Mrs, Presumed Dead (11 page)

No, they wanted her money too much. Clearly the non-arrival of Theresa's promised contribution had put them into some difficulties.

Mrs Pargeter glanced idly at the booklets she had been given. The activities of the members of the Church of Utter Simplicity looked as drab and charmless as she had expected. It seemed inconceivable that anyone could go voluntarily into that kind of tedium.

She wondered for a moment whether the whole set-up was crooked, but decided not. There was certainly a lot of hypocrisy there, and plenty of ironic counterpoint to be seen between unworldly ideals and money-grabbing practice. But she didn't think it was actually criminal – and, thanks to the life she had led with the late Mr Pargeter, she did have a finely attuned nose for criminality in any form.

In the open booklet on her lap she saw a picture of Brother Brian leading a prayer-meeting of colourless men and women in blue cassocks, all linking hands round a large tree.

Ugh! Apart from the nauseous idea of such a get-together, Brother Brian's smell seemed suddenly still to be with her, as if it clung to her mink. She took out a little perfume spray and filled the back of the car with
Obsession
.

Then she looked again at the photograph. Tall, scruffy, bearded. Could Brother Brian have been Theresa Cotton's first bearded visitor on the afternoon of her disappearance?

It was certainly worth investigating.

CHAPTER 20

Mrs Pargeter was glad of her mink when the limousine dropped her back at Smithy's Loam. Winter had decided to make an entrance and the cold stung her cheeks as she walked to her front door. The disquiet that had been building inside her for some days was now hardening into a more positive anxiety. Soon she would have to take action.

Of course, she had taken some action already. Truffler Mason had been set in motion, and would be painstakingly working through his system trying to trace Rod and Theresa Cotton.

One of them, Mrs Pargeter reckoned, he was in with a good chance of finding.

Making contact with the other, though, she was beginning to fear might be more difficult.

She shuddered, then pulled herself together and made a phone call to Bedford.

The second cars of Smithy's Loam were fairly reliable indicators of the presence or absence of their owners. If the second car was in the drive, the relevant wife was usually in. Though occasional forays on foot were made to the Shopping Parade or for walks on the golf course, most expeditions from the close were motorised.

The Range Rover was parked outside 'High Bushes', so Mrs Pargeter felt safe in assuming that Fiona Burchfield-Brown was in. Once again she felt a surge of irritation at the sight of the car. It was so typical of everything she had heard about Alexander Burchfield-Brown. He'd have to have a Range Rover round here, she thought, need the four-wheel drive to negotiate the notorious slopes of Sainsbury's car park.

Still, it wasn't the moment for spleen. It was time to check whether Theresa Cotton's first bearded visitor had indeed been Brother Brian.

Mrs Pargeter put her mink coat back on and picked up the booklets she had been given at the Church of Utter Simplicity.

Fiona Burchfield-Brown ushered her willingly enough into her kitchen. The chaos was not quite so great as it had been before the dinner party, but there was still a sense of a losing battle against the encroachments of mess. The Labrador was still spread over more than its fair share of the floor. Newspaper was scattered over the table, and silver plates and cutlery lay about, in various stages of being cleaned.

'Alexander's family silver,' Fiona indicated helplessly. 'Coffee?'

Mrs Pargeter accepted the offer, sat down comfortably at the table and produced the pretext for her visit. Had Fiona got the name of a good gardener locally? She had known the excuse would come in useful some time.

Fiona couldn't be very helpful. They did most of their gardening themselves. Alexander insisted. He said it was different if you had a proper estate; then of course you had staff. Otherwise he thought paying for a gardener was a ridiculous extravagance when Fiona was at home most of the time and could easily do the routine stuff. He mowed the lawns and did any digging that was required at the weekends.

'Oh?' said Mrs Pargeter ingenuously. 'I'd really put you down as "gardener" people. You know, I'd have thought people who have jacuzzis put in would be just the sort to . . . '

'Oh, yes, absolutely.' Fiona smiled weakly. 'I'm not sure that we
are
jacuzzi people, actually. Do you know, those wretched little men who're supposed to be putting the thing in
still
haven't turned up. Alexander's furious. He says I'm to ring them every morning and bawl them out. Then, if they haven't arrived by the end of the week, I'm to cancel the order.'

Typical man, Mrs Pargeter reflected, running off to the safety of his office and the protection of his secretary, and leaving his wife to make all the nasty phone calls. At least she had been more fortunate. The late Mr Pargeter had ensured that the course of her life had never been sullied by unpleasantness; he had taken care of all that kind of thing himself.

Yes, the more she heard about Alexander Burchfield-Brown, the less she liked him. Clearly, there was plenty of money around, but he seemed very disinclined to spend any of it on help for his wife around the house, preferring, it seemed, to leave all the chores to her incompetence.

'So, with regard to gardeners,' Fiona went on apologetically, 'I'm afraid I can't be much help. You could have a look in the newsagent's window down on the Parade. They have cards in there for that kind of thing.'

'Oh, thank you very much, Fiona. That's a really good idea.'

There was a slight lull in the conversation. Mrs Pargeter knew the moment had come to turn to the real purpose of her visit.

'Fiona, you know I was asking you the other day about when Theresa left Smithy's Loam . . .'

'Mmm?' Fiona was absorbed in trying to get the polish out of the indentations of engraving on a silver plate.

'And you know you said that two bearded men came to visit her that day . . .'

'Uhuh.'

Time for a little lie. 'Well, would you believe, I've had another call from that man who was asking about exactly when Theresa left.'

'Oh really? Goodness, he sounds a bit of a nosy parker, doesn't he?'

'Yes, almost like a jealous husband . . .' No harm in trawling for a little more information while she had the chance.

Fiona laughed. 'Oh, I hardly think that would be appropriate with the Cottons. Not that way round, anyway.'

Mrs Pargeter was straight on to it. 'What do you mean?'

Fiona Burchfield-Brown quickly covered over the lapse. 'Nothing, nothing. So what did this chap want to know?' she asked, adroitly redirecting the conversation.

'He was asking about these two men who visited Theresa that day. Now that really
does
sound like a jealous husband, doesn't it?'

But Fiona wasn't going to be caught the same way twice. 'I wouldn't know. I don't think Alexander's capable of jealousy. Sometimes I wonder if he'd even notice if I was up to anything.'

'Ever tempted . . . ?' asked Mrs Pargeter mischievously.

'Huh. Chance'd be a fine thing.' But it wasn't said with any meaning. It was just conventional banter. There was at the heart of Fiona Burchfield-Brown a kind of hopelessness, a lack of confidence that simply wouldn't believe that any man could ever show any interest in her. No, she had long since reconciled herself to always being with Alexander – and all that that entailed.

'Anyway, this man was asking about Theresa's visitors . . .' Time for another little lie. '. . . and I found this booklet thing around the house with a photograph of a bearded man in it, and I wondered whether you might have a look at it and see if you recognise him . . . ?'

'Oh, sure.' Fiona Burchfield-Brown wiped her hand against her face as she had on their previous encounter. This time the streak she left was of silver polish rather than chicken grease. She looked at the proffered booklet.

'Yes. I'd say that was him. Pretty well certainly. I mean, he hadn't got that robe thingummy on.'

'Dressed in scruffy clothes, you said . . . ?'

'Yes, and sort of out of date. Patterned shirt, jeans with a bit of a flare, trainers . . .'

It sounded as though it had been Brother Brian. The clothes would fit in with the Church of Utter Simplicity's ostentatious unworldliness.

'Well, thank you. That's a great help, Fiona. And now if this bloke rings again, I'll be able to tell him. And finally get him off my back, I hope.'

'Good luck. I jolly well hope you do.'

It really did feel cold as Mrs Pargeter left Fiona's front door. She clutched the Church of Utter Simplicity booklets to her ample mink-clad bosom to ward off the chill.

Jane Watson, Mrs Nervy the Neurotic, was walking briskly along the pavement from 'Hibiscus'. At the gate of 'High Bushes' their paths crossed.

Mrs Pargeter was determined to make contact with the one Smithy's Loam wife she had not yet met. 'Good morning,' she said cheerily.

Jane Watson jumped as if a gun had been fired behind her ear. She flashed a furtive look at Mrs Pargeter.

What happened then was very odd. The expression of shock in Jane Watson's eyes changed in a second to a look of sheer, blind panic. Without saying a word, she turned her head sharply away and rushed off down the road so fast she was almost running.

The incident made Mrs Pargeter all the more determined to make contact with the frightened woman. There was something very odd going on there. Something that required explanation.

CHAPTER 21

Mrs Pargeter sat in the back of the chauffeur-driven limousine on the way to Bedford and tried to still the growing anxiety within her. She was not a woman prone to panic. Her temperament was naturally equable, and the years of her marriage to the late Mr Pargeter, a marriage whose excitements might have aggravated any tendency towards nervousness in some wives, had in her case simply taught her the values of patience and control. Though, of course, she had had her anxious moments when her husband was away on particularly important business trips, she had always disciplined herself into keeping the nature of the risks he undertook in proportion.

But the anxiety she was now feeling about Theresa Cotton continued to grow, in spite of the rigid constraints of logic she imposed on it.

The former resident of her house had not left it in the conventional way, of that Mrs Pargeter felt increasingly certain. Theresa Cotton had set up an elaborate subterfuge about her departure, she had devised a scenario specifically to mislead her neighbours, but that scenario had not been followed. Something had happened to change her plans.

And Mrs Pargeter didn't think that that something had been a simple change of mind. No, her conjectures were more ominous.

One of these conjectures, though, could be checked out comparatively easily.

Which was why she was travelling to Bedford.

'Oh, do come in. He's just upstairs changing.'

The woman at the door was modest, but comfortable-looking. So was the house she ushered Mrs Pargeter into.

'We moved up here when he started. You know, ten years is a long time. Thought it'd be easier if we were on the spot.'

'Of course. How much longer has he got to go?'

'Another five. Just half-way. Mind you, could be a lot less with good behaviour. And his behaviour's been perfect. So I'm hoping we'll see him out in a year . . . eighteen months.'

'Good. I do hope so.'

'Come through into the sitting-room. Don't mind Baby, will you?'

Mrs Pargeter went into the room indicated. It was full of the evidence of a young family. A cheerfully cooing, drooling baby rocked itself back and forth in a sprung chair. A boy of three and an eighteen-month-old of indeterminate sex were on the floor, absorbed in some elaborate game with toy cars and cereal boxes, and hardly looked up at the newcomer.

'Do take a seat, please.' Mrs Crabbe smiled expansively at her visitor. 'Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee? Whichever you like.'

'Coffee'd be lovely.'

'That's what he'll want, and all. He says the coffee inside tastes like metal polish.'

The homely Mrs Crabbe went off to the kitchen, leaving Mrs Pargeter to observe the charming domestic scene. It was one of peaceful chaos. The warm, comforting chaos that is inevitable in any household containing three children under four. An ordinary domestic scene.

Perfectly ordinary. In fact, the only thing that made it extraordinary was that the man of the house had been in Bedford prison for the past five years.

At that moment the man in question appeared. He was casually dressed in a cardigan, cord trousers and bedroom slippers. Just like any other husband and father taking it easy in his own home. Only the aggressive shortness of his hair suggested that he might have a life outside (or perhaps 'inside' would be more accurate).

His welcome was as warm as his wife's had been. He clasped Mrs Pargeter's hand in both of his. 'Hello! Great pleasure to meet you at last. I've heard so much about you. Quite honestly, Mr Pargeter – I mean, the late Mr Pargeter – goodness, the amount he used to talk about you. On about you all the time, he was.'

'Really? I didn't know that.'

'Certainly. All the time.'

'What, even when you were working?'

'Particularly when we was working. Goodness, your ears must've been burning all the time he was away. A pearl among women, he called you. A pearl among women.'

'Oh . . .' Mrs Pargeter blushed charmingly.

'And now I have the pleasure of meeting you, I can see he was dead right.'

'Thank you.' Mrs Pargeter decided it was time to reciprocate the odd compliment. 'You've got yourself very nicely set up here.'

He shrugged dismissively. 'Well, all right to tide us over. I mean, when I'm, er . . . when I'm my own master again, I'll move us somewhere that's more our style. But this is all right, you know, while the kids is little. Bit of a squash when they get much bigger, though.'

'It's fine. And very convenient.'

'Yes.'

'You know, for visiting . . .'

'Oh, sure. Yes, well, I get out as often as I can.' The eighteen-month-old tottered across and nuzzled at his or her father's knee. The silky hair was affectionately rumpled. 'I mean, obviously sometimes it's tricky, but I think, by and large, I probably see as much of the kids as most fathers . . . certainly more than those who leave for work before the little 'uns wake up and get back after they've gone to bed.'

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 . . .'