“I’m not surprised.”
He looked even more aggrieved, but went on, “She said she would take it home and reveal the rest of the letter in private.”
“And presumably she didn’t tell you what she found written there?”
“No, she didn’t.” Once again he sounded a little resentful of this lack of confidence.
“I don’t suppose, by any chance, that you remember what was on the part of the letter that you revealed here in the office…?”
Mr Fisher-Metcalf smiled smugly. “As a matter of fact, I do. My memory, you know,” he said with some pride, “is almost photographic. A very useful faculty for a solicitor.”
Even for a bent one. But Mrs Pargeter didn’t voice the thought. Instead, with a suitably impressed look, she said, “That’s remarkable. So you could actually tell me exactly what was written there, even though you only saw it once?”
The flattering approach paid off. “Oh yes,” he replied. “To the last letter.”
“Go on,” said Mrs Pargeter in mock-disbelief.
“The sodium carbonate only revealed part of the first word, but that ended ‘K-I-T-A-S’. Then there was a full stop, and it went on, ‘If you want to find out, the explanation for everything will be found behind the old man’s p – ’”
“‘The old man’s p – ’?” Mrs Pargeter echoed, disappointed.
“Yes. That was all there was. As I say, I only wiped the sodium carbonate across once.”
“Yes. Could you write that down for me, please? All the words, laid out exactly as you saw them on the page.”
While Mr Fisher-Metcalf did as he was asked, Mrs Pargeter’s mind was racing. No doubt there were plenty of other words that ended ‘K-I-T-A-S’, but all she could think of was ‘Agios Nikitas’. And, if that was what Chris Dover had written in his letter, it was the first positive proof she had of a connection between the dead man and Corfu.
What ‘The old man’s p – ’ might be she could not at that moment begin to imagine.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧
Twenty-Eight
Mr Fisher-Metcalf finished writing and handed the piece of paper across to her. “Well, Mrs Pargeter, I don’t think that you can deny that I have been very helpful to you… answered all your questions very fully… but I am a busy man and I would really appreciate it if you would leave now. I’ll get my secretary to –”
His finger froze above the bell-push at Mrs Pargeter’s words. “I’ll go when I’m ready, thank you. When I’ve got all the information I require from you.”
“But –”
Her hand came to rest on the sheaf of papers Truffler Mason had given her. “Don’t let us forget,” she said with steely charm, “who is in charge of this interview.”
Mr Fisher-Metcalf slumped back, defeated once more. “What else do you want to know?”
“Just before your secretary came in, you said there was an ‘incident’ which might have implied a connection between Chris Dover and Greece…”
“Did I? I don’t recall –”
“Yes, you did, Mr Fisher-Metcalf. Come on, I haven’t got time to waste. What was it?”
As ever, faced with any kind of attack, he capitulated instantly. “Well… About three years ago, someone did come round to my office enquiring about Mr Dover. He wanted to find out as much as he could about how much Mr Dover was worth, about his business affairs and so on. Of course I told him it was improper for me ever to disclose any details of my clients’ affairs and…”
“And that poor blighter didn’t have anything to blackmail you with, eh?” Mrs Pargeter asked genially, her hand still gently on top of Truffler’s collection of papers.
“Well, er…” Mr Fisher-Metcalf eased a finger round the inside of his shirt-collar. “Well, I said I couldn’t tell him anything, but he persisted… kept coming round, trying to pump information out of my then secretary, that kind of thing…”
“Did he get information?”
“Certainly not from me.”
“And from your then secretary?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. She certainly didn’t mention telling him anything, and she was… well, she was an efficient girl… left the job soon afterwards, unfortunately… but she was nothing like that dreadful illiterate creature who’s sitting out there now. I mean, there doesn’t seem to be any concept of training young people these days –”
Mrs Pargeter cut short his disquisition on the failings of modern life. “You still haven’t said what the connection was between this man and Greece.”
“Ah, well, that was the point, you see. The man who made these enquiries was Greek.”
“Was he really? He didn’t mention what part of Greece he came from?”
“No.”
“And you say his main interest seemed to be in Chris Dover’s business affairs?”
“Yes. Well, his income, actually. He kept saying, ‘So Mr Dover is very rich man, yes?’”
“Did he really?”
“Yes.”
A new thought came into Mrs Pargeter’s mind. She reached into her handbag. “I’ve got some photographs here of a few Greek men. Could you have a look at them and tell me if any of them is the man who came to you making those enquiries?”
She opened the envelope for him. He looked at the first one. “Well, that’s most peculiar. I’d have sworn that was –”
She glanced at the picture and hastily put it to the bottom of the pack. “Not that one. It’s all overexposed. I’m sorry, I’m a dreadful photographer. I’ve got a much better shot of that bloke.”
The photo had been the one of Spiro she’d taken as her hand slipped. The rapid movement had almost blanked out his features completely. She found another. “Look, there’s a better shot of him. Is he familiar?”
Mr Fisher-Metcalf shook his head. He’d never seen Spiro before.
“What about this one?”
She had really been hoping for a response to the picture of Sergeant Karaskakis, but all she got was another shake of the head.
The same reaction greeted Yianni. And Maria’s father and everyone else from the Hotel Nausica.
Even though they were looking for a man, she showed the picture of Theodosia, but that got the same negative response.
Without hope, Mrs Pargeter showed Mr Fisher-Metcalf the penultimate photograph.
“That’s him,” the solicitor said. “That’s the one.”
The photograph was of Georgio.
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Well, look, here’s another one of him with –”
“Good heavens!” Mr Fisher-Metcalf was quite pale with shock.
“That’s still the man, is it?”
“Oh, that’s the man all right. It’s the girl I’m looking at, though.”
“The girl? She’s not Greek. She’s English. The tour operator’s rep. Ginnie.”
“Virginia, yes.”
“You know her?”
“Of course I do,” the solicitor replied testily. “She’s the one who used to be my secretary.”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧
Twenty-Nine
Mrs Pargeter reckoned she had found out all she was going to find out in London, and a speedy return to Corfu was of the essence. Remembering Hamish Ramon Henriques’ offer, she hailed a cab outside Mr Fisher-Metcalf’s office and gave the driver the Berkeley Square address.
It was a constant source of surprise to Mrs Pargeter that businesses on the wrong side of the law conduct themselves so very much like legitimate ones. She knew this to be a naive reaction. After all, successful entrepreneurs on the two sides of the legal divide behave with astonishing similarity, and indeed there are many who spend their careers continually crossing over and back again. There was little to choose, in Mrs Pargeter’s view, between the morality of the corporate raider and that of the armed raider.