“… in that part of the world there’s usually no problem about getting ammunition from Room Service…”
Mrs Pargeter felt reassured. It was really comforting to know that one was dealing with an organisation of such efficiency.
Hamish Ramon Henriques had his office door and his arms wide open to greet her. The sunlight through the window behind him brought a sparkle to the white fringes of his Quixotic hair and moustache.
“Mrs Pargeter, what a pleasure! I trust your morning’s meeting was satisfactory.”
“Yes, I managed to get quite a lot of information, thank you.”
“Excellent, excellent. And what can I do for you now?”
“Well, I don’t think I’m going to get anything else, so I really would like to be back in Corfu as soon as possible. If that’s not too much trouble…” she added modestly.
“Nothing is too much trouble for our favoured clients. And when the client is none other than the widow of the late Mr Pargeter…” A very Latin gesture encompassed the degree of honour and pleasure that it would be to help her out.
“Oh, thank you so much.”
“Right, let’s get it organised straight away.”
He swept into the outer office with Mrs Pargeter in his wake and stopped behind the chair of the first smiling, immaculately-groomed girl in uniform.
“Karen, could you find me today’s flights for Corfu? All airlines.”
“Of course, HRH.”
Buttons were punched and lines of schedules appeared on the computer screen.
“Three o’clock Olympic looks good,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques. “Check first class availability.”
Karen punched more buttons, looked at the screen, and grimaced. “Fully booked, I’m afraid.”
“I’d be all right in economy.” said Mrs Pargeter humbly. She might have been going against the late Mr Pargeter’s principles, but knew she could cope with slumming it for three hours.
“Nonsense,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques firmly.
“Economy’s full too, anyway, HRH.”
“All right, Karen. Hack into Olympic’s computer.”
“Yes, HRH.” Her fingers fluttered knowledgeably over the keyboard.
“You’ve got today’s password?”
“Of course, HRH.”
Hamish Ramon Henriques smiled at Mrs Pargeter. “Won’t take a moment.”
She was tempted to ask for an explanation of what was going on, but a lifetime spent with the late Mr Pargeter had taught her to distinguish the appropriate occasions for enquiry and ignorance. This was undoubtedly a moment for ignorance.
“Here’s the first class passenger list, HRH.”
“Right.” He scanned the screen. “Got to be someone on their own… Preferably foreign… More difficult to complain effectively if there’s a language barrier… This one looks good – Mr Stratos Papadopoulos. Yes, do him, Karen.”
“Very good, HRH.” She moved the cursor to the end of the passenger’s name and obliterated it.
“If I could just trouble you for your passport, Mrs Pargeter…?”
She handed it over and Karen filled in the details of ‘Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright’ on the passenger list. Then she pressed a few further controls.
“That just overrides all the other data,” Hamish Ramon Henriques explained, “and alters the information on the computers in Athens and Corfu.”
“But,” she couldn’t help asking, “will it really work?”
Hamish Ramon Henriques looked hurt by her lack of confidence. “Of course, Mrs Pargeter. I pride myself on the efficiency of HRH Travel. We are doing this kind of stuff all the time, you know.”
“Yes. Yes, of course you are. I’m so sorry.”
¦
He took her to an excellent lunch at the Connaught, where they met up with Truffler Mason, who had little new to report but was very entertaining in his habitually lugubrious way. He told them about a bigamy case he’d investigated, in which the husband was maintaining eleven wives in flats in different parts of London. “When he got put away,” Truffler concluded, “London Transport nearly went out of business.”
The same limousine was waiting for them outside the Connaught. Mrs Pargeter’s bill at the Savoy had been settled, her belongings packed and collected. Truffler said fond farewells, passed on his regards to Larry Lambeth, assured Mrs Pargeter that if he got any more information on Chris Dover she’d know it immediately and said he was on the end of a phone any time – day or night – that she might need him.
Hamish Ramon Henriques insisted on accompanying her to Heathrow.
Inside the limousine Mrs Pargeter commented on the fact that they had a different chauffeur for this trip. A spasm of anger crossed Hamish Ramon Henriques’ face. “The other one is no longer working for me,” he hissed.
He really hadn’t liked that crack about ‘Crooks’ Tours’, had he?
At Heathrow the limousine was once again parked in the Strictly-No-Parking area and the chauffeur instructed to wait while Hamish Ramon Henriques escorted his charge into the terminal.
At the Olympic desk a large olive-skinned man was arguing noisily with one of the staff. Hamish Ramon Henriques engaged the attention of another official, who handed over Mrs Pargeter’s ticket without demur.
“But this is ridiculous!” the large man was saying in heavily-accented English. “I know full well I made the booking! Four weeks ago! It was a first class seat, confirmed by my travel agent! The name is Papadopoulos! I am an important man, you know! How you have the nerve to tell me…”
Mrs Pargeter moved meekly away from the desk. Well-trained as she had been by the late Mr Pargeter, she recognised yet another of those occasions when she didn’t need to know all the details of what was going on.
Hamish Ramon Henriques bade her a devoted farewell, and Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright passed unmolested through to Departures and into the first class lounge.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Package ?
Thirty
Mrs Pargeter lay back in Mr Papadopoulos’s first class seat, sipping her complimentary champagne, and thought about Joyce’s death.
The connections between Chris Dover and Agios Nikitas were certainly building up. A week before, Mrs Pargeter believed her friend to have selected Corfu randomly as a holiday destination, but now it was clear that Joyce had been obeying very specific instructions. If Mrs Pargeter’s interpretation of the portion of the letter remembered by Mr Fisher-Metcalf was correct, then Chris Dover’s directions had pointed not just to Corfu, but to Agios Nikitas itself.
Why? Why?
If only she could see that letter… Mrs Pargeter felt confident that Joyce had taken it with her to Corfu, and equally confident that it had been removed from the dead woman’s belongings by her murderer.
She took out Mr Fisher-Metcalf’s copy of what he had seen revealed by the sodium carbonate and studied it.
“ – KITAS. If you want to find out, the explanation for everything will be found behind the old man’s p – ”
She focused on the interrupted final word for a while, but was prompted to no obvious solution. There were so many words that began with ‘P’… Her thoughts kept turning mischievously – and unhelpfully – obscene. No, she wasn’t getting anywhere on that.
She tried to process the new information she had about Georgio and Ginnie. It was the most direct connection that had yet been established between Chris Dover and Agios Nikitas. Georgio had gone to London to look into the dead man’s business affairs and, in the course of his investigation, he had presumably met and attracted Ginnie – attracted her sufficiently to make her leave England and set up home with him in Agios
