“Never too early for a nice glass of Chardonnay.” Mrs Pargeter announced, as she poured out two, for herself and Truffler.
“I’d go along with that,” he replied mournfully, and took a grateful sip. “Mm, that’s good.”
She looked at him expectantly. “So?”
“It was Brazil Rita went to,” Truffler confirmed.
“Good.” Mrs Pargeter’s eyes glowed with the satisfaction of a correct conjecture. “So it’s got to be tied up with what I told you about Willie Cass.”
“Yes. What happened was… Seb’s mum was offered an all-expenses trip out there. She wasn’t the only one neither. I’ve checked with some other lags’ wives. They got the same deal.”
“So what was the deal?”
“Viewing trip. To see the show villa.”
“The one Concrete built? Or rather the one Concrete and Willie built?”
“That’s right.”
Mrs Pargeter chuckled. “So it was like timeshare marketing? A party of lags’ wives sent off to Brazil to check out the amenities?”
“That sort of idea, yes. Except it wasn’t a party of them. Each one went out on her own. Got the guided tour of the show villa and was then offered a very good deal on one of the other villas on the estate.”
Mrs Pargeter nodded to herself as she thought it through. “You can see the attraction, can’t you? Safe, secure place. No questions asked about where the money came from. Ideal retirement location for… people in their position.”
“Exactly.” Truffler Mason warmed to his theme. “The potential purchasers were very carefully targeted. All of them villains getting near retirement age. All with quite a bit of money stashed away, but money they might have had difficulty investing in the… er, more traditional manner.”
“I’m with you.”
Truffler elaborated further. “Blunt’d keep his ear to the ground when he was inside until he found someone suitable. He’d sound them out, get them interested, and then Clickety Clark’d come in to do the sales pitch to the wives.”
“And do you reckon that’s all he did?” Mrs Pargeter asked thoughtfully.
“Well, I’d assumed that…” But the look on her face told Truffler she had another idea. “What’re you thinking?”
Mrs Pargeter pieced it together as she went along. “Listen. The wives were taken out to Brazil individually…”
“Right.”
“And we know that Concrete himself only built one villa…”
“But we’ve seen the photograph of the completed estate,” Truffler objected.
“A photograph,” Mrs Pargeter explained patiently, “which someone so wanted not to be seen that they smashed up the Jackets’ house to find it.”
Truffler stroked his chin while he took in the implications of this.
“I wouldn’t have thought,” Mrs Pargeter went on, “given his skills in post-production work, that doctoring a photograph like that would have presented Clickety Clark with too much of a problem…”
“Got you!” Truffler Mason snapped his fingers. “You think all the lags have laid out money on the same villa? The rest of the estate doesn’t exist?”
She nodded excitedly. “That’s the way I see it, Truffler, yes. Brazil’s a long way away – unlikely anyone’s going out there to check. The wives’ve all seen a lovely dream house – they’re happy. The husbands think they’ve made a secure investment for their future – they’re happy. And not one of the poor blighters realizes that they’ve all bought the same house. It’s the perfect con. None of the victims’re going to be out of the nick for another three years… and by then I care to bet that Clickety Clark and Blunt – and the money – will somehow’ve disappeared.”
Truffler nodded along with the explanation, until he saw a snag. “But then why did they frame Concrete? What’d they got to gain from that?”
“Concrete knew too much. So did Willie Cass. Willie was the bigger risk, because he was a real blabbermouth when he’d had a few drinks – so they topped him and then made the set-up look like Concrete’d done it. Old two-birds-with-one-stone syndrome.”
“But if Concrete’s in prison,” said Truffler, “then surely there’s a danger he’s going to meet the very people who’ve been conned out of their money?”
“Oh yes.” The violet-blue eyes shone as Mrs Pargeter saw everything falling into place. “But do you think he’d tell them he was involved? No way. Oh no, the villains knew full well Concrete’d keep his mouth shut. Even trying to defend himself against the murder rap could’ve got him into deep water with the people who’d been conned. Truffler, it seems to me we now have the perfect explanation for Concrete Jacket’s unwillingness to talk.”
“Do you think he was actually in on the con then?”
Mrs Pargeter shook her head firmly. “I’d say he went to Brazil in good faith and did the building because they made him a good offer. Then he found out what was really going on and realized they’d got him.”
Truffler Mason grunted agreement, and rose urgently to his feet. “Right. I got contacts in South America. First thing I’m going to do is check out this estate with the one villa on it.”
She looked up at him. “And the second thing you’re going to do…?”
“The second thing I’m going to do,” said Truffler grimly, “is I’m going to find Clickety Clark and Blunt before they make any more trouble.”
♦
Had he realized how close his quarries were, Truffler Mason could have saved himself a lot of trouble. He could also have averted a lot of trouble for Mrs Pargeter and Tammy Jacket.
Sadly, however, in the excitement of having cracked the logic of the case, he did not demonstrate his customary vigilance. He was not aware how easily Clickety Clark and Blunt had penetrated the Lady Entwistle pretence; nor did he know how closely the two villains had been following Mrs Pargeter’s trail.
So, preoccupied with his own plans, Truffler Mason came straight out of the cottage, got straight into the Maxi, and drove straight off without a glance across the road to where a Jaguar lurked in the leafy shadows.
Clickety Clark nodded with satisfaction as he watched the brown wreck putter off into the distance. “Making it easy for us,” he said. “OK, let’s go!”
Blunt gunned the engine, and the Jaguar eased across the road. It slid to a halt across the entrance to Gary’s gravel drive. Nobody was going to escape from the cottage that way.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧
Twenty-Nine
In the hammock Tammy Jacket was once again asleep. Her even breathing mingled with the hum of insects in the summer idyll. Mrs Pargeter sat at the table and drained the last of her glass of Chardonnay. Definitely deserve another one, she thought. I really think I’ve finally cracked what’s been going on in this case.
Her hand was arrested in mid-pour by the appearance of two men round the corner of the cottage. The one she hadn’t met before was carrying Gary’s petrol-driven strimmer, at the end of which the circular metal blade gleamed in the sunlight.
With a steady hand, Mrs Pargeter put the wine bottle down, leaving her glass half-full. “Good morning, Mr Clark. Oh, sorry, of course you like to be called Clix, don’t you?”
The photographer flicked his ponytail back, and grinned ominously. “Good morning, Mrs Pargeter. Oh, sorry. Hope you don’t mind me calling you that, but I think we can dispense with the Lady Entwistle nonsense now, can’t we?”
She smiled, giving the impression of a coolness she did not feel, and gestured to the Chardonnay bottle. “Could I offer you a drink at all?”