“That’s what he’ll want, and all. He says the coffee inside tastes like metal polish.”
The homely Mrs Crabbe went off to the kitchen, leaving Mrs Pargeter to observe the charming domestic scene. It was one of peaceful chaos. The warm, comforting chaos that is inevitable in any household containing three children under four. An ordinary domestic scene.
Perfectly ordinary. In fact, the only thing that made it extraordinary was that the man of the house had been in Bedford prison for the past five years.
At that moment the man in question appeared. He was casually dressed in a cardigan, cord trousers and bedroom slippers. Just like any other husband and father taking it easy in his own home. Only the aggressive shortness of his hair suggested that he might have a life outside (or perhaps ‘inside’ would be more accurate).
His welcome was as warm as his wife’s had been. He clasped Mrs Pargeter’s hand in both of his. “Hello! Great pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you. Quite honestly, Mr Pargeter – I mean, the late Mr Pargeter – goodness, the amount he used to talk about you. On about you all the time, he was.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“Certainly. All the time.”
“What, even when you were working?”
“Particularly when we was working. Goodness, your ears must’ve been burning all the time he was away. A pearl among women, he called you. A pearl among women.”
“Oh…” Mrs Pargeter blushed charmingly.
“And now I have the pleasure of meeting you, I can see he was dead right.”
“Thank you.” Mrs Pargeter decided it was time to reciprocate the odd compliment. “You’ve got yourself very nicely set up here.”
He shrugged dismissively. “Well, all right to tide us over. I mean, when I’m, er…when I’m my own master again, I’ll move us somewhere that’s more our style. But this is all right, you know, while the kids is little. Bit of a squash when they get much bigger, though.”
“It’s fine. And very convenient.”
“Yes.”
“You know, for visiting…”
“Oh, sure. Yes, well, I get out as often as I can.” The eighteen-month-old tottered across and nuzzled at his or her father’s knee. The silky hair was affectionately rumpled. “I mean, obviously sometimes it’s tricky, but I think, by and large, I probably see as much of the kids as most fathers…certainly more than those who leave for work before the little ‘uns wake up and get back after they’ve gone to bed.”
He could have been describing the fathers of Smithy’s Loam, Mrs Pargeter thought.
“I mean, what kind of communication do they get with their nippers, I ask you, only seeing them weekends when Dad’s probably tired out and bad-tempered?”
“Not much, I would imagine.”
“No. Well, I’m all in favour of the family unit. I think, if more families stuck together – even when things get difficult – there’d be less crime in this country of ours.”
“I think you’re right.”
“If kids aren’t brought up with any standards in the home, then how on earth can anyone expect them to know right from wrong when they grow up?”
“Exactly.”
“Now, I don’t go along with everything this government stands for, but –”
However, this encomium of Victorian values was interrupted by the return of Mrs Crabbe with the coffee. As she bent down to put the tray on a low table, her husband gave her rump an affectionate pat. She poured the coffee. It was delicious, fresh-roasted, strong, a million miles away from the ‘metal polish’ served in Bedford prison.
“All right, love,” he said, when the coffee was poured and sugary biscuits had been distributed. “Business.”
His wife nodded obediently and started for the kitchen. “Shall I take the kids?”
“If you wouldn’t mind, love. I know they’re young, but what they don’t know, they can’t tell no one about.” He smiled at Mrs Pargeter. “As your late husband always used to say.”
“Yes. One of his mottoes, that was.”
The baby was carried out, and the older two lured away cheerfully enough with promises of crisps and drinks. Mrs Crabbe closed the sitting-room door and her husband turned to his visitor.
“Right. What can I do you for?”
“Well, I hope you don’t mind, but –”
“Of course I don’t mind. Anything you need, lady, you just say the word. Quite honestly, your late husband done so much for me, I could never repay it if I tried for a million years, so you just ask away.”
Mrs Pargeter settled into her armchair. “All right, listen. I need a kind of…burglary done and my late husband always said – I mean, not that he ever talked to me about his work – but he made it clear to me that, when it came to getting in and out of places, there was no one in the world to touch Keyhole Crabbe.”
Her listener nodded. No point in false modesty; she was saying no more than the truth.
“Well, anyway, Keyhole, what I need doing is a bit delicate, and so I thought I’d ask your advice…”
“Very sensible. You come to the right place.”
“I mean, I realise that…” She trod delicately. “…it’s a bit difficult for you yourself at the moment…you know, your movements are a little restricted, but I wondered if you could recommend someone who might possibly –”
“Don’t you count me out, lady. I’m sure I could do the job myself…I mean, depending where it is…”
“Well, that could be a problem. It’s near Worcester…”
“Oh, easy. Do there and back inside the day.”
“Yes, but I’ve a feeling this is going to have to be done at night.”
“Ah.” He hesitated for a moment, chewing his lip. “Nights are a bit trickier, certainly. They do have this unfortunate habit in nicks of shutting you up for the night. I don’t mean I can’t get out, obviously, but I try not to do it too often. Keep it for special occasions, you know, wedding anniversaries and suchlike. No need to take unnecessary risks, is there? Hmm…” He pondered for a moment, then made up his mind. “Oh, but, Mrs Pargeter, for you…no, I’d have to do it myself.”
“Not if it’s going to be risky for you –”
“Don’t even give it a thought. No problem. I got the routine sorted out. Sunday nights tend to be good, anyway, screws all dozy after a skinful on Saturday. No, Mrs Pargeter, I couldn’t stand the idea of no one else doing it for you. Hate to think of you being let down by some beginner. No, like you say, when it comes to anything with locks or keys, I am the best in the business. What’s more, I never get caught.”
Mrs Pargeter could not prevent herself from looking a little quizzical, but Keyhole Crabbe quickly explained away his current situation. “Shopped, I was, this time. Some silly little bugger – pardon my French – thought he could clean up my end of the market if I was out of the way.” He laughed at the incongruity of the idea.
“And…what happened to him?” Mrs Pargeter asked cautiously.
“Let’s say he wasn’t successful.”
“Oh dear.”
“No, don’t get me wrong, lady. No violence. I hate violence. Never done anyone no good, hitting people. Not from Cain and Abel onwards. No, I done a straight tit-for-tat on this young chancer. Got him shopped, and all. He’s in an Open Prison. Ford, you know, down near Bognor. And he can’t even get out of
Mrs Pargeter smiled. She liked Keyhole Crabbe, and she appreciated his values. They coincided almost exactly with her own.
“Anyway,” he said, offering her the biscuits again, “give me a bit more gen on this job you want done…”
? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?
Twenty-Two
