Mrs Pargeter 06; Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?

Twenty-Seven

A queue of lorries shunted slowly through the Customs shed at Dover. Second in line was a venerable VW camper van. In its passenger seat Deirdre Winthrop was a little agitated. Her husband, now the driver, also looked tense. In defiance of Deirdre, he had put his beret back on again.

His wife looked anxiously out of the window. “I’m sure we shouldn’t have got into this queue, Reg. We should have gone straight on to the ferry. You don’t have to stop for Customs these days unless they ask you to. And certainly not on the English side.”

“Give me the benefit of the doubt, please, dear,” said her husband manfully. “I do know what I’m doing.”

“But I don’t think –”

VVO patronized her with a confident smile. “Nobody knows just how cool I can be in a crisis.”

“There’d be no crisis if you hadn’t stuck your neck out by…” Her words trickled away as she realized that the lorry ahead had trundled off. They were now at the head of the queue. VVO eased the camper van forward till the breezy face of a Customs Officer appeared framed in the driver’s side window.

The Customs Officer, full of entente cordiale and bonhomie, responded to VVO’s beret. “Bonjour monsieur.”

“Actuellement,” said the artist, “nous sommes English.”

“Ah. Vraiment?”

“Yes. Vraiment.”

“Righty-ho.” The Customs Officer grinned. “Anything I should know about in this camper then?”

VVO shook his head. “Nothing of great importance. A few paintings in the back, that’s all.”

People who have been married for a long time can feel the subtext of looks which are invisible to outsiders. VVO felt the heat of Deirdre’s invisible fury, and she felt the infuriating flabbiness of his ‘I know what I’m doing’ glance.

“Paintings?” the Customs Officer echoed. “Well, maybe I should have a look at those. Depending on what they are, they might need export licences or be liable for duty.”

While Deirdre seethed imperceptibly beside him, the painter got out of the camper. “Of course.” He led the Customs Officer round the back and opened the double doors. He lifted the covering rugs to reveal his paintings. “There they are.” It was impossible for VVO to keep the pride out of his voice.

The Officer looked at the canvases. Clearly dealing with a lot of French people had not been without effect. He let out one of those peculiarly Gallic laughs which begins with a ‘poof’ sound. “Oh,” he chuckled, as he turned away from the van, “sorry to have troubled you. No, there’s certainly nothing to pay on that lot.”

VVO’s kneejerk reaction was entirely predictable. “What do you mean?” he spluttered.

“Well,” replied the Customs Officer, still chuckling. “You only have to pay duty on things of value.”

From the front seat of the camper, Deirdre Winthrop was craning round, desperately trying to catch her husband’s eye and deflect him from the kamikaze course on which she knew him to be embarked.

“Are you saying these paintings don’t have any value?” VVO seethed.

“That is exactly right.” The Customs Officer let out a self-congratulatory giggle as he came up with a bon mot. “I mean, I may not know much about art, but I know what I don’t like.”

The painter was now beside himself with fury. He had been hit where it really hurt – in his art. “How dare you!” he screamed. “You philistine! Those paintings are brilliant – they’re worth any sum you care to mention!”

“Oh really?” A colder, more calculating look came into the Customs Officer’s eyes. He moved back towards the camper. “Well, maybe I’d better have a closer look at them then…”

As the Officer leant in towards the paintings, over his bent back Deirdre Winthrop finally caught her husband’s eye. The look she beamed at him on this occasion was not a private intramarital one. If looks could kill, hers should have left a large, messy exit-wound somewhere round the back of VVO’s head. With bowed shoulders, the artist meekly returned to the driver’s seat. A silence that felt even longer than it was elapsed.

Eventually, the Customs Officer closed the doors and took his time walking back to the front of the van. There was a tense silence, then he said, “No, no problem with any of that lot.”

“You mean we can go?” asked Deirdre, scarcely able to believe their luck.

“Yes, sure. You can – ” He was interrupted by a tone from the radio telephone he had clipped to his belt. “Excuse me a moment. Hello?” he said into the phone. “Who? Sergeant Hughes? No, I don’t know who you are…”

“Drive off,” Deirdre Winthrop hissed at her husband.

“What?”

“Drive off!”

“Oh, really?” said the Customs Officer, with a new significance in his tone. “Yes, I will.” His eyes narrowed as he looked back at the Winthrops. “If you’d be so kind as to wait a little longer, there are just a couple of things I’d like to check…”

“Oh, Reg!” Deirdre murmured in anguish.

? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?

Twenty-Eight

Inspector Wilkinson sat at his desk, running his tongue along his top lip. His moustache, he decided, was nearly long enough to chew. What should he do – trim it that evening when he got home, or let it grow until he’d got something that was really worth chewing? God, life was difficult. Decisions, decisions. It was no fun being a senior detective.

His telephone rang. He resented the intrusion. He’d rather it had rung after he’d made the decision about whether or not to trim his moustache.

He deliberately let the phone ring on while he lit another cigarette, then answered it. “Hello? Wilkinson.”

“It’s Sergeant Hughes, sir.”

“Oh yes? I thought it was your day off.”

“It is, sir. I’m in Dover.”

“Nipping over the Channel on a quick booze cruise, are you?”

“No, sir. I’m working.”

Wilkinson was appalled. “On your day off?” That kind of thing hadn’t happened in the Inspector’s young day.

“Yes, sir. I’ve been following up a lead on the art thefts.”

“Hughes, I have told you before. I am in charge of this case. In our business, if you have lots of different people running off in all directions without telling anyone… well, anarchy ensues.”

“I know, sir, but –”

“Everyone should know their place. I mean, what would have happened to this great country of ours throughout its history if people hadn’t done what they were told? A good copper obeys orders. All the great men of our history have obeyed orders. Alfred the Great, Drake, Nelson –”

“Actually, Nelson didn’t.”

“What?”

“Nelson was quite famous for not obeying orders, sir. In the summer of 1799, he was ordered to take his ships to Minorca, but he thought the French threat would be towards Naples, so he disobeyed. And then, of course, at the Battle of Copenhagen in 1801, he famously raised the telescope to his blind eye and said, ‘I really do not see the signal’, and then –”

“All right, Hughes,” Wilkinson interrupted testily, “all right! There’s another thing you should remember if you’re hoping to get anywhere in the Police Force.”