She thought about it. Southerners are extraordinarily vague about the North of England; for most of them Carlisle, York or Blackburn would be pretty much interchangeable. To the denizens of Smithy’s Loam Rod Cotton would just have gone ‘up North’. Perhaps it was only the false address Theresa had given that had pinpointed York.
Mrs Pargeter went back to Directory Enquiries and got the Carlisle and Blackburn numbers of C,Q,F&S. She also got some extra information gratis when the man said, “Oh, you mean the computer people?” So at least she now knew in which industry Rod Cotton worked.
Carlisle hadn’t heard of him.
Nor had Blackburn.
Puzzled and by now quite uneasy, Mrs Pargeter again rang the London number and asked to be put through to the Personnel Department.
“Good morning,” she said to the fast-talking young man who answered. “I’m trying to make contact with one of your employees.”
“Oh yes?”
“A Mr Rodney Cotton.”
“Just a moment.” There was a silence. No rustling of papers, so presumably he was checking some computer record. “No. Sorry. No one of that name.”
“Well, that’s most odd. I mean, I know he was definitely working in your London branch six months ago.”
“Six months ago? Just a moment.” Another silence, while further data was summoned up on to a screen. “Oh yes. Rodney Cotton. Yes, he was one of our Sales Directors. He doesn’t work here any longer.”
“What?”
“The company let him go.”
“Let him go?”
“Took him out.”
“Took him out?”
“Yes, took him out! Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t you understand – he was fired.”
“Fired?” Mrs Pargeter echoed softly.
“Yes. You understand that word, don’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. So what you’re saying is that Rodney Cotton hasn’t worked for your company for the last six months?”
“Exactly.”
“And you’re sure he wasn’t transferred to one of your northern branches?”
“Madam, he has not worked for any part of C,Q,F&S since the eleventh of March this year.”
“Oh. What, so, I mean, would he have got some sort of redundancy payment?”
“I dare say he’d have got some sort of package, but not a great deal. He hadn’t been with us that long. He went as part of the rationalisation earlier this year.”
“Oh. I don’t suppose, by any chance,” Mrs Pargeter asked politely, “you would know where he’s working now…?”
There was a grim laugh from the young man in Personnel. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. Mind you, I think he’d be lucky to be working anywhere.”
“What do you mean? Was he very bad at the job?”
“I’ve no idea. Never met the poor devil. All I mean is his end of the business is not exactly a growth area at the moment. There was a lot of over-recruitment in sales when micros were first launched. Now the balance of the market’s shifted, I’m afraid there are a good few people like Mr Cotton around.”
“And all chasing the same few jobs?”
“That’s it. What I’m saying, Madam, is if Mr Cotton has now got another job at the same sort of level as he had here, then he’s performed a bloody miracle.”
Mrs Pargeter thanked the young man for his help and went into the kitchen finally to make herself that cup of coffee. She needed it.
Nestled into her favourite armchair, she took a welcome sip and gave in to the stampede of thoughts rampaging through her head.
Now there was not just one missing person who had covered their tracks with lies. There were two.
And one of them might have been missing for as long as six months.
∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧
Thirteen
It was time, Mrs Pargeter decided, to summon help. She was fortunate in having a rich repertory of assistants on whose services she could call. Their names were contained in the late Mr Pargeter’s address book, which, she sometimes considered, was the most valuable part of the rich estate he had left her. It was an unrivalled list of contacts which, had it fallen into the wrong hands, could have caused considerable unpleasantness.
Mrs Pargeter looked up the name ‘Wilson’ and dialled the number listed there. The gentleman who replied identified himself as ‘Mickey’s Motors’ and regretted that Mr Wilson no longer worked with him. “No, he’s gone up in the world. West End, now. Big showroom in Hanover Square. Only deals in Rollers and Bentleys, that kind of stuff. Mind you, sure I can help. Got a great little ‘B’-Reg. Maxi. Only sixty thou on the clock, one lady owner – she was a nun – and it runs like a blooming Swiss watch. I could do you a deal if –”
Mrs Pargeter managed to stop the flow, apologising that she really wasn’t looking for a car, but needed to contact Mr Wilson urgently. Did Mickey’s Motors, by any chance, have the Hanover Square number?
He obliged and their conversation concluded amicably with assurances on his part that, if she ever needed some ‘really ace wheels’, he had the biggest selection south of the Thames and could do her a deal that’d be grounds for having him certified.
Mrs Pargeter rang the number he had given her and was answered by a girl with vowels of pure Waterford Crystal. “Ridleigh’s. Good morning. Can I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr Wilson, please.”
“One moment. I believe he may be in conference with a client who’s just arrived from the Middle East. I’ll see if he’s free.”
A tasteful burst of Vivaldi played down the line and then another voice, even more cut-glass than the first, said, “Hello. Mr Wilson’s office.”
“Oh, I wondered if I could speak to him, please.”
“I’m not sure that he’s free. Who is it calling?”
Mrs Pargeter recognised the formula. Mr Wilson was sitting right next door to the secretary, but he would only be free if it was a caller he wished to speak to. An Arab prince seeking a fleet of little runabouts for his wives, perhaps…?
“My name is Mrs Pargeter.”
“Mrs Pargeter?”
“Yes. Mrs Melita Pargeter.”
There was a silence from the other end of the phone while this information was covertly relayed. Then, instantly, another extension was picked up and a voice marinated in Eton and the Guards effused, “Mrs Pargeter!”
“Hello, Rewind.”
“Oh, erm…” There was an elaborate cough from the other end. “I’d rather you didn’t actually use that name, if you don’t mind.”
“Sorry, love.” She could see his point. It had been a bit tactless. A man who’d earned his nickname from the skill with which he wound back milometers would hardly want it shouted around the West End office where he sold Bentleys to Bahrain.
“Don’t mention it. Perfectly natural. Instinctive reaction.” Rewind Wilson boomed. “Oh, it’s such a pleasure to hear you, Mrs Pargeter. You know, I keep thinking about your husband and the things we got up to.”
“So do I,” she admitted, indulging in a little moment of melancholy.
“He was the best. Absolutely the best. No one to touch him in the field.”
“It’s nice of you to say so.”
“True, dear lady. Absolutely true. Wouldn’t say it if it weren’t. Anyway, to what do I owe the great pleasure of your call after all these years?” But before she could reply, he went on, “Your late husband, incidentally, did ask me to give you any help that you might ever require. I would have done, anyway, out of loyalty – I only mention it so’s you know how much he cared for you.”