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.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧
Sixteen
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 soigne 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.”