Mrs, Presumed Dead (8 page)

CHAPTER 15

In spite of his new up-market address and his new upmarket business, Rewind Wilson had lost none of his old efficiency in negotiating the labyrinth of crooked passages which unites the country's car dealers. He rang back the widow of his former employer the next morning at half-past eleven.

'Mrs Pargeter, hello,' the ersatz Etonian tones rumbled. 'Sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you . . .' – which was simply showing off under the circumstances – ' . . . but I do now have the information you require.'

'About the Fiat Uno?'

'That's right. Very easy to trace, as it turned out.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. I thought I might have to get the road scouts out on to it, but in fact it's with a dealer.'

'With a dealer?' Mrs Pargeter echoed, slightly puzzled.

'Yes. It was sold to a fellow in Clapham. Sid Runcorn . . . never met him, but I've heard he's a bit heavily into the old F and R . . .'

For an innocent widow in her late sixties, Mrs Pargeter had a surprisingly comprehensive knowledge of underworld slang, but on this occasion she had to admit ignorance.

Rewind Wilson supplied an immediate gloss. 'F and R – Fill-in and Respray. A lot of it done on dodgy bodywork . . . never mind the rust, slap on the filler, sand it down, couple of coats of spray – fool ninety-nine per cent of the punters any day.' He suddenly recollected his new status in the motor industry. 'Or so I'm told.'

'What, so he's done that to the Cottons' car?' asked Mrs Pargeter, her mind racing with images of vehicles disguised to avoid detection.

'No, no, nothing like that. I only mention it because it's the only thing I know about him. No, in this case it was a straight purchase for resale.'

'You mean the Cottons sold him their car?'

'That's right. He's had his engineers look it over and it's standing out on his forecourt in Clapham with a price stuck on the windscreen.'

'What kind of price?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, compared to what the Cottons sold it for . . . ?'

Rewind Wilson dropped back instinctively into a professional defensive posture. 'Of course, there would be quite a mark-up . . .'

'How much?'

'About forty per cent on this one.'

'Forty per cent!'

'Well, come on, the dealer's got his overheads and it's no picnic trying to offload motors at —' Again Rewind Wilson seemed to realise that his past was encroaching, and recovered himself. 'Erm, yes, I believe some of the dealers down that end of the market can be a little unscrupulous in the matter of pricing.'

'Yes . . .' Mrs Pargeter thought for a moment. 'Anything unusual about this sale?'

'Unusual? I believe it was all perfectly legitimate. With a car only a year old you don't usually have to do much in the way of cosmetics . . . you know, unless it's an insurance write-off and you've got to weld the chassis and – or so I believe. I mean, so I have heard from operators in that kind of area of the market,' he concluded cautiously.

'I didn't mean anything illegal. I just meant was there anything odd about it, anything that struck Mr Runcorn as odd . . . ?'

'Ah, I'm with you. Well, there were only two things he mentioned. One, the call about the car was from way off his usual patch. I mean, that address is down near Dorking, isn't it? Sid rarely strays out of South London.'

'Then why did he this time?'

'Because the car was such a bargain.'

'Really?'

'Yes. That's why he could make such a healthy mark-up. She was asking way below the current price guide, so he didn't mind a bit of travel to pick it up.'

'Mr Runcorn picked the car up himself?'

'Yes.'

'Hmm. What would it suggest to you, Re –' Mrs Pargeter cleared her throat to cover the gaffe 'Mr Wilson . . . you know, when someone tries to sell a car below its market value?'

'Could be various reasons. Might be just they're clueless, don't know a thing about motors . . . Or could be for a quick sale . . .'

Mrs Pargeter preferred the second explanation. It fitted in well with the rest of her thinking about Theresa Cotton's disappearance. A quick sale of the car to a dealer from outside the area – probably randomly selected from the Yellow Pages – would raise less questions in Smithy's Loam than a local transaction. And the lowered price was probably just an incentive to make sure that Theresa's chosen dealer rose to the bait.

'Mr Wilson, I wonder . . . could you get a little more information for me . . . ?'

'No problem at all, my dear Mrs Pargeter.'

'Are you sure I'm not keeping you from your work?'

'No, no, I've got a couple of sheikhs in the outer office, but they can wait.'

'Now, I shouldn't be stopping you from—'

'Don't think about it. They're having such fun propositioning my secretaries, offering ever-increasing inducements for unlikely personal services, that they won't notice the time.'

'How do the secretaries react?' asked Mrs Pargeter, intrigued.

'Oh, they think it's enormous fun. Finishing schools may not do much in the educational line, but they at least teach them how to deal with that kind of thing.'

'Ah.'

'Anyway, what was the further information you required, Mrs Pargeter?'

'It's a few fine details. I'd like to know whether Mr Runcorn dealt just with Mrs Cotton or whether he dealt with the husband too. I'd like to know exactly what day and what time he collected the car. Oh, and I'd like a physical description of Mr Runcorn.'

'Very well, Mrs Pargeter. I'll call you back as soon as possible.'

If Rewind Wilson had any curiosity as to why she wanted this information, he restrained it. He had no wish to make another gaffe like the one at the end of their previous conversation.

He rang back within the half-hour.

'Yes, I have it all, Mrs Pargeter. Sid Runcorn had no dealings with anyone other than Mrs Cotton. She was the one who rang him and offered the car for sale. She fixed the time for him to come and collect it, and she it was who let him in when he arrived.'

'When was this?'

'Last Monday. Week ago yesterday.'

As she had thought. 'And what time did he arrive?'

'About seven in the evening. He'd gone down by train, you see, because he was going to be driving the Fiat back.'

This again supported her conjectures. So did the physical description of Sid Runcorn. He was of medium height, with a beard that he never trimmed, and his customary working clothes were a grubby navy-blue overall and a woolly hat. In other words, he was Theresa Cotton's second bearded visitor on her last day in Smithy's Loam.

'How long did he stay at the house?'

'Not long. He looked at the car in the garage, took it round the block for a test-drive, then handed over the money, and went off. He was very chuffed. Beautiful little motor, he said. Low mileage, really been looked after.'

'And what, did he give Mrs Cotton a cheque?'

'No, no, cash. All Sid Runcorn's deals are cash,' was the firm reply.

'How much was the price?'

Rewind Wilson told her. Though apparently little for a car of the age and condition of the Cottons' Fiat, it was still a lot for the average housewife to have loose in cash about her house.

'And, Mr Wilson, when Mr Runcorn left, he didn't take Mrs Cotton with him, did he?'

'What?' This time he could not keep the curiosity out of his voice. 'No, of course not. Why should he do that?'

'Oh, no reason. No, don't worry about it. Look, Re –' Oh dear, doing it again. '. . . Mr Wilson, thank you enormously for all your help.'

'Think absolutely nothing of it, dear lady. It's a mere drop in the ocean, compared to all your late husband did for me. You know, if I hadn't been working with him, I'd never have been able to afford to set myself up in my current line.'

'Oh, well, I'm so glad. Always liked to help others, Mr Pargeter did.'

'Yes, he was a real Robin Hood.'

'Except that Robin Hood was a thief.' Mrs Pargeter reproved him mischievously.

Rewind Wilson was once again swamped in embarrassment. 'I'm so sorry. In no way did I wish to imply that your late—'

Mrs Pargeter cut through all this. 'Don't you worry. I was only joking. Listen, thanks a million. I'll get out of your hair now, and let you get on with the sheikhs.'

'They'll be no problem.'

'Do they haggle about the price?' she asked, curious.

'Good heavens, no. With them and Rollers, it's not a question of price, it's a question of how many. Oh no, they're prepared to pay for what they want.'

Mrs Pargeter giggled. 'Does that go for your secretaries' services, too?'

'It certainly does. Girl on Reception went out to dinner with one of our Middle Eastern clients last week . . . '

'Oh?'

'Came in this morning driving a brand-new Porsche.'

'Really?'

'Mind you, she reckoned she earned every last hub-cap. Still, we don't need to go into the details of that, do we?'

'No. No, I suppose we don't,' Mrs Pargeter agreed, rather wistfully.

She now had three new pieces of information.

First, the appearance of Theresa Cotton's second bearded visitor was explained.

Second, on her last evening in 'Acapulco', Theresa Cotton had a great deal of cash with her.

And, third, she didn't leave her house at the time Fiona Burchfield-Brown had assumed she had left.

In fact, no one had seen Theresa Cotton leave her house at all.

CHAPTER 16

Mrs Pargeter decided she would have a little walk before lunch. She always tried to have at least one walk a day; she knew how important it was for people to keep mobile as they got older. And exercise, she hoped, might slow down her not-unattractive tendency towards plumpness.

Also, she found walking very conducive to constructive thought.

She determined that, rather than taking the customary route from her front door, she would explore round the back of the house. There was a high gate in the neat fencing at the end of her garden, and she had not yet had time to discover what lay beyond it. She did not entertain romantic notions of finding a secret garden like that in her favourite childhood book, but she still felt a little buzz of excitement at the thought of the unknown.

As she walked down the path, she noticed how ragged the back garden had grown even in the brief period of her residence. All gardens look ragged in late autumn, but somehow the other householders of Smithy's Loam had disciplined nature firmly to conform to their high standards.

Mrs Pargeter decided she must organise the services of a gardener. Not, she proudly asserted to herself, because she gave a damn about what her neighbours thought; simply because she liked living in pleasant surroundings.

For a moment she wondered whether she might be able to contact some of the men who proved so green-fingered during their enforced seclusion at the big house in Chigwell, but she quickly concluded that it might be a little difficult to arrange. No, better to apply for help locally. And asking advice on where to find a good gardener could be a useful excuse for paying a call on other Smithy's Loam residents when the need arose.

The gate had metal bolts at top and bottom, but these were not locked. It opened easily, and Mrs Pargeter found herself on a tarmacked path which ran along the line of fencing at the back of the houses. Across the path was a thin band of woodland, some fifty metres wide, beyond which, through the stripped trees of autumn, she could see the undulations of a golf course. This access to open space for the walking of dogs – or even for the playing of golf – was another of the features of which the original Smithy's Loam brochure had made much.

The strip of woodland was frequented by rabbits, squirrels and the occasional flasher, but Mrs Pargeter's sensibilities were not challenged that morning. (In fact, if they had been, she would have coped better than many women of her age. On one occasion a few years previously, when walking along the dunes at Littlehampton West Beach, she had been confronted by a twenty-year-old man determined to show her his all. Without breaking her stride, Mrs Pargeter had stared at what was on offer, sniffed, said, 'I've seen better', and continued her walk.)

The path curved round the back gardens of all the houses in Smithy's Loam. Each neat fence had its own neat gate, though on the tops of some, barbed wire or metal spikes had been affixed to deter intruders.

At the apex of the close the woodland gave way to a long wall, topped with broken glass. As Mrs Pargeter walked along the narrow passage between the high fencing and this wall, she conjectured what might lie behind it. However, she was not kept in ignorance for long, because the path opened out into what proved to be the service road behind the Shopping Parade, and she could see at the entrance to the walled enclosure a sign identifying it as a local dairy depot.

She continued her circuit, passing along the end of the Parade, past the threatened coffee shop, turning left on to the main road and then into Smithy's Loam and back home.

The excursion had taken her less than five minutes. Not long enough, really, to count as a constitutional. Certainly not long enough to have any counteractive effect on her potential weight problem.

But quite long enough to stimulate some very useful thoughts.

The back access to the path meant that one could leave 'Acapulco' without being seen from the other houses in Smithy's Loam. And the fact that the bolts on the gate had not been closed from the inside suggested that someone might quite recently have departed by that route.

But the path offered opportunities for arrivals as well as departures. Though, from what she had seen of them, it seemed unlikely that they ever would, the residents of Smithy's Loam could pay each other clandestine visits that way.

And, of course, it need not just be other residents who took advantage of this means of access.

More than ever, Mrs Pargeter felt the urgency to make contact with either Theresa or Rod Cotton.