“… and I really wish that I could say yes to your proposal…”
“You can. It’s easy. Just say it.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because I’m in love with someone else.”
“What?” Inspector Wilkinson looked as if he’d been punched in the face. “Then I’ll go and meet this ‘someone else’ face to face and I’ll –”
“No. No, Craig, you can’t,” she said gently. “No one can meet him face to face. You see, he’s dead.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry.” And Mrs Pargeter moved away from lies to the complete truth, as she went on, “I’m talking about my late husband. He was a wonderful man. We loved each other and had a perfect marriage. And, though sometimes it almost annoys me, the fact remains that I can never love another man. There was only ever going to be one love in my life. I’ve been fortunate enough to have had that, to have enjoyed it for many years, and I know it can never happen again.”
There was moisture in Mrs Pargeter’s eyes, and it caught a reflected gleam in Craig Wilkinson’s. “I see,” he said flatly. “Well, that’s it really, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“Your husband, Mrs Pargeter, was a very lucky man.” She nodded. “And he must have been a very good man, to inspire such devotion.”
“He was,” she agreed. “He was a very good man indeed.”
Wilkinson nodded ruefully. “So you will never be mine. That’s not going to be the way I make my mark on the world.”
“No. I’m afraid it isn’t. Still,” she said encouragingly, “maybe things’ll pick up in your professional life.”
Inspector Wilkinson let out a hollow laugh. “Yes, I can just see it. No,” he continued, cast down in gloom, “some people are destined to pass through life without making any mark at all, and I’m afraid I’m one of them.”
“Oh…” said Mrs Pargeter, trying desperately to think of something that could ease the awkwardness of the situation.
A sound like a choke emerged from Craig Wilkinson’s mouth, and she realized to her horror that he was fighting back tears. And he wasn’t of the generation who would allow themselves to be seen crying by a woman. He rose to his feet.
“I must go,” he announced abruptly, and walked out of the restaurant.
Leaving his folder on the table in front of him.
Mrs Pargeter reached across casually and picked it up.
The waiter/owner/cook, alerted by the sound of the door closing, emerged from the dark recesses of his kitchen. “Are you ready to order now?” he grunted.
“No,” said Mrs Pargeter, extricating herself from her bench seat. “I don’t think I’d ever be ready to order in a restaurant like this, thank you very much.”
And, clutching Sergeant Hughes’s folder to her ample bosom, she walked out. Thank goodness there was still time for her to get a decent, pampering dinner at Greene’s Hotel.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Forty-Three
“Who’d you say had compiled this little lot?” asked Truffler Mason, when he’d finished reading the contents of the folder.
“His name’s Sergeant Hughes. He’s been working with Inspector Wilkinson.”
The private investigator nodded. “Well, he’s a bright boy. Far too bright a boy to be working in the Police Force. If they start recruiting many more people of this calibre, there’s going to be a whole lot of nice, smooth-running apple-carts upset.”
They were sitting in the Greene’s Hotel bar. Mrs Pargeter had summoned Truffler as soon as she got back to her suite, but he hadn’t arrived until after she’d finished her dinner (delicious, the perfect therapy after the rather melodramatic encounter she’d just experienced). Truffler made do with smoked salmon sandwiches, and it seemed silly for them not to be sharing a postprandial bottle of champagne. So that’s what they were doing.
Mrs Pargeter had flicked through the contents of the folder, and immediately decided it needed more expert scrutiny, which was why she’d called Truffler.
“No,” he went on, “so long as we’re dealing with dumbos like Craggy Wilkinson, we don’t have a problem. He’d get the wrong end of the stick in a relay race.”
“Yes,” Mrs Pargeter agreed with feeling.
“But Sergeant Hughes is clearly something else.” Truffler shook the sheaf of papers in his hand. “This stuff’s dynamite. Got to see that it’s suppressed somehow. I mean, this could do a lot of harm to a lot of people.”
“There were rather too many familiar names in there, weren’t there?”
“Yes.” Truffler looked aggrieved. “And it’s not as if any of them’re villains. All been going absolutely straight since your husband died. All good, upright citizens doing their bit for society. No, it’d be a tragedy if any of these blokes got hassle about stuff that happened such a long time ago. A real tragedy.”
“I agree. So what’re we going to do about it? Can Jukebox Jarvis get into the police computer again and make a few changes?”
“That may be the answer… so long as the boy wonder actually did this on the office computer. If he did it on a personal laptop or something, then we may have to get Keyhole Crabbe to pay a visit to wherever he lives.”
“It’ll be all right, won’t it?” asked Mrs Pargeter anxiously.
“‘Course it’ll be all right. Best thing we’ve got going for us is still the fact that old Craggy Wilkinson’s in charge of the case. Unless he’s undergone a total character transplant, he’s not going to like having some smart-arse Sergeant as a sidekick. Like all deeply stupid people, there’s nothing he hates more than dealing with someone who’s intelligent. I think there’s a very strong chance that Wilkinson’ll suppress this entire dossier without us having to do a thing.”
“It would be wonderful if that happened, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would, Mrs P. In the meantime there are other things we can do by way of damage limitation.”
“Good.” Mrs Pargeter grinned. “And of course there was some information in the folder we didn’t know, did we?”
“That is very true.”
“Particularly about Posey Narker. Information on the informant.”
“Right,” said Truffler grimly. “Glad we’ve finally got him identified.”
“Very interesting, wasn’t it? And it makes sense of quite a few odd details. Clarifies the Rod D’Acosta connection at least.”
“And the connection with the other gentleman,” said Truffler. He looked at his watch. “I asked Gary to bring the car round at ten. That is, if you don’t mind another trip out, Mrs P…?”
“Mind? Of course I don’t mind. I wouldn’t want to miss this bit, Truffler.”
♦
Gary’s limousine waited outside the exclusive mansion block, while Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason approached the tall portico and pressed the entry-phone button.
“Yes?” Even through the crackle from the small speaker, the voice was easily identifiable.
“Mr Chastaigne, my name is Mrs Pargeter.”
“I don’t think I know you,” Toby Chastaigne’s voice crackled back.
“No, I don’t think you do. But I want to talk to you about Rod D’Acosta.”
♦
Toby Chastaigne’s pudgy face looked tense and drawn while he closed the sliding grille. As the lift jolted into action, his eyes avoided those of his visitors.
“The fact is,” said Mrs Pargeter easily, “the police are holding Mr D’Acosta and his merry men…”
“What’s that to me?”
“Well, I was just thinking that the D’Acosta gang might well be prepared to talk about who their paymaster was…”
“I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.”