“Never mind. It’s still very interesting.”
“Right. Anyway, so what I’m saying is… once the holidaymakers start to relax, start leaving the old villa windows open and that… well, it’s dead easy for anyone who wants to go in and nick the odd passport, isn’t it?”
“And that’s what you do? That’s the business you’ve built up?”
Larry Lambeth looked suitably pleased with himself. “Yeah, right. Found a decent little gap in the market there. Ticking over quite nicely, thanks.”
“So you just steal any passports you happen to come across?”
He was affronted. “No, come on, give me a bit of credit. It’s not a random business, highly sophisticated operation, mine. Anyway, if I took too many, it’d start to look suspicious. No, mostly I’m working on commissions.”
“Commissions?”
“Sure. Someone says to me something like – I need a passport for a man in his sixties, five foot eight, fourteen stone, balding, white hair. So then I go along the beaches till I see someone who more or less looks like that, find out where they’re staying, nick the passport.”
“But surely it gets reported as missing and then if anyone else tries to use it they get arrested?”
“Oh yeah, of course you have to make the odd adjustment to the document… change the number, the name, fiddle with the photo, that kind of stuff. But in my experience” – he gave the side of his nose a professional tap – “… the less you have to change the better.”
“So who do you get your commissions from?”
“Varies a lot. Most of my business, though, comes through Hamish Ramon Henriques.”
“Who?”
“Come on, you must know Hamish Ramon Henriques. Mr P. was working with him all the time.”
The frost returned to Mrs Pargeter’s voice. “As I said, I knew very little abut my late husband’s work.”
“Oh yeah. Right. Well, Hamish Ramon Henriques is, like, a travel agent. Rather specialist travel agent, I do have to say. But, anyway, I get a nice lot of commissions through him. He gives me the details of what he’s looking for… I find it, do the necessary doctoring… send it back to him. Nice, neat business, sweet as a nut. Incidentally” – he leant towards Mrs Pargeter in a confidential manner – “… if
“That’s extremely kind of you,” said Mrs Pargeter primly, “but I think it very unlikely that that situation will ever arise.”
“Mrs P., as the cyclist said before he drove into the bus – you never know what’s round the next corner.”
“No, that’s very true. You don’t.”
Larry Lambeth suddenly barked out some instructions in Greek and the pretty woman appeared with a basket of peaches and black cherries. She got no word of thanks as she put it down on the table, but once again the way she looked at Larry, her smile half-amused and half-insolent, suggested a closeness between them. Her task completed, she receded discreetly into the villa.
Larry bit into a peach and caught its trickling juice with his tongue. “Anyway, sorry, got a bit side-tracked there. What we really should be doing, like, is finding out who done in your mate Joyce.”
“Yes.”
“And you reckon the reason behind it’s something back in England?”
“I think it must be. At least there are certainly things I’d like to find out from England. Some information about Joyce’s husband, for a start.”
“Well, pretty obvious what you got to do then, isn’t it, Mrs P.?”
“What?”
Larry Lambeth looked at his watch. “They’re two hours back in England, so, yes, I’d say this was the perfect time to ring Truffler Mason, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Pargeter. “I think it well could be.”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Package ?
Fifteen
“Hello. Mason de Vere Detective Agency.”
The voice, as ever, sounded as if it had just received information from an unimpeachable source that Armageddon had arrived.
“Truffler, it’s Mrs Pargeter.”
“You don’t know how good it is to hear from you.” The gloom in Truffler Mason’s voice deepened. Not only was the world about to end; he’d also discovered that hell did exist and, what’s more, it was compulsory.
Mrs Pargeter, who knew his manner of old, took the words at face value. “Very sweet of you to say so. It’s good to hear you too, Truffler.”
“Everything all right out there?” Anxiety joined the terminal depression in his voice. “I hope Larry Lambeth made contact. I told him to keep an eye on you.”
“I’m calling from Larry’s now. Thank you very much for setting that up.”
“Least I could do. When I think how your late husband looked after – no, nurtured, that’s the word – when I think how your late husband
“Thank you very much,” said Mrs Pargeter at the end of this funeral oration. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“And you’re having a good time? Everything all right, is it?”
“Oh yes, everything fine,” she replied automatically. Then, remembering, continued, “Well, except for the fact that my friend’s been murdered.”
“What!”
“My friend, Joyce Dover, who I came on this package with, was murdered last night. It was made to look like suicide, but there’s no doubt it was murder.”
“I’ll come out there straight away,” said Truffler with mournful determination.
“No, there’s no need. I’m not in any danger.” Mrs Pargeter did not give herself time to question the truth of that assertion. “You can be much more use to me in England. Listen, I want some investigation done into Joyce’s background.”
“Fine. Give me the details.”
“Are you sure you’ve got time? There aren’t other cases you should be getting on with?” A clattering and thumping was heard from the other end of the phone. “Are you all right, Truffler? What was that noise?”
“Just me clearing my desk, Mrs Pargeter. From now on, your investigation is the only thing I’m working on.”
“But, Truffler, you shouldn’t –”
“I know my priorities, thank you. Come on, tell me what you want found out.”
“All right. Well, really it’s anything about Joyce Dover’s background. And her husband’s background, which, I’ve a feeling, is just as important. His name was Chris. He died a few months back, end of March I think it was. Anything you can get on either of them – particularly anything which might give them some kind of link with Corfu.”
“OK. And what about his death?”
“What do you mean?”
“Want me to check that everything was kosher there? I mean, maybe there was something funny went on with him snuffing it. Murders do tend to breed murders,” Truffler Mason concluded lugubriously.
“Yes, you’re right. That’s a very good thought. As I recall, Chris died of a heart attack… or was it a brain tumour?”
“Heart attacks can be engineered easily enough.” Truffler Mason sounded as if he was speaking from gloomy experience.
“True. Yes, so anything you can find out on his death too. I don’t know how long it’ll take you, but –”
