Palings Price gave a nostalgic nod. “Oh yes. You know, I was just thinking, Mrs Pargeter…”
“Yes?”
“… what a fine man your husband was…”
“Thank you.”
“And, you know,” the interior designer went on, “one of the wonderful things about him was the way he encouraged the people who worked for him by always giving them new challenges, offering them the chance to do something a little different…”
This so closely echoed Mrs Pargeter’s recent thoughts that she found herself nodding. Even HRH said, “He was excellent at that, I agree.”
“So…” Palings Price went on, “I think we should follow his example…”
“By doing what?” asked Mrs Pargeter.
“By letting Vincent Vin Ordinaire be our courier.”
“Oh, please!” the painter squealed, though the expression on HRH’s face, which had been moving towards the conciliatory, had quickly changed and was now far from endorsing the suggestion.
Palings Price gestured to the three aluminium-framed pieces of artwork. “I’m sure VVO’s capable of getting these three…” another word hovered on his lips, but he managed in time to convert it to “…
Hamish Ramon Henriques shook his head dubiously. “I’m not sure that –”
But Palings Price had the bit between his teeth and was not to be deflected. “Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy, HRH. If Mr Pargeter hadn’t given you your chance, you’d still be working for –” – the travel agent tried to interrupt, but he was too late – “London Transport,” the art dealer concluded implacably.
HRH turned away in shame, effectively handing the victory to Palings Price. “So I think we should definitely give VVO the chance to be the courier for once.” He turned to face their late employer’s widow. “What do you say, Mrs Pargeter?”
She was torn. Caution told her that Hamish Ramon Henriques was in the right, but her natural generosity drew her towards the idea of giving
“Please, please!” the painter begged. “You won’t regret your decision. I’ll do the job perfectly, I promise.”
Mrs Pargeter was not a weak or vacillating woman, and in this instance her natural big-heartedness did not allow her to hesitate for long. “Oh, very well,” she said. “You be our courier, VVO.”
“Yippee!” The painter punched the air with delight, and did a little jig around the clutter of his studio. Mrs Pargeter looked at Palings Price and saw how pleased he was by what she’d said. But she avoided the eye of Hamish Ramon Henriques. She had a feeling his view might be rather different.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Twenty-One
Inspector Wilkinson sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked car, chewing the end of his pencil. A police notebook lay open on his lap in front of him, but so far only one line had been written. As a line, he quite liked it, but it was writing a second, and a third, and a fourth that was proving difficult. Wasn’t there any word in the English language that rhymed with ‘ample’?
Be simpler if he came from the North. Then presumably he could use ‘sample’ or ‘example’, with short ‘a’s. But that wouldn’t be right. He didn’t know much about poetry, but he did know neither of those would be a true rhyme. And he had to make his first poem a presentable one. A good copper doesn’t cut corners, even when he’s writing poetry.
Inspector Wilkinson had never actually met a police officer who wrote poetry – outside of crime fiction – but he was sure there must be some. Maybe that was the way he’d make his mark in the Force, by showing his more spiritual, creative side. Yes, it was rather appealing, the image of himself, Craig Wilkinson, as a sensitive aesthete, even as the New Man perhaps.
Women went for that kind of stuff, apart from anything else. Poets never had any difficulty getting women to go to bed with them. And because they were dealing with poets, the women didn’t expect anything like commitment or fidelity. They knew poets lived on far too high a plane to be sidetracked by details like that. Yes, Wilkinson thought to himself, I think I could have rather a good future as a poet (and forget the New Man bit of it).
But not until I can find something to rhyme with ‘ample’, he was reminded as his eye caught sight of the notebook. There’s always a bloody snag, isn’t there? Maybe it’s the word ‘ample’ that needs changing, he wondered. It suits the rhythm of the line perfectly, but perhaps there’s something else that would fit in as well.
He tried to think of some synonyms for ‘ample’. ‘Generous’…? That was close, but it hadn’t got quite the same resonance. ‘Strapping’…? Good for rhymes, but it wasn’t right for anything else. ‘Huge’…? No. ‘Fat’…? No, no, no. ‘Enormous’…? Now this was getting silly.
No way round it, ‘ample’ was the only word. It had to be ‘ample’. But… Suddenly a memory came from his schooldays, an echo of something his English master had said, half-listened to and unheeded until this moment. “Shakespeare wrote all of his greatest plays in blank verse, and blank verse does not rhyme.”
That’s it. Wilkinson seized on the idea with delight. Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme! He looked down again at the notebook for a moment, but his glee was short-lived. The second line still didn’t leap out at him. He couldn’t think of a single thing he wanted to say.
God, he thought, this poetry lark’s bloody difficult. There must be easier ways in which I can make my mark. Maybe I should have a go at exotic sandwich-making or serial adultery instead…?
“What’s that then?” Wilkinson was so abstracted by his thoughts that a curious Sergeant Hughes was in the driver’s seat beside him before he’d noticed.
“Oh, nothing. I was just, er, pulling together some of the threads of the case.” The Inspector hastened to shove the notebook back in his pocket.
But he hadn’t been quick enough. Hughes had caught sight of a word. “What’s ‘curvaceous’ got to do with the case then, sir?”
“Mind your own business, Sergeant. A good copper frequently takes an oblique approach to a subject. It rarely pays to go for the obvious. Lateral thinking is what you need in our line of work.” Then, in a tone of professional grumpiness, he asked, “Anyway, what kept you? You were due here half an hour ago.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“You haven’t answered my question. I asked what kept you. What have you been doing, Hughes? Where have you been?”
“I was just doing a bit more research, sir.”
“Research, eh? Into what?”
“Into this case, sir. The case we’re working on.”
Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed with distaste. “I thought I’d warned you about going out on a limb, Hughes. Never forget who’s in charge of this case. I am.”
“I’m well aware of that, sir, but I just thought, you know, two heads are better than one.”
“A very dangerous supposition, Hughes. And one that certainly does not always prove to be correct. It depends entirely on the quality of the heads involved.”
“Listen, sir. I’ve just been going through the old files again.”
“Looking for what?”
“Connections, sir.”
“What kind of connections?”
“Connections between some of the names involved in the case. You know, seeing who reports to who, who’s worked with who, looking for links, piecing together the network. Do you understand the kind of thing I mean, sir?”
Wilkinson let out a long, weary sigh. He had spent most of his professional career going through exactly the
