swings from a steeple?’ ‘I don’t know. What
“Oh dear,” said Mrs Pargeter. “Clearly getting that Irish one right was just a fluke. Fossilface hasn’t really caught on to the principles of joke-telling at all, has he?”
“No, he hasn’t. All he’s caught on to is the only thing he was ever any good at – totally destroying people’s lives.”
“But at least now he’s doing it from the best of motives. He really is trying to make ‘restitooshun’ for the evil he’s done in the past.”
“Quite honestly, Mrs P., I’d rather have the original Fossilface than a Fossilface on the side of the angels. At least in the old days you could predict the kind of vindictive mayhem he was likely to unleash. His charity is much more threatening.”
“Mm. You’re right.” There was a silence before, very gingerly, Mrs Pargeter moved the subject on. “So, Truffler, you can’t follow up the investigation the way you were hoping to?”
“No.”
“So what’s going to be your next line of approach?”
“Well, I’m rather limited for choices now, aren’t I? I’ll go and talk to Rita Gertler.”
A puzzled “Mm?”
Truffler explained. “Seb’s Mum. You know, old Stan the Orang-Utan’s wife.”
“Oh, right.”
“Maybe get a lead there.” But, even by Truffler’s dour standards, he didn’t sound hopeful. With an effort, he forced a more positive note into his voice. “Don’t you worry, Mrs Pargeter. Only a minor setback. I’ll find Blunt for you. He can’t be far away.”
Neither of them could possibly know how accurate Truffler Mason’s words were. Blunt was at that moment less than fifty metres away from Mrs Pargeter. He was sitting in his Jaguar under the shadow of some trees, keeping surveillance on Gary’s cottage.
¦
It was one of those summer nights which would never get properly dark. Blunt detected movement and shook himself out of the reptilian doze in which he normally conducted surveillance operations. He could lie for hours like a crocodile, immobile with half-closed eyes, apparently unaware and unthreatening. But when something happened, he would be instantly awake. And, like the crocodile, instantly ready to wreak havoc.
The front door of the cottage opened and his quarry, resplendent in a cream neglige, emerged into the front garden. The moonlight shone on the silk, lending a ghostly outline to Mrs Pargeter’s ample curves.
Blunt waited to see what would happen next. Clickety Clark had said they should try to snatch her if they got the chance, but Blunt was always wary of acting on his own initiative. A suggestion from Clix wasn’t the same as an order from higher up. And would they want just Mrs Pargeter on her own? Wouldn’t they want him to bring the Jacket woman as well? Blunt didn’t want to make a rash move that might get him into trouble later on.
On the other hand, it would be nice to get a pat on the back for pulling off something good… And, after all, she was just one elderly lady on her own. No problems about overpowering her, trussing her up in the back of the Jaguar and delivering the spoils back to London. Mrs Pargeter was getting uncomfortably close to the truth; soon she might – perhaps she already did – know the details of the scam in which Blunt and Clickety Clark were involved. Having come this far, so near to getting away with it, so near to dividing up all that lovely money, they didn’t want their careful planning scuppered by one little old lady.
There was also an element of grudge-settling… The late Mr Pargeter and Blunt hadn’t parted on the happiest of terms, and indeed the longest of Blunt’s many prison sentences would never have happened but for the intervention into a police investigation of Mrs Pargeter’s husband.
No, there were scores to be settled, all right. Blunt didn’t reckon Clickety Clark would make a fuss if their quarry was delivered a little ‘roughed up’… The idea caught hold; his breathing grew heavier. It’d been a long time since he’d really let himself go, a long time since he’d justified his name – ‘Blunt’ as in ‘Blunt Instrument’. Yes, maybe he should just –
His deliberations were interrupted by the sweep of powerful headlights turning a corner towards the cottage. Blunt shrank back into his seat, eyes once again in crocodile mode, as a splendid silver-grey vintage Rolls-Royce came to rest outside the garden gate. The woman in the cream neglige moved forward to greet the driver.
“Wondered where you were,” Blunt heard Mrs Pargeter’s voice say. “Denise was beginning to get a bit worried about you.”
“Sorry. Got carried away. Just had to take her out again after supper. She’s such a beauty, I can’t stop driving her,” said the chauffeur’s voice.
“Glad you’re pleased with it – her.”
“Pleased? That’s an understatement. Step inside, Mrs P. Just have a look at her.”
Mrs Pargeter did as she was bidden, and when the passenger door closed, Blunt could hear no more of their conversation. His eyelids lowered even further, till they were only a paper’s breadth apart. But he remained vigilant.
Inside the car, Mrs Pargeter was properly appreciative of all the features lovingly detailed by Gary. She nodded approvingly at the polished chestnut dashboard, the array of gleaming metal instruments, the leather plushness of the upholstery. It had clearly been a good buy.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Gary kept saying.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. It was a business loan. An investment. I firmly intend to make money out of my stake in your company.”
“Don’t worry, you will, Mrs Pargeter. I guarantee you will.” Gary caressed the steering wheel lovingly. “Fancy a quick spin, do you?”
“Well…” She was tempted. “What about Denise, though? Won’t she mind? Won’t she want to come too?”
“No worries. She’ll be asleep by now. Come on, just a quick circuit of the lanes.”
“OK.” Mrs Pargeter sat back luxuriously as the powerful engine took command.
The ride was as smooth as a dream of flying. Very relaxing. Mrs Pargeter knew that she would sleep even better than usual that night. (Not that she ever actually had trouble sleeping. At ease with herself, Mrs Pargeter’s nights were always as sleek as the sheen on her silk stockings.)
Only as they drew up once more outside the cottage, while Gary was deliberating whether to leave the Roller outside or lock it up for the night, did a troubling thought enter Mrs Pargeter’s mind. “Gary,” she said, “you remember Fossilface O’Donahue, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And you know that he’s embarked on this orgy of misguided charity, bringing ‘restitooshun’ to everyone he’s wronged in the past?”
“Yeah, I heard a bit about that.”
“Well, I’ve suddenly remembered that your name was on the list of people he wanted to make ‘restitooshun’ to.”
“Oh. Right. I’ll be on the lookout.”
“So I was wondering… what wrong did he do you in the past? I mean, if we know the area in which he might be trying to make it up to you, perhaps we’ll have a chance of stopping him from messing anything else up.”
“Good thinking. All right, well… Fossilface O’Donahue done the dirty on me in connection with a matter of transport. Bound to be, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yes, I remember you mentioned something. About a getaway car. He didn’t drain the petrol tank, did he?” asked Mrs, Pargeter, thinking of what had happened to Hedgeclipper Clinton.
“No, no, it was different from that. Quite as destructive, mind you. What Fossilface done was, he put nails in the tyres… not so’s to puncture them straight away, but so’s the nails’d work themselves in once you was up and running. I was up and running fast – doing ninety in the outside lane of the Ml – when the first tyre went. Dead hairy, swirling round like Torvill and Dean I was, nearly lost control. Tell you, Mrs P., if your husband hadn’t insisted on me doing that skid-pan training before he let me work for him, I’d’ve been a goner. He was a really caring employer, you know, Mr Pargeter was. Thought of everything.”
“True,” his widow replied distractedly. She was too concerned with thoughts of Fossilface O’Donahue to take
