Chloe and Candida looked interrogatively at Chris, who took up her cue with relish. ‘I actually think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what it was — well, not absolutely what it was, but how she got on to it, know what I mean?’
Mrs Pargeter waited, letting the girl time her own revelation.
‘Thing is, being in the room next door to someone, you do live pretty close to them and you know most of what they’re up to. I mean, I suppose I tended to go out more than Jenny — you know, like socially — but I still did see quite a lot of her…’
‘Yes?’ Mrs Pargeter prompted patiently.
‘And I mean, I know after she lost the barmaid job, she was going through all kinds of newspapers and magazines to, like, look out for other things.’
‘And you think you know which magazine she got the job from?’
Chris refused to be hurried. ‘Let’s say I reckon I’ve narrowed it down.’
‘Ah.’
‘Jenny did tend to read some fairly yucky sort of magazines.’
‘Oh?’
Chris’s face settled into a moue of distaste. ‘I mean, some fairly subversive stuff… like, say, Private Eye…’
Mrs Pargeter made no comment, but her mind was reeling. The idea that twenty-year-olds in the 1990s could regard the superannuated enfant terriblisme of Private Eye as subversive was totally incongruous. What had happened to these girls? Had they sprung middle-aged and blue-rinsed from their mother’s wombs?
‘Not that we’re wholly against Private Eye,’ interposed Chloe, perhaps trying to bring a tinge of liberalism into the discussion. ‘I mean, some of the covers are sort of quite funny… and the odd cartoon…’
‘But it is all so negative,’ Chris argued. ‘Knocking things down all the time, not trying to build anything up. I mean, like, you do have to be more positive about things. The government is really trying, doing its best to get this country back on its feet, and I don’t think the kind of sniping Private Eye does is anything but completely destructive.’
Fascinating though it was to witness this reactionary display, Mrs Pargeter, aware of her time limit, felt she had to move the conversation on. ‘So you reckon Jenny went after a job advertised in Private Eye, do you?’
‘Well, I think so. They do have a lot of small ads, you know.’
‘Yes,’ Chloe agreed, ‘though these days most of the job ones are for people looking for work rather than offering it… you know, “Graduate seeks five thousand pounds to change the world, anything considered”, that kind of stuff…’
‘And then of course there are the personal ads… the contact ones, know what I mean?’ Candida blushed. ‘Some of those are pretty.. well, pretty explicit.’
Given more time, Mrs Pargeter would have loved to pursue this theme and find out if the three young ladies’ attitudes to sex were as reactionary as their views on everything else, but it wasn’t the moment. ‘So, Chris, do you think you know the actual ad that Jenny answered?’
The girl smiled smugly. ‘Got a pretty good idea.’ She reached into her handbag and produced a tattered copy of a recent Private Eye. ‘I know she was looking at this just a few days before she went off, and one of the ads is marked.’
She opened the magazine at the relevant page and handed it across. Mrs Pargeter looked at the Eye Earn column. In the middle of the usual encomia for foolproof betting systems, ‘amazing opportunities’ and ‘superb home
businesses’, a few words had been ringed in red ballpoint. 5000 FOR FOUR WEEKS’ WORK. NO TRAINING REQUIRED. DETAILS BOX 20335.
‘And you’re sure that Jenny was the one who put the ring round it?’
‘Of course I am,’ Chris replied. ‘Saw her do it.’ A funny thought struck her. ‘Why? You don’t imagine I’d have done it, do you? Or Chloe or Candida? Good heavens, can you imagine any of us stooping to that kind of thing?’
She let out a quack of laughter, in which her two friends joined. It was the best joke Chris had come up with for some time.
Mrs Pargeter once again felt massive sympathy for the life Jenny Hargreaves must have spent in Cambridge.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mrs Pargeter reported her progress to Truffler Mason on the carphone as Gary’s limousine sped her smoothly back to Greene’s Hotel. ‘I mean, I know box numbers are supposed to be a kind of security device, but…’
‘Mrs Pargeter…’ Truffler’s voice was once again edged with a hint of reproach.
‘Yes, I’m sorry. Of course I know you’ll be able to find out. Well, needless to say, any connection you can get with Brotherton Hall’s going to be terrific. And the sooner the better, obviously.. ’
‘Goes without saying, Mrs Pargeter. Incidentally, on the other things you asked me to check out…’
‘Ank and Dr Potter?’
‘Right.’ There was a pause before the uncharacteristic admission. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t made much headway there.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘It’s not for want of trying.’ Truffler Mason’s voice was drowning under an excess of apology.
‘Never occurred to me that it was.’
‘No, but… Well, I just feel bad. Like I was letting you down.’
‘Of course you’re not. So what have you got on Ank?’
‘Well, really nothing so far — that’s what’s so bloody annoying. Nothing except the Brotherton Hall party line. “Mr Arkwright is away for a few days.” “Do you know where he’s gone?” “No, I’m afraid not, sir.” “Do you know precisely when he’s likely to be back?” “No, I’m afraid not, sir.” Right slap up against a brick wall, I am.’
‘Sounds like he’s deliberately lying low.’
‘Yes. Unless he’s been laid low,’ said Truffler chillingly.
‘Hm. What about Stan the Stapler?’
‘Same story. “No, I’m afraid Mr Bristow is away for a few days — and no, I’m afraid I don’t know when he’s likely to be back.” Bloody frustrating, I can tell you. I’m not used to not getting a result.’
‘Sounds like someone’s deliberately stopping you from getting a result.’
‘Yeah. That doesn’t make it any less frustrating. I’ll find a way, don’t worry.’ But the gloom in Truffler’s voice was terminal.
‘How about Dr Potter? Anything on him?’
‘Well, yes…’ There was still no hint of satisfaction in his tone. ‘Don’t like it, though.’
‘Nasty secrets, do you mean?’
‘No — no nasty secrets, that’s what I don’t like about it. Kind of model history for a medical man. Did all the right training, worked as a GP in England for ten years, then out to Hong Kong. Twelve years out there — good doctor, highly respected professionally, well liked personally — then comes back here and gets the job at Brotherton Hall. I don’t like it,’ he repeated sepulchrally.
‘Why?’
‘Because it doesn’t seem to tie in with the way he’s behaving now, does it? From your encounters with him, you’d hardly call Dr Potter a good doctor, would you? Not one you’d recommend to your friends for his bedside manner?’
‘No.’
‘Anyway, I’m still pursuing it. Got feelers out with my contacts in Hong Kong — may be able to get some dirt.’
He didn’t sound optimistic. But then, come to that, Truffler Mason never did sound optimistic.
