‘Of course.’ He was a little aggrieved that she’d felt the need to ask the question. ‘Nice couple. Both retired, must’ve been quite old when Jenny was born. Living on the state pension — no spare cash for anything.’
‘So Jenny’d be on a full grant at Cambridge?’
‘Guess so. Not, from all accounts,’ he added lugubriously, ‘that that goes far these days.’
‘No. Boyfriends — anything in that line?’
‘Apparently, yes. Tom O’Brien — same year at Cambridge, also doing French and Spanish, though at a different college. Came from a comprehensive too. From all accounts it’s a good relationship, love’s young dream — though apparently she didn’t even tell him where she was going off to at the end of last term.’
‘But why didn’t someone raise the alarm about her then? Surely when a nineteen-year-old girl just vanishes off the face of the earth someone’s going to-’
‘Ah, but she didn’t just vanish off the face of the earth. Kept ringing her parents through the holidays, every week, telling them she was OK.’
‘Did she say where she was or what she was up to?’
‘Doing a holiday job, she said. Implied it was market research, interviewing people, that kind of stuff. Didn’t say where, though.’
‘And the boyfriend — Tom — she didn’t call him?’
‘Seems not. Jenny only contacted her parents.’
‘And Tom didn’t check things out with them?’
‘Once. Otherwise no. Seems there wasn’t that much warmth between Tom O’Brien and the elder Hargreaves.’
‘They didn’t approve of him?’
‘Gather not. From all accounts he’s a bit political for their taste.’
‘What kind of political? Anarchist bomb-throwing or just youthful idealism?’
‘Youthful idealism. Saving the planet, exposing the corporate destroyers of our natural heritage, you know the kind of number. Left-wing with it, though, and it seems that’s the bit the Hargreaves couldn’t cope with. They’re deep-dyed Conservative — you know, as blue as only the respectable and impoverished working class can be.’
‘Ah. Have you actually talked to Tom O’Brien, Truffler?’
‘No. Most of this stuff I got second-hand. ’Cause that’s the funny thing, see… Tom hasn’t turned up for the beginning of this term either.’
‘Oh.’ A chilling thought came into Mrs Pargeter’s mind. ‘I hope nothing’s happened to him…’
‘No reason why it should have done.’ In any other voice the words would have brought reassurance. As spoken by Truffler Mason they had the reverse effect.
‘No. No, one death’s quite enough, isn’t it?’ Mrs Pargeter was silent for a moment. ‘Must be dreadful for the poor girl’s parents. I mean, to lose an only child at that age — well, at any age, but particularly when she’s just setting out on her adult life… dreadful. How did they take the news, Truffler?’
‘So far as I can discover, Mrs Pargeter, they don’t know about it yet.’
‘What?’ she asked in surprise.
‘I mean, it was less than twenty-four hours after the girl’s death that I was checking out the parents… hospital might not have had time to track them down yet…’
‘No, perhaps not,’ Mrs Pargeter mused.
‘If they still don’t know when I’m next in touch… do you reckon I should tell them?’
‘No. No, Truffler. Give it a bit more time.’
Mrs Pargeter decided that she needed a bit more time, too. When the booking had been made, she and Kim had agreed, in spite of Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s assurances that they could stay as long as they wanted to, that three days would be about right. Which meant they were due to leave in the early evening of the following day, the Wednesday.
But those arrangements had been made before Mrs Pargeter had anything at Brotherton Hall to investigate. Now a rather longer stay was in order. Leaving on the Saturday would be about right.
Kim Thurrock, tracked down once again to the gym where she was doing doughty things with dumbbells, required the minimum of persuasion. She was so revelling in what she regarded as the pampering of her body (though ‘punishment’ was the word Mrs Pargeter would have used), that the idea of continuing it was infinitely appealing. And no, the girls were no problem, they loved being looked after by her mum. So did the poodles.
Also, of course, the longer Kim stayed at Brotherton Hall, the less time she would have before Thicko’s release for backsliding from her regime — and the less traitorous pounds would have an opportunity to infiltrate themselves back on to her body.
Ankle-Deep Arkwright was less enthusiastic about the extension to their stay when Mrs Pargeter mooted it. The generosity of his initial welcome changed to much whingeing about the availability of rooms and abject reminders that there was a recession on.
She answered the first objection by checking future bookings at Reception, and the second by insisting that she was happy to pay for the extra days.
Ankle-Deep Arkwright, realizing that further opposition would raise more suspicions than it might quell, agreed miserably.
‘What’s the matter, Ank?’ Mrs Pargeter asked gently. ‘There’s something upsetting you, isn’t there?’
She could see he was torn. Ranked on one side stood his loyalty to the widow of the late Mr Pargeter, and the alluring relief of talking to someone about his problems.
On the other side stood fear. Though fear of what or of whom Mrs Pargeter could not begin to guess.
The fear won.
‘All right, Mrs P., go ahead, book the extra days. I can’t stop you. But I must tell you that I’m just about to get very busy, so I may not be able to give you quite the personal attention I have up till now.’
The message to Mrs Pargeter was clear. You’re on your own. Keep your nose out of my business.
Chapter Eleven
Before the interview finished, Mrs Pargeter asked Ankle-Deep Arkwright whether their disagreement would mean the end of her ‘Special Treatment’ status, and he fell over himself to assure her that she was still welcome to all of the facilities of the ‘Allergy Room’. Again, half of him seemed desperate to get rid of her, while the other half still wanted to provide all the cosseting due to the widow of the late Mr Pargeter.
She got the feeling he was not blocking her progress from any personal animus, but because of pressure from a person or persons unknown. Since Mrs Pargeter had always favoured pulling bushes up by the roots rather than beating about them, she again asked directly what his problem was or who was making his life difficult, but she got nothing back. Ankle-Deep Arkwright clammed up and brought their interview to an abrupt conclusion.
There was not a lot more she could do that day on the investigation front. She was waiting for more information from Truffler Mason, and her enquiries at Brotherton Hall could not progress further until Lindy Galton returned to work the following morning.
But Mrs Pargeter was not the sort to let this enforced idleness prey on her spirits. She resigned herself philosophically to a day of indulgence. Her exercise programme incorporated an hour in the jacuzzi and another sweet nostalgia-inducing massage session with the ex-baker. And she continued to warm the cockles of Gaston’s heart by the relish with which she despatched his Truite aux Amandes Style Paysan complemented by a Sorbet de Cassis at lunchtime, and his Carre d’Agneau Imperiale followed by Tiramisu at dinner.
With the former meal she drank a young Vouvray; with the latter a mature Rioja Gran Reserva as thick and rich as arterial blood.
There were worse ways of spending a day.
Tracking down Lindy Galton the following morning proved harder than it should have been. The girl on Reception confirmed that Lindy was back at work, but then became evasively ignorant of precisely which duties she had been allocated. Whether this ignorance was genuine or commanded by Ankle-Deep Arkwright was impossible to know.
