continue with his story.
“Come on, Keyhole. Tell me what you found.”
His voice was thick and low as he continued. “We open the freezer. There’s this something wrapped in polythene…Heavy. We pull it out. We unwrap it. And yes, it’s a body.”
“I’m sorry,” Mrs Pargeter murmured. “I’m very sorry to have put you through that.”
“Don’t worry. You had warned me, tipped me the wink, like. Not as if it was a complete surprise.” He swallowed noisily down the line. “Nasty, though.”
“Yes. And I suppose, having been in there more than a week…”
“Wasn’t too bad from that point of view, Mrs Pargeter, actually. Tightly wrapped in the polythene, good seal on the freezer lid, wasn’t in too bad a state.”
“Good.” Mrs Pargeter hesitated, unwilling to have her next, inevitable question answered. No way round it, though – had to be asked. “And who was it, Keyhole…?”
“A woman. About forty. Fully clothed. Red hair.”
Poor Theresa Cotton. Now the anxieties and uncomfortable speculations of the last few days had been proved real, Mrs Pargeter felt weak and drained. Tears, she knew, were not far away. Tears for a woman she had only met a couple of times, but whose murder seemed to dispossess her more than the deaths of friends who had been much closer.
“Tell me, Keyhole,” she murmured. “Was there anything else in the polythene? Or in the freezer?”
“All we found was a tie. Man’s tie. Some school’s Old Boys…cricket club…something like that, anyway. That was what did it.”
“She was strangled?”
“Yes.”
“Any other wounds on her?”
“Not that we could see. No blood on her clothes, nothing like that.”
“No.” That at least suggested that the attack had been a surprise. A quick death. Mrs Pargeter tried to comfort herself with the thought.
“So what did you do, Keyhole?”
“Like you said, Mrs Pargeter. Wrapped the body up, just as it had been. Back in the freezer. Freezer back in the container. All the rest of the furniture put exactly where we’d moved it from. No one’ll know we been in there.”
“And there’s no danger that any fingerprints or…?”
“Mrs Pargeter…” he said, aggrieved and offended.
She covered the gaffe as quickly as she could. “I’m so sorry, Keyhole. Wasn’t thinking.”
“No.” He sounded only partly mollified. “Look, Mrs Pargeter, I’m going to have to ring off soon…”
“Why? Where are you phoning from?”
“The Governor’s Office. About the only decent direct-dial line out in this place.”
“What, you’ve made yourself a key?”
“Of course. Well, I like to ring home every couple of days, see how the kids is getting on.”
“Yes.”
“But, anyway, the Governor’s doing an inspection and he’ll be back any minute, so I’d better scarper sharpish.”
“Mm. Well, look, Keyhole, I can’t thank you enough for – ” A sudden thought stopped her in mid-sentence. “Keyhole, one thing…”
“Yeah?”
“You’re sure there wasn’t any money in the freezer? Or in the polythene wrapping?”
“What, you mean coins or –?”
“No, notes. A lot of notes.”
“Not a sign. Nothing. Like I say, nothing but the body and the tie.”
So, although Theresa Cotton had been found, over two thousand pounds was still missing. Murders had been committed for much less, Mrs Pargeter reflected. Even in affluent surroundings like Smithy’s Loam.
“Look, Keyhole, I’m eternally in your debt for –”
“Gotta scarper!” she heard, before the phone was slammed down.
She had a momentary pang. She had got Keyhole Crabbe into this. If he were caught in the Governor’s office, all kinds of unpleasant details about his escapological feats might come to light. He could even lose his remission for good behaviour. She thought tenderly of the sweet domestic scene she had witnessed so recently in Bedford.
But the anxiety only lasted for a moment. She had confidence in Keyhole. He was far too canny an operator to get caught, unless someone shopped him again. No, Keyhole Crabbe would be all right.
¦
Mrs Pargeter stayed sitting by the phone in the hall. She still felt exhausted.
And she was in a dilemma as to what to do next.
She remembered her late husband’s precepts about the police. What they did not know, generally speaking, they did not need to know. Ignorance in the Police Force, he had always maintained, was a natural state, and who are we, he would ask with a disarming shrug of his shoulders, to interfere with nature?
On the other hand, this was murder. And somehow murder changed the rules.
She went upstairs and found the address book which had proved so useful over the last weeks. The late Mr Pargeter’s listings had furnished her with a car-tracing service, a Missing Persons bureau and a lock specialist; she felt confident that it could also provide a police informer.
There was a selection to choose from. She rang the first number and, as ever, the magic of the late Mr Pargeter’s name worked instantly.
The man at the end of the phone took the details impassively. He asked no questions, simply agreed to make an anonymous call to the Worcestershire Constabulary, suggesting that they should inspect a certain container in a certain furniture depository.
Mrs Pargeter put the phone down wearily. The wheels had been set in motion. Now it was only a matter of time before the police arrived in Smithy’s Loam.
She went into the sitting-room. It was only lunch-time, but she felt in need of a drink.
But, as she entered the room, she shivered. This, she felt sure, was where Theresa Cotton had been strangled only a fortnight before.
But who by, that was the question. Who by?
? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?
Twenty-Four
It didn’t take long.
No, give the British police their due (and even the late Mr Pargeter had recommended that they should be given their due – not a lot else, but certainly their due), once they had the tip-off, they acted quickly.
On the following day, the Tuesday, the one o’clock news carried a brief announcement about a woman’s body having been found in a furniture warehouse near Worcester, and by late afternoon the police were round at Smithy’s Loam.
They had had no problem in guessing the identity of the corpse. The records of Littlehaven’s, the removal company, showed where the furniture had come from, and that was obviously the first place to investigate. It took the minimum of enquiry to find out that the freezer’s owner had been a red-haired woman of about forty. Formal identification would have to wait until next-of-kin had been contacted (and Mrs Pargeter reckoned there might be problems contacting the most immediate next-of-kin), but the police were pretty sure that they were investigating the murder of Theresa Cotton.
¦
It was inevitable that one of their first ports of call should be the deceased’s former home, which was probably also the scene of her strangling. Mrs Pargeter had reconciled herself to this fact from the moment that she
