“But –”
Her hand came to rest on the sheaf of papers Truffler Mason had given her. “Don’t let us forget,” she said with steely charm, “who is in charge of this interview.”
Mr Fisher-Metcalf slumped back, defeated once more. “What else do you want to know?”
“Just before your secretary came in, you said there was an ‘incident’ which might have implied a connection between Chris Dover and Greece…”
“Did I? I don’t recall –”
“Yes, you did, Mr Fisher-Metcalf. Come on, I haven’t got time to waste. What was it?”
As ever, faced with any kind of attack, he capitulated instantly. “Well… About three years ago, someone did come round to my office enquiring about Mr Dover. He wanted to find out as much as he could about how much Mr Dover was worth, about his business affairs and so on. Of course I told him it was improper for me ever to disclose any details of my clients’ affairs and…”
“And that poor blighter didn’t have anything to blackmail you with, eh?” Mrs Pargeter asked genially, her hand still gently on top of Truffler’s collection of papers.
“Well, er…” Mr Fisher-Metcalf eased a finger round the inside of his shirt-collar. “Well, I said I couldn’t tell him anything, but he persisted… kept coming round, trying to pump information out of my then secretary, that kind of thing…”
“Did he get information?”
“Certainly not from me.”
“And from your then secretary?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. She certainly didn’t mention telling him anything, and she was… well, she was an efficient girl… left the job soon afterwards, unfortunately… but she was nothing like that dreadful illiterate creature who’s sitting out there now. I mean, there doesn’t seem to be any concept of training young people these days –”
Mrs Pargeter cut short his disquisition on the failings of modern life. “You still haven’t said what the connection was between this man and Greece.”
“Ah, well, that was the point, you see. The man who made these enquiries was Greek.”
“Was he really? He didn’t mention what part of Greece he came from?”
“No.”
“And you say his main interest seemed to be in Chris Dover’s business affairs?”
“Yes. Well, his income, actually. He kept saying, ‘So Mr Dover is very rich man, yes?’”
“Did he really?”
“Yes.”
A new thought came into Mrs Pargeter’s mind. She reached into her handbag. “I’ve got some photographs here of a few Greek men. Could you have a look at them and tell me if any of them is the man who came to you making those enquiries?”
She opened the envelope for him. He looked at the first one. “Well, that’s most peculiar. I’d have sworn that was –”
She glanced at the picture and hastily put it to the bottom of the pack. “Not that one. It’s all overexposed. I’m sorry, I’m a dreadful photographer. I’ve got a much better shot of that bloke.”
The photo had been the one of Spiro she’d taken as her hand slipped. The rapid movement had almost blanked out his features completely. She found another. “Look, there’s a better shot of him. Is he familiar?”
Mr Fisher-Metcalf shook his head. He’d never seen Spiro before.
“What about this one?”
She had really been hoping for a response to the picture of Sergeant Karaskakis, but all she got was another shake of the head.
The same reaction greeted Yianni. And Maria’s father and everyone else from the Hotel Nausica.
Even though they were looking for a man, she showed the picture of Theodosia, but that got the same negative response.
Without hope, Mrs Pargeter showed Mr Fisher-Metcalf the penultimate photograph.
“That’s him,” the solicitor said. “That’s the one.”
The photograph was of Georgio.
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Well, look, here’s another one of him with –”
“Good heavens!” Mr Fisher-Metcalf was quite pale with shock.
“That’s still the man, is it?”
“Oh, that’s the man all right. It’s the girl I’m looking at, though.”
“The girl? She’s not Greek. She’s English. The tour operator’s rep. Ginnie.”
“Virginia, yes.”
“You know her?”
“Of course I do,” the solicitor replied testily. “She’s the one who used to be my secretary.”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Package ?
Twenty-Nine
Mrs Pargeter reckoned she had found out all she was going to find out in London, and a speedy return to Corfu was of the essence. Remembering Hamish Ramon Henriques’ offer, she hailed a cab outside Mr Fisher- Metcalf’s office and gave the driver the Berkeley Square address.
It was a constant source of surprise to Mrs Pargeter that businesses on the wrong side of the law conduct themselves so very much like legitimate ones. She knew this to be a naive reaction. After all, successful entrepreneurs on the two sides of the legal divide behave with astonishing similarity, and indeed there are many who spend their careers continually crossing over and back again. There was little to choose, in Mrs Pargeter’s view, between the morality of the corporate raider and that of the armed raider.
And yet, in spite of this knowledge, she was still surprised by the discreet brass plate reading ‘HRH Travel’ on the splendid Berkeley Square portico.
The smiling, immaculately-groomed girl on Reception wore a charcoal grey uniform with a discreet ‘HRH’ logo in gold thread on the breast pocket. A gold badge on the other side gave her name, ‘Lauren’.
“Good morning. Can I help you?”
“Yes. My name is Mrs Pargeter…”
“Of course. HRH said we might be expecting you.”
“Oh.”
The girl deftly pressed a button on her console. “Sharon. Mrs Pargeter is here. Could you come and collect her? Thanks. If you’d just like to take a seat…?”
Mrs Pargeter sat on the grey leather sofa and thumbed through the brochures on the low table. Except for their emphasis on Spanish and South American destinations, they were interchangeable with the literature that would have been found in any other travel agent.
“If you’d like to come this way…”
Sharon proved to be another smiling, immaculately-groomed girl in the same charcoal grey HRH uniform as Lauren. She led the visitor to a lift, then through a long, neat office where more smiling, immaculately-groomed girls in uniforms sat over computers and telephones. Mrs Pargeter caught snatches of their beautifully-enunciated conversations as she passed.
“… so could I just check this? The party will consist of yourself, two heavies and a getaway driver? Yes. What? Oh, we’ll certainly reserve accommodation for a hostage as well if you think that’s a possibility…”
“… yes, all the jacuzzis in the Imperial Hotel are bulletproof…”
“… so you’ll arrive in Caracas on Tuesday at eleven a.m. The plastic surgeon is booked for ten o’clock the following morning. No, don’t worry, he’s got a copy of the new passport photograph, so he’ll ensure that’s what you look like…”
