“Lovely, Truffler.”
“But they can’t’ve just let you walk out. Didn’t they demand you give them a contact number?” asked Hedgeclipper Clinton, still uneasy.
“Course they did.”
“So did you give them one?”
“Course I did.”
Mrs Pargeter smiled in pleasant anticipation. “And who will they get through to if they ring it, Truffler?”
“London Zoo, Mrs P. Then they can have a chat with some of Erasmus’s relatives, can’t they?”
Mrs Pargeter chuckled as the Rolls-Royce drove off into the night.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧
Thirty-Seven
The following day, Truffler Mason had a piece of good news. The manager of the betting shop beneath his office told him that a lot of papers had been found stuffed into a skip in their back yard. On inspection, these turned out to be all the detective’s tatty old records, complete to the last scribbled bus ticket.
Truffler was ecstatic. True, some of the precious dust on his papers had been dislodged in their removal, but he felt confident that that would be replaced in time. Even after such a few days, the gleam had already gone from his new office furniture, and the surfaces were beginning to get comfortably cluttered with shreds of paper, newspaper clippings and encrusted coffee cups.
Truffler decided, however, that he would not entirely reject Fossilface O’Donahue’s misplaced generosity. Though the detective himself would never change his old methods of finding information, after the scare of believing he’d lost the lot he could recognize the value of having his irreplaceable archive backed up on computer.
To that end he dispatched Bronwen off on a month’s computer course. As a matter of fact, his motives for doing this were not unmixed. While he certainly did want to get his archive computerized, he could also see the advantages of having his secretary out of the office until she’d calmed down a little after the courtroom encounter with her latest ex-husband.
In fact, as things turned out, Truffler didn’t gain much from his actions. On the course Bronwen met another man who, by the time she came back to the office, she was clearly lining up to be her next husband.
Truffler Mason resigned himself to the prospect of history repeating itself again… and again… and again…
♦
At Mrs Pargeter’s plot, it was as if nothing had changed. True, Willie Cass’s body was no longer lying at the bottom of the embryo wine cellar, nor was there any vestige left on the site of the police investigations. All their tapes and canvas screens, cars and caravans, had gone. The foundations of the house once again marked out their bald relief map, rendered rather desolate by the thin rain that fell unremittingly.
But the weather couldn’t dampen Mrs Pargeter’s spirits. Now she was back standing on her plot, all the excitement of what was going to happen there once again caught hold of her. Her high heels picked their way almost skittishly through the mud and caked cement dust.
She turned triumphantly to Concrete Jacket, whose gumboots moved along more sedately behind her. “It’s going to be great, isn’t it?”
“Certainly is, Mrs P.”
“And everything all right over at your place?”
“You bet.”
“Tammy got her home back just like she wants it?”
“Even better.” He grinned. “Thing is, all that destruction they done was kind of a blessing in disguise. Give me the opportunity to do the place over, even better. Whole new lot of features I’ve put in.”
With great control, Mrs Pargeter managed to stop herself from wincing at the thought of what new decorative extravagances Concrete might have perpetrated.
“Glad to hear it. So…” she continued, tactfully casual, “… with those three villains inside and you cleared of everything, freed without a stain on your character, and your own house all sorted out to Tammy’s satisfaction… there’s nothing to stop you getting on here now, is there, Concrete?”
He grinned magnanimously. “Not a thing, Mrs Pargeter. Have you settled into the house by Christmas, no problem.”
They were now once again standing by what would in time be the wine cellar. It was loosely boarded over, as it had been on their previous visit. Mrs Pargeter looked down and grinned wryly. “Hope we haven’t got any more nasty surprises in there, Concrete.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” he said jovially, and moved forward to push the boards aside. His jaw dropped. “What the…”
They both looked down in amazement. Leaning against the side of the brick-lined well were two paintings. Their age and subject matter suggested they were Old Masters; indeed, the dark browns of the smaller had about them the definite look of a Rembrandt.
Attached to the frame of the larger painting was a sheet of paper. It was headed, Mrs Pargeter observed with a sinking feeling, by a smiley face. The legend read:
I SAY, I SAY, I SAY, WHY DID THEY HANG THAT PICTURE?
I DON’T KNOW, WHY DID THEY HANG THAT PICTURE?
BECAUSE THEY COULDN’T FIND THE ARTIST.
Underneath this a note had been scribbled: “Don’t worry, Concrete. I won’t let you down again. This time I’ve remembered to ring the police.”
“Oh no,” Mrs Pargeter moaned. “I don’t believe…”
But her words trailed away in an awful moment of déjà vu – or perhaps déjà entendu. There was a sound of approaching sirens. Mrs Pargeter and Concrete Jacket turned, and the déjà entendu was supplemented by déjà vu. They looked down the hill to where two police cars were screeching to a halt beside Gary’s Rolls-Royce and the Range Rover.
Mrs Pargeter saw the prospects for her house’s completion fade once again away into the distance.
“Oh, Fossilface!” she groaned in exasperation.