Mrs, Presumed Dead (13 page)

'And there's no danger that any fingerprints or . . . ?'

'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?

CHAPTER 24

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).

Then came a question that gave her a moment's indecision. Had she found anything in the house that the Cottons had left behind? Anything unexpected?

For a moment she vacillated about mentioning the letter to the Church of Utter Simplicity. Her finding it had been so serendipitous, she did feel a proprietary interest in the letter as her own private clue.

On the other hand, she did not wish to obstruct the police investigation unnecessarily. And she thought she had probably got as much as she was likely to get out of the Church of Utter Simplicity connection. Besides, the hypocritical atmosphere of the place had so repelled her that the idea of putting the wind up the members of the Church held a mischievous attraction. Although she did not think anything actually criminal (assuming that taking advantage of the gullible is not criminal) was happening there, she still doubted whether the foundation would welcome investigation. Mrs Pargeter was not by nature a vindictive person, but she did relish the idea of that unattractive Brother Michael being discomfited.

So she produced the letter for the police. Yes, she had glanced through it, but it hadn't meant a lot to her. Seemed to go on rather about religion. No, she hadn't known that Mrs Cotton was religious. As she had said before, it had been a very brief acquaintance.

At this point the policemen stopped their flow of questions and seemed to hesitate before embarking on a new course. Mrs Pargeter had the feeling that what they were about to ask was the most important part of their enquiry.

Finally the question came. Had she had any dealings during the house purchase with
Mr
Cotton?

No, she hadn't. He had been transferred up North and started the new job. That was why the house was being sold.

Mrs Pargeter didn't see the point of telling the police that the new job was as much a work of fiction as the new address. Apart from avoiding questions about her own curiosity, she wanted to give them something to do for themselves, and she was sure that the discovery of the non-existent job would give enormous satisfaction to some eager young detective. Pity to deprive him of his thrill.

The police asked more about Rod Cotton, but she couldn't help them. They'd never met, you see, and she hadn't really been in Smithy's Loam long enough to pick up any local gossip about him.

And no, she had no idea where he might be.

Oops! That was a bit of a lapse. She covered it up quickly. Well, that was to say, she didn't know where he was if he wasn't at home . . . But presumably they could contact him at the Dunnington address . . . couldn't they?

The two policemen thanked her for her helpfulness. They were afraid that there were almost bound to be more questions at a later date. And they hoped she would bear with the arrival of their forensic team to examine the house.

'Are you saying,' asked Mrs Pargeter in an awestruck voice which was only partly put on, 'that you think the murder took place
here
?'

'It's a possibility we can't rule out,' came the diplomatic reply.

'Oh dear. The trouble is, of course, that I'll have moved everything, won't I? I mean, the sort of clues you're looking for. You know, you do when you move into a new house, don't you? You move stuff around, and you sweep and tidy and Hoover and . . .'

'Yes, I agree, Mrs Pargeter. They may not find much, but such examinations do have to be carried out.'

'Of course.'

'So, as I say, if you will bear with us . . . ?'

'No problem. Goodness, I'd do anything to help you find the person who's done this dreadful thing.'

'Thank you very much, Mrs Pargeter. I only wish more people in this country of ours were as cooperative and public-spirited as you are.'

'Oh, don't mention it,' said Mrs Pargeter, with a slight simper.

The forensic team arrived soon after, and Mrs Pargeter, cooperative and public-spirited as ever, kept out of their way while they dusted for fingerprints and checked carpets and furniture throughout the house.

Through the net curtains of her bedroom, she saw the two policemen moving in the twilight from house to house, questioning the other residents of Smithy's Loam.

And, predictably, not long after the police, the press arrived in droves. Mrs Pargeter was able to use the excuse of the forensic team's presence not to let them in, but they tried all the other houses in the close.

The varying receptions they met with were indicative of the characters of the residents. Fiona Burchfield-Brown, all bumbling good nature, invited them in. Vivvi Sprake was also welcoming, eager to talk, while Kirsten at 'Perigord' (her employer must still have been at the office) seemed to see their arrival as an opportunity for her to achieve international stardom. She stayed on the doorstep for some time, talking effusively, with many gestures, to anyone willing to listen.

Carole Temple, predictably, slammed the door in the reporters' faces.

And, though her car stood in the drive of 'Hibiscus', and though there were lights on in the house, Jane Watson would not even come to the door.

Mrs Pargeter sat on her bed gazing out over the lamplit circle of Smithy's Loam, and thought.