“Mrs Pargeter…” he said, aggrieved and offended.
She covered the gaffe as quickly as she could. “I’m so sorry, Keyhole. Wasn’t thinking.”
“No.” He sounded only partly mollified. “Look, Mrs Pargeter, I’m going to have to ring off soon…”
“Why? Where are you phoning from?”
“The Governor’s Office. About the only decent direct-dial line out in this place.”
“What, you’ve made yourself a key?”
“Of course. Well, I like to ring home every couple of days, see how the kids is getting on.”
“Yes.”
“But, anyway, the Governor’s doing an inspection and he’ll be back any minute, so I’d better scarper sharpish.”
“Mm. Well, look, Keyhole, I can’t thank you enough for – ” A sudden thought stopped her in mid-sentence. “Keyhole, one thing…”
“Yeah?”
“You’re sure there wasn’t any money in the freezer? Or in the polythene wrapping?”
“What, you mean coins or –?”
“No, notes. A lot of notes.”
“Not a sign. Nothing. Like I say, nothing but the body and the tie.”
So, although Theresa Cotton had been found, over two thousand pounds was still missing. Murders had been committed for much less, Mrs Pargeter reflected. Even in affluent surroundings like Smithy’s Loam.
“Look, Keyhole, I’m eternally in your debt for –”
“Gotta scarper!” she heard, before the phone was slammed down.
She had a momentary pang. She had got Keyhole Crabbe into this. If he were caught in the Governor’s office, all kinds of unpleasant details about his escapological feats might come to light. He could even lose his remission for good behaviour. She thought tenderly of the sweet domestic scene she had witnessed so recently in Bedford.
But the anxiety only lasted for a moment. She had confidence in Keyhole. He was far too canny an operator to get caught, unless someone shopped him again. No, Keyhole Crabbe would be all right.
♦
Mrs Pargeter stayed sitting by the phone in the hall. She still felt exhausted.
And she was in a dilemma as to what to do next.
She remembered her late husband’s precepts about the police. What they did not know, generally speaking, they did not need to know. Ignorance in the Police Force, he had always maintained, was a natural state, and who are we, he would ask with a disarming shrug of his shoulders, to interfere with nature?
On the other hand, this was murder. And somehow murder changed the rules.
She went upstairs and found the address book which had proved so useful over the last weeks. The late Mr Pargeter’s listings had furnished her with a car-tracing service, a Missing Persons bureau and a lock specialist; she felt confident that it could also provide a police informer.
There was a selection to choose from. She rang the first number and, as ever, the magic of the late Mr Pargeter’s name worked instantly.
The man at the end of the phone took the details impassively. He asked no questions, simply agreed to make an anonymous call to the Worcestershire Constabulary, suggesting that they should inspect a certain container in a certain furniture depository.
Mrs Pargeter put the phone down wearily. The wheels had been set in motion. Now it was only a matter of time before the police arrived in Smithy’s Loam.
She went into the sitting-room. It was only lunch-time, but she felt in need of a drink.
But, as she entered the room, she shivered. This, she felt sure, was where Theresa Cotton had been strangled only a fortnight before.
But who by, that was the question. Who by?
∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧
Twenty-Four
It didn’t take long.
No, give the British police their due (and even the late Mr Pargeter had recommended that they should be given their due – not a lot else, but certainly their due), once they had the tip-off, they acted quickly.
On the following day, the Tuesday, the one o’clock news carried a brief announcement about a woman’s body having been found in a furniture warehouse near Worcester, and by late afternoon the police were round at Smithy’s Loam.
They had had no problem in guessing the identity of the corpse. The records of Littlehaven’s, the removal company, showed where the furniture had come from, and that was obviously the first place to investigate. It took the minimum of enquiry to find out that the freezer’s owner had been a red-haired woman of about forty. Formal identification would have to wait until next-of-kin had been contacted (and Mrs Pargeter reckoned there might be problems contacting the most immediate next-of-kin), but the police were pretty sure that they were investigating the murder of Theresa Cotton.
♦
It was inevitable that one of their first ports of call should be the deceased’s former home, which was probably also the scene of her strangling. Mrs Pargeter had reconciled herself to this fact from the moment that she authorised the tip-off, and patiently awaited the police’s arrival.
Two plain-clothes men came at about four in an unmarked car. Their inconspicuous arrival might delay the news for an hour or so, but Mrs Pargeter felt convinced it would soon be all round the close.
She responded like the good citizen that she was, inviting them in, offering them tea, bewildered as to what on earth it could be that they had come to see her about. She gave the ingenuous appearance of someone with nothing on her conscience, into whose head the thought that their visit might be related to some shortcoming of her own did not even enter.
(Her performance in this role was totally convincing. But then it was one which she had rehearsed quite frequently during her life with the late Mr Pargeter.)
She was properly surprised and appalled when the police told her the suspected identity of the corpse. Yes, she had heard the item on the news, but it had never occurred to her that there had been any connection with…Oh dear, she felt dreadful…Mrs Cotton had seemed such a charming person, it was awful to think that she…Goodness wasn’t it a terrible world we all lived in…
As tactfully as they could, without actually announcing that they thought the murder had taken place in the room where they were sitting, the police said that they might have to bring in some experts to examine the house and surroundings.
Of course, murmured Mrs Pargeter, still in shock, of course.
And would she mind answering a few questions about Mrs Cotton, the presumably late Mrs Cotton?
No, of course not, murmured Mrs Pargeter, of course not. Though, it must be remembered, they had only met very briefly…
In her replies to the police’s question, Mrs Pargeter stuck undeviatingly to the late Mr Pargeter’s rule about telling the truth, and nothing but the truth, though not necessarily the whole truth.
She produced the Dunnington address that Theresa Cotton had given her, and said, truthfully enough, that she had tried to make contact about the central heating, but had been unable to obtain the number. She felt tempted to save the police a bit of time by telling them that the address was false, but was afraid that might raise too many questions about her interest in the case. Anyway, it wouldn’t take them long to find it out for themselves.
No, she hadn’t seen Mrs Cotton during the actual change of ownership of the house. She explained how Theresa was to have moved out on the Monday, while she herself did not move in until the Wednesday.
She was asked if she had noticed anything unusual, or if anything unusual had been said by the vendor, during her pre-purchase inspections of the property, but Mrs Pargeter was forced to answer – again strictly within the bounds of truth – “no” to both questions. It had, after all, been a very simple transaction. She herself had nowhere to sell, and apparently the Cottons had had no problems with their purchase (since they weren’t buying anything, this was hardly surprising).