Still, ignorance was going to be the best starting position. He placed his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Hughes.”
“I’ve been doing some research through the files.”
“Why?”
“Well, you wouldn’t tell me anything, sir, so I made it my business to find out for myself.”
“This is my case, Hughes. I don’t like other people poking around in my business.”
The Sergeant stared defiantly into his adversary’s eyes. “There was nothing secret about it, sir. None of the files had any special security rating. They’re all accessible to any member of the Force who happens to be interested in them.”
“And why do you happen to be interested in them?”
“Because I’m supposed to working with you on the bloody case and you won’t tell me anything!”
Inspector Wilkinson winced at this outburst, but didn’t offer a reprimand. He just looked reproachfully at his young colleague and asked, “So what do you reckon you’ve found out?”
“There’s a strong suggestion that Bennie Logan was behind all the robberies. He wasn’t directly involved in any of them, but all of the likely perpetrators had links with him at some level. Everything seems to lead back to Chastaigne Varleigh.”
“Maybe,” said the Inspector. “Yes, that is a possible interpretation of the facts.” He drummed his fingers on the cigarette-scarred surface of his desk. “It must have taken you some time to go through all those files, Hughes.”
“Yes, sir.” The Sergeant yawned. “I have been putting in the hours, actually. Up pretty late last couple of nights.”
“Hmm. You’re very keen, aren’t you?” Wilkinson was unable to keep the distaste out of his voice.
“Yes, I am, sir. I’m not ashamed of that. I want to get ahead in the Force, sir. I want to be the kind of detective who makes his mark.”
It could have been Wilkinson’s younger self speaking. Of latter years he had kept quiet about such aspirations; they tended only to prompt ribaldry from his colleagues. Yes, he remembered when he had been full of ambition, just as Sergeant Hughes was now. But Wilkinson had been kept down, had his ambitions thwarted by the jealousy of older, less gifted officers.
And he was determined now to see to it that exactly the same thing happened to Sergeant Hughes.
“You haven’t done any follow-up interviews with any of the witnesses, have you, Hughes?”
“No, sir. I haven’t had time yet. But I was planning to talk to them when –”
Suddenly Wilkinson, moustache bristling, was on his feet and bellowing across his desk, “You will do nothing of the kind! You will do nothing more connected with the case without telling me beforehand precisely what action you propose to take. And you will only then do it if you have my express permission. You have no idea, Hughes, of the delicacy of this operation. Its outcome can only be successful if it is conducted in absolute secrecy. If you imagine, Hughes, that I have kept the facts from you out of some kind of dog-in-the-manger selfishness, then you have a very inaccurate notion of what makes a good copper. I have kept you in the dark because I know how easily rumours can spread. The very walls have ears, you know, Hughes – even inside a police station. I am very close to tying up this case once and for all – and if the whole elaborate mechanism gets destroyed at this stage by some wet-behind-the-ears, newly promoted sergeant who fancies himself as Sherlock Holmes, I’ll… well, I won’t be responsible for my actions!”
Hughes hadn’t seen his boss speaking in this vein before, and it was undeniably impressive. Most of the time Inspector Wilkinson came across as an ineffectual old fuddy-duddy, a dinosaur in the Police Force, whose retirement could not come soon enough. But now, he had a certain magnificence. Here was a man who knew what he was doing, a man who was well ahead of the game, and who had all the details of the case at his fingertips. Hughes was properly subdued by the outburst.
Wilkinson sank slowly back into his chair. “Do you take my point?”
“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant mumbled.
“Good.” The Inspector gave him a bleak smile. “So… since you’ve got as far as you have in the case, what would be your next step, Sergeant Hughes?”
“I’d apply for a search warrant and have a look around Chastaigne Varleigh.”
“Would you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And do you imagine for a moment that I haven’t thought of that?” Wilkinson reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a folded document. “One search warrant, all duly signed and authorized.”
“Yes, sir,” the chastened Sergeant repeated.
“The only important thing now is the timing of when we go in. As I believe I may have mentioned before, Hughes, the mark of a good copper is an intuitive instinct for timing. That is something I have, and something that you may possibly over the years develop.”
The Sergeant couldn’t stop himself from asking, “So are we going in straight away, sir? When are we going in?”
“That is something that I will decide. I am in charge of this case, and all decisions concerning it will be taken by me.”
“Of course, sir. But will it be soon?”
“Yes, Hughes.” Inspector Wilkinson smiled a confident – almost complacent – smile. “It will be very soon indeed.”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Thirteen
It was night. Diluted moonlight washed over the gravel outside Chastaigne Varleigh, where a red Transit van was parked. A thickset man jumped out of the van’s back doors and said to his mate, “Nearly done. All we got to get now is the –”
“Who’s this coming?” the other man hissed, and pointed down the drive. Through the metal gates swung the headlights of another vehicle.
“Don’t think we’ll wait to find out!”
The two men leapt in the van’s cab, and gunned its engine into life. They waited till the approaching vehicle – also a red Transit van – had drawn up just behind them, then screeched off down the drive in a fusillade of gravel.
The two men in the newly arrived van only got a quick impression of the driver’s face. It was unfamiliar, heavy and sour-looking.
“Who the hell were they?” asked Truffler Mason in bewilderment.
“I don’t know,” Gary replied.
“D’you get their number?”
“Course I did.” Gary’s memory for number plates was photographic and infallible.
The two men jumped out of the cab and hurried towards the house.
“I don’t like the look of this at all,” murmured Truffler, pulling at the chain beside the heavy oak door and setting up a distant jangling inside the house. “Something’s seriously wonky.”
“Hope nothing’s happened to the old bird,” said Gary anxiously.
“No, it’s all right, I can hear footsteps. She’s coming.”
The door opened, and Veronica Chastaigne stood there, blinking at them in some astonishment. Outlined in the thin moonlight, she looked paler and more frail than ever. “Good evening. Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Truffler Mason and this is Gary,” said Truffler. “We’ve been sent by Mrs Pargeter to collect your paintings.”
The old lady’s astonishment grew. “What? But some other men have been and done that.”
“The ones who’ve just gone?”
“I suppose so. I didn’t think they’d got all the paintings, but maybe they had.”
“Damn!” Truffler Mason looked down the drive without hope. The tail lights of the first Transit were long out of sight. “Damn!” he repeated. “Who the hell were they?”
♦
The walls of the Long Gallery looked depressingly bare, their oak panelling loweringly dark. Of the rich array of paintings Mrs Pargeter had been shown, only three remained. There were a couple of minor Madonnas and a voluptuous Rubens nude.