tweed three-piece suits. That, coupled with the regimental tie, gave off an aura of old money, reliability and a world in which no guarantees were required other than the handshake of a gentleman.
The handshake of a gentleman that he gave to Mrs Pargeter was warm and enthusiastic. He beamed, his black eyes sparkled, as he welcomed her in his old-school tones. “Such a pleasure, Mrs Pargeter. Been far too long. Such an unqualified delight to see you. Such a pleasure.”
They sat in his office over the tray with silver coffee pot and bone china cups that had been brought in by a charcoal-grey-suited girl called Karen, and Mrs Pargeter politely asked Hamish Ramon Henriques about the progress of his business.
“Can’t complain, can’t complain,” he replied. “Everything absolutely tickety-boo, in fact. And improving all the time, I’m glad to say. Most businesses are becoming global these days. As a result, everyone’s travelling more – which can only be good news for an organization like mine.”
“And is it the same sort of destinations it’s always been?”
“Well, those continue to be popular – Costa del Sol, South America… Changes a bit according to which countries make extradition treaties, of course, but it’s steady business. Also doing a lot of work now with what used to be called the Eastern Bloc. That’s opening up a lot. Then Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, you know… Even starting to do quite a bit in China.” Hamish Ramon Henriques smiled a complacent smile. “One of the unfailing rules of economics, you know – wherever capitalism goes, criminals will quickly follow. And if there’s one thing criminals are always going to need, it’s transport.”
An unfocused mistiness had come into Mrs Pargeter’s eyes. The look frequently appeared there when ‘criminals’ were mentioned. It was almost as if she had an allergy to the word. “Well,” she said vaguely, “I wouldn’t know about that.”
HRH seemed to realize he had transgressed some invisible barrier between them. “No, of course not,” he agreed hastily. “And no reason why you ever should.” Moving the conversation on to safer ground, he asked, “Anyway, what can I do for you this bright and beautiful morning, Mrs Pargeter?”
“Well,” she began tentatively, “I hope it’s not too much trouble…”
“A contradiction in terms! Positive oxymoron – the idea that anything I might undertake for you could be too much trouble. I and my entire staff are at your disposal for whatever you should require. Oh, Mrs Pargeter, when I think back to how much your husband did for me in the early days of my career –”
“Yes, yes.” It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate this litany of thanks to the late Mr Pargeter; it was just that she had heard it so many times before. “What I need, HRH, is help in the transportation of some paintings.”
“And would these be paintings whose…” he paused, selecting his words with punctilious discretion “…whose provenance might be such that their transportation should not be… too public…?”
“Exactly.” Mrs Pargeter appreciated his quick understanding of her problem.
“And may I ask which countries will be involved in the transportation of the paintings?”
“Quite a few. Certainly France, Germany and Spain. I think there might even be some that have to go back to the States. Maybe even Japan. Will that be a problem?”
“Good heavens, no,” Hamish Ramon Henriques replied breezily. “Compared to other jobs I have undertaken… compared to Lord Lucan… compared to Shergar – never easy when you’re dealing with horseboxes… No, a few paintings will be nothing – whichever countries happen to be involved.” He paused. “One thing you said, Mrs Pargeter…”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t mishear you saying that these paintings needed to ‘go back’?”
“Yes. They all need to go back to where they were – ” she corrected herself seamlessly, “to where they started from.”
“Fine.”
HRH did not ask for further explanation, but Mrs Pargeter supplied it nonetheless. “You see, someone’s asked me to arrange it, and I’ve said I would. And with me… well, when I say I’m going to do something, it’s kind of a point of honour that I see it actually gets done.”
“I understand completely, Mrs Pargeter. It would be exactly the same in my own case.” He emitted a fruity little chuckle. “Where would one be in business if one could not trust the good faith and the word of a gentleman?”
“My feeling entirely, HRH. So, going back to the paintings… have you done that kind of thing before?”
“I have been involved in many comparable operations, yes. There is a very simple standard procedure to follow.” He gave a thoughtful twirl to his moustache. “It does, however, involve the cooperation of one other person…”
“Who’s that?”
“Have you heard of someone called ‘VVO’?”
Mrs Pargeter shook her head and observed, “Lot of initials in this business, aren’t there, HRH?”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Nine
The unmarked car was parked at the same beauty spot overlooking Chastaigne Varleigh. So far the only arrival and departure noted down on Sergeant Hughes’s clipboard was that of the milkman.
As well as smoke, the car was full of the sound of Wagner. Trying another initiative in his continuing search for individual identity as a detective, Inspector Wilkinson had invested in the complete
Sergeant Hughes was, but his tastes ran more to grunge and funk than Wagner.
They survived over an hour of the
“Yes,” said the Sergeant, investing the monosyllable with more enthusiasm than usual.
There was a long silence. Down at Chastaigne Varleigh nothing was happening. Maybe somewhere in the world something was happening, but it seemed to Sergeant Hughes a very long time since anything had happened to him. He was beginning to feel as if his entire life had been spent in that car with Inspector Wilkinson.
“I think the moment has come, Hughes,” said the Inspector, breaking the silence, “when I should tell you something.”
“Like what?”
“Something related to the case on which we are working.”
Not before bloody time, thought Sergeant Hughes. But he didn’t say it. Though his exasperation had been mounting with every minute they spent together, he still recognized that certain professional courtesies had to be observed. He waited, allowing Wilkinson to make his revelations at his own pace.
Being Wilkinson, that pace was a pretty slow one. “For some years now, Hughes,” the Inspector began, “I have been trying to make connections between a series of crimes. They’re all art thefts. I have been going through the files in considerable detail, checking similarities of method, finding other parallels and comparisons. I’ve read through extensive witness statements, and conducted follow-up interviews. I have collated masses of data, and am very close to identifying the common thread which links all the individual crimes.”
He was silent. Sergeant Hughes waited an appropriate length of time, but since nothing else was apparently forthcoming, asked, “And is this common thread a person?”
“It is, yes.”
“A criminal mastermind?”
The Inspector winced. “I don’t like the use of that expression. It engenders defeatism. A mastermind is, by definition, someone of superior intellect, but no criminal has an intellect which is
