∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Twenty-Six
The trilling of the bedside telephone insinuated itself into Mrs Pargeter’s morning dream of some sylvan picnic with her late husband. Slowly she opened her eyes, greeting this day, like every other, with enormous confidence and the knowledge that things were bound to go well for her. She felt serenely rested. The lavish dinner of the night before – and the full bottle of champagne before it – had left her with nothing so vulgar as a hangover, merely a delicious sense of having been pampered, and having deserved it.
She looked across to the photograph on the bedside table. The suited image of her late husband smiled gravely back at her. “Morning, love,” she said, as she did every morning. “I was only talking about you yesterday. Saying what an admirer of the British legal system you were. And what a punctilious old fuddy-duddy you were when it came to moral issues.”
Next she consulted her watch. Nearly half past nine. Very satisfactory.
The telephone trilled on. She reached across and answered it. “Hello?”
“It’s me,” a familiar voice intoned.
“Truffler, how good to hear you.”
“Just ringing to say we’ve found out where the paintings are.”
“Brilliant. I knew you would. Going to have any problems getting them out?”
Truffler Mason, mobile phone pressed to his cheek, looked across at the red Transit van. There was no question he’d found the right one. The number plate tallied with what had appeared on Jukebox Jarvis’s computer screen. It was Rod D’Acosta’s vehicle all right.
But Truffler was looking at it through the padlocked gates of a car breaker’s yard. This was a thickly walled lot, with barbed-wire defences running round the top of the wall. The area was decorated with a large number of signs bearing such deterrent legends as ‘ELECTRONIC ALARMS IN OPERATION’ and ‘GUARD DOGS PATROL THESE PREMISES’.
“Yes,” said Truffler Mason, in reply to Mrs Pargeter’s question. “Maybe a few problems.”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Twenty-Seven
A queue of lorries shunted slowly through the Customs shed at Dover. Second in line was a venerable VW camper van. In its passenger seat Deirdre Winthrop was a little agitated. Her husband, now the driver, also looked tense. In defiance of Deirdre, he had put his beret back on again.
His wife looked anxiously out of the window. “I’m sure we shouldn’t have got into this queue, Reg. We should have gone straight on to the ferry. You don’t have to stop for Customs these days unless they ask you to. And certainly not on the English side.”
“Give me the benefit of the doubt, please, dear,” said her husband manfully. “I do know what I’m doing.”
“But I don’t think –”
VVO patronized her with a confident smile. “Nobody knows just how cool I can be in a crisis.”
“There’d be no crisis if you hadn’t stuck your neck out by…” Her words trickled away as she realized that the lorry ahead had trundled off. They were now at the head of the queue. VVO eased the camper van forward till the breezy face of a Customs Officer appeared framed in the driver’s side window.
The Customs Officer, full of entente cordiale and bonhomie, responded to VVO’s beret. “Bonjour monsieur.”
“Actuellement,” said the artist, “nous sommes English.”
“Ah. Vraiment?”
“Yes. Vraiment.”
“Righty-ho.” The Customs Officer grinned. “Anything I should know about in this camper then?”
VVO shook his head. “Nothing of great importance. A few paintings in the back, that’s all.”
People who have been married for a long time can feel the subtext of looks which are invisible to outsiders. VVO felt the heat of Deirdre’s invisible fury, and she felt the infuriating flabbiness of his ‘I know what I’m doing’ glance.
“Paintings?” the Customs Officer echoed. “Well, maybe I should have a look at those. Depending on what they are, they might need export licences or be liable for duty.”
While Deirdre seethed imperceptibly beside him, the painter got out of the camper. “Of course.” He led the Customs Officer round the back and opened the double doors. He lifted the covering rugs to reveal his paintings. “There they are.” It was impossible for VVO to keep the pride out of his voice.
The Officer looked at the canvases. Clearly dealing with a lot of French people had not been without effect. He let out one of those peculiarly Gallic laughs which begins with a ‘poof’ sound. “Oh,” he chuckled, as he turned away from the van, “sorry to have troubled you. No, there’s certainly nothing to pay on that lot.”
VVO’s kneejerk reaction was entirely predictable. “What do you mean?” he spluttered.
“Well,” replied the Customs Officer, still chuckling. “You only have to pay duty on things of value.”
From the front seat of the camper, Deirdre Winthrop was craning round, desperately trying to catch her husband’s eye and deflect him from the kamikaze course on which she knew him to be embarked.
“Are you saying these paintings don’t have any value?” VVO seethed.
“That is exactly right.” The Customs Officer let out a self-congratulatory giggle as he came up with a bon mot. “I mean, I may not know much about art, but I know what I don’t like.”
The painter was now beside himself with fury. He had been hit where it really hurt – in his art. “How dare you!” he screamed. “You philistine! Those paintings are brilliant – they’re worth any sum you care to mention!”
“Oh really?” A colder, more calculating look came into the Customs Officer’s eyes. He moved back towards the camper. “Well, maybe I’d better have a closer look at them then…”
As the Officer leant in towards the paintings, over his bent back Deirdre Winthrop finally caught her husband’s eye. The look she beamed at him on this occasion was not a private intramarital one. If looks could kill, hers should have left a large, messy exit-wound somewhere round the back of VVO’s head. With bowed shoulders, the artist meekly returned to the driver’s seat. A silence that felt even longer than it was elapsed.
Eventually, the Customs Officer closed the doors and took his time walking back to the front of the van. There was a tense silence, then he said, “No, no problem with any of that lot.”
“You mean we can go?” asked Deirdre, scarcely able to believe their luck.
“Yes, sure. You can – ” He was interrupted by a tone from the radio telephone he had clipped to his belt. “Excuse me a moment. Hello?” he said into the phone. “Who? Sergeant Hughes? No, I don’t know who you are…”
“Drive off,” Deirdre Winthrop hissed at her husband.
“What?”
“Drive off!”
“Oh, really?” said the Customs Officer, with a new significance in his tone. “Yes, I will.” His eyes narrowed as he looked back at the Winthrops. “If you’d be so kind as to wait a little longer, there are just a couple of things I’d like to check…”
“Oh, Reg!” Deirdre murmured in anguish.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Twenty-Eight
Inspector Wilkinson sat at his desk, running his tongue along his top lip. His moustache, he decided, was nearly long enough to chew. What should he do – trim it that evening when he got home, or let it grow until he’d got something that was really worth chewing? God, life was difficult. Decisions, decisions. It was no fun being a senior detective.