do to make that job easier, they should do it. You will certainly have my full cooperation. You can rely on me to assist you in any way at all.”
Inspector Wilkinson glowed visibly at this flattery and preened his moustache. “That is much appreciated, Mrs Pargeter. Thank you very much.”
Exotic Japanese cocktail nibbles appeared on the table between them. They were quickly joined by a pint of bitter on a silver coaster, a champagne flute and, by the side of the table, an ice bucket with an opened bottle in it.
“Pour away,” said Mrs Pargeter, as Leon was about to offer her some to taste. She raised the twinkling glass to her lips. “Cheers, Inspector.”
“Down the hatch.” He took a long swallow from his pint.
“Incidentally, calling you ‘Inspector’ does sound horribly formal, doesn’t it?”
“Well…”
“What’s your first name?”
“Craig.”
“Well, do you mind if I call you ‘Craig’, Craig?”
Once again the violet-blue beam worked its magic. “No, Mrs Pargeter. I would be extremely honoured.”
“Good.” She sat back in her chair and took another swallow of champagne. “This is cosy, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Yes, very.” Craig Wilkinson took another long pull at his pint. A peaceable silence descended between them.
It was Mrs Pargeter who at last broke it. “Well…” she began tentatively, “did I gather there was something you wanted to ask me?”
“Yes. Of course.” Wilkinson shook himself out of his reverie. “Yes, I wished to make some enquiries about your late husband…”
“Fine. About what in particular?”
“Well, Mrs Pargeter, it was kind of in relation to his business dealings…”
“I’ll tell you anything I can, Craig…” He simpered at the use of his first name. She chuckled apologetically. “But I’m afraid there’s a lot I just don’t know. My husband and I belonged to the generation when men didn’t bring their work home with them. If ever I asked anything about his business affairs, he’d say, ‘Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that, Melita my love,’ and that was it. I know today’s young independent feminists wouldn’t approve of that kind of attitude, but I must say I always found it very comforting.”
“Yes, yes, I can see that…” The Inspector shifted in his chair and flicked a column of ash into the ashtray. He wasn’t finding it easy to get to the point that concerned him. “Not a very common name, Pargeter, is it?”
“No,” she agreed. “I think it’s a lovely name, though. I was so pleased to take it on when we got married – another thing I dare say the feminist brigade would disapprove of.”
“Quite probably, yes.” Wilkinson found it difficult to stop himself from smiling. There was something about this plump, self-assured, comfortable woman that engendered smiles.
“A ‘pargeter’ was actually a plasterer,” she went on. “Rather upmarket one, though. Did all that fancy plasterwork on the front of Tudor buildings.”
“Really? That’s fascinating.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Peace re-descended between them. Again it was Mrs Pargeter who moved the conversation on. “So what was it you wanted to ask about my husband’s business affairs, Craig?”
“Well, Mrs Pargeter…” He now found himself acutely embarrassed. In the atmosphere that had developed between them, his question seemed incongruous. He looked down at his large shoes as he pressed on. “I just wondered if you’d ever heard any suggestion that some of your late husband’s business dealings were in any way… criminal?”
She did not respond immediately, and Wilkinson looked up, expecting to read affront in her face. But instead what greeted him was helpless, though silent, laughter. Tears glistened over the violet-blue eyes.
“Criminal?” she finally managed to gasp. “Criminal? My husband – involved in something criminal? Oh, I wish he was in this room to hear you say that.”
“Why?”
“Well, if you’d ever known him, you’d realize that…” Again she struggled for words. “He’d be so offended by the suggestion. My husband was the most strait-laced and correct man I think I’ve ever met. He had a punctilious – almost an obsessive – respect for the law. Particularly the British legal system. “Finest in the world,” he’d always say. “Absolute finest in the entire universe!” And the idea of him being involved in anything even mildly shady…” She roared with laughter. “I’m sorry. Your question was just so unexpected. And in relation to my husband, so hysterically funny. I mean, I loved him dearly, but I have to say, when it came to moral issues, he was a bit of an old fuddy-duddy. I mean, if he found a 10p coin on the pavement, he’d go to the police station to hand it in. That’s the kind of man he was. And the idea that he might have had criminal connections…” Once again she was incapacitated by peals of laughter.
¦
It was more than an hour later that Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson left Greene’s Hotel. A couple more pints of English bitter had been sent out for, and Mrs Pargeter had got through the bulk of her bottle of champagne. The atmosphere between them had been very relaxed.
Wilkinson felt positively boyish as he hailed a cab to take him to his flat. His instinct had been vindicated. He’d been right once again. And he’d take enormous pleasure in telling that to Sergeant Hughes.
A good copper, as the Inspector so often said, was never off duty. Always alert, always looking out for tiny things, for those tell-tale details which don’t seem significant at the time, but which later turn out to have enormous relevance.
And Mrs Pargeter had said something to him which, in retrospect, he recognized to have mind-blowingly enormous relevance. Maybe Craig Wilkinson was about to make his mark, after all.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Twenty-Five
It had always been Mrs Pargeter’s view that business and pleasure could – and indeed should – be mixed. If a meeting could be accompanied by a little refreshment, so much the better. If it could be accompanied by a lavish dinner, expertly devised by the award-winning chef of Greene’s Hotel, better still.
So it was that that evening found her sitting at her favourite table in the restaurant, in the company of Hedgeclipper Clinton and the magnificent Hamish Ramon Henriques. No one would ever have known, from her graceful manner, that Mrs Pargeter had, only a few hours before, consumed a whole bottle of champagne.
She had reported her conversation with Inspector Wilkinson to the travel agent, though her narrative had been constantly interrupted by recollections and ribaldry from Hedgeclipper. HRH knew all about the Inspector and was appropriately amused by their accounts. “I don’t think the stick exists anywhere in the world that that guy isn’t capable of getting the wrong end of.”
“Well, at the end of our conversation he certainly seemed convinced that I had nothing to do with my late husband.”
“That’s absolutely typical. True to form, eh, Hedgeclipper?”
“You bet. Faced with the widow of one of the biggest criminal masterminds in the history of –”
“I
“Ah, well, I, er… Sorry,” the hotel manager floundered.
HRH interceded fluently, “I think Mr Clinton was just endorsing my view that Inspector Wilkinson will always be guaranteed to get the wrong end of the stick. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes. Yes. Exactly.”
The chilling glare of the violet-blue eyes remained on Hedgeclipper’s face for a second longer, before Mrs Pargeter relaxed, sat back and took another sip of champagne. But there was a trace of anxiety in her voice when she asked, “Are you sure you’re right, though? You don’t think it’s possible that Inspector Wilkinson was playing an elaborate double bluff?”
“Rest assured, my dear Mrs Pargeter,” said HRH, “you need have no worries on that score. Craggy Wilkinson
