“Yes. You are the proud recipient of the first bit of restitooshun what I done since I come out…”
“Lucky me.”
“… and you’re the first one to experience the full effect of my sense of humour.”
“Really?”
“So what do you think of it, eh?”
Mrs Pargeter was perplexed. “I’m sorry. I’m not quite with you. You’ll have to explain.”
Gleefully, Fossilface O’Donahue did as he was requested. “I done your old man out of five hundred… What’s the slang for five hundred?”
It became horribly clear. “A ‘monkey’?” she suggested with resignation.
“Exactly,” a triumphant Fossilface confirmed.
Mrs Pargeter looked down at Erasmus, sleeping in his circle of debris on the carpet. “Oh yes,” she said. “Very amusing.”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ?
Eleven
“The thought of Fossilface O’Donahue having developed a sense of humour,” said Truffler Mason heavily, “is almost too awful to contemplate.”
“Right. I’m afraid he hasn’t really caught on to the idea properly yet. I mean, I think that maybe he understands the general principle of humour, but he sure as hell doesn’t understand what makes something funny.”
“No, he always did have a rather ponderous approach to… well, to everything, really.”
Truffler took a contemplative sip of his champagne. They were in the bar of Greene’s Hotel, later the same evening. Having started drinking champagne, Mrs Pargeter saw no reason to stop. Fossilface O’Donahue had gone, and a touching reunion been effected between Hedgeclipper Clinton and Erasmus. The hotel manager was determined to protect the marmoset more rigorously in future.
Mrs Pargeter would not have dared to give the monkey away again, had Fossilface still been there. She had come to the conclusion that his mind worked in a very linear way, and could not deal with more than one idea at a time. While he was in the process of making his misguided ‘restitooshun’ to her, he couldn’t think about the ‘restitooshun’ he was planning for anyone else. If Fossilface discovered that Erasmus had been returned to Hedgeclipper Clinton, he was quite capable of trussing the hotel manager up all over again.
But Mrs Pargeter couldn’t help finding the thug’s incompetence slightly endearing. “I think he’s doing it all for good motives,” she said to Truffler in a conciliatory tone. “His heart’s in the right place.”
“That’s never been an acceptable excuse for anything,” the detective growled. “Fossilface O’Donahue is trouble, whatever he does. And I think I’d rather have him making trouble from bad motives than honourable ones. When you’re dealing with a dyed-in-the-wool villain, you know what to expect. Whereas you have no idea what’ll be the next idiocy committed by a born-again Robin Hood.”
“Oh, come on, give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“A very unwise thing ever to give to Fossilface O’Donahue. There’s nothing more dangerous than the zeal of the convert. They’re all the same – alcoholics, divorcees, vegetarians, smokers, Catholics…” He shuddered. “And villains who’ve seen the error of their ways are the worst of the lot.” Suddenly anxious, Truffler asked, “Who else did you say he wanted to make ‘restitooshun’ to?”
“He said there were lots, but certainly Gary, Concrete, Hedgeclipper, Keyhole Crabbe… and, er, you.”
The detective snorted. “I’d better warn the others.”
“It may be all right, Truffler. And I really mean it when I say that Fossilface will be acting from the best of motives.”
“Doesn’t matter what his motives are, that guy’s a walking disaster area. And he has this nasty habit of disappearing off the face of the earth, so you can never know where the next attack’s coming from. No, we’ve all got to be on our guard, no question.”
Mrs Pargeter sighed. She knew there was no shifting Truffler when he got an idea fixed in his mind. “Well, let’s try to forget about Fossilface for a moment, and think what we’re going to do about Concrete Jacket. It seems like it happened in another lifetime, but it was only this afternoon I went to visit him in prison… and got nothing out of him.”
“Hm.”
“Come on, Truffler, we’ve got to get this sorted.”
“If Concrete really won’t give us anything, I don’t see how we can.”
Mrs Pargeter drummed her fingers on the table. “There’s got to be a way.”
“But if he won’t open up to
“He doesn’t really know me that well. I mean, he likes me and respects me because of my husband, but I’m not, like, one of his really close buddies.”
“No. Did you mention the late Mr Pargeter when Concrete wouldn’t talk?”
“Oh yes, I was totally shameless. Played the full ‘What about your loyalty to my late husband?’ card. Nothing. No, either Concrete’s protecting someone…”
“Or?”
“Or he’s just very scared.” For a moment Mrs Pargeter was lost in thought. “You know I was talking about me not being one of his really close buddies?”
“Uhuh?”
“Has Concrete got any really close buddies? I mean, anyone who might stand a better chance of getting something out of him than I would?”
“Well… Guy he always used to be very matey with… was Keyhole Crabbe.”
“Oh?” Even if it had not been so recently mentioned by Fossilface O’Donahue, the name would still have been very familiar. Keyhole Crabbe had been a significant cog in the late Mr Pargeter’s smoothly functioning business machine. And had indeed since that time used his specialized skills to help Mrs Pargeter investigate a murder on a housing estate called Smithy’s Loam.
“Yes,” Truffler went on. “Those two worked together a lot over the years. They was as thick as… as thick as… as thick as two close mates can be,” he concluded discreetly.
“Really?”
The detective nodded. “Those two go back a long, long way. If anyone could make old Concrete talk, it’d be Keyhole.”
A light of excitement glowed in Mrs Pargeter’s violet-blue eyes. “Well then, why don’t we –”
“One small problem, though.”
“What?”
Truffler spread his hands wide in a gesture of defeat. “Keyhole’s inside – doing a twelve-year stretch.”
Mrs Pargeter sat back in disappointment and frustration.
“Mind you,” said Truffler Mason, a twinkle lightening his lugubrious eye, “that’d present less of a problem to Keyhole than it would to most people…”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ?
Twelve
In a cell in Bedford Prison the inmate on the top bunk stirred, alerted by a metallic scraping sound he heard from the direction of the door. “What’s going on?” he asked blearily, peering through the half-light.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. ‘Sonly me,” a voice replied from the gloom.
“You going out then?”
“Just nipping down the kitchen for a cuppa.”
“Oh, right.” Reassured, the inmate on the top bunk snuggled back under his covers. “See you in the morning,”
