He could have been describing the fathers of Smithy’s Loam, Mrs Pargeter thought.
“I mean, what kind of communication do they get with their nippers, I ask you, only seeing them weekends when Dad’s probably tired out and bad-tempered?”
“Not much, I would imagine.”
“No. Well, I’m all in favour of the family unit. I think, if more families stuck together – even when things get difficult – there’d be less crime in this country of ours.”
“I think you’re right.”
“If kids aren’t brought up with any standards in the home, then how on earth can anyone expect them to know right from wrong when they grow up?”
“Exactly.”
“Now, I don’t go along with everything this government stands for, but –”
However, this encomium of Victorian values was interrupted by the return of Mrs Crabbe with the coffee. As she bent down to put the tray on a low table, her husband gave her rump an affectionate pat. She poured the coffee. It was delicious, fresh-roasted, strong, a million miles away from the ‘metal polish’ served in Bedford prison.
“All right, love,” he said, when the coffee was poured and sugary biscuits had been distributed. “Business.”
His wife nodded obediently and started for the kitchen. “Shall I take the kids?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, love. I know they’re young, but what they don’t know, they can’t tell no one about.” He smiled at Mrs Pargeter. “As your late husband always used to say.”
“Yes. One of his mottoes, that was.”
The baby was carried out, and the older two lured away cheerfully enough with promises of crisps and drinks. Mrs Crabbe closed the sitting-room door and her husband turned to his visitor.
“Right. What can I do you for?”
“Well, I hope you don’t mind, but –”
“Of course I don’t mind. Anything you need, lady, you just say the word. Quite honestly, your late husband done so much for me, I could never repay it if I tried for a million years, so you just ask away.”
Mrs Pargeter settled into her armchair. “All right, listen. I need a kind of…burglary done and my late husband always said – I mean, not that he ever talked to me about his work – but he made it clear to me that, when it came to getting in and out of places, there was no one in the world to touch Keyhole Crabbe.”
Her listener nodded. No point in false modesty; she was saying no more than the truth.
“Well, anyway, Keyhole, what I need doing is a bit delicate, and so I thought I’d ask your advice…”
“Very sensible. You come to the right place.”
“I mean, I realise that…” She trod delicately. “…it’s a bit difficult for you yourself at the moment…you know, your movements are a little restricted, but I wondered if you could recommend someone who might possibly –”
“Don’t you count me out, lady. I’m sure I could do the job myself…I mean, depending where it is…”
“Well, that could be a problem. It’s near Worcester…”
“Oh, easy. Do there and back inside the day.”
“Yes, but I’ve a feeling this is going to have to be done at night.”
“Ah.” He hesitated for a moment, chewing his lip. “Nights are a bit trickier, certainly. They do have this unfortunate habit in nicks of shutting you up for the night. I don’t mean I can’t get out, obviously, but I try not to do it too often. Keep it for special occasions, you know, wedding anniversaries and suchlike. No need to take unnecessary risks, is there? Hmm…” He pondered for a moment, then made up his mind. “Oh, but, Mrs Pargeter, for you…no, I’d have to do it myself.”
“Not if it’s going to be risky for you –”
“Don’t even give it a thought. No problem. I got the routine sorted out. Sunday nights tend to be good, anyway, screws all dozy after a skinful on Saturday. No, Mrs Pargeter, I couldn’t stand the idea of no one else doing it for you. Hate to think of you being let down by some beginner. No, like you say, when it comes to anything with locks or keys, I am the best in the business. What’s more, I never get caught.”
Mrs Pargeter could not prevent herself from looking a little quizzical, but Keyhole Crabbe quickly explained away his current situation. “Shopped, I was, this time. Some silly little bugger – pardon my French – thought he could clean up my end of the market if I was out of the way.” He laughed at the incongruity of the idea.
“And…what happened to him?” Mrs Pargeter asked cautiously.
“Let’s say he wasn’t successful.”
“Oh dear.”
“No, don’t get me wrong, lady. No violence. I hate violence. Never done anyone no good, hitting people. Not from Cain and Abel onwards. No, I done a straight tit-for-tat on this young chancer. Got him shopped, and all. He’s in an Open Prison. Ford, you know, down near Bognor. And he can’t even get out of there. Which goes to show exactly how good he is, dunnit?” he concluded with satisfaction.
Mrs Pargeter smiled. She liked Keyhole Crabbe, and she appreciated his values. They coincided almost exactly with her own.
“Anyway,” he said, offering her the biscuits again, “give me a bit more gen on this job you want done…”
∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧
Twenty-Two
“I don’t know, Theresa seemed sort of anonymous,” said Sue Curle after some deliberation. “I mean, obviously I knew her, and one sort of went through the motions socially, but it was as if there was something missing in the middle. I mean, I never felt that I got through to her.”
“Did you feel the same, Vivvi?” asked Mrs Pargeter.
“Yes, I suppose I did in a way.” Vivvi Sprake wrinkled her nose up cautiously. “There was something sort of…shut-off about her. I mean, she was perfectly friendly, and very helpful – she fed our cat while we were away in Portugal, and I watered her plants when they were off, that sort of thing – but I don’t know, she seemed to be sort of distancing herself all the time.”
“And was that the same when her husband was around? I mean, did it make any difference when he went up North?”
“Don’t think it made any difference at all,” said Vivvi. “Theresa was always like that.”
But she had replied too quickly. Again, Mrs Pargeter was aware of an unusual reaction from Vivvi when the name of Rod Cotton came up. There was something there to be probed further. When the right opportunity arose.
Mrs Pargeter was pleased with the little impromptu coffee party she had arranged. Only Vivvi and Sue. All the other Smithy’s Loam second cars had been out that Monday morning when the idea came to her, but Vivvi and Sue had been so surprised by the sudden invitation that neither had had time to make up excuses. If excuses were required. Probably not, Mrs Pargeter surmised. Both women would be sufficiently intrigued to see how she had changed the interior of the Cottons’ house to come across the road, anyway.
“What impression did you get, Sue?” she asked, moving the heat away from Vivvi for the time being. “Do you think Theresa had a weak personality?”
“No, not really. She just seemed to be very self-sufficient, you know, like there was an inner core of her that was completely private and that no one could touch.”
“Hm. And she never gave the impression that she was dissatisfied with her life here?”
“Dissatisfied with her life in Smithy’s Loam?” asked Sue Curle, struck by the incongruity of the idea. “No, why should she be? I mean, she had a husband who was earning a packet. More than that,” she added bitterly, “she had a husband who didn’t keep putting his hand up every skirt he came across.”