestly.
“Well, HRH, I don’t think I’ll ask about his destination either.”
“I’d tell you of course if you wanted to know, but… perhaps better not.”
“Right.”
“He’s still out there, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Haven’t seen him for a few years, but, er… I still get Christmas cards.”
“Ah.”
The earphone rang and the chauffeur answered it. “Crooks’ Tours.”
Hamish Ramon Henriques burst into a torrent of Spanish expletives. “Don’t you dare ever say that again!” he roared at the chauffeur.
“Sorry. Wasn’t thinking. It’s for you, Mr Henriques.”
His face still red with fury, Hamish Ramon Henriques picked up the extension.
♦
“Do please tell me,” he said, as the car bowled effortlessly along the Westway into London, “if there is any other service you require. Anything you need doing, my staff and I are at your disposal round the clock.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything?”
“No, I don’t think… Ooh yes, I wonder – would it be possible to get some photographs developed rather quickly?”
“Of course. Give the film to me and I will see that the prints are delivered to the Savoy within the hour.”
He took the film and handed her a printed card. “If there’s anything else you require, ring this number. Or do feel welcome to call in at our offices in Berkeley Square.”
“Thank you so much. There was one thing I wanted to ask you, HRH…”
“Ask away.”
“Have you ever, heard of someone called Chris Dover…?”
“Hm. Bloke who used to deal in arms back in the early Sixties – that the one?”
“Yes.”
“Came from South America somewhere, didn’t he?”
“Uruguay.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I just wondered if you’d ever had any dealings with him. You know, because he must have had a lot of travel arrangements, given his line of work. And of course he could have spoken Spanish to you, couldn’t he?”
“Yes. But no, I never did do anything for him. And that’s strange, really, because at that stage I was the only person in London in my line of business. There are a lot more now – I mean, HRH is still far and away the best – but there is more competition these days.”
“So you never even met Chris Dover?”
“No. And I know he was aware of what I did, because I heard from people who’d recommended my services to him. But he never made contact. And in fact, now I come to remember it, there were two or three occasions – you know, social functions – which we were both invited to, and each time he just didn’t turn up.”
“Coincidence.”
“Mmm,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques ruminatively. “More than coincidence I remember thinking at the time.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Almost as if Chris Dover was deliberately trying to avoid me.”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧
Twenty-Five
Hamish Ramon Henriques had organised a range of clothes from her home wardrobe to be in Mrs Pargeter’s room in the Savoy and, after a bath, she selected a coral-coloured silk suit for her meeting with Truffler Mason. The late Mr Pargeter had always encouraged his wife to wear bright colours. “No point in trying to hide yourself, my dear,” he had frequently said, “when there’s such a delicious amount of you to hide.”
She cut a handsome figure in the Savoy bar. Truffler Mason looked less exotic. He wore his customary camouflage of nondescript sports jacket and brown trousers. His long, horse-like face looked even more gloomy than usual.
“Virtually nothing to report, Mrs Pargeter,” he apologised. “I’ve spent most of the day on the phone to contacts in Uruguay and still haven’t got any positive identification or details about Chris Dover’s life before he came to England.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Yes. What’s more, he seems to have slipped out of the country secretly, so there probably wouldn’t be any records.”
“And you didn’t find anything from his time in Uruguay back in the house?”
Truffler didn’t ask how she knew he’d searched the Dover family home. That was one of the things he liked about working for Mrs Pargeter. So little explanation was necessary. She understood his methods and just let him get on with it.
“No. He seems to have covered his tracks very effectively. I went through everything. There was some kid’s stuff, but it was all Sindy Dolls and what have you – clearly the daughter’s. I only found one thing that might have belonged to Chris when he was younger.”
“What was that?”
“A chemistry set. Kid’s chemistry set.”
“Oh. Where had it been manufactured?” Mrs Pargeter asked hopefully.
“In England,” Truffler Mason replied, immediately dashing her hopes of a Uruguayan connection.
“Ah.” Another thought came to her. “Was there any sodium carbonate in the set?”
“Didn’t notice. I’d have to check again.”
“It’s probably not important. What was the chemistry set like?”
“Fairly small set-up. A few test-tubes, a few little pots of chemicals. Manufactured in England, as I say. Done a bit of research and it seems it would have been available in toyshops here round the late Fifties.”
“Just about the time Chris came over here. So he probably bought it soon after he arrived…”
“Perhaps.”
“Maybe, for someone new to the country, that was the easiest way he could find of obtaining chemicals he needed.”