She nodded, then a shadow of anxiety crossed her usually sunny face. “I hope this is going to work…”
Hedgeclipper Clinton gave her a smile of confidence verging on complacency. “I can assure you it will. It worked in Chelmsford, and on that occasion proved one great truth: You can never underestimate the mind-blowing stupidity of the British people when they’re offered the chance to be on television.”
“True,” said Mrs Pargeter, reassured.
♦
The space under the railway arch which had been converted into a body shop was dominated by a large van. Under floodlights, three mechanics were working on it. One, protected by goggles and gloves, was using an oxyacetylene lamp to cut a long slit in the vehicle’s roof above the front seats. The second mechanic seemed only to possess a back end, the rest of his body buried, tinkering, under the bonnet; while the third was replacing the van’s ordinary tyres with large thick-treaded ones. The bodywork was painted in a greyish undercoat.
Looking on, out of the glare of the floodlights, stood Hamish Ramon Henriques and Mrs Pargeter. She was once again holding the folder of printed notes she had received from Jukebox Jarvis.
“Going all right, is it?” she asked.
HRH flicked up his long moustaches with satisfaction. “Absolutely as one would have wished. The engine in that beast’s powerful enough for a tank.”
“Good. And the special paint job?”
“All in hand, Mrs Pargeter. Don’t you worry.”
She caught his eye. She was enjoying this. Together they nodded, secure in their complicity.
♦
One final preparation was required. It was made in the privacy of Jukebox Jarvis’s front room. He had received his instructions over the phone from Truffler Mason, who had of course checked everything out with Mrs Pargeter beforehand.
It was a simple job by Jukebox’s standards. All he had to do was hack into the police computer again (they’d had a rare flash of originality and, for the latest six-letter password, chosen ‘arrest’). Once inside the system, he had to check up on the duty rosters for the next day.
What he found there was potentially worrying. The police had got hold of some information from somewhere. They were clearly getting suspicious about what Rod D’Acosta had in his yard. A raid on the place was planned for the following evening. To make matters worse, it was going to be headed up by one of the most ruthless and efficient detective inspectors in the Met.
A couple of clicks of the mouse and a few keyed-in words changed that. Within minutes, the efficient detective inspector was re-delegated to talk about Road Safety in an inner city primary school, and Inspector Wilkinson was in charge of the Rod D’Acosta investigation.
Then, just in case his new sidekick Hercule Hughes was as bright as the evidence suggested he might be, the Sergeant’s schedule was also adjusted. He was diverted to Heathrow Airport to control the horde of teenyboppers awaiting the arrival of the flight carrying the latest pop sensation, Boymeetzgirl.
♦
Mrs Pargeter had always been in favour of celebration. Pampering when on her own was very important to her, and the good efforts of others never went unrewarded either. So, after all the planning and preparation they had put in, it seemed entirely logical that she should invite Truffler Mason, HRH, Gary, Jukebox Jarvis, Hedgeclipper Clinton, Kevin the doorman and Vanishing Vernon to a lavish dinner at Greene’s Hotel.
All were smartly dressed. Mrs Pargeter was wearing a new creation, a flowing silk number in a strident red a lesser woman could not have got away with. Specially for the occasion, she had taken out of the hotel safe the diamond choker and bracelet whose owner, before the late Mr Pargeter had decided they’d suit his adored wife, had ruled many of the United Arab Emirates. Mrs Pargeter herself looked as sparkly as the jewels.
Her party having given the Greene’s Hotel wine list an exhaustive workout, at the end of the meal had homed back in on champagne. Not the most expensive on the list – Mrs Pargeter never believed in extravagance – but one whose vintage she knew to be reliable.
After a waiter had once again recharged all their glasses, Mrs Pargeter raised hers to her guests. “Right, gentlemen. Good luck to all of you for tomorrow.”
“Yes,” said Truffler. “And let’s just all pray it doesn’t rain. It’s been sheeting down the last couple of days. And rain could really screw things up for us.”
“Don’t worry.” Mrs Pargeter rested a reassuring hand on his sleeve. “Forecast says tomorrow’s going to be a beautiful day.” Waving her glass towards them, she announced, “So, the toast is…” She waited till all their glasses were raised to meet hers. “Chelmsford Two – the Sequel!”
There was an enthusiastic clinking as the seven male voices echoed, “Chelmsford Two – the Sequel!”
Then there was an equally enthusiastic slurping of champagne.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Thirty-Three
Inspector Wilkinson went into his office the next morning without enthusiasm. Attempts to interview Veronica Chastaigne had not met with success. She was still in hospital and the consultant in charge said she was far too frail to submit to any kind of questioning. When she had recovered, of course, there would be no problem. But the way the consultant said this implied slender hopes that she was ever going to recover.
So Wilkinson felt he was up against a brick wall. This sense had been exacerbated by a meeting the day before with his immediate superior, the ‘jumped-up, university-educated, pen-pushing desk-driver’, with whom the Inspector, like all good coppers, didn’t get on. His Superintendent reckoned that the arrest of Reginald Winthrop represented a result, and that therefore no further investigation was required into the series of art thefts. Wilkinson was off the case.
To rub salt in the wound, the Superintendent had also somehow found out the part that Sergeant Hughes had played in events at Dover, and was putting the young man’s name forward for some kind of commendation.
So Wilkinson approached work that day in a low mood. But for one tiny spark of a distant thought glowing in his mind, he would have been very depressed indeed. He knew for sure that the next couple of days would be depressing. Concentrating on the art thefts had spared him other, more tedious jobs, but now that he was off the case, his boss was going to ensure that he got the most tedious available.
That day he was down to give a lecture on Road Safety at an inner city primary school. The last officer who’d been landed with that number had come back having had his wallet stolen, his eye blacked by a stone that had been thrown at him, and with the left-hand side of his car sprayed fluorescent green.
But when Inspector Wilkinson actually looked at the printout of the daily roster, he could hardly believe his eyes. Could hardly believe his luck either. The Road Safety duty had been apportioned to one of the toughest and most successful inspectors in the unit, a man who was on record as saying, with considerable frequency, “School visits are for braindead wimps.”
While he, Craig Wilkinson, had been given instead one of the most attractive assignments for years.
It was a raid on a suspicious breaker’s yard, where stolen goods were thought to be hidden. And the yard was believed to belong to Rod D’Acosta, a South London villain on whom they’d been trying for years to get enough evidence to make a conviction stick.
This was terrific news for Wilkinson. The operation would involve taking a large squad of men, some of them armed. It would make him, as their leader, look impressive, while putting him at minimal personal risk. It would involve bulletproof vests, searchlights and lots of shouting through loudspeakers. It was the kind of rare job opportunity, the chance to play cops ‘n’ robbers, for which Inspector Wilkinson – and indeed most of his colleagues – had joined the Police Force.