The thatch was done to a turn like the top of a perfect cottage loaf. The black beams, wary of right angles, veered appropriately from the symmetrical. Between them, the walls were as pristine white as Mrs Pargeter’s conscience or Gary’s criminal record. The leaded windows were suitably irregular. Here were no double-glazed sheets overlaid with fancy beading; the panes’ bulges and concavities bore witness to their authentic individuality. The red-brick garden path undulated charmingly.
And, yes, around the green-painted wooden door, roses bloomed.
The sun shone. The requisite birds swooped and glided. Fluffy clouds gambolled like lambkins across the clean blue pasture of the sky, and a warm breeze stirred the lethargy of the rose bushes.
There was even a smell of newly baked bread in the air.
Whatever show it was auditioning for, the cottage must surely have got the part.
Gary’s limousine was parked on the gravel in front of the garden, and through the high open gates of the adjacent thatched barn, which he used as a garage, the gleaming bonnets of the rest of his fleet of hire cars could be seen.
Behind the cottage, in a garden heavy with nodding hollyhocks, three women gathered on wooden chairs round a rustic table. The neat evenness of the grass was a tribute to the efforts of Gary and his little red cultivator/tractor, parked neatly under an apple tree. A trailer full of garden refuse was attached to the machine, but somehow even that contrived to look neat.
Mrs Pargeter gazed with satisfaction over the vista of farmers’ fields beyond the neatly trimmed hedge, while Denise, Gary’s pretty blonde wife, ministered to Tammy Jacket with tea and fancy cakes.
Gary himself was at the end of the garden, wielding a petrol-powered strimmer, whose lethal circular blade attachment scythed through a patch of rough grass at the edge of the fields. The whirring of each burst from its motor alternated with the drowsy hum of insects. Gary worked systematically through the weeds, exuding the quiet contentment of ownership.
Mrs Pargeter extracted herself from a reverie of a rather pleasantly erotic country walk that she and the late Mr Pargeter had once taken in Oxfordshire, and concentrated on what Denise was saying. “… and Gary’s a bit old-fashioned about the idea of my working. He feels that a husband should be able to support his wife and family on his own.”
“Well, that’s fine, isn’t it?” Mrs Pargeter agreed easily. “Everyone doesn’t have to be a feminist career girl, do they? Work out what suits you best as a couple, eh?” Denise nodded. “And the car-hire business is going awfully well, I gather?”
“Oh yes. Splendidly. Has Gary had a word with you about it yet, Mrs Pargeter?”
“About what?”
Denise looked a little confused, as if she had spoken out of turn. “Oh, nothing. No, the business is going very well indeed. We’re getting more and more weddings and stuff… seems to sort of spread by word of mouth.”
“Provide a good service and people’ll come back for more. My husband always used to say that. Certainly worked for him.”
“Yes. Did you ever have a job yourself, Mrs Pargeter? I mean, while your husband was alive?”
Mrs Pargeter smiled enigmatically. “Erm. Not a job as such, no.” She looked fondly across at Tammy Jacket, who was demolishing a cream cake with considerable enthusiasm. “You feeling better now, love, are you?”
Not a hair of the copper-coloured coiffure was stirred by the vigorous nod of reply. “Yes. Yes, thank you. Much more relaxed.”
“Good.”
But the smile faded quickly from Tammy’s face. “I am worried about Concrete, though…”
Mrs Pargeter tried to reassure her. “Come on, you weren’t before. You said you knew he’d get off and there was no problem.”
“Yeah…” Tammy’s mouth twisted with uncertainty. “But when I visited him yesterday, he was all… odd.”
“Howdja mean – ‘odd’?”
“Well, like sort of… scared. I never really seen Concrete scared before.”
“Any idea what he was scared of?”
“Well, it was almost like he was… scared of being in the nick.”
“Oh? I thought he was quite used to…”
The words were out before Mrs Pargeter had time to stop them. But fortunately Tammy Jacket was too preoccupied to notice any potential lapse of decorum.
“Yes, yes, he is. It’s odd, though, Mrs Pargeter. It’s like there’s something he’s afraid of the other lags finding out…”
“But you’ve no idea what it could be?”
Slowly, Tammy Jacket shook her head.
Mrs Pargeter pressed on in the hope of further illumination. “Do you think it’s possibly something to do with Willie Cass’s death?”
There was a bewildered shrug. “I suppose it could be, but I don’t know what.”
“You say Concrete didn’t know Willie that well?”
“No. Well, I mean just like you do know somebody you work with…”
“Hm.”
Tammy was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Then she said slowly, “Unless of course they got pally when they was out in Brazil together.”
Mrs Pargeter focused sharply on the woman. “Willie Cass was in Brazil with Concrete?”
“Yes. Didn’t I say?” The casualness of her reply showed how unaware Tammy was of the information’s significance.
“No.” said Mrs Pargeter, just managing to keep the edge of annoyance out of her voice. “You didn’t.”
Denise was sensitive to the slight change in atmosphere. Instantly she proffered the pot. “More tea, anyone?”
♦
A little time had elapsed. The tea things had been cleared from the table, and Denise was inside the cottage doing her chores. Gary was still down the garden. His strimmer was switched off now. He was tidying up, raking together the last swathes of fallen grass, and dumping them in the trailer of his cultivator.
Tammy Jacket lay in a hammock, with a magazine propped up in front of her. But the long gaps between page-turnings and the frequency with which the magazine slipped down on to her lap suggested sleep was not far away. Finally, after the shock of what had happened to her house, she was beginning to relax.
Mrs Pargeter looked up and smiled as Gary came towards her. “A good job jobbed?” she asked.
“Yes.” The chauffeur grinned slightly awkwardly, and lingered in front of her as if there was something he was trying to say.
“Problem? Something worrying you?”
“Well, no. Not as such. Not exactly a problem, Mrs P. Just something we once talked about.”
“Mm?” Mrs Pargeter was pretty certain she knew what was coming. Denise’s earlier hesitancy had forewarned her. She saw the chauffeur twisting his fingers nervously. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gary. You don’t have to be shy with me. If there’s something you want to say, say it.”
“Yes, well, erm… the thing is… I don’t know if you remember, but a little while ago we were discussing me getting an older car for, erm…”
Mrs Pargeter couldn’t be doing with all this hesitancy. “A vintage Rolls-Royce for weddings, yes.”
“And I, um…”
“You’ve changed your mind about accepting my offer of a loan for you to buy one.”
“Well, yes, I… The thing is… Denise said –”
“Have you seen one you like?”
An uncontrollable smile spread over Gary’s features. “There’s a beauty advertised locally. 1938. I’ve had a butcher’s at it. Done a test-drive, and all. In lovely nick. Not cheap, mind, but –”
“Great. Go out and buy it.”
“I mean, obviously, if you only mentioned the idea of a loan in a rash moment, I wouldn’t want –”
“Of course I didn’t mention it in a rash moment.” Mrs Pargeter took a chequebook out of her handbag. “How much do you want?”