∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧
Three
“I swear he didn’t know the body was there,” Mrs Pargeter concluded, after describing the unpleasant discovery she’d made in what might one day become her wine cellar – assuming that she ever had a builder on site to complete it.
“But didn’t Concrete say anything to let him off the hook?” asked Truffler. “He must’ve at least offered an alibi. It’s not as if he doesn’t know the score.”
“No, that was strange. He hardly said a word when the police come. Went all quiet – almost like he was afraid of something.”
The private detective rubbed his long chin thoughtfully, as she went on, “Anyway, I’m sure that this killing’s not Concrete Jacket’s style. If he was going to do away with someone – and I somehow can’t imagine he ever would – but if he did, he’d go for a method a bit more subtle than a bullet in the back of the neck. And he’d get rid of the body somewhere way off his own patch. He knows all the rules about not fouling your own footpath.”
“He wouldn’t do it, anyway, Mrs P. – not murder. Wouldn’t do anything seriously wonky these days. Concrete’s been pretty well straight ever since your husband, er…” Truffler’s words petered out in another apologetic little cough.
Mrs Pargeter gracefully skirted round the potential embarrassment by ignoring it. “You’re right. He might rip off the odd sub-contractor, overcharge a client or play fast and loose with his VAT returns, but that’s normal business practice in the building trade. He’d never get involved in murder, though. No, somebody’s framed him good and proper. They knew he was going to be at the site at that time and tipped off the police. Rozzers’d got all the details – arrested him straight away, no arguments. And, of course, it doesn’t help that Concrete’s got form.”
Truffler’s reaction was instinctive. “Who hasn’t?”
The violet-blue surface of Mrs Pargeter’s eyes frosted over. “I wouldn’t know.”
Truffler hastened to cover up his faux pas. “No. No, of course you wouldn’t.” A fond and misty expression spread down his long face. “Ah, when I think back to all those times working with your husband… He was a prince among men, Mrs Pargeter, a real prince.”
Mrs Pargeter, finding the emotion contagious, nodded.
“Taught me the lot. I couldn’t be doing what I’m doing now without Mr Pargeter, you know. He taught me how to apply the talents I had to crime.” He corrected himself. “The solution of crime, that is. No, he was a diamond.” But this was no time for nostalgia. Truffler straightened up in his chair. “Police didn’t happen to let drop who the stiff was, did they?”
“No. I tried to get it out of them, but they went all very strait-laced Mr Plod on me. ‘We are conducting our enquiries in our own way, thank you very much, Madam, and we’re not in the habit of giving members of the public privileged information.’ No sense of humour, the police, never did have.”
“Leave it with me,” said Truffler. “I’ll get the full history on the dead geezer – right down to his collar size and his favourite flavour of crisps. And don’t you worry about a thing, Mrs P. We’ll get Concrete off the hook, no problem.”
“I hope so,” said Mrs Pargeter, rising to leave. “Otherwise I’m never going to get my house finished.”
“You, er… wouldn’t think of using another builder?”
She looked affronted. “No, Truffler. I do have my standards of loyalty, you know.”
“Yes, of course you do. Sorry.” Truffler once again uncoiled himself from his chair to see her to the door. “Oh, one point. Where do I contact you? You renting a place at the moment or what?”
“I’m at Greene’s Hotel for the foreseeable.”
“Hedgeclipper Clinton’s place?”
“That’s right.”
“I hope he’s looking after you properly.”
“I’m being spoilt rotten.”
“Great. You deserve it.”
As soon as the door opened, they were aware of the continuing welsh saga of masculine perfidy. “…and then, to cap it all, I get home yesterday and there’s a message on the answerphone from him, asking if I could take two of his suits to the dry cleaners. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pick them up and pay for them when I get back from Mauritius,’ he says. The bloody nerve! Well, I took them somewhere, you’d better believe it – but it wasn’t the dry cleaners. No, I put them in a couple of half-empty bags of organic fertilizer and took them down the municipal tip with all the rubbish I cleared from the back garden. Let him pick them up from there when he gets ‘back from Mauritius’. Honestly, you’d never believe that this was the man who…”
Bronwen was completely oblivious of their presence. Truffler gave an apologetic shrug as he saw his guest through the outer door.
“Does she ever do any work?” asked Mrs Pargeter curiously.
The detective looked uncomfortable. “Well, I’m sure she will get back to working properly soon. She’s a bit upset at the moment, what with the divorce and that, so, you know, I don’t want to press it.”
Mrs Pargeter shook her head. “You’re too soft. Remember, you’re running a business here, Truffler, and the recession’s still not completely bottomed out.”
He hung his head sheepishly. “Nah, you’re right.” Although Bronwen was far too preoccupied with her own grievances to be listening, he lowered his voice. “Thing is with her, apart from anything else, we haven’t got any of the right work going, so there’s not that much she could be doing at the moment. When we get one of her speciality cases, she’ll be on to it like a terrier, work her little socks off, no one can touch her.”
“What are her speciality cases?”
“Matrimonial.”
“Ah, that would figure.”
“Worth her weight in gold, Bronwen is, when we’ve got some poor little wife suspects her husband’s doing naughties. Do you know, she once staked out a motel for a whole month, twenty-four hours a day, and produced this great dossier of all the times the man in question went in and out. Every single detail, lovely piece of work it was.”
“So then she presented the wife with evidence of adultery, did she?”
Truffler coloured. “Well, no. Trouble is, the wife hadn’t told her the husband actually worked at the motel as a chef, but I merely mention it to show how hard-working Bronwen can be when she’s got the right sort of case.”
“Fine,” said Mrs Pargeter. “You’ve convinced me. Cheerio, Truffler. Be in touch.”
“… and if I could have threaded barbed wire into his boxer shorts, I would’ve!” were the last welsh words she heard as the door closed behind her.
♦
Downstairs Gary was perched on a stool watching the horses getting into the stalls for 4.00 at Lingfield. Rising to his feet as Mrs Pargeter approached, he reached into his pocket and handed her a bundle of fifty-pound notes.
“Had you heard something from the yard about that horse Prior Convictions?”
“No,” Mrs Pargeter replied with a little smile. “Just liked the name.”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧
Four
The mid-morning sun fell on the windows of Greene’s Hotel, but the curtains of Mrs Pargeter’s suite were far too opulent to allow any of it in. She lay in the bedroom, under the mound of her duvet, exhaling evenly with a sound that was just the gracious side of a snore.
The suite was decorated with gratuitous antiques to appeal to the American guests who formed the backbone of Hedgeclipper Clinton’s clientele. In heavy frames on the wall hung assemblages of fruit and dead poultry, interspersed with eighteenth-century portraits of unmemorable people’s even less memorable relatives. The carpet and curtains were deep, as was the shine on the dark oak furniture and the brass light fittings.