Jukebox Jarvis clearly knew all the short cuts of his computer system. A few clicks of the mouse and he had found the relevant information bank.
“You’re sure it’s a red Ford Transit we’re looking for?” he asked.
“Certain,” said Gary. “Because we was driving the same model. Remember thinking when I saw it – well, there’s a coincidence.”
“No coincidence really,” Truffler pointed out, “when you come to think of it, because we was both intending to load up with the same goods. And Mrs Chastaigne had been told to expect a red Transit.”
“Yeah, but we didn’t know that at the time.”
Truffler Mason let out a hollow laugh. “No. Otherwise we’d have stopped them then and there, got the loot and saved Jukebox all this hassle.”
The computer buff airily waved away the suggestion of inconvenience. “It’s no bother, really, Truffler, me old kipper. Never have any problem hacking into the police’s vehicle records.” He chuckled. “Sometimes a bit trickier to get into their system on a murder enquiry, mind you…”
“I’m not surprised.”
“… but I usually manage it,” said Jukebox Jarvis with a complacent smile. “Always nice to know how far the Plod are behind amateur investigations, isn’t it?”
“Very useful,” Truffler agreed. “And in the old days used to be handy knowing how up to speed they were on the next little job Mr Pargeter had in mind. And how much info Posey Narker had given them.”
“Yeah. Happy days, they was, eh? Happy days.” Jukebox Jarvis sighed, but then giggled. “Incidentally, I heard about that case you done for Mrs Pargeter. You know, when you nailed the blokes who’d killed Willie Cass. I gather you gave the police a full report on that and just told them who needed arresting.”
“Well…” Truffler smiled modestly. “I suppose they might have got there in their own time, but, quite honestly, did anyone want to wait that long?”
Jukebox Jarvis looked back at his screen, where the cursor blinked, demanding information. “Now, Gary, the number of the van…?”
The chauffeur placed his fingertips on his temples, screwed up his eyes and concentrated fiercely. “Yeah,” he said after a moment. “I’ve nearly got it.”
The other two watched as he went into a state that was almost trance-like. “Must be great having a photographic memory,” Jukebox whispered to Truffler.
“Isn’t really that,” the investigator whispered back. “It’s training. Mr Pargeter taught him the techniques, so whenever Gary went out on a job he’d automatically make a mental note of any registrations that might be suspicious.”
“Right.”
Gary’s eyes suddenly flashed open and he announced the relevant registration.
“Great.” Jukebox Jarvis keyed in the information. “You reckon we should be looking for hijack and theft of red Transits or just straight ownership, Truffler?”
“Start with the owners. Depends who the thieves was. If they didn’t think anyone was on the lookout for them, they wouldn’t have needed to cover their tracks, would they? So they could have used a legit motor. Anyway, lot of villains work behind the cover of some kind of front business, don’t they?”
“True.” Jukebox’s mouse clicked on another icon, and lines of data began to stream quickly up the screen. “Just take a minute and we’ll be there.” He sat back, waiting for the computer to complete its search. “Want a cup of tea or anything, either of you?”
“Not for me, thanks.”
“Nor me,” said Gary. “You doing mostly this research stuff these days, are you, Jukebox?”
“Yes. Seems to be quite a demand for it. In the old days police information was always a bit iffy, but now they’ve updated their operating systems, they’re really quite efficient. So you can pick up some useful stuff.”
“No problems hacking in?”
“With the police?” Jukebox Jarvis snorted with laughter. “You gotta be joking. Well, they have a new six-letter password each day…”
“Funny,” said Truffler. “We was only talking about that last night.”
“Anyway,” Jukebox went on, “I’ve devised a programme that can test out all the available options on that within thirty seconds.”
“Handy.”
“Right. Not that the police are very inventive at the best of times, anyway. Hardly believe what today’s password was…”
“Go on, amaze us. Not ‘police’ or ‘secret’ this time, was it?”
“No. It was ‘copper’.” They all laughed. “You know, crime writers may invent policemen who appreciate opera and write poetry, but I’m afraid the real Plods are still pretty primitive in the old imagination stakes.” He moved forward as the fast-moving data on his screen stabilized. “Ah, we’re getting something.” He pointed to the relevant entry. “There it is – a red Transit – and there’s your registration. Owner’s name mean anything, me old kipper?”
Truffler leant his long body forward to take a look at the screen. “‘R.D. D’Acosta’,” he read. “Oh yes, that means something to me all right.”
“Vehicle’s registered to a car spares company. Looks like our friend D’Acosta owns a breaker’s yard.”
“That’d figure. Though I think most of what gets broken there’d be bones.” Truffler nodded at the recollection. “Oh yes, I know him of old. Rod D’Acosta. South London villain. Special subject – GBH.”
“But someone like Rod D’Acosta’s never going to be into art theft, is he?” Gary objected.
“Too right. He couldn’t tell a Picasso from a picnic basket. The D’Acosta boys are strictly Rent-A-Muscle.” Truffler Mason rubbed his long chin thoughtfully. “No, Rod D’Acosta’s got to be working for someone else on this job. Now, I wonder who that someone else might be…?”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Twenty-Three
Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson was no fool. He was aware that this was not everyone’s opinion. But the fact that he was aware that this was not everyone’s opinion, to his mind, proved that he was no fool.
The way he had dismissed Sergeant Hughes’s theories about a connection between the late Mr Pargeter and the Mrs Pargeter he had met outside the betting shop had not been evidence of stupidity. It had been calculated. Wilkinson distrusted Hughes. He distrusted his cockiness and impetuous enthusiasm. Every detective at the start of his career assumed that he could change the world and defeat the entire criminal community in a matter of moments. It was important such people learnt that things moved rather more slowly in the Police Force. They had to develop the correct approach to the profession on which they were embarking, an approach which Inspector Wilkinson felt, without false modesty, that he exemplified perfectly.
So poo-pooing Sergeant Hughes’s theories had been part of a long-term plan, a plan which would serve two purposes. First, it would put the cocky young man in his place. Second, it would put him off the scent, thus giving Inspector Wilkinson a breathing space in which to pursue his own enquiries. Oh no, the inspector had an agenda all right. The fact that he maintained there to be no connection between the late Mr Pargeter and Mrs Pargeter did not necessarily mean that that was what he believed.
The foyer to Greene’s Hotel was impressive, more country house than commercial establishment, but the Inspector was not daunted by it. A good copper, he knew, was never daunted by surroundings. He had conducted too many interviews in lavish surroundings to be fazed by them. And in many cases he had found that lavish surroundings proved to contain thumping crooks.
There was a man in a black jacket and striped trousers behind the antique desk which was presumably the hotel’s Reception. He looked distantly familiar, though the inspector couldn’t say from where. The man looked up at the visitor’s approach.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” he said. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I wonder if you could…” Suspicion darted in Wilkinson’s deepset eyes. “Just a minute. Why did you call
