“Well, Gary, if there’s any way of avoiding violence…”
“Sure, sure, Mrs P. I’ll do me best. Hold on tight, we’re nearly there!”
The cottage loomed ahead like a jet-propelled chocolate box. The Jaguar was now so close behind the Rolls-Royce that Mrs Pargeter could almost count Blunt’s nasal hairs, when Gary suddenly swung the steering wheel right into his drive. He spun into the opposite lock, heading straight for the barn garage. Both sets of doors were open, so that the structure appeared like a bridge.
Just as they were steaming into the building, Gary caught sight of the banner flapping over the doorway. “What the hell…” he mouthed in disbelief.
Mrs Pargeter looked up, and managed to read the words blazoned across the white sheet before the car swept into the barn. With a sense of doom, she recognized the logo, and the inevitable legend:
WHAT’S THE FIRST THING TO DO WHEN YOU GET YOUR OWN FLAT?
RE-TIRE.
She just had time to register that Fossilface O’Donahue’s understanding of joke structure was still improving, when her attention was seized by a shriek of “Good heavens, look at that lot!” from Gary.
In the microsecond that they were inside the barn, she saw the high-heaped towers that filled the entire structure except for the narrow channel through which the Rolls-Royce sped. And she recognized that the huge piles were built up of brand-new car tyres. Fossilface O’Donahue was once again paying his dues, once again in what he thought was an appropriate fashion. In the past he’d once sabotaged one of Gary’s tyres; now the chauffeur had more tyres than he could ever possibly need. Oh yes, another triumph for the cock-eyed logic of Fossilface O’Donahue.
Gary slammed the brakes on the minute his Roller was in the maintenance yard, and reached for his door handle. “I’ll get the sawn-off and deal with the…”
His words trickled away at the sights and sounds emerging from the barn. The Jaguar, only metres behind them, had swung savagely into the narrow passageway.
Too savagely. A bumper had caught the base of one of the tyre towers, setting the whole edifice wobbling. That tower destabilized the others. A few random tyres toppled down, then little flurries of them fell; finally, in an avalanche of rubber, all the tyres in the barn collapsed inwards, burying the immobilized Jaguar under their combined weight.
“You know,” Mrs Pargeter observed, “I think, for the first time, one of Fossilface’s acts of ‘restitooshun’ has actually done someone some good.”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ?
Thirty-Two
Even with its shaving-foam inscription and wake of tin cans and toilet rolls, Gary’s Rolls- Royce still contrived to appear majestic as it processed over Vauxhall Bridge. The two ladies in the back were looking somewhat better than they had when leaving their former transport at the country house hotel. Gary’s new Roller was stocked for every eventuality. There was a supply of cosmetics and toiletries in the back pocket, and the two passengers had used these to repair their make-up and hair-styles (though in Tammy Jacket’s case, not a single hair of her lacquered helmet had shifted).
Amongst its other supplies, the Rolls-Royce also had a well-stocked drinks cabinet and Mrs Pargeter, once her appearance was restored to elegance, had immediately started pouring. As she concluded her call on the earphone, she was on her third vodka Campari, while Tammy Jacket kept pace with her in brandy and ginger ale.
“It’s all right, Truffler. We’re fine.”
“I still should’ve thought. Should’ve kept my eyes skinned for those two villains when I was leaving Gary’s place.” His voice, from the other end of the phone, was heavy with self-recrimination.
“You had no means of knowing they were on to me. It was my own fault for thinking I could get away with the Lady Entwistle disguise. You warned me not to try that on, Truffler, but I just wouldn’t listen, would I?”
“No…” he agreed, slightly cheered by her redistribution of blame. “Look, is there anything else you need me to do – apart from what we’ve talked about?”
Mrs Pargeter was thoughtful for a moment before she replied, “No, no, there’s something else I need doing, but… sewing up the case against Blunt and Clickety Clark is more urgent. You get on with that.”
“OK. What was the other thing needs doing? You might as well tell me.”
“Just I think I ought to have another word with Fossilface O’Donahue. Job he done on Gary turned out for the good, as it happened, but that was pure chance. Fossilface is still a bit of a loose cannon out there. I think I ought to try to stop his programme of ‘restitooshun’.”
“Well, it’s soon going to come to a natural end, innit? Not many people left he needs to pay back, are there?”
“No, I suppose not. Still feel I should have a word with him, though. Who
“Well, he’s done you… me – blast his eyes!… Keyhole Crabbe… Hedgeclipper… now Gary… I guess there’s only Concrete Jacket left, of the ones I know about. And he can’t touch Concrete while he’s in the nick, can he?”
“He touched Keyhole while
“Hm. You may have a point.”
“Truffler, tell me… in what way did Fossilface do the dirty on Concrete? Just so’s we know what we may be up against.”
“Worse thing he ever done to Concrete was… he didn’t call the police.”
“What do you mean?”
“Concrete was working on this complicated job. It was an art theft. Couple of paintings from a gallery in Cork Street. One was a Rembrandt, I seem to remember. Concrete’d got it worked out. Soon as he broke in, the gallery’s alarm’d sound in the local nick. Boys in blue’d set off to get him, but just when they’re near, Fossilface O’Donahue, who’s got this radio set that cuts in on their frequency, is meant to ring through, say it was a false alarm, and could they go off to deal with an environmentalists’ riot outside the Brazilian Embassy? Would’ve worked a treat… only Fossilface never made the call.”
“Ah.”
“Concrete was away from his missus four years after that.”
“Oh dear.”
“Mind you, what kind of ‘restitooshun’ Fossilface O’Donahue would plan for that… I just cannot begin to imagine.”
“No. Anyway, don’t you worry about that, Truffler. You just concentrate on what we discussed. I’ll have a go at contacting Fossilface. Talk soon – OK? Bye.”
She returned the handset to its cradle, and took a long sip from her drink.
“Truffler getting on all right then, is he?” called Gary from the front.
“He’s fine. Just sorting out the loose ends of the case. Checking whether there was anyone else involved apart from Clickety Clark and Blunt.” With a triumphant grin, Mrs Pargeter turned to Tammy. “Truffler’s going to build up a nice little dossier – all the details, all the evidence – which is guaranteed to get those two villains put away for a very long time…” She took the other woman’s hand, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “And then we’ll get Concrete off the hook.”
Tammy Jacket smiled her wordless gratitude.
¦
No one would have suspected that the elegant white-haired lady who stepped out of a Rolls-Royce in a street near Victoria Station had, only an hour and a half earlier, been driving a cultivator/tractor through a series of hedges. She looked exactly like someone whose sole business of the day had been a visit to a solicitor. She looked as decorous and correct as the shining brass plate on the door outside which the Rolls-Royce had parked. The plate read: Nigel Merriman – Solicitor and Commissioner for Oaths.
“Sure you don’t want me to hang around?” asked Gary, as he closed the car door behind her.
