Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour (13 page)

The foyer to Greene's Hotel was impressive, more country house than commercial establishment, but the Inspector was not daunted by it. A good copper, he knew, was never daunted by surroundings. He had conducted too many interviews in lavish surroundings to be fazed by them. And in many cases he had found that lavish surroundings proved to contain thumping crooks.

There was a man in a black jacket and striped trousers behind the antique desk which was presumably the hotel's Reception. He looked distantly familiar, though the Inspector couldn't say from where. The man looked up at the visitor's approach.

‘Good afternoon, Inspector,' he said. ‘Can I help you?'

‘Yes, I wonder if you could . . .' Suspicion darted in Wilkinson's deepset eyes. ‘Just a minute. Why did you call me “Inspector”?'

The hotel manager looked flustered. ‘I'm sorry,' he mumbled. ‘Our regular inspection from Health and Safety is due today, and I just assumed that you were their representative.'

‘Well, I'm not.'

‘No, I'm very sorry about the confusion,' the hotel manager, all urbane charm, apologized. ‘So what
can
I do for you, sir?'

‘I understand you have a Mrs Pargeter staying here . . .'

‘That is correct, yes.'

‘Do you happen to know if she is in the hotel at the moment?'

‘Yes, Inspector Wilkinson, she is.'

‘Oh well, I'd be very grateful if . . .' Once again suspicion surfaced in the Inspector's eyes. ‘Just a minute. Why did you call me “Inspector Wilkinson”?'

‘Oh, um, well . . .' Fluster returned to the hotel manager's manner. ‘The thing is, the gentleman I was expecting from Health and Safety was called “Inspector Wilkinson”, and I'm afraid I must have still been thinking of that. You know how it is . . . once one gets an idea fixed in one's mind . . .'

‘Yes,' said Wilkinson, not entirely convinced.

‘Anyway, you were asking about Mrs Pargeter . . .'

‘Yes. Could you please ring up to her room—'

‘Suite.'

‘To her suite, and ask if she would be free to have a word with me?'

‘Of course.' The hotel manager reached for an old-fashioned telephone on the desk and started dialling a number.

‘You haven't asked me what my name is.'

‘What?'

‘You don't know who I am. Do you normally announce unidentified visitors to your residents?'

‘No, no, of course I don't.' A button was pressed to stop the phone from ringing. ‘What name should I say, sir?'

‘My name is Inspector Wilkinson.'

‘Good heavens!' The hotel manager seemed to have something troubling his throat. But for the fact that there was nothing funny in the situation, Wilkinson could almost have imagined the man was trying to suppress a laugh. ‘Well, what a remarkable coincidence. That you and the Health and Safety Inspector should both have the same . . . I don't know, it's the kind of thing, if you read it in a book, you wouldn't believe it.'

A trembling hand once again dialled the relevant number, and this time got through. ‘Ah, Mrs Pargeter. It's Mr Clinton down at the front desk. I have a gentleman who would like to have a word with you.' He seemed to be having some problem with something in his mouth, and started coughing. Through his coughs – which somehow didn't quite sound like coughs – he managed to say, ‘His name . . . is Inspector . . . Craig . . . Wilkinson . . .' The coughing continued as he put the phone down and turned back to the visitor. ‘She says . . .' he croaked, ‘that . . . she'll come down to the bar . . . straight away . . .'

‘Oh, fine. Whereabouts is the . . .?' But suspicion once again waylaid the Inspector. ‘Just a minute. Why did you call me “Inspector
Craig
Wilkinson”? I didn't tell you my first name was Craig.'

‘No, no, you didn't . . .' Fluster and coughing fought for control of the unfortunate hotel manager. ‘No, no, I think, um . . . Do you know, you're not going to believe this . . .'

‘Try me,' said Wilkinson implacably.

‘. . . but the first name of the Inspector who was due from Health and Safety was also Craig.'

There was a silence. Then the Inspector shrugged. ‘Oh well, that is a coincidence. Which way's the bar?'

A trembling finger pointed and he followed its direction. Fortunately he was actually inside the bar and out of earshot before Hedgeclipper Clinton's control finally gave up the unequal struggle.

‘Now what will you have to drink? Champagne?' asked Mrs Pargeter, once they were settled into the luxury of the bar.

Wilkinson looked at his watch. ‘It's only four o'clock in the afternoon.'

‘Yes, I know, but what I like about champagne is that it has no respect for the hour of the day. Come on, surely you'll have something?'

He stroked his moustache dubiously. ‘Well, I'm not sure . . .'

‘Is it the old “no, not while I'm on duty” thing?'

‘No, no, it's not that.'

‘Do you mean you're
not
on duty?'

‘No. Not exactly. I mean, I am, in a manner of speaking on duty. A good copper, you know, is never off duty. Always alert, always looking out for tiny things, for those tell-tale details which don't seem significant at the time, but which later turn out to have enormous relevance.'

‘Yes, of course. And often, I find, one's eye is sharper to spot those tiny things after one's had a drink or two.' An almost imperceptible flick of a finger brought the barman gliding to her side. ‘Now, you will join me, won't you?'

Wilkinson melted under the violet-blue beam that was focused on him. ‘Well, all right, that'd be very nice, thank you.'

‘Now, are you happy with champagne?'

‘Erm, well . . .' He looked awkward. ‘I'm really more of a beer man myself.'

‘You have beers, don't you, Leon?'

The barman nodded. ‘Of course. Which would you like, sir? There's the Narodni Urquel from Czechoslokavia, Mexican Sombrero, Tiger Tail from India, Australian Sheepshearer's Armpit, Japanese Tikkoo, San Felipe from Chile, Ghanaian Lion's Breath or Icelandic Grurttstoffstrottir.' Wilkinson opened his mouth to reply, but wasn't quick enough. ‘Then, of course, from America we have Beckweiser, Buck's, Cools, Boston Steam Packet and beers from microbreweries in Monterey, Galveston and New Paltz.'

‘Hmm,' said the Inspector. ‘You don't by any chance have a pint of English bitter, do you?'

‘I could send out for one, sir,' the barman replied.

‘Well, if you could, I'd be most grateful.'

‘Of course. So, Mrs Pargeter, will it just be a half-bottle of the champagne for you?'

‘Oh, no, make it a full one. I'm sure it'll get drunk.' The barman nodded agreement. ‘Just so long as I don't, eh?'

She giggled and, while Leon went off to fix their order, turned her full attention on Inspector Wilkinson. ‘Now what can I do for you?'

The Inspector lit up a cigarette, before he began. ‘Well . . .'

She interrupted, ‘I would just like to take this opportunity to thank you for all you do.'

‘Me? But you don't know what I do.'

‘I didn't mean you specifically. I meant you as a representative of the British Police Force. I just wanted to say that you're a wonderful band of men, and I'm sometimes afraid that all your hard work gets a little bit under-appreciated.'

The hotel manager, who was passing through the bar at that moment, seemed suddenly to be afflicted by another bout of coughing.

‘That's all I wanted to say,' Mrs Pargeter concluded, ‘but it's just something that I don't think gets said often enough.'

‘No, well, I would go along with that,' Inspector Wilkinson agreed.

‘You belong to a fine body of men, and I can see that you're a fine man yourself. And I think everyone should help the police whenever they possibly can. You do a tough job and, if there's anything a member of the public can do to make that job easier, they should do it. You will certainly have my full cooperation. You can rely on me to assist you in any way at all.'

Inspector Wilkinson glowed visibly at this flattery and preened his moustache. ‘That is much appreciated, Mrs Pargeter. Thank you very much.'

Exotic Japanese cocktail nibbles appeared on the table between them. They were quickly joined by a pint of bitter on a silver coaster, a champagne flute and, by the side of the table, an ice bucket with an opened bottle in it.

‘Pour away,' said Mrs Pargeter, as Leon was about to offer her some to taste. She raised the twinkling glass to her lips. ‘Cheers, Inspector.'

‘Down the hatch.' He took a long swallow from his pint.

‘Incidentally, calling you “Inspector” does sound horribly formal, doesn't it?'

‘Well . . .'

‘What's your first name?'

‘Craig.'

‘Well, do you mind if I call you “Craig”, Craig?'

Once again the violet-blue beam worked its magic. ‘No, Mrs Pargeter. I would be extremely honoured.'

‘Good.' She sat back in her chair and took another swallow of champagne. ‘This is cosy, isn't it?'

‘Yes. Yes, very.' Craig Wilkinson took another long pull at his pint. A peaceable silence descended between them.

It was Mrs Pargeter who at last broke it. ‘Well . . .' she began tentatively, ‘did I gather there was something you wanted to ask me?'

‘Yes. Of course.' Wilkinson shook himself out of his reverie. ‘Yes, I wished to make some enquiries about your late husband . . .'

‘Fine. About what in particular?'

‘Well, Mrs Pargeter, it was kind of in relation to his business dealings . . .'

‘I'll tell you anything I can, Craig . . .' He simpered at the use of his first name. She chuckled apologetically. ‘But I'm afraid there's a lot I just don't know. My husband and I belonged to the generation when men didn't bring their work home with them. If ever I asked anything about his business affairs, he'd say, “Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, Melita my love,” and that was it. I know today's young independent feminists wouldn't approve of that kind of attitude, but I must say I always found it very comforting.'

‘Yes, yes, I can see that . . .' The Inspector shifted in his chair and flicked a column of ash into the ashtray. He wasn't finding it easy to get to the point that concerned him. ‘Not a very common name, Pargeter, is it?'

‘No,' she agreed. ‘I think it's a lovely name, though. I was so pleased to take it on when we got married – another thing I dare say the feminist brigade would disapprove of.'

‘Quite probably, yes.' Wilkinson found it difficult to stop himself from smiling. There was something about this plump, self-assured, comfortable woman that engendered smiles.

‘A “pargeter” was actually a plasterer,' she went on. ‘Rather upmarket one, though. Did all that fancy plasterwork on the front of Tudor buildings.'

‘Really? That's fascinating.'

‘It is, isn't it?' Peace re-descended between them. Again it was Mrs Pargeter who moved the conversation on. ‘So what was it you wanted to ask about my husband's business affairs, Craig?'

‘Well, Mrs Pargeter . . .' He now found himself acutely embarrassed. In the atmosphere that had developed between them, his question seemed incongruous. He looked down at his large shoes as he pressed on. ‘I just wondered if you'd ever heard any suggestion that some of your late husband's business dealings were in any way . . . criminal?'

She did not respond immediately, and Wilkinson looked up, expecting to read affront in her face. But instead what greeted him was helpless, though silent, laughter. Tears glistened over the violet-blue eyes.

‘Criminal?' she finally managed to gasp. ‘Criminal? My husband – involved in something criminal? Oh, I wish he was in this room to hear you say that.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, if you'd ever known him, you'd realize that . . .' Again she struggled for words. ‘He'd be so offended by the suggestion. My husband was the most strait-laced and correct man I think I've ever met. He had a punctilious – almost an obsessive – respect for the law. Particularly the British legal system. “Finest in the world,” he'd always say. “Absolute finest in the entire universe.” And the idea of him being involved in anything even mildly shady . . .' She roared with laughter. ‘I'm sorry. Your question was just so unexpected. And in relation to my husband, so hysterically funny. I mean, I loved him dearly, but I have to say, when it came to moral issues, he was a bit of an old fuddy-duddy. I mean, if he found a 10p coin on the pavement, he'd go to the police station to hand it in. That's the kind of man he was. And the idea that he might have had criminal connections . . .' Once again she was incapacitated by peals of laughter.

It was more than an hour later that Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson left Greene's Hotel. A couple more pints of English bitter had been sent out for, and Mrs Pargeter had got through the bulk of her bottle of champagne. The atmosphere between them had been very relaxed.

Wilkinson felt positively boyish as he hailed a cab to take him to his flat. His instinct had been vindicated. He'd been right once again. And he'd take enormous pleasure in telling that to Sergeant Hughes.

A good copper, as the Inspector so often said, was never off duty. Always alert, always looking out for tiny things, for those tell-tale details which don't seem significant at the time, but which later turn out to have enormous relevance.

And Mrs Pargeter had said something to him which, in retrospect, he recognized to have mind-blowingly enormous relevance. Maybe Craig Wilkinson was about to make his mark, after all.