“Yes, it is. Not nice.”
“I’m sorry?” said Mrs Pargeter guilelessly. “Did you say ‘Posey Narker’?”
“Yes.” Truffler rubbed his chin in pained recollection. “Fact is, while your husband was alive, we had a bit of trouble with information ending up where it shouldn’t.”
“Oh?”
“Seemed like someone Mr Pargeter trusted was betraying that trust. Police kept knowing more than they should have known about things that were about to happen. Never found out who the grass was. All we got, from one of our informants inside the Met, was this name – ‘Posey Narker’. Clearly someone’s idea of a joke. Annoying, though, because we knew the grass was like, teasing us, sending us up, challenging us to catch him. We never did, though. Which was lucky for him,” Truffler concluded darkly.
“Too right.” Hedgeclipper Clinton was transformed for a moment from hotel manager to an earlier, more aggressive persona. “I had a few plans for the little rat if we ever had got hold of him…”
“Anyway, we’re talking a long time ago,” said Truffler, closing the subject. “This business of the villains being tipped off and getting in before us at Chastaigne Varleigh… well, it, like, reminded me of Posey Narker, that’s all.”
Mrs Pargeter reverted to a point she’d made earlier. “You are absolutely sure the ones you describe as villains had nothing to do with the police?”
Truffler Mason looked up sharply at the intonation of her words. “Yes, of course I’m sure. But why do you say that? Have you got some inside info?”
“Not exactly,” replied Mrs Pargeter, now able to get on to the subject she’d wanted to start with. “There’s this Detective Inspector who seems to be sniffing around.”
Truffler was instantly alert. “Sniffing around? How d’you mean?”
“I first met him that afternoon I’d gone to your office, you know, to tell you about what Veronica Chastaigne had asked me to do.”
“Yes?”
“He had some enquiry about Gary’s limousine. Said it’d been seen near a crime scene in Tulse Hill. Well, Gary’s not been to Tulse Hill in ages, so clearly somebody’d misidentified the car. I didn’t think any more about it… until I found the same policeman waiting outside the hospital this morning after I’d been visiting Veronica Chastaigne.”
Hedgeclipper Clinton looked alarmed, and Truffler Mason’s long body was rigid with tension. “A detective inspector you said?”
“That’s right,” Mrs Pargeter confirmed.
The hotel manager licked his lips nervously, but let Truffler continue putting the questions. “What did he ask you about today?”
“Well, that was what was odd,” replied Mrs Pargeter. “Nothing, really.”
“Nothing?”
“No. It was just like he was, kind of, keeping tabs on me, monitoring my movements. Somehow he knew I’d gone to the hospital. I even get the feeling he knew he was going to meet me coming out of your office that first time. I don’t like it.”
“Nor do I,” Truffler agreed wholeheartedly. “I wonder…”
“Wonder what?” asked Hedgeclipper, with another flick of the tongue around his dry lips.
“Well, maybe sneaking the stuff from Chastaigne Varleigh was a police set-up… Maybe they’re working on some kind of major entrapment plan…” His huge head shook slowly from side to side. “No, I don’t like this at all, Hedgeclipper.”
“Nor me.”
“I mean, personally I’ve nothing against the police,” said Mrs Pargeter, magnanimous as ever, “in their place. They do a wonderful job, this country would be a much poorer place without them… but the fact remains, I don’t like them snooping around me.”
“Nor do I,” said Truffler again.
“Not,” she hastened to add, “that I’ve ever done anything to arouse their interest, in a professional way. But the people they tend to recruit are not always the brightest, and one would hate for there to be any misunderstandings, for them to get the wrong end of the stick, either about me… or about any of the people I associate with.”
“One would hate that very much indeed.” Hedgeclipper Clinton nodded agreement with the sentiment. Grimly, Truffler Mason rubbed his long chin, and said again, “I don’t like the sound of this one little bit. I’d better investigate it further.” He stood up, leaving the remainder of his champagne untouched. “You haven’t got the bloke’s name, by any chance, have you?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Pargeter. “It’s Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson.”
There was a moment’s silence while Truffler and Hedgeclipper took this in. Then a snort of laughter erupted from the hotel manager. Truffler Mason’s entire body shook, as he sat back down in his chair and picked up his champagne glass. He made as if to take a swig, but was laughing too much to complete the action.
“What is it?” asked Mrs Pargeter, unused to seeing that lugubrious face incapable with merriment. “What is it that’s so funny? Do I gather you two know this gentleman?”
Hedgeclipper Clinton could only nod, unable to form words but, through gasps of laughter, Truffler Mason managed to say, “Oh, yes, I know him. I know him all right. Your husband knew him, and all, Mrs P. I’m surprised Mr Pargeter never mentioned old ‘Craggy’ Wilkinson to you.”
“You know my husband never spoke to me about his work,” she said primly.
“No, I know he didn’t as a general rule, but with old Craggy I’m surprised he could keep it to himself.”
“Why?”
“Well, some of the things he done… they were just such good stories. You know, when me and the boys was working with your husband, whenever we needed a good laugh, we’d just tell another Craggy Wilkinson story. Isn’t that right, Hedgeclipper?”
The hotel manager was sufficiently recovered to let out a “Yes,” but the sound of the emergent word only set him off again.
“Why? What kind of things did he do?”
“Well, let’s take for instance…” Truffler paused for a moment, shuffling through a mental filing cabinet, spoiled for choice as to which anecdote he should produce first. “All right. Try this for starters.”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Eighteen
“There was a job up Ponder’s End,” said Truffler. “Bullion delivery, very hush-hush, transfer of a load of gold ingots from some arms deal a bunch of North London villains’d done with Nigeria. Mr P’d got word of it from a baggage handler at Heathrow. Goods were going to come into the country, you see, in crates marked ‘Tribal Artefacts’, but everyone at the airport had been bunged a bit to keep a blind eye. The baggage handler who snitched reckoned the bung wasn’t big enough and he’d get a better deal from your husband. Which of course he did. Always the soul of generosity your old man was, Mrs P.
“Anyway, like as ever, the planning of the job was meticulous. Never left any angle uncovered, Mr P didn’t, sorted through everything, done dry runs, rehearsals, double-checks. Any operation he was involved in was always sweet as a nut and tight as a noose.” A wistful, nostalgic look came into Truffler’s eyes. “He was an artist, your husband, Mrs P, a true artist.
“Right, so the whole thing’s planned. The lorry with its crate of ‘Tribal Artefacts’ is meant to be going from Heathrow to, like, Epping Forest where the gang’s going to stash it for a couple of weeks before it gets melted down and redistributed in the form of chunky identity bracelets.
“Except, of course, it’s never going to make it to Epping Forest, because in Ponder’s End it’s going to be diverted from its original course. And somehow the crates of ‘Tribal Artefacts’ are going to end up in a refrigerated ice cream lorry heading due south for Penge where the ingots will end up in far more deserving pockets than those of the North London mob.
