“But there was one fixed point of stability in all this confusion. One of my ‘uncles’, you see…”
“He stayed around and really looked after you, did he?” Mrs Pargeter gently prompted.
“No,” Hedgeclipper replied, resentful of the interruption. “He only stayed around one night so far as I recall. And spouted all this nonsense about being very rich, and having a house full of maids and other servants. Probably all lies. But he did bring something with him…”
“A monkey?”
Again the hotel manager looked a little sour at having his narrative hurried. “Yes, it was a monkey. A monkey called Erasmus. Not a marmoset like this one, as it happens. It was a red-backed squirrel monkey, but a creature of very rare sensitivity. We…” He gulped. “A relationship developed between us… boy and monkey… a close bond, one could say.” Emotion threatened the evenness of his voice. “Erasmus was the nearest I ever had to a parent, Mrs Pargeter. When he died, I went into decline for nearly two years.”
“How did that decline manifest itself?” she asked, all solicitude.
“Robbery with violence mostly,” he replied.
“Oh, I am sorry.”
“And a bit of GBH. I got very wild, I’m afraid. It was round that period that I was given the nickname ‘Hedgeclipper’ for… well, for obvious reasons.”
Mrs Pargeter seized on the cue. “Yes, I’ve often wondered why exactly you were called –”
He chuckled. “Use your imagination.”
She knitted her brow, but her imagination remained, as it always had before when this subject arose, not quite equal to the task it had been set. “Could you be a bit more specific, Hedgeclipper?”
But he wanted to move on. His lapse into sentimentality had perhaps been unmanly. In a brusque, businesslike voice, he said, “So, if you have no objection, I intend to keep this Erasmus as a pet… and, er, confidant.”
“What, here in the hotel?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Well, see how we go. There is an empty suite on the first floor. He could have that.”
“Yes… You don’t think other guests might object… I mean, to the sort of things he gets up to?”
“He won’t get up to anything he shouldn’t. A little darling like this hasn’t got an antisocial bone in his body.”
“Really?”
Hedgeclipper Clinton’s face took on a stern expression of political correctness. “Mrs Pargeter, you’re in serious danger of sounding like one of those people who’s prejudiced against monkeys.”
“Well, there’s a surprise.”
“Why?”
“Because I bloody am.”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧
Seven
Nigel Merriman’s office off Victoria Street was neat and tidy without being lavish. The serried rows of files, the neatly aligned telephones, fax and word processor, the discreetly groomed and unobtrusive secretary, all bore witness to the meticulousness of their owner’s mind. It was the office of any efficient solicitor. There was no suggestion that Nigel Merriman had ever specialized in anything other than the legitimate business of his profession.
And indeed he hadn’t. The late Mr Pargeter, when considering lawyers, would have been appalled at the idea of employing a bent one. He had always had a great respect for the British legal system, and the particular quality of it that he admired was its elasticity. The point of having a lawyer on your side was not so that that lawyer could bend or change the law, but rather that he could find in existing legal precedent justification for more or less any action that was required.
The fact that the late Mr Pargeter’s unavoidable absences from the marital home had been as few and as brief as they had was a testament to his principle of only employing the most skilful and highly qualified legal assistance. He had even at times engaged the services of the most eminent lawyer in the land, Arnold Justiman. So it went without saying that Nigel Merriman, as one of the late Mr Pargeter’s proteges, had been trained to the highest level possible. He was extremely good at his job.
But his professional skills had not proved equal to the task of getting much more information out of Concrete Jacket. “Of course I asked him,” the solicitor confided to Mrs Pargeter, “but my client denies there’s anything anyone would want to blackmail him about.”
She put down her tea cup on Nigel Merriman’s desk and sighed in exasperation. “But if Willie Cass appeared at his house in front of lots of witnesses demanding a payoff, Concrete must realize –”
“I know, I know. I have made all those points to him, but he still says there’s nothing. Presumably he’s afraid that, by admitting Willie Cass did have a reason to blackmail him, he’s going to make himself look even guiltier.”
Mrs Pargeter nodded. “That could be the reason. It’s also possible that he’s afraid of implicating other people.”
The solicitor nodded slowly, taking in the new idea. “I hadn’t thought of that, Mrs Pargeter.”
She sighed again. “If only we could get someone to talk to him…”
This, however, was perceived as a slight on Nigel Merriman’s professionalism. “I have talked to him,” he said. “We’ve known each other a long time. I like to think there’s a good basis of trust between us. But, even so, he won’t tell me anything.”
“Hm. Presumably the police aren’t that worried what the blackmail threat was about. It’s enough for them that a lot of people saw Willie Cass threatening Concrete and demanding money from him.”
“Yes. As is usually the case, so long as the police get a conviction, they’re not that bothered about the detail. I’m afraid, Mrs Pargeter, it does look as if my client has been – as he himself might put it – very thoroughly stitched up.”
The solicitor spoke these words as if they put an end to the matter, but Mrs Pargeter was not so easily daunted. “Well then,” she said with a sweet smile, “it’s up to us to unpick the stitches, isn’t it, Nigel?”
The solicitor coloured at the intimate use of his Christian name. But he rather liked it.
♦
Unpicking stitches from Concrete Jacket didn’t prove easy. Mrs Pargeter arranged to visit him in Wandsworth Prison that afternoon, and deployed her full armoury of blandishment, cajolery and importunity. Unusually, however, these potent weapons were on this occasion without effect. Concrete was pleased to see her, was polite and amiable, but gave nothing. Whenever direct questions about Willie Cass’s murder arose, he clammed up.
Eventually, in exasperation, Mrs Pargeter exclaimed, “But don’t you realize – if you don’t do anything to save yourself, you’re going to get sent down for a great many years.”
“If that’s the way it’s gotta be,” the builder responded doggedly, “then that’s the way it’s gotta be.”
“But what about Tammy? What about the kids? What kind of a future are they going to have if you’re put away for life?”
His face betrayed how much her words hurt, but he still didn’t change his position. Concrete Jacket stayed silent.
A less positive personality would have been cast down by this lack of reaction. Mrs Pargeter, however, had always regarded a setback simply as a stimulus to renewed endeavour.
♦
Maybe Hedgeclipper Clinton might know some way to get through to Concrete, Mrs Pargeter thought, as she arrived back at Greene’s Hotel early that evening. Though she had never been privy to any detail of the varied projects undertaken by the late Mr Pargeter, she was aware that many of her husband’s former colleagues had at times worked together. And that there had been amongst them a network of camaraderie, which might offer some recollected clue to the builder’s secretive behaviour.