She heard Ank’s voice first, aggrieved and whining; it was the voice of a man who knew he was losing the argument.
‘That’s unfair! We had a deal!’
The voice that answered was equally sure that its owner was winning the argument. It was a voice over which no shadow of doubt had ever dared to cast itself.
‘There are so many ways in which you’ve failed to fulfil your side of the deal that it’s hardly worth discussing, Mr Arkwright!’
It was the voice to whose televised and videoed commands millions of housewives punished their bodies daily: the voice of Sue Fisher.
‘But, Sue-’
‘ Ms Fisher to you.’
‘All right then, Ms Fisher, you definitely agreed that the Brotherton Hall logo would be featured on your video.’
‘That was when you definitely agreed to continue to assist in marketing Mind Over Fatty Matter products-’
‘I’m not arguing about that. We’re quite happy to-’
‘Which agreement includes,’ Sue Fisher continued inexorably, ‘trying out such new products as my marketing department chooses to send to you.’
‘Well, that’s where there is a problem. Nothing against the idea in principle… as you know, I’ve been happy to go along with it in the past. It’s just that… at the moment there are special circumstances. I think we should lay off the testing for a few-’
‘It is not testing, Mr Arkwright, it is trying out!’
‘Maybe, but I’m-’
‘Anyway, if you’ve suddenly gone off testing, perhaps you’ve also gone off the idea of our marketing your home-pack Brotherton Hall Dead Sea Mud treatment?’
‘No, no, obviously I’m still very keen on that.’ Ank’s voice was now plaintively conciliatory. ‘And the moment you want to try out one of our Dead Sea Mud Baths, Ms Fisher, you have only to-’
‘Shut up, Mr Arkwright!’
From Mrs Pargeter’s fern-screened perspective Sue Fisher’s next words sounded louder. She was evidently making a dramatic exit from the office.
‘The video we shot here is being edited next week. Starting Monday. If I don’t hear from you before then, agreeing to my terms exactly as I have spelled them out, I guarantee that I will cut out every shot of the Brotherton Hall logo, every exterior of the house, in fact every clue that might possibly identify your tinpot premises as the location where the shooting took place! Have you got that, Mr Arkwright?’
This last line came from further off, as Sue Fisher’s tall and splendidly tuned body stalked off up the stairs, confident as ever of its owner’s unassailable rightness.
Ankle-Deep Arkwright took out his frustration on the computer. ‘Bloody girl’s left the registration list up,’ he murmured savagely, before stabbing at a key and stumping back into his office.
Mrs Pargeter had found the exchange very interesting. For a start, it set a few hares of potential motivation running through her head.
But, perhaps more importantly, it also told her the High Priestess of Mind Over Fatty Matter was still at Brotherton Hall. And had presumably been there the previous evening.
Sue Fisher wouldn’t have been present at the Nine O’Clock Weigh-In of the guests for whom she felt such obvious contempt.
Which meant that, like Mrs Pargeter, she too might have witnessed the removal of a corpse from Brotherton Hall.
Assuming, of course, that she didn’t have any other involvement in Jenny Hargreaves’ death.
Chapter Ten
The red light on the telephone was blinking when Mrs Pargeter got back to her room. She rang through to the switchboard and received the message that a Mr Mason had called.
‘Truffler,’ she said, as soon as she got through.
‘Ah, Mrs Pargeter,’ he responded in mournful delight. ‘Thank you for getting back so promptly.’
‘So… have you managed to find some information on Jenny Hargreaves?’
‘Just a few starting points,’ he replied modestly. ‘Nineteen years old. Only child. Brought up in Portsmouth — parents pretty hard-up. Jenny did well at the local comprehensive — one of the few to make it from there through to university. In her second year at Cambridge, studying French and Spanish. Doing very well, good grades and that, until end of last term when she suddenly left a week early. This term’s only just started, but there’s been no sign of her.’
Not surprising if she’s dead, thought Mrs Pargeter. ‘As always, Truffler, your “starting points” are better than most investigators’ final reports. Found out anything about her parents?’
‘Of course.’ He was a little aggrieved that she’d felt the need to ask the question. ‘Nice couple. Both retired, must’ve been quite old when Jenny was born. Living on the state pension — no spare cash for anything.’
‘So Jenny’d be on a full grant at Cambridge?’
‘Guess so. Not, from all accounts,’ he added lugubriously, ‘that that goes far these days.’
‘No. Boyfriends — anything in that line?’
‘Apparently, yes. Tom O’Brien — same year at Cambridge, also doing French and Spanish, though at a different college. Came from a comprehensive too. From all accounts it’s a good relationship, love’s young dream — though apparently she didn’t even tell him where she was going off to at the end of last term.’
‘But why didn’t someone raise the alarm about her then? Surely when a nineteen-year-old girl just vanishes off the face of the earth someone’s going to-’
‘Ah, but she didn’t just vanish off the face of the earth. Kept ringing her parents through the holidays, every week, telling them she was OK.’
‘Did she say where she was or what she was up to?’
‘Doing a holiday job, she said. Implied it was market research, interviewing people, that kind of stuff. Didn’t say where, though.’
‘And the boyfriend — Tom — she didn’t call him?’
‘Seems not. Jenny only contacted her parents.’
‘And Tom didn’t check things out with them?’
‘Once. Otherwise no. Seems there wasn’t that much warmth between Tom O’Brien and the elder Hargreaves.’
‘They didn’t approve of him?’
‘Gather not. From all accounts he’s a bit political for their taste.’
‘What kind of political? Anarchist bomb-throwing or just youthful idealism?’
‘Youthful idealism. Saving the planet, exposing the corporate destroyers of our natural heritage, you know the kind of number. Left-wing with it, though, and it seems that’s the bit the Hargreaves couldn’t cope with. They’re deep-dyed Conservative — you know, as blue as only the respectable and impoverished working class can be.’
‘Ah. Have you actually talked to Tom O’Brien, Truffler?’
‘No. Most of this stuff I got second-hand. ’Cause that’s the funny thing, see… Tom hasn’t turned up for the beginning of this term either.’
‘Oh.’ A chilling thought came into Mrs Pargeter’s mind. ‘I hope nothing’s happened to him…’
‘No reason why it should have done.’ In any other voice the words would have brought reassurance. As spoken by Truffler Mason they had the reverse effect.
‘No. No, one death’s quite enough, isn’t it?’ Mrs Pargeter was silent for a moment. ‘Must be dreadful for the poor girl’s parents. I mean, to lose an only child at that age — well, at any age, but particularly when she’s just setting out on her adult life… dreadful. How did they take the news, Truffler?’
‘So far as I can discover, Mrs Pargeter, they don’t know about it yet.’
‘What?’ she asked in surprise.
‘I mean, it was less than twenty-four hours after the girl’s death that I was checking out the parents… hospital might not have had time to track them down yet…’
‘No, perhaps not,’ Mrs Pargeter mused.
‘If they still don’t know when I’m next in touch… do you reckon I should tell them?’
‘No. No, Truffler. Give it a bit more time.’
Mrs Pargeter decided that she needed a bit more time, too. When the booking had been made, she and Kim had agreed, in spite of Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s assurances that they could stay as long as they wanted to, that three days would be about right. Which meant they were due to leave in the early evening of the following day, the Wednesday.