Manager
It was an odd letter. She knew that there had been a cooling in her relationship with Ankle-Deep Arkwright, but that did not seem to justify this awkward formality. The contents read like a form letter which might be sent out to any client. It was as if she and Ank had never met.
The only personal touches were the signature and the change of the word ‘urgent’ to ‘pressing’. Both of these were in what looked like Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s handwriting.
If that was all he had to say, why had he bothered sending the letter? No communication at all would have been less hurtful than the impersonality of this one.
Her pondering of the anomaly was interrupted by a knock on the door. Kim Thurrock burst in, dressed in yet another Mind Over Fatty Matter outfit and full as ever of the joys of Brotherton Hall.
‘Thought I saw you come back, Melita. Just popped in to check you’re OK.’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Oh, good. Must dash. So much to fit in, what with this being our last day. I’m really determined to be right down for tonight’s Nine O’Clock Weigh-In.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks. I’ll do it, don’t worry.’ Her voice took on a note of religious awe. ‘I’m going to get further from what I am, and get closer to what I can be.’
Mrs Pargeter winced at the pervasiveness of Sue Fisher’s cracker-motto philosophy. She wondered whether Kim’s hero-worship would have survived the sight of the shifty-looking woman whom Ellie Fenchurch had so discomfited that morning, and decided it probably would. Faith as fervent as that could never be deflected by mere reality.
Kim skipped to the door. ‘Can’t waste a second. Must keep going.’
‘Because “Fulfilment is just around the next corner”…?’ Mrs Pargeter suggested.
But the irony was wasted. ‘Yes, exactly,’ Kim Thurrock agreed as she opened the door.
‘Incidentally, Kim… one thing…’
‘Yes?’
‘I heard a rumour of something nasty that happened down in the Dead Sea Mud Baths on Wednesday night…’
Kim stopped. ‘Oh yes. That poor girl Lindy Galton.’
So news of the murder had not been totally suppressed.
‘What exactly happened?’ asked Mrs Pargeter ingenuously.
‘Well, she had an accident. She was killed, poor kid.’
‘Oh.’
‘Slipped and banged her head and drowned in the mud.’ Kim Thurrock’s face became pious. ‘That’s what comes of having unsupervised treatment. It’s very important that all exercises and treatments should be conducted under proper supervision.’ She quoted a Brotherton Hall tenet. ‘See you.’
So, thought Mrs Pargeter, the ‘accident’ theory of Lindy Galton’s death was now official.
And for a moment she almost wished she could believe it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gary drove them away from Brotherton Hall the following morning, the Saturday. Kim Thurrock’s only regret about the experience was that it had to end. At the Nine O’Clock Weigh-In the previous evening she had achieved her lowest weight since arrival and, though of course complacency would have been politically incorrect according to the Sue Fisher ethic, she did feel quite pleased with herself.
‘Oh, the whole time’s been so great, Melita. I can’t thank you enough for organizing everything. Just been wonderful, hasn’t it?’
Mrs Pargeter, whose experience at Brotherton Hall had not been one of unalloyed joy, made some suitably non-committal response and moved the conversation on. ‘How long now till you see Thicko?’
Kim Thurrock grinned nervously. ‘Only a week. Next Friday. Oh, I can’t wait. And I daren’t imagine what state Thicko himself is in. He’s a very stable kind of bloke normally, but he always gets funny a month or so before he comes out. I think most of them do. Did you find that your…?’
A sharp look from Mrs Pargeter dried up the flow of the sentence and Kim hastily changed the subject. ‘Ooh, incidentally, I’ve got another favour to ask, Melita…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I know it’s something you don’t approve of…’
The twinkle was back in the violet eyes as Mrs Pargeter asked, ‘Oh really? Now I wonder what you could be talking about?’
‘It’s this plastic surgery business.’
‘Thought it might be.’
‘Look, I have actually gone to the extent of making the first appointment with this Mr Littlejohn… you know, the free consultation…’
‘Oh.’
‘There, I knew you’d start criticizing me about it.’
‘Kim, all I said was “Oh”.’
‘Yes. Yes. Well, the appointment’s for next Tuesday and the thing is…’
‘You feel nervous about going up to Harley Street on your own and wonder whether I’d mind going along with you for moral support…?’ Mrs Pargeter suggested.
‘Well, yes.’
Kim was rewarded with a warm, comfortable smile. ‘Course I’ll come with you, love.’
‘Oh, bless you, Melita.’
‘It’s this one, isn’t it?’ asked Gary, as the limousine drew up outside the Thurrocks’ modest house in Catford.
For the next hour Mrs Pargeter was caught up in the tornado of Kim Thurrock’s reunion with her three daughters, poodles, and mother. There were lots of hugs, and, from the poodles, lots of slobbering. Mrs Pargeter was included in the hugs, but, mercifully, not the slobbering.
The only awkwardness occurred when Kim’s mother Mrs Moore produced the cake she had baked to welcome her daughter home. It was a rich chocolate one, filled and crested with cream, and Mrs Moore was very put out when Kim refused a slice. The old lady subscribed to the East End tradition that equated food with love, and was offended to have her affection spurned.
Kim tried to explain, but all her mother could see was filial ingratitude. When Mrs Pargeter left, Kim was still holding out, but with a resolve that was wavering under a heavy barrage of emotional blackmail. Mrs Pargeter didn’t think many hours would pass before Kim succumbed to a peace-making slice of cake. The principles of self- denial inculcated by a few days at Brotherton Hall would be no match for the sheer force of Mrs Moore’s personality.
Gary took Mrs Pargeter to Greene’s, the discreetly expensive London hotel where she was currently residing. The house Mrs Pargeter was having built was not yet completed; and indeed, given who was building it for her, the prospect of its ever being completed continually receded.
Loyal as ever, Mrs Pargeter had employed one of the late Mr Pargeter’s associates to construct the house in which she planned to spend what she rather coyly (and, given her personality, rather inappropriately) called her ‘declining years’.
Now it wasn’t that Jimmy Jacket — or ‘Concrete’ as he was known to his intimates — was a bad builder. He was one of the best. Indeed his construction of the hidden basement to the Pargeters’ big house in Chigwell stands out as one of the architectural marvels of the late twentieth century; and the tunnel with which he linked Spud-U- Like and the National Westminster Bank in Milton Keynes bears comparison with many more publicly applauded feats of engineering.
