Gary shook his head in admiration. “Brilliant. Lot of clever driving needed for Chelmsford, if I remember right.”
HRH grinned with satisfaction. “And some intriguing specialized work required on the vehicles.”
“Of course,” said Mrs Pargeter demurely, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I’m willing to be guided by you in such matters.” She turned the full beam of her violet-blue eyes on the computer expert. “You’re sure Chelmsford’s the one, Jukebox?”
He nodded. “Definitely the closest match to what’s needed for this case.”
“Yeah,” Truffler agreed. “Only the goods are different. Chelmsford was used fivers, this time it’s paintings. Same basic strategy’d work, no problem.”
An infectious bubble of excitement was building up in all of them. It was comforting to have the quality of Jukebox Jarvis’s archives to rely on. Inside his computer system every one of the late Mr Pargeter’s greatest exploits was neatly catalogued and chronicled, providing a perfect template of action for any situation that could possibly arise. Many public companies would give half their annual profits for an infrastructure of such efficiency.
Mrs Pargeter spread the benison of her richest smile around the assembled company. “Right, if you say so – Chelmsford it is.”
“Terrific,” said Jukebox, reaching forward to his computer. “I’ll print out the whole plan for you.” Gleefully, he touched a key and his printer burst into manic activity.
“This is great, isn’t it?” Gary spoke for all of them. “Almost like having Mr Pargeter back with us again.”
The other men grinned, but Mrs Pargeter, a trifle misty-eyed, murmured, “Almost, Gary… but not quite.”
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Thirty-Two
A space had been cleared amidst the debris that littered Truffler Mason’s desk, and over its surface was spread out a large-scale map of South London. Mrs Pargeter and the private investigator leant over, examining it minutely. Every now and then she would trace a little route with her finger, then consult the bound folder of neatly printed notes, plans and diagrams that Jukebox Jarvis had presented to her. Mrs Pargeter’s hand would hover for a moment over each possible site, before finding some unconforming detail as a reason to reject it. Finally, her hand lingered longer over one particular network of junctions. She looked across at Truffler. “How about
He bent down from his great height and squinted at the map. “Looks good.”
Mrs Pargeter double-checked with the requirements in her folder, before continuing, “It’s definitely the sort of loop road we’re after – and there’s the garage with a car wash.”
Truffler Mason nodded with that characteristic lethargy which, in his case, denoted huge enthusiasm. “Right distance from the breaker’s yard, and all. Couldn’t be better.”
“Great.” Mrs Pargeter’s enthusiasm never wore any disguise. It was, like most of her emotions, entirely transparent, fervent and joyous. “You know,” she said with a delighted grin, “I think I could get good at this.”
“You already are good at it, Mrs Pargeter,” said Truffler.
¦
Gary’s limousine cruised effortlessly through a leafy South London outer suburb, before coming to a stop, as an elderly lollipop man ushered some tiny anorak-swaddled schoolchildren over a crossing in the road. The man was so thin that, holding his round-topped staff, he looked like a stickman they might have drawn in class.
Gary pressed the button and the window slid soundlessly down. When his charges were safely on the other side of the road, the lollipop man waved an acknowledgement to the law-abiding driver. Then, as he recognized the face, his manner changed to one of great warmth and welcome.
“As I live and breathe… Gary.”
The chauffeur stretched a hand out to shake the old man’s bony fingers. “Good to see you, mate. Mrs Pargeter – ” he deferred to the plump, smiling woman in the back of the limousine, “I’d like you to meet – Vanishing Vernon.”
“Delighted to make your acquaintance.” She stretched her hand through from the back. The old man clasped it in both of his. “Oh, Mrs Pargeter… Is it really you? You’ve no idea what an honour this is for me.”
From the glow on his face, you’d have thought he’d just been presented with an Oscar (though – thank God – he didn’t make an acceptance speech).
¦
Hedgeclipper Clinton’s office at Greene’s Hotel was decorated like an ante-room at Versailles. On its desk that afternoon was proudly displayed a portable television camera, firmly identified by the ‘BBC-TV’ logo. Kevin, one of the hotel’s doormen, dressed in a black and gold uniform, looked on admiringly. The expression on Mrs Pargeter’s face was more sceptical.
“Where did you get that from, Hedgeclipper?” she asked beadily.
He was squirming too much from embarrassment to pick her up on the use of his nickname in front of other hotel staff. “Well…” he prevaricated. “I borrowed it.” He looked at Mrs Pargeter defensively. “I’ll take it back.” A look of righteousness came into his face as he thought of a justification for his actions. “I do pay my TV licence fee, so by rights a bit of it’s mine, anyway.”
“I see.” The violet-blue eyes held Hedgeclipper Clinton’s for a long, wince-making moment before giving up on pointless recrimination and turning to the doorman. “And you can manage with it all right, Kevin?”
He nodded complacently. “No problem, Mrs Pargeter. I’ve videoed all four of my mum’s weddings.”
“Oh good.” She now beamed back at the hotel manager. Mrs Pargeter had never been one to bear grudges for any length of time. “And you can do your bit, Hedgeclipper?”
“Mrs Pargeter,” he replied, almost offended by her doubting him, “being a hotel manager is like being permanently in front of the camera.”
She nodded, then a shadow of anxiety crossed her usually sunny face. “I hope this is going to work…”
Hedgeclipper Clinton gave her a smile of confidence verging on complacency. “I can assure you it will. It worked in Chelmsford, and on that occasion proved one great truth: You can never underestimate the mind-blowing stupidity of the British people when they’re offered the chance to be on television.”
“True,” said Mrs Pargeter, reassured.
¦
The space under the railway arch which had been converted into a body shop was dominated by a large van. Under floodlights, three mechanics were working on it. One, protected by goggles and gloves, was using an oxyacetylene lamp to cut a long slit in the vehicle’s roof above the front seats. The second mechanic seemed only to possess a back end, the rest of his body buried, tinkering, under the bonnet; while the third was replacing the van’s ordinary tyres with large thick-treaded ones. The bodywork was painted in a greyish undercoat.
Looking on, out of the glare of the floodlights, stood Hamish Ramon Henriques and Mrs Pargeter. She was once again holding the folder of printed notes she had received from Jukebox Jarvis.
“Going all right, is it?” she asked.
HRH flicked up his long moustaches with satisfaction. “Absolutely as one would have wished. The engine in that beast’s powerful enough for a tank.”
“Good. And the special paint job?”
“All in hand, Mrs Pargeter. Don’t you worry.”
She caught his eye. She was enjoying this. Together they nodded, secure in their complicity.
¦
One final preparation was required. It was made in the privacy of Jukebox Jarvis’s front room. He had received his instructions over the phone from Truffler Mason, who had of course checked everything out with Mrs Pargeter beforehand.
It was a simple job by Jukebox’s standards. All he had to do was hack into the police computer again (they’d had a rare flash of originality and, for the latest six-letter password, chosen ‘arrest’). Once inside the system, he had to check up on the duty rosters for the next day.
What he found there was potentially worrying. The police had got hold of some information from somewhere.
