Mrs. Pargeter's Plot (2 page)

She moved across to the cork board on which one of the day's racing pages was pinned. She looked at the listings and checked her watch. Then she drew a fifty-pound note and a five-pound note out of her pocket, and pressed the fifty into Gary's hand.

‘Prior Convictions in the three-thirty at Haydock.' He nodded. She handed across the fiver. ‘And pay the tax.'

‘Then shall I come to his office?'

A shake of the head. ‘Wait down here.'

As Gary went to the Bet Here window, Mrs Pargeter moved across to the Pay Out. ‘Looking for Mr Mason,' she said.

The thickly bespectacled girl behind the glass jerked her head towards a door marked: Private – Staff Only. ‘Second floor,' she mumbled.

‘Thank you.'

The narrow stairs were rendered narrower by boxes piled along their sides. Must be a real fire hazard, Mrs Pargeter thought, as she puffed upwards. The doors on the first landing bore names of travel agents, though the dust on their padlocks and the spillage of junk mail outside suggested potential clients would be well advised to look elsewhere for their dream holidays.

There was only one door on the second landing. Some long time ago it had been painted grey, and the newly applied adhesive gold lettering merely emphasized its shabbiness:
MASON DE VERE DETECTIVE AGENCY.

Mrs Pargeter paused for a moment to gather her breath, then reached a hand up to the bell-push at the side of the door. But the sight of loose wire-ends spilling out of it changed her mind and she knocked instead. Receiving no reply, she pushed the door open.

The first thing she was aware of was a Welsh voice, taut with affront. ‘. . . and so I spend the whole weekend tidying up the garden – and it's all stuff he just left there, kept saying he'd get round to clearing it up but never did. “Oh, it's a big job, Bronwen,” he was always saying, “take time that will, have to wait till I can get a week's leave.” And it takes me just one weekend to clear the lot – and all the time I'm sweating away, knee-deep in garbage, I know that the bastard's sitting in some luxury hotel the other side of the world with that brainless teenager . . .'

While this diatribe continued to pour out like molten lava, Mrs Pargeter took in her surroundings. The outer office was cluttered by old files bulging with yellowed documents, piles of newspapers, telephone books and other impedimenta. The predominant colours were buff, brown and institutional green. If she hadn't known these to be new offices, she would have assumed that the Mason De Vere Detective Agency had worked out of the premises for decades. Clearly everything – the furniture as well – had just been lifted up bodily from the old office and dumped here. Its dust may have been temporarily disturbed by the upheaval, but had by now had time to resettle exactly where it had lain in its previous environment.

The only object that looked new was a gleaming wall-planner for the current year. It was pinned proudly behind Bronwen's desk, with a little plastic container of different-coloured stickers attached to the bottom. Along the top of the chart the words
MASON DE VERE DETECTIVE AGENCY
had been picked out in the same adhesive gold as on the outer door. Beneath this, in contrasting silver, were the words,
CURRENT COMMITMENTS.
A line of coloured stickers ran down the side under the optimistic title ‘Legend', but no words were offered to explain their significance. And, though it was already summer, in the virgin white daily rectangles of the year-planner there were no stickers of any colour.

Mrs Pargeter looked across at Bronwen, who was still monologuizing into the telephone. Mid-thirties, she was attractive in a dark wiry way, though her lips were tight in a perpetual grimace of annoyance. Eventually Mrs Pargeter managed to make eye contact with the girl, who seemed unfazed by and uninterested in her visitor. ‘Mr Mason?' Mrs Pargeter mouthed, for some reason inhibited from intruding too forcefully into the flow of Welsh vituperation.

Without drawing breath, Bronwen jerked her head towards a door. ‘. . . and all the time I'm thinking – only reason I have to do this is so that we can get a better price for the house – which I wouldn't have to be selling but for the way he's behaved – and then he'll simply have to pay me less in my settlement. My God, they always said there was one law for the men and one for the women. All you have to do is get born with a tassel and—'

Mrs Pargeter passed through into the inner office and the door shut off further righteous fury.

The lugubrious, horse-faced man in the wooden swivel chair looked up from what he was reading. It was a magazine, and the only dustfree item in the room. Clearly the man's desk, with its pile of papers, files, encrusted coffee cups and fluff, had also been moved intact from its previous home with all the care for exact repositioning that would attend an avant garde sculpture in the Tate Gallery.

‘Mrs Pargeter,' he intoned dolefully, unwinding his surprising height as he rose from the chair. ‘Mrs Pargeter! How wonderful to see you!'

‘Great to see you too, Truffler.' She gave his outstretched hand a little squeeze. ‘See you've got De Vere back.'

‘What?'

She nodded her head towards the outer office. ‘Sorry. Always think of her as De Vere. Other half of the agency.'

‘There isn't another half of the agency. I just put the “De Vere” in to make it sound more impressive.'

‘I know that. Still always think of Bronwen as De Vere, though.'

‘Well, she's not a partner – only my secretary,' said Truffler with slightly dented professional pride. ‘Handles the telephone.'

‘And how! Handles it like a shearer handles a sheep.' Mrs Pargeter grinned. ‘Taking on staff again, eh? This mean the recession's bottoming out for you, does it?'

‘Wouldn't say that.' Truffler's normally mournful tone took on a note of deeper pessimism. ‘Business still very shaky, I'm afraid. No, I got Bronwen back, because . . . well, she'd got problems – you know, divorce and . . .'

‘This must be the longest divorce in history. I mean, last time she was working for you, you said she was in the middle of a very sticky divorce.'

‘Yes. This is another divorce.'

‘Oh. You mean she went off and remarried?'

‘Mm. And now she's redivorcing.'

For the second time that afternoon Mrs Pargeter was reminded of Dr Johnson's words about the triumph of hope over experience. ‘She must be a glutton for punishment.'

‘If that's what Bronwen is, what does it make the men who keep marrying her?' asked Truffler gloomily. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you, Mrs Pargeter? Anything, anything at all.'

‘I'm not interrupting, am I? Should you be concentrating on your reading? Is it something important?'

‘No, it's only the Lag Mag.'

Her violet-blue eyes peered at him curiously for an explanation.

‘“Lag Mag” – that's what it gets nicknamed. Really called
Inside Out
.'

‘And it's a kind of specialist magazine, is it?'

‘You could say that.' He let out a mournful chuckle. ‘Yes, it's for specialists who might be interested in . . . people's movements.'

‘People's movements?' she echoed, perplexed. ‘You're not talking about aerobics, are you?'

‘No, no. I'm talking about who's going in, who's coming out . . .'

From her expression, this was clearly insufficient information, so Truffler Mason elaborated. ‘. . . who's being transferred . . . you know, from High Security to Category B . . . Cat. C to an Open Prison . . . who's got time off for good behaviour . . . all that kind of stuff.'

Mrs Pargeter's mouth hardened into a line of prim disapproval. ‘Prisoners, you mean? I didn't think you had anything to do with that kind of person now, Truffler.'

‘I don't, I don't. Not professionally. I don't work with them. But I still need this kind of information. I do a lot of Missing Persons work, you know.'

‘Are you telling me that you're one of the so-called “specialists” for whom this magazine is intended?' Her tone had not lost its tartness.

‘In a way, yes.'

‘So are most of these “specialists” private detectives?'

‘No, most of them are . . . I don't know . . . girlfriends who want a bit of warning to get the new lover out before the old man comes back . . . villains who've got scores to settle . . . poor bastards who've got scores to be settled against them . . . geezers who know where the stash is buried . . . grasses who aren't sure whether their change of identity has worked . . . that kind of stuff.'

‘I don't see that you fit into any of those categories, Truffler.'

He looked aggrieved, as hangdog as a Labrador wrongly accused of eating the Sunday joint. ‘But I need to know that kind of info, Mrs P. Listen, someone hires me to work out who's nicked their jewellery what the police've had no luck finding . . . OK, I check out the MO, and know that there's only three villains in the country works that way . . . I check through
here . . .
' He tapped the magazine on his desk for emphasis. Puffs of dust rose like a Red Indian signal telling that the US Cavalry was nearing the ravine where they'd be ripe for ambush. ‘. . . and I find out that two of the geezers who fit the frame were, on the night of the fifteenth, in Strangeways and Parkhurst respectively. So I know who my man is, don't I?'

‘Yes, I see what you mean.' Mrs Pargeter, who always owned up straight away when she found herself in the wrong, looked properly contrite. ‘Sorry. Shouldn't have distrusted you, Truffler.'

He shrugged forgiveness. ‘Nah. Think nothing of it. I appreciate the fact you care enough for it to upset you. But don't you have no worries on that score. I been on the right side of the law since the moment that your husband . . . er . . .' He wove his long fingers together in embarrassment as he tried to shape the word.

‘Died?' Mrs Pargeter supplied easily.

‘Yes.' Relieved to move off the subject, he once again tapped his copy of
Inside Out
on the desk, beaming up another warlike message to the Shoshoni. ‘And this is an invaluable means of keeping tabs on former colleagues . . . you know, seeing where they are, when they'll be back in circulation again. Dead useful when it comes to doing my Christmas card list.'

‘All right, all right.' Mrs Pargeter grinned. ‘I think you've convinced me that the magazine's an essential tool of your trade.'

‘Not just that,' Truffler persisted. ‘It's also a very useful Early Warning System.'

‘Oh?'

He nodded grimly. ‘Oh yes. For instance, this very week, I discover, Fossilface O'Donahue will be out.'

‘Fossilface O'Donahue?' she echoed.

Truffler Mason found the relevant page in his copy of
Inside Out,
and held it open across the desk to Mrs Pargeter. The photograph which confronted her showed the aptness of its subject's nickname. The face did indeed look like a relic from an age before the invention of the wheel, or of human sensitivity, or of compassion. Though the picture was in black and white, she got the feeling it wouldn't have looked very different in colour. The face was a slab of grey, with that pumicestone surface of the heavy smoker. The eyes, which can normally be relied on to lend animation to a face, were dull, dark pebbles, lurking resentfully deep in two parallel crevices. Mrs Pargeter looked up at Truffler. ‘Should I know him?'

‘No, I don't think you should. Be a lot better all round if you never do know him. Mean, vengeful bastard, without a glimmer of a sense of humour. Slippery, too – always used to come out of hiding to do a job, then apparently disappear off the face of the earth. Bad news all round, I'd say.' He paused, choosing his words with circumspection. ‘Mind you, your husband did know him, and he and Fossilface didn't always see eye to eye on everything, so I'm going to be keeping a close watch on the geezer's . . . what shall I call it . . . re-entry into society?'

‘You think there might be danger from this . . . Fossilface? Danger for me?'

‘No, there won't be,' Truffler reassured her. ‘Not now I know he's coming out. You'll be as safe as houses. See – I told you
Inside Out
was useful. He can settle any other scores he wants to – that I don't care about – but Fossilface O'Donahue is not going to come near you, Mrs P.'

It was not the first time she had had cause to be grateful for the comprehensive network of care the late Mr Pargeter had organized for his survivor. She reached across the desk and placed her hand on Truffler Mason's huge knuckles. ‘Bless you. I do appreciate the way you look after me, you know.'

‘Think nothing of it. Entirely my pleasure. And what else can I do for you now, eh? I'm sure you haven't just turned up to admire the colour of my wallpaper.' No, thought Mrs Pargeter,
nobody
could possibly have turned up to admire the colour of that wallpaper. ‘So what is it, Mrs P.? Come on, you tell Truffler.'

‘Well,' she began. ‘Well, I don't want to take up your time if you've got other things on your desk that you should be—'

With one gesture of his long sports-jacketed forearm, Truffler Mason swept everything off the dusty wooden surface. It clattered to the floor, with an effect that must have jammed the Red Indian signals' switchboard.

‘Nothing else on my desk,' he announced with what, on a less permanently despondent face, would have been a grin.

‘I swear he didn't know the body was there,' Mrs Pargeter concluded, after describing the unpleasant discovery she'd made in what might one day become her wine cellar – assuming that she ever had a builder on site to complete it.

‘But didn't Concrete say anything to let him off the hook?' asked Truffler. ‘He must've at least offered an alibi. It's not as if he doesn't know the score.'