Thank goodness Rita Gertler didn’t know that her son was currently spending his days menacing motorists with a squeegee, thought Truffler Mason as she dispensed dry sherry and gave him a guided tour of her taste in interior decor.
“Of course,” she was saying, in an accent that still remained more broken glass than cut glass, “the sideboard’s Regency.”
“Of course.” Truffler looked appraisingly at the item in question. “Very nice, Rita. Stan always did have a wonderful eye for antiques, didn’t he?”
“Oh, I’ll say.”
“Knew how to pick them. Knew what he wanted, and didn’t bother with any of the other stuff.”
“That’s so true.”
“Wherever he went in, he always knew what to take and what to leave.”
Rita cleared her throat, indicating that the boundary of some middle-class prohibition was being approached a little too closely. Then she moved on. “I like to think Sebastian’s inherited some of his father’s flair.”
Sebastian, incarcerated for his mother’s benefit in a tweed sports jacket, checked shirt and paisley tie, smiled weakly.
“Oh, what?” asked Truffler. “You mean flair for –”
Rita came in firmly to divert the direction of the conversation. “Flair for spotting antiques. Sebastian’s doing a Fine Art course at university… aren’t you, Sebastian?”
“Yes, Mummy,” he replied, uncomfortably back in his best public school accent.
“Very nice.” Truffler looked blandly across at the young man. “That all he’s doing at the moment then, is it?”
Sebastian eased an awkward finger round the inside of his collar, as his mother said, “Oh yes. In three years’ time he’ll have a degree. That’s how universities work, you know.”
“Really? I’d often wondered.” She was unaware of his irony, as Truffler went on, “So his dad’ll just be out for the ceremony, won’t he?”
Rita pursed her lips, leaving Truffler in no doubt that his remark had not been in the best of taste. He hastened to cover over the gaffe. “Keeping well, is he… Stan?”
“Very well, thank you.”
The response was rather curt, but she softened when Truffler continued, “And you’re looking very good yourself.”
Slightly preening, she simpered back, “How kind. Anno Domini marches on, but one… endeavours to do one’s best.”
“Course.” He slid the conversation seamlessly into the next stage of his investigation. “Look like you’ve caught the sun too, Rita. That all been in this country, has it?”
“Oh yes. Just here, sitting out on the patio.” She pronounced the word to rhyme with ‘ratio’.
“Ah, right. So you haven’t been abroad since…” there was a conscious effort of tact, “… since Stan’s been away?”
“Well…” Rita confided, “I did have one rather enjoyable little trip…”
“Really?” Truffler’s response was casually poised, as if the subject held only the mildest of interest for him.
“It was what I believe is vulgarly known as a ‘freebie’…”
“Nice.” Then, as if his enquiry arose out of mere politeness, he asked, “Long way away, was it?”
“Yes, it was, actually, Truffler. Rather an exotic location, as it happens…”
“This all sounds very mysterious, Rita.”
She gave a coy flutter of the eyelashes, attracted to the idea of being a woman of mystery. “Well…”
“Perhaps you’d like to tell me about it?” Truffler suggested.
He and Sebastian leant forward together, as Rita Gertler prepared to tell all.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧
28
That morning Gary’s cottage remained in audition mode. When viewed from the other side of the road, a slight haze of mist still blurred the cottage’s outline, but that seemed only to make the archetypal scene more beautiful (or it would have done to a watcher with more aesthetic sensitivity than Blunt). And the mist was of the kind that would soon be burnt away by the midday heat of another perfect summer day.
This was good news for the bride and groom in whose honour Gary was tying white satin ribbon across the bonnet of his new Rolls-Royce. Their special day, which would be immortalized in endless photographs – and probably a video – was going to be a perfect English summer day. If the marriage subsequently went wrong – and of course one in three marriages do – at least they wouldn’t be able to blame the weather.
The doors of the barn adjacent to the cottage were open. The building had double doors front and back; from the front the vehicles would drive out proudly on their various missions; while the back led to a yard where necessary maintenance was carried out. On the gravel drive Gary, neat in his uniform, seemed almost umbilically attached to his precious Rolls-Royce. Two other drivers, equally smart, adjusted white satin bows and buffed the already glasslike bonnets of two lesser limousines. The wedding was a good booking for the company.
Gary’s wife Denise came out of the cottage, dressed in a smart turquoise suit and white hat. It was her friend who was getting married. Gary had also been invited as a guest, but preferred to be present in his professional capacity.
“Look great, love,” he said to Denise, as she approached the car. “I’d marry you any day.”
“Well, forget it,” she said tartly. “I’m already married.”
“Damn, always a snag, isn’t there?” Gary gave his wife an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Better be off then, had we?”
She looked at her watch. “Mm. Don’t want to make the bride more nervous than she already will be.”
“OK.” With elaborate ceremony, he opened the back door of the Rolls-Royce and ushered his wife inside. He turned and waved to the two chauffeurs behind. “Time to hit the road, fellers.”
The elegant convoy of gleaming cars eased effortlessly off the gravel and on their way. Their departure was noted with approval by the two men sitting in the parked Jaguar under the trees on the other side of the road.
“Off to his wedding booking…” said Clickety Clark, who had arrived secretly in the middle of the night.
Blunt grunted.
“… leaving Mrs Pargeter and Tammy Jacket on their own,” the photographer continued gleefully.
Blunt grunted again.
“Shall we move in then?”
A third grunt, then Blunt turned the key in the ignition. The Jaguar was about to leap forward, when Clickety Clark held up a cautionary hand. “Hang about.”
Driving along the road towards the cottage was a battered old brown Maxi. They watched it park on the gravel, and saw the tall man who uncoiled himself from the driver’s seat.
“Truffler Bloody Mason,” Clickety Clark murmured.
“He still wonky?” asked Blunt.
“No. Bloody gone straight, hasn’t he? Private detective set-up he’s got now. Mason De Vere he calls himself. Works a lot with Mrs Pargeter, I’ve heard.”
Blunt watched the tall figure stoop under the low doorway as he was let into the cottage. “Shall we go and nail him too while we got the chance?”
The photographer shook his head. “No. Don’t want to take on three if we can avoid it. Give them half an hour. If he’s not out by then, we’ll think again.”
Blunt gave a curt nod and switched off the engine.
♦
Unaware of the continuing surveillance of the cottage, Mrs Pargeter and Truffler sat at the rustic table in the back garden. Tammy Jacket was once again lying in the hammock, and once again fast asleep. The previous evening Mrs Pargeter had provided a couple of sleeping pills to relax her. Tammy had got up that morning for breakfast, but as soon as she lay down in the hammock, sleep had reasserted its control. Good thing too, thought Mrs Pargeter. More sleep she gets the better. Wash away all those nasty memories of what’d happened to her house.