Mrs Pargeter 02; Mrs, Presumed Dead

Suddenly the figure in front of the mirror turned to check the straightness of her stocking seams in the mirror.

It wasn’t the unaccustomed heaviness of the make-up that took Mrs Pargeter by surprise – it was the moustache.

The oddness of the figure was suddenly explained. It wasn’t Carole Temple who was preening herself in the red cocktail dress – it was her husband, Gregory.

Hmm, thought Mrs Pargeter, now that is interesting.

Suppose Theresa Cotton had witnessed a similar parade on a previous evening when Carole Temple had been out…

And suppose she had told Carole Temple what she had seen…

Might not that be the sort of secret that should be kept from spreading amongst the other residents of Smithy’s Loam?

? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?

Thirty-Three

“God, that bloody girl!” said Sue Curle, relaxing as she made her way down the second of Mrs Pargeter’s generous gin and tonics. “She’s just so disorganised. I mean suddenly there’s this flap last week because she’s forgotten about her visa and it’s about to run out, and so I get this panic call at the office, because she’s got to go up to the Norwegian Embassy and she can’t leave the kids and…” She growled. “God, it is nearly impossible to hold down a job and run a home at the same time.”

“I thought an au pair was supposed to make it possible.”

“Huh!” was all that idea was thought to deserve.

“But at least everything’s all right at work, isn’t it…?” asked Mrs Pargeter cautiously.

“I suppose so…when I’m there. When I don’t keep getting called back home on idiotic errands.”

“Yes. Actually, Sue, I don’t even know what it is you do…?”

“Market research company.”

“Local, obviously.”

“Yes, in Dorking. Started up by a bloke I used to work with before I got nailed down by marriage and children. He went on his own about five years back and it all seems to be going well. Get market research right and you can’t fail.”

“A lot of companies do fail, though, don’t they?”

“Ah, yes, but that’s because they don’t get it right. Geoff – that’s my boss – is a very shrewd operator. Knows what he’s doing. If a firm’s doing badly, he persuades them that they need market research to find out why they’re doing badly. If they’re doing well, he persuades them they need it to do even better.”

“Sounds good. And of course it must be nice for you working with people you know.”

“Oh, I don’t know him that well,” said Sue dismissively.

“No, but at least if you’re with congenial people…”

“Huh. I don’t think Geoff could ever be described as congenial,” said Sue with some vigour. “He’s an absolute pig to work for. Typical male. Good at the job, but very exhausting to be with. No, I’m just very relieved to get away from the office as soon as possible every night.”

“But the hours do seem to be long,” suggested Mrs Pargeter. “I mean, I quite often see your car coming back round nine, half-past.”

“Yes, well, we do get very busy. When you’re a relatively new set-up, you can’t afford to turn any work down. There aren’t many of us in the company, anyway. And I think perhaps Geoff has to work a bit harder than the opposition.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, he’s coloured. Born in Jamaica. It’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m afraid there still is a bit of prejudice, even in a place like this.”

“Oh, really?” said Mrs Pargeter, keeping to herself the thoughts which had suddenly been set buzzing about her head. Time to change the subject. “Any nearer getting your divorce through, are you?”

This got another of Sue’s bitter little ‘Huh’s. “No, that bastard is dragging everything out for as long as possible. Never marry a lawyer, Mrs Pargeter.”

“I don’t think I’m really likely to at my age.” It wasn’t just age that was a bar, now she came to think of it. Certain basic differences of attitude on certain issues might lead to marital discord, too.

“No. Well, don’t,” said Sue grimly. “That would be my advice to anyone of any age. Because the Law is just a system of institutionalised delay and if you’ve got a lawyer against you in a divorce, he can keep on finding loopholes and legal quirks and quibbles until you’re almost driven mad. And if he happens to be the person you’re trying to divorce…huh, well, it’s even worse.”

“It must be very frustrating for you.”

“You can say that again. And nothing’s sacred to a bloody lawyer. He’s quite happy for all the secrets of our marriage to be dragged through the courts.”

“Doesn’t your husband actually want to get divorced?”

“He says he doesn’t. Treated me like a dog all the time we were together and then, when I kick him out, suddenly he becomes all maudlin and pathetic and keeps on about how he misses the kids and…huh, snivelling little wimp.”

“So is he fighting you for custody of the kids?”

“He’s trying to. Mind you, he won’t succeed. I’ll see to that. There is no way I’m going to allow that bum to have more to do with my children than is absolutely necessary.” Sue Curle made this pronouncement with an intensity that was almost frightening.

Time to shift the subject again. “Well, lots of luck, Sue. I’m sure it’ll work out for you.”

“Bloody well hope so.” She suddenly remembered something. “Ooh, Mrs Pargeter. Next Monday.”

“What about it?”

“Put it in your diary. I’m going to have this meeting about the Indian restaurant.”

“What, your Women’s Action Group thing?”

“That’s it. Six o’clock my place. Before the husbands get home. You will come, won’t you?”

“Well, yes, I’ll come. Though I must confess I’m not sure which side I’m on…”

“Not sure?” Sue Curle stared at her in amazement. “There’s only one side to be on. We don’t want an Indian restaurant on the corner of Smithy’s Loam, do we?”

And the contempt she put into the word ‘Indian’ confirmed her own earlier observation that there really still was a bit of prejudice about.

“Well, Sue, I’ll certainly be there. Look forward to it.” Another graceful change of subject was called for. “Everything settling down a bit now in Smithy’s Loam, isn’t it?” said Mrs Pargeter pacifically.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, after the murder. I mean, no more policemen popping out asking questions at every turn…”

“No.”

“I suppose they are pretty certain that Rod killed her.”

“Seems most likely, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm. Goodness, though, they did go on, didn’t they? I gather they were asking everyone when they last saw Theresa…”

“Well, they have to. That’s their job, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes, yes. No, I was quite glad I wasn’t living here at the time. After I heard all the questions everyone else had to answer. Enough to make you feel guilty even if you’ve never done anything wrong in your life.”

Sue Curle didn’t join in the chuckle that accompanied this.

“Yes, it seems,” Mrs Pargeter went on, “that Theresa Cotton went round saying goodbye to everyone in the close…”

“Yes,” Sue Curle agreed shortly.