The first one Mrs Pargeter took of Spiro she wasn’t satisfied with, because her hand slipped just as she was pressing the button, but he was very happy to pose again. So were all of them, except for Theodosia, who seemed to be shy of the camera. But her brother snapped a command at her in Greek and, though still clearly unwilling, she submitted to being photographed.
Mrs Pargeter even asked Sergeant Karaskakis if she could take a snap of him. He was positively delighted to be so honoured, and could not keep a leer of triumph out of his face as the shutter clicked.
Back at the Hotel Nausica, Mrs Pargeter picked up from Reception the expected padded envelope, which had been delivered by motorcycle courier, and sat down to eat an early lunch. In the course of this, a second padded envelope was delivered for her. After lunch she went upstairs to pack her flightbag for her trip ‘to see a little more of the island’.
She was waiting outside the Hotel Nausica in a rather bulky cotton print dress and straw hat when, on the dot of two o’clock, the hire-car arrived. (It had been arranged by Larry Lambeth from a firm in Corfu Town.)
The driver was uncommunicative, which suited Mrs Pargeter well, but she did not risk opening either of the envelopes while she was in his car. Though he was from a different part of the island, she didn’t rule out the possibility of information homing straight back to Agios Nikitas.
The journey along the switchback coast road was dusty, but not unpleasant. As instructed, the driver deposited her in Corfu Town at the north end of the Esplanade. He asked for no money; Larry Lambeth had sorted that out.
There was no play that afternoon on Corfu’s famous but eternally incongruous cricket pitch. The sun was baking, and Mrs Pargeter felt drawn towards the shade of the Liston, a Parisian-style colonnade of street cafes, where tourists lounged lethargically.
But her instructions did not include stopping for a cold drink, so she moved sedately through the sunlight towards the Palace of St Michael and St George.
A car slid alongside her. The door opened. She got in the back.
“Well done,” said Larry Lambeth.
Safely inside the car, she changed her straw hat for the new white cotton one and put on the new sunglasses. Then she unbuttoned the bright dress and slipped it off to reveal a sober, anonymous beige one beneath.
“Quite a relief to have that off,” she sighed. “Hot weather for two dresses.”
Larry Lambeth chuckled.
Mrs Pargeter finally turned her attention to the two padded envelopes. The first one contained a first class airline ticket. Olympic Airways. Five o’clock scheduled flight for that afternoon. Corfu to London Heathrow. Clipped to the ticket was a ‘With Compliments’ slip headed ‘HRH Travel’.
She turned her attention to the second envelope. “So who am I, Larry?” she asked.
“You have a look, Mrs P.”
It was a perfect job. A British passport in the name of ‘Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright’, a ‘Housewife’ whose place of birth had been ‘Norwich’. The date of birth tallied for Mrs Pargeter, as did the height. And the photograph looked astonishingly like the passport’s new holder.
“Where did you get it from, Larry?”
He shrugged. “Saw her on the beach at Kalami this morning. Right size, right age. Mind you, she was a real old biddy, hadn’t got your style at all, Mrs P.”
Mrs Pargeter’s compassion was aroused. “But won’t she be terribly upset to lose her passport?”
“Happens all the time,” said Larry callously. “She’ll survive.”
Mrs Pargeter gave another look to what really did seem to be a picture of herself. “How on earth did you fix the photograph, Larry? And how on earth did you do it so quickly?”
He grinned proudly. “Fact is, we all have our professional secrets, don’t we, Mrs P.?”
¦
Mrs Pargeter looked around anxiously at Corfu Airport, but there was no sign of the Customs officer who looked so like Sergeant Karaskakis.
There were no problems about checking in luggage, as she only had her flightbag.
There were no problems at Passport Control.
There were no problems with the flight. It left on time.
In fact, there were no problems at all.
But, in spite of that, as she sat in her first class seat, serviced by solicitous stewardesses, Mrs Pargeter was ill at ease.
The passport for Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright in her handbag felt as if it was on fire. Soon the flames would burst out and everyone would have their attention drawn to the forgery.
Mrs Pargeter felt dreadful.
It was the first time in her life, you see, that she had ever broken the law.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Package ?
Twenty-Four
It was a huge relief to be safely through Passport Control at Heathrow.
And an even huger relief to have someone there to meet her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Pargeter. I am Hamish Ramon Henriques.”
He took her hand and bowed down to kiss it. He was in his sixties, very tall and very British in dress. In spite of the mild June weather, he wore one of those three-piece tweed suits that look as if they have been marinated in family history. He had brown shoes built like rowing-boats and some sort of regimental tie. His accent epitomised the impeccable vagueness of the British upper classes.
But his face contradicted all these impressions. The skin was coffee with a dash of milk, and eyes like black olives crowded either side of the fine prow of his nose. All his features seemed lengthened, pulled down, as in a painting by El Greco. Centrally-parted white hair swept down over his ears and a long carefully-nurtured white moustache drooped over his full lips. He looked like an illustration of Don Quixote.
But he was no mere tilter at windmills. With exemplary efficiency, he whisked Mrs Pargeter through the terminal crowds and out to a limousine which waited, unmolested by traffic authorities, in the Strictly-No-Parking area directly outside the exit. The chauffeur needed no instructions but swept effortlessly through the traffic on to the M4.
“I have booked you into the Savoy,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques. “I gather you are always happy to stay there.”
“Yes. That’ll be very nice indeed, thank you.”
“I have spoken to Truffler Mason. He will meet you in the bar at six o’clock.”
“Oh, that is kind. Let’s hope he has got something to report.”
“In my experience, he is always very reliable. I have never known Truffler Mason not to come up with information in an investigation.”
“Well, that’s comforting. You’ve worked with him a lot, have you?”
Hamish Ramon Henriques made an expansive gesture. “My dear Mrs Pargeter, I have worked with everyone. Particularly of course with your late husband.” He looked soulful. “The business lost a great deal when he died, you know.”
“Yes,” Mrs Pargeter agreed pensively.
“No, he was a man with standards. Nowadays some of the people I have to work for…” – Hamish Ramon Henriques gave a very Latin shrug – “they are utterly immoral. They have no sense of right and wrong.”
Mrs Pargeter fervently endorsed this opinion. “I know, it’s dreadful, isn’t it?”
“With your late husband, one always knew where one stood. His operations were always efficient and so it was a pleasure to contribute one’s own efficiency to them.”
“And, er,” Mrs Pargeter asked cautiously, “you have always been involved in the transport side of things, have you?”
“Yes. I started in a very modest way back in the Fifties. Procuring and renting out getaway cars.”
