? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Sixteen
Inspector Wilkinson sat alone in the unmarked car, thinking gloomy thoughts. The mistimed raid on Chastaigne Varleigh had been a body blow to him. He’d been planning the operation so long that he’d invested more hopes and ambitions than he’d realized in its successful outcome. This had been intended to be the big one, the masterstroke which wiped away the memory of so many past failures, even of the terrible moment when he had just missed entrapping the late Mr Pargeter. Proving the Chastaigne Varleigh connection to the art thefts would have ensured that Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson had made his mark.
Except that the coup hadn’t worked. The Long Gallery had been empty, although there were enough tell-tale clues – picture-hooks, rectangles of dust, outlines of darker wood where pictures had hung – to suggest it hadn’t been empty for long.
Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson was going to have to find another way to make his mark.
It was a relief to be alone in the car that morning. He was beginning to find the presence of Sergeant Hughes distinctly irksome. From the start Wilkinson had detected in the young man an unattractive cockiness, which at times bordered on disrespect. Since the Chastaigne Varleigh debecle, the disrespect had been overt.
No, Wilkinson decided, it was a relief not to have Hughes with him (though he might have revised that opinion had he known that the Sergeant was at that moment once again immersed in files of the Inspector’s old cases).
Life has dealt me a pretty lousy hand, Wilkinson thought self-pityingly. In the cop shows he watched and the crime novels he read many of the heroes had family connections to make them interesting. A crippled sibling always helped, or a child with a serious medical condition. Wives could also be very useful as a means of enriching their man’s personality. A wife in an iron lung could do wonders, or one with a secret drinking problem.
And wives who had terminal illnesses or, even better, wives who were dead, could do much for a detective’s sympathy rating. A dead wife in the background could leave a hero embittered, throwing himself wholeheartedly into his work so as not to have time to brood, but also available for the odd entanglement with a cleared suspect or an attractive young colleague. (These entanglements were doomed to be of short duration, but usually involved some very good sex on the way.) Yes, the right sort of deceased wife profile offered another way for a good copper to make his mark.
But Inspector Wilkinson hadn’t had that kind of luck. His ex-wife was still very much alive, living in Stockport with a croupier fifteen years younger than her. She had not had any secret illnesses or agonies. Nor had their parting been a dramatic, tempestuous moment always to be regretted by one of those magnificent couples who could not live with each other but could not live without each other. No, the former Mrs Wilkinson had left her husband because she found him terminally boring.
Maybe that’s what he was, the Inspector thought in a rare moment of total self-doubt. Maybe the moment that was going to salvage his career – or his whole life – was never going to happen. Maybe he was terminally boring.
But even as he reached the nadir of this dispiriting thought, it gave way to a flicker of hope. Everything wasn’t all over. There was still one lead to follow up, one door imperceptibly ajar, which, if pushed with sufficient delicacy, might open up the route to a totally new area of success.
The change of mood was prompted by the sight of a woman emerging from the hospital’s front gates. Broad-beamed and impressive in her bright silk print dress, she stepped daintily towards the convenient limousine which had just slid to the kerb.
Inspector Wilkinson stepped out of his car and in two or three large strides had moved across to intercept her. “Excuse me, madam…”
He caught the full beam of the violet-blue eyes, which showed their customary expression of puzzled innocence. “Yes, can I help you?”
“You may recall we met the other day, when I was making enquiries about this limousine.”
“Yes, of course I remember.”
“And it struck me that on that occasion I didn’t introduce myself…”
“No.” She sounded a little mystified by this information.
“… though you did recognize – correctly – that I am a member of the Police Force.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I felt I should tell you that I am Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson.”
“Ah. Well, thank you. A pleasure to meet you.”
Their eyes were locked. The Inspector seemed to be making a mental note of every detail of her appearance. As his scrutiny continued, Mrs Pargeter began to feel a little uneasy. Why was he so interested in her? Surely he couldn’t know anything about the job she had agreed to undertake for Veronica Chastaigne?
She let out a little cough to break the impasse. “Well, I’d better be on my way, Inspector Wilkinson.”
He stood aside. “Of course.” She turned away towards the limousine, but his voice stopped her. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
“No, I didn’t.” She faced him once again, with complete composure. “My name is Mrs Pargeter.”
“Oh,” he said, surprised. It was a name that had very significant reverberations for Inspector Wilkinson.
“Mrs Melita Pargeter. Should you wish to contact me, I am currently residing at Greene’s Hotel in Mayfair.”
“Right. And should you wish to contact me, here is my card. The mobile number is the best one to catch me on.” He handed the card across, and stood back. “Thank you very much, Mrs Pargeter. You’ve been most helpful.”
His tone of voice gave her permission to continue her journey into Gary’s limousine.
But, as she did so, Mrs Pargeter could feel the eyes of Inspector Wilkinson boring into her back. It gave her a slightly unpleasant
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Seventeen
She had intended to communicate her worries about the Inspector to Truffler Mason the minute he arrived at the hotel, but first she had to go through a litany of self-recrimination. Mrs Pargeter was sitting at her usual table in the bar, drinking champagne with Hedgeclipper Clinton, when Truffler shambled in, literally wringing his hands in anguish.
“I feel such a fool, such a bloody idiot, Mrs P,” he moaned, before he’d even sat down, and certainly before he’d touched his drink. “Simple thing like shifting those pictures from Chastaigne Varleigh and I go and screw it up, let some villains ace in ahead of us and nick the lot.”
“You’re sure they were villains?” asked Mrs Pargeter, who was not showing the same reticence as her guest with the champagne. “Sure they weren’t police?”
“If they’d been on the side of the law, Mrs Chastaigne’d certainly have heard something by now. Besides, I got a look at them. They were villains all right. And,” Truffler added thoughtfully, “villains with extremely good information.”
“What do you mean?” asked Hedgeclipper.
“They must’ve known we was about to raid the place.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“The timing’s too much of a coincidence. If they’d been casing the joint, or if they was acting on a tip-off from one of Bennie Logan’s cronies, they could’ve done it any time in the five years since he died. But no, they chose the very day we’d planned to lift the loot. They knew something.”
Hedgeclipper Clinton nodded. It made sense.
“I don’t like it,” said Truffler. “It’s like being back in the days of Posey Narker.”
