Mrs Pargeter 05; Mrs Pargeter’s Plot

for a property company’s house magazine, then moved across to Swordfish Communications as a sub-editor on Dentifrice and Floss Monthly. From there he’d been promoted to deputy editor of Morris Dancers’ Monthly, and recently moved to take over Inside Out.

He spoke about his job with pride but without humour. He showed his guests the mock-up for the next month’s cover. There was a glossy colour photograph of Wormwood Scrubs gates. Contents promised inside included: GATE FEVER: IS IT ALL IN THE MIND?, HOW TO ORGANIZE A COMING-OUT PARTY, AMATEUR DRAMATICS FOR A CAPTIVE AUDIENCE, MAKE YOUR PINUPS REALLY LAST – TRY SHRINK-WRAPPING, as well as regular features – NEWS OF THE SCREWS: WHICH ONES HAVE BEEN TRANSFERRED WHERE?, THE GOOD NICK GUIDE – WINSOME GREEN, plus of course our invaluable listings: WHO’S IN WHERE, HOW LONG, WHAT FOR, AND DID THEY DO IT?

“All going all right then, Ricky?” asked Truffler after they had shown proper appreciation for the mock- up.

“Excellent. Circulation on the up and up.”

“Well, stands to reason. When you’ve got a prison population that’s going up and up…”

Ricky Van Hoeg gave the detective a narrow look. He didn’t want his achievements underestimated. “Our circulation is going up at a faster rate than the prison population,” he said coldly.

Mrs Pargeter instantly defused any potential atmosphere between the two men. “Obviously means you’re doing a very good job, Ricky.”

“I like to think so. Anyway, what can I do for you, Mr Mason?”

“It’s a touch of the old quid pro quo,” Truffler replied. “You remember, I helped you out with some info on the Machete Murders Retrospective you done?”

“Yes, of course. And very useful it all turned out to be.”

“Good. Well, now I need a bit of gen on a couple of lags, and I thought you’d be the geezer to help out.”

“No problem. We have a variety of research resources here at Inside Out. If we have serious difficulty in finding out about people, we put out requests for information on the Internet. That’s proved very successful. But let’s start with the basic, shall we?” Ricky Van Hoeg turned to his computer and deftly punched at the keyboard. Rapidly changing images flickered across the screen. “Are the people in question actually inside at the moment?”

“No, no, both very much on the loose. That’s why we need to know about them.”

“What’re their names?”

“Well, what I’ve got’re kind of, like, nicknames…”

“We have people listed on the database with their noms de guerre as well as their real names. Some of their aliases run into the hundreds, but…” Ricky Van Hoeg continued with the smug pride of a bank manager unveiling a new savings account, “… we can run a search according to any parameters you care to specify and find them within seconds. So what’re the names?”

“Clickety Clark and Blunt,” said Truffler.

Ricky Van Hoeg immediately keyed in the information. The screen split down the middle. Two photographs appeared. They were not the same poses as those Truffler had produced, but their subjects were easily recognizable.

Below Clickety Clark’s picture was the record of an eighteen-month stay in Lewes Prison for forgery of a Buckingham Palace security pass a few years previously. “Ah,” said Mrs Pargeter fondly, “just after my husband passed on.”

Truffler nodded. “Yeah, a lot of them went off the rails round that time. Without Mr Pargeter’s good sense and guidance, some come horribly unstuck.”

Mrs Pargeter did not allow herself to get misty at the recollection. “But look at Blunt’s record! Now that is what I call ‘form’!”

It was indeed a very full criminal curriculum vitae. The wonder was, given the closeness of the sentences, how Blunt actually found the time to commit the crimes for which he was so regularly sent down. Not that his recent convictions were for major crimes. In fact, for someone with such an awesome reputation in the Grievous Bodily Harm department, they were little more than peccadilloes. Stealing cars, trashing restaurants, handling stolen videos, purloining credit cards – these were the currency of the petty criminal. The only assault on a human being Blunt had committed in the previous three years was whacking one barman in a pub, and even then the victim had only lost two teeth.

“Seems to have gone soft in his old age,” said Mrs Pargeter.

Truffler, who had had the same thought, nodded and said judiciously, “Well, that was probably his way of going off the rails when your old man died.”

That got a rather piercing look from the violet-blue eyes, so he moved quickly on. “This is great, Ricky.”

“Anything else you need? Only…” the editor took a none-too-discreet look at his expensive watch, “… I’ve got to see someone at the Home Office about getting Inside Out on to their regular distribution list for all staff. I think the deal’s in the bag, mind you, and that could be another very healthy boost to circulation.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Mrs Pargeter.

“No, that’s great, Ricky,” said Truffler. “Thanks for your help. If it’d be possible to have a printout of the info…?”

“No problem.” Ricky Van Hoeg pressed a key and, in seconds, Clickety Clark and Blunt’s details were printed out in colour. The photographer’s fitted on to one sheet; Blunt’s ran to seven.

In the lift, Mrs Pargeter asked Truffler what his next step in the investigation would be.

“Try and find out what’s really been going on inside the nicks.” He grinned mournfully. “Stan the Orang-Utan’s been inside for a while. He’s the kind of bloke who keeps his ear to the ground. Might have a word with his boy.”

Mrs Pargeter had never heard of Stan the Orang-Utan, but her discretion was far too finely tuned for her to ask any embarrassing questions, like how he had got his nickname. Instead, as they emerged from the lift into the foyer of Swordfish House, she observed to Truffler what a boring man she had found Ricky Van Hoeg to be. “I mean, I’m sure, back in the old days, people connected with crime had a bit of colour and glamour about them…”

“Ah, but he’s not connected with crime, you see, Mrs P. He’s a pukka, legit journalist, isn’t he?”

“Well, mind you, in the old days, pukka legit journalists had a bit of colour and glamour. Never mind…” A smile spread across her plump, comfortable features. “We’re going to have lunch with one of the few who still has.”

They hailed a cab to the Savoy Grill. And, as Ellie Fenchurch had promised, they all got thoroughly rat- arsed.

? Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ?

Sixteen

On the rare occasions that she did get thoroughly rat-arsed, there was nothing Mrs Pargeter liked better than to work off her intoxication with a little lavish shopping. Some of the best purchases of her life had been made when mellow with alcohol, and she was very pleased with the haul she made that afternoon. She also found, as always, that an hour or so’s vigorous workout with the credit cards had the effect of clearing her head completely.

The limousine was parked outside Greene’s Hotel under the approving eye of a doorman who would instantly have moved on a vehicle containing anyone other than Mrs Pargeter. Gary, loaded down with Harrods carrier bags, followed his employer into the foyer.

“Hedgeclipper’s really had this place done lovely, hasn’t he?” the chauffeur observed, as they crossed the black and white marble floor. “Strikes me every time I come in here.”

“Oh yes, he always did have a good eye,” Mrs Pargeter agreed.

The object of their compliments, immaculately dressed in black jacket and pinstriped trousers, was standing behind the elegant antique desk which served as the Greene’s Hotel Reception. The only out-of-place element in his