“Who are these authorities?” asked Mrs Pargeter.
“The details do not concern you. Rest assured, all enquiries are being made in the correct way.”
“You mean the authorities have all the relevant evidence?”
“They have photographs, samples and reports from the scene of the incident.”
“Whose reports?”
He could not resist a wolfish grin as he answered, “Mine.”
“No one else’s?”
“Of course. Reports from police detectives as well.” He paused for a moment, enjoying the scene. “Police detectives who, as it happens, are good friends of mine. One is my cousin, as a matter of fact.”
Just as the Customs officer at Corfu Airport had been. Mrs Pargeter knew she was up against a brick wall. Sergeant Karaskakis had got the whole case sewn up. However impartial the investigating authorities might be, he had seen to it that they were only presented with his version of events. And of course a suicide verdict would be much tidier and less disruptive than one of murder.
He spread his hands wide in a gesture of mock-helplessness. “No, I am afraid there is nothing can be done. In two, three days it will be official that Mrs Dover killed herself. Then no further enquiry will be possible.”
“I know she was murdered,” said Mrs Pargeter doggedly.
Sergeant Karaskakis shrugged. “I don’t think anyone is going to believe you unless you can produce some evidence. And,” he continued with relish, “I don’t think there’s any evidence to be produced.”
“Not out here, perhaps.” Mrs Pargeter didn’t really know why she said her next sentence; it just seemed the right thing at the time. “But I can produce evidence in England that will prove Joyce Dover was murdered.”
She was bluffing, but the bluff worked. Sergeant Karaskakis blanched and said, “But you will not be able to get to England to find it.”
“Why not? I can go back tomorrow. I know exactly what I’m looking for,” Mrs Pargeter improvised like mad to justify her new position.
“I don’t think you can go back tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“All the flights are fully booked.”
He was improvising too. Mrs Pargeter was encouraged. By pure chance, she had stumbled on something that had got the policeman worried. Maybe the solution to Joyce Dover’s murder really did lie in England.
“I’ll manage to get back,” she asserted coolly.
“No, you won’t.”
“How can you stop me?”
“I can stop you by…” He thrashed around, desperate for an idea. It came. “I can stop you,” he announced with sudden confidence, “because the investigations into Mrs Dover’s death are not yet complete. There is still the possibility, as you say, that it could have been murder. That possibility of course makes you a suspect. Which means that you will not be allowed to leave Corfu until the investigation is complete. And also means,” he continued triumphantly, “that you must hand over your passport to me until the end of the investigation.”
Mrs Pargeter took the passport out of her handbag and handed it over. Being without it would be a nuisance, but a small price to pay for the incontestable look of guilt she had seen in Sergeant Karaskakis’ eyes.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Package ?
Twenty-Two
“Mrs Pargeter, it’d be no problem at all. I’d be delighted to do it for you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Believe me. Please believe me.” There was no doubting the sincerity in Larry Lambeth’s voice. She had phoned him the second she’d got back to the Hotel Nausica and he had arrived within twenty minutes to drive her out to his villa. Neither had voiced the thought, but both felt safer away from the prying eyes and ears of Agios Nikitas.
The Greek woman with the shy smile had produced brandy and retsina and pistachio nuts on the verandah. The impression of intimacy in her relationship with Larry was endorsed by the skimpiness of the negligee she had on. But, as ever, she knew her place and quickly disappeared back inside the villa, leaving them to talk in private.
“Fact is,” Larry continued, “you’re doing me a favour. After all Mr P. done for me, I’ve really been longing for the day when I could do something for you by way of return.”
“But you have done something for me. You’ve looked after me wonderfully since I’ve been out here.”
He dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “No, I mean something
“Well…”
“I’ll feel really good doing it. ‘Cause I’ll know, you see, I’ll know that Mr P.’d be grateful.”
“I’m sure he would have been. But it’s not going to be too difficult…?”
“Mrs P.,” he reassured her, “it’ll be a doddle. It’s only what I do for a living, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but –”
“No buts. Come on, let’s sort out the fine tuning. Now you’ll want to be off tomorrow, won’t you?”
“In an ideal world, yes. But that’s pretty tight for you, isn’t it? I mean, if it can’t be done in time, of course I’ll understand.”
“No problem at all, Mrs P. Leave it with me. My end of the business can be done by lunchtime tomorrow, no sweat.”
“But goodness knows what the chances of getting a flight are. I don’t really feel very inclined to ask Ginnie.”
“Don’t you dare. No way. Suspicious cow, that one. And she’s in far too thick with Karaskakis. No, less she knows about this, the better.”
“Well, who else do we ask?”
Larry Lambeth gave a complacent smile, put down his glass of Greek brandy, and rose from the table. “This, Mrs P., is clearly a job for HRH.”
He turned on his heel and walked quickly into the villa, leaving Mrs Pargeter to conjecture which Royal Highness might be most likely to help with her investigation.
But she felt content. Things were moving. Sergeant Karaskakis’ panic had reinforced her conviction that Joyce had been murdered. Whether the policeman himself had killed her, or was only involved in the cover-up of the killing, she could not yet be sure. But she felt completely confident that she would find out the truth.
So she looked out through the night sky to Albania, sipped her retsina, and waited for Larry Lambeth to return.
¦
He was only gone five minutes, and came back in high good humour. Rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, he sat down and topped up his tall brandy glass.
“All sorted, Mrs P., all sorted. It’s on for late tomorrow afternoon. Get confirmation of the exact details in the morning. HRH was delighted to be of service.”
“I’m sorry I have to ask,” Mrs Pargeter apologised, “but who is HRH?”
“Oh, I thought you knew. It’s Hamish Ramon Henriques. Surely I mentioned him to you?”
“Well, yes, you did, but by his full name, not just the initials. You said you did a lot of work for him.”
“Sure. And he worked a lot with Mr P. That’s why he was so delighted to hear from me, even at this time of night. When he heard the job was for you, he was over the moon. Fact is, he told me Mr P. had given him strict instructions to sort things out for you if ever you needed any help. You meant a lot to your husband, you know. He really looked after you, didn’t he, Mrs P.?”
“Yes. Yes, he did,” said Mrs Pargeter quietly.
“Still does, and all.”
“Yes.”
“Anyway, now HRH has taken it in hand, you got no worries. He is quite simply the best in the
