That morning Gary’s cottage remained in audition mode. When viewed from the other side of the road, a slight haze of mist still blurred the cottage’s outline, but that seemed only to make the archetypal scene more beautiful (or it would have done to a watcher with more aesthetic sensitivity than Blunt). And the mist was of the kind that would soon be burnt away by the midday heat of another perfect summer day.
This was good news for the bride and groom in whose honour Gary was tying white satin ribbon across the bonnet of his new Rolls-Royce. Their special day, which would be immortalized in endless photographs – and probably a video – was going to be a perfect English summer day. If the marriage subsequently went wrong – and of course one in three marriages do – at least they wouldn’t be able to blame the weather.
The doors of the barn adjacent to the cottage were open. The building had double doors front and back; from the front the vehicles would drive out proudly on their various missions; while the back led to a yard where necessary maintenance was carried out. On the gravel drive Gary, neat in his uniform, seemed almost umbilically attached to his precious Rolls-Royce. Two other drivers, equally smart, adjusted white satin bows and buffed the already glasslike bonnets of two lesser limousines. The wedding was a good booking for the company.
Gary’s wife Denise came out of the cottage, dressed in a smart turquoise suit and white hat. It was her friend who was getting married. Gary had also been invited as a guest, but preferred to be present in his professional capacity.
“Look great, love,” he said to Denise, as she approached the car. “I’d marry you any day.”
“Well, forget it,” she said tartly. “I’m already married.”
“Damn, always a snag, isn’t there?” Gary gave his wife an affectionate peck on the cheek. “Better be off then, had we?”
She looked at her watch. “Mm. Don’t want to make the bride more nervous than she already will be.”
“OK.” With elaborate ceremony, he opened the back door of the Rolls-Royce and ushered his wife inside. He turned and waved to the two chauffeurs behind. “Time to hit the road, fellers.”
The elegant convoy of gleaming cars eased effortlessly off the gravel and on their way. Their departure was noted with approval by the two men sitting in the parked Jaguar under the trees on the other side of the road.
“Off to his wedding booking…” said Clickety Clark, who had arrived secretly in the middle of the night.
Blunt grunted.
“… leaving Mrs Pargeter and Tammy Jacket on their own,” the photographer continued gleefully.
Blunt grunted again.
“Shall we move in then?”
A third grunt, then Blunt turned the key in the ignition. The Jaguar was about to leap forward, when Clickety Clark held up a cautionary hand. “Hang about.”
Driving along the road towards the cottage was a battered old brown Maxi. They watched it park on the gravel, and saw the tall man who uncoiled himself from the driver’s seat.
“Truffler Bloody Mason,” Clickety Clark murmured.
“He still wonky?” asked Blunt.
“No. Bloody gone straight, hasn’t he? Private detective set-up he’s got now. Mason De Vere he calls himself. Works a lot with Mrs Pargeter, I’ve heard.”
Blunt watched the tall figure stoop under the low doorway as he was let into the cottage. “Shall we go and nail him too while we got the chance?”
The photographer shook his head. “No. Don’t want to take on three if we can avoid it. Give them half an hour. If he’s not out by then, we’ll think again.”
Blunt gave a curt nod and switched off the engine.
¦
Unaware of the continuing surveillance of the cottage, Mrs Pargeter and Truffler sat at the rustic table in the back garden. Tammy Jacket was once again lying in the hammock, and once again fast asleep. The previous evening Mrs Pargeter had provided a couple of sleeping pills to relax her. Tammy had got up that morning for breakfast, but as soon as she lay down in the hammock, sleep had reasserted its control. Good thing too, thought Mrs Pargeter. More sleep she gets the better. Wash away all those nasty memories of what’d happened to her house.
“Never too early for a nice glass of Chardonnay.” Mrs Pargeter announced, as she poured out two, for herself and Truffler.
“I’d go along with that,” he replied mournfully, and took a grateful sip. “Mm, that’s good.”
She looked at him expectantly. “So?”
“It was Brazil Rita went to,” Truffler confirmed.
“Good.” Mrs Pargeter’s eyes glowed with the satisfaction of a correct conjecture. “So it’s got to be tied up with what I told you about Willie Cass.”
“Yes. What happened was… Seb’s mum was offered an all-expenses trip out there. She wasn’t the only one neither. I’ve checked with some other lags’ wives. They got the same deal.”
“So what was the deal?”
“Viewing trip. To see the show villa.”
“The one Concrete built? Or rather the one Concrete and Willie built?”
“That’s right.”
Mrs Pargeter chuckled. “So it was like timeshare marketing? A party of lags’ wives sent off to Brazil to check out the amenities?”
“That sort of idea, yes. Except it wasn’t a party of them. Each one went out on her own. Got the guided tour of the show villa and was then offered a very good deal on one of the other villas on the estate.”
Mrs Pargeter nodded to herself as she thought it through. “You can see the attraction, can’t you? Safe, secure place. No questions asked about where the money came from. Ideal retirement location for… people in their position.”
“Exactly.” Truffler Mason warmed to his theme. “The potential purchasers were very carefully targeted. All of them villains getting near retirement age. All with quite a bit of money stashed away, but money they might have had difficulty investing in the… er, more traditional manner.”
“I’m with you.”
Truffler elaborated further. “Blunt’d keep his ear to the ground when he was inside until he found someone suitable. He’d sound them out, get them interested, and then Clickety Clark’d come in to do the sales pitch to the wives.”
“And do you reckon that’s all he did?” Mrs Pargeter asked thoughtfully.
“Well, I’d assumed that…” But the look on her face told Truffler she had another idea. “What’re you thinking?”
Mrs Pargeter pieced it together as she went along. “Listen. The wives were taken out to Brazil individually…”
“Right.”
“And we know that Concrete himself only built one villa…”
“But we’ve seen the photograph of the completed estate,” Truffler objected.
“A photograph,” Mrs Pargeter explained patiently, “which someone so wanted not to be seen that they smashed up the Jackets’ house to find it.”
Truffler stroked his chin while he took in the implications of this.
“I wouldn’t have thought,” Mrs Pargeter went on, “given his skills in post-production work, that doctoring a photograph like that would have presented Clickety Clark with too much of a problem…”
“Got you!” Truffler Mason snapped his fingers. “You think all the lags have laid out money on the same villa? The rest of the estate doesn’t exist?”
She nodded excitedly. “That’s the way I see it, Truffler, yes. Brazil’s a long way away – unlikely anyone’s going out there to check. The wives’ve all seen a lovely dream house – they’re happy. The husbands think they’ve made a secure investment for their future – they’re happy. And not one of the poor blighters realizes that they’ve all
