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.
? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?
Sixteen
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-
