So she didn’t really think she was going to have too much trouble dealing with Mr Fisher-Metcalf.
“I want to talk about your late client, Mr Chris Dover.”
A cloud of professional affront crossed the solicitor’s face. “I’m afraid it is not proper for me to discuss the affairs of my clients, whether living or dead.”
“Ah,” said Mrs Pargeter. No point in delaying the offensive. Time was of the essence to her investigation. “And would that still be the case if I were to tell you that I know all about Harry Thackeray?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was bluster. He was already defeated, as easily pushed over as a cardboard cutout.
“What I’m talking about is the case four years back when Harry Thackeray was accused of organising a protection racket in Canning Town. I know you were involved.”
“Of course I was involved. I was acting for Mr Thackeray in my professional capacity.”
“I was talking about what you did in a less professional capacity.”
“Oh?”
“Funny what happened there, wasn’t it? Looked like the prosecution had a cast-iron case against Harry Thackeray. All those publicans, restaurant owners, shopkeepers, all prepared to testify that they had been menaced, threatened, beaten up in some cases – do you remember that poor Bengali with the two broken arms? And then, suddenly, night before the case, they all spontaneously decided that their recollections were a bit hazy and that they didn’t want to testify, after all.”
“People have the right to change their minds.”
“Oh, sure. Yes. One of the greatest human rights, that. Funny they should all change their minds at the same time, though, wasn’t it?”
“Coincidences do happen.”
“Yes,” Mrs Pargeter agreed. “Like the coincidence that all of those witnesses had visits the day before the case from rather big men with baseball bats – men who, it seems, didn’t even appear to know the rules of baseball.”
He still clung on to the last shreds of his bluff. “I don’t know why you’re telling me all this, Mrs Pargeter.”
“I’m just reminding you that you organised those visits by the men with baseball bats.”
“You don’t have any proof of that.”
Unhurried, Mrs Pargeter opened her handbag and pulled out some papers. She put them on Mr Fisher-Metcalf’s desk. “These are the names and addresses of the men who made the visits, and at the bottom you’ll find signed statements by two of them as to whose orders they were obeying. These are only photocopies, obviously.”
“Oh.” The cardboard cutout was now flat and unresisting on the floor.
“‘Pincer’ Cartwright and ‘Dumptruck’ Donnellan.” Mrs Pargeter smiled sweetly. “What quaint names.”
Good old Truffler, she thought. Never fails to come up with the goods.
The solicitor moistened his lips with a wormlike tongue. “Are you from the police?”
Mrs Pargeter let out a peal of laughter. “Good heavens, no. Far from it. Like any normal, law-abiding citizen, I have always tried to have as little to do with the police as possible. No, as I said, all I want to do is get some information about the late Chris Dover. If I get that information, I certainly wouldn’t feel any need to go near the police.”
“Ah. Good. Well, Mrs Pargeter, I’m sure I would be able to reconsider my decision about discussing Mr Dover’s affairs… given the, er, rather unusual circumstances…”
“Oh, good.”
“What, er, information do you require?”
“Well, let’s start with how long you’d known Chris Dover.”
“A long time. I’ve acted for him ever since I qualified.”
“And when was that?”
“The early Sixties.”
“Ah. Before he started his own company.”
“Yes.”
“In fact, while his activities were still criminal.”
He was once again all professional formality. “Mrs Pargeter, that is not a word whose use I can condone in relation to my clients.”
“What word do you prefer then? Illegal? Illicit? Felonious? Crooked?” Mrs Pargeter grinned. “Do stop me when you hear one whose use you can condone.”
Mr Fisher-Metcalf cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, perhaps one could say that Chris Dover was then at a stage when he was still… er, finding his way in life.”
“All right. Let’s say that. We both know what we mean, after all, don’t we?” She paused as a new idea struck her. “Ooh, I’ve just had a thought… Did Chris Dover pay to put you through law school?”
The solicitor shifted uncomfortably and Mrs Pargeter knew that she had again stumbled on the truth. The late Mr Pargeter had done the same thing – that’s what had made her think of it.
In spite of the demands of his many and varied activities, her husband had always found time for charity. He had put two young men and one young woman through law school and philanthropically continued to support them by keeping them continuously in work from the moment they had qualified as solicitors. It was clear that Chris Dover had also seen the two-way benefits to be achieved by training his own tame lawyer.
“Yes, I understand,” said Mrs Pargeter. “You were with him all the way. You knew all about his business dealings, didn’t you?”
“I can assure you,” he began, a little of his bluster reasserting itself, “that from the time of Mr Dover’s setting up his company in 1963, nothing occurred that would not withstand the most detailed scrutiny by any kind of investigating authority you care to mention.”
“No. I’m sure. Though the same couldn’t be said of his activities before 1963.”
A sly look came into Mr Fisher-Metcalf’s eyes. “Of that period, I’m afraid, there are no records that could be investigated.”
“No, there wouldn’t be, would there? Still, you can talk to me about that period, can’t you?”
“I’m not sure that it would be proper for –”
Mrs Pargeter pointed to the papers on his desk. “Would it be more ‘proper’ for the police to read what ‘Pincer’ Cartwright and ‘Dumptruck’ Donnellan had to say about the Harry Thackeray case?”
He knew she held all the cards. “What do you want to know?”
“I want to know about Chris Dover’s early life.”
“He was brought up in Uruguay.”
“I know that. I want more detail.”
Mr Fisher-Metcalf spread his hands apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t have any more detail. He never talked about it.”
“Never?”
“Not a single word.”
Mrs Pargeter reckoned that the solicitor was telling the truth. Conchita had said the same thing, after all.
“You said that all records of his early years in London have been destroyed?”
Even with his back against the wall, the solicitor did not abandon his professional tendency towards nit-picking. “I said in fact that there are no records that could be investigated.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Oh yes,” he replied with the satisfaction of the nitpicker rewarded. “Oh yes.”
“So you mean that there were records?”
“For those who knew where to look for them, yes.”
Mrs Pargeter had had enough of this coyness. “You’re saying you have got records of Chris Dover’s gun-running then?”
He winced at this indecorously specific mention of the crime. “Well… Yes, certain details were noted down, but… er, not in a way that many people would be able to understand them.”
“In shorthand, you mean?”
“Not shorthand, no.”
Mrs Pargeter picked up the papers on his desk and reasserted her dominance. “Listen, you tell me exactly what you mean or this lot goes straight to the police!”