Mrs Pargeter 03; Mrs Pargeter’s Package mp-3 Read online

  “So did you see the whole letter?”

  “No.” He sounded rather put out. “For some reason Mrs Dover did not seem to trust my discretion.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  He looked even more aggrieved, but went on, “She said she would take it home and reveal the rest of the letter in private.”

  “And presumably she didn’t tell you what she found written there?”

  “No, she didn’t.” Once again he sounded a little resentful of this lack of confidence.

  “I don’t suppose, by any chance, that you remember what was on the part of the letter that you revealed here in the office…?”

  Mr Fisher-Metcalf smiled smugly. “As a matter of fact, I do. My memory, you know,” he said with some pride, “is almost photographic. A very useful faculty for a solicitor.”

  Even for a bent one. But Mrs Pargeter didn’t voice the thought. Instead, with a suitably impressed look, she said, “That’s remarkable. So you could actually tell me exactly what was written there, even though you only saw it once?”

  The flattering approach paid off. “Oh yes,” he replied. “To the last letter.”

  “Go on,” said Mrs Pargeter in mock-disbelief.

  “The sodium carbonate only revealed part of the first word, but that ended ‘K-I-T-A-S’. Then there was a full stop, and it went on, ‘If you want to find out, the explanation for everything will be found behind the old man’s p – ’”

  “‘The old man’s p – ’?” Mrs Pargeter echoed, disappointed.

  “Yes. That was all there was. As I say, I only wiped the sodium carbonate across once.”

  “Yes. Could you write that down for me, please? All the words, laid out exactly as you saw them on the page.”

  While Mr Fisher-Metcalf did as he was asked, Mrs Pargeter’s mind was racing. No doubt there were plenty of other words that ended ‘K-I-T-A-S’, but all she could think of was ‘Agios Nikitas’. And, if that was what Chris Dover had written in his letter, it was the first positive proof she had of a connection between the dead man and Corfu.

  What ‘The old man’s p – ’ might be she could not at that moment begin to imagine.

  ∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

  Twenty-Eight

  Mr Fisher-Metcalf finished writing and handed the piece of paper across to her. “Well, Mrs Pargeter, I don’t think that you can deny that I have been very helpful to you… answered all your questions very fully… but I am a busy man and I would really appreciate it if you would leave now. I’ll get my secretary to –”

  His finger froze above the bell-push at Mrs Pargeter’s words. “I’ll go when I’m ready, thank you. When I’ve got all the information I require from you.”

  “But –”

  Her hand came to rest on the sheaf of papers Truffler Mason had given her. “Don’t let us forget,” she said with steely charm, “who is in charge of this interview.”

  Mr Fisher-Metcalf slumped back, defeated once more. “What else do you want to know?”

  “Just before your secretary came in, you said there was an ‘incident’ which might have implied a connection between Chris Dover and Greece…”

  “Did I? I don’t recall –”

  “Yes, you did, Mr Fisher-Metcalf. Come on, I haven’t got time to waste. What was it?”

  As ever, faced with any kind of attack, he capitulated instantly. “Well… About three years ago, someone did come round to my office enquiring about Mr Dover. He wanted to find out as much as he could about how much Mr Dover was worth, about his business affairs and so on. Of course I told him it was improper for me ever to disclose any details of my clients’ affairs and…”

  “And that poor blighter didn’t have anything to blackmail you with, eh?” Mrs Pargeter asked genially, her hand still gently on top of Truffler’s collection of papers.

  “Well, er…” Mr Fisher-Metcalf eased a finger round the inside of his shirt-collar. “Well, I said I couldn’t tell him anything, but he persisted… kept coming round, trying to pump information out of my then secretary, that kind of thing…”

  “Did he get information?”

  “Certainly not from me.”

  “And from your then secretary?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so. She certainly didn’t mention telling him anything, and she was… well, she was an efficient girl… left the job soon afterwards, unfortunately… but she was nothing like that dreadful illiterate creature who’s sitting out there now. I mean, there doesn’t seem to be any concept of training young people these days –”

  Mrs Pargeter cut short his disquisition on the failings of modern life. “You still haven’t said what the connection was between this man and Greece.”

  “Ah, well, that was the point, you see. The man who made these enquiries was Greek.”

  “Was he really? He didn’t mention what part of Greece he came from?”

  “No.”

  “And you say his main interest seemed to be in Chris Dover’s business affairs?”

  “Yes. Well, his income, actually. He kept saying, ‘So Mr Dover is very rich man, yes?’”

  “Did he really?”

  “Yes.”

  A new thought came into Mrs Pargeter’s mind. She reached into her handbag. “I’ve got some photographs here of a few Greek men. Could you have a look at them and tell me if any of them is the man who came to you making those enquiries?”

  She opened the envelope for him. He looked at the first one. “Well, that’s most peculiar. I’d have sworn that was –”

  She glanced at the picture and hastily put it to the bottom of the pack. “Not that one. It’s all overexposed. I’m sorry, I’m a dreadful photographer. I’ve got a much better shot of that bloke.”

  The photo had been the one of Spiro she’d taken as her hand slipped. The rapid movement had almost blanked out his features completely. She found another. “Look, there’s a better shot of him. Is he familiar?”

  Mr Fisher-Metcalf shook his head. He’d never seen Spiro before.

  “What about this one?”

  She had really been hoping for a response to the picture of Sergeant Karaskakis, but all she got was another shake of the head.

  The same reaction greeted Yianni. And Maria’s father and everyone else from the Hotel Nausica.

  Even though they were looking for a man, she showed the picture of Theodosia, but that got the same negative response.

  Without hope, Mrs Pargeter showed Mr Fisher-Metcalf the penultimate photograph.

  “That’s him,” the solicitor said. “That’s the one.”

  The photograph was of Georgio.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Well, look, here’s another one of him with –”

  “Good heavens!” Mr Fisher-Metcalf was quite pale with shock.

  “That’s still the man, is it?”

  “Oh, that’s the man all right. It’s the girl I’m looking at, though.”

  “The girl? She’s not Greek. She’s English. The tour operator’s rep. Ginnie.”

  “Virginia, yes.”

  “You know her?”

  “Of course I do,” the solicitor replied testily. “She’s the one who used to be my secretary.”

  ∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

  Twenty-Nine

  Mrs Pargeter reckoned she had found out all she was going to find out in London, and a speedy return to Corfu was of the essence. Remembering Hamish Ramon Henriques’ offer, she hailed a cab outside Mr Fisher-Metcalf’s office and gave the driver the Berkeley Square address.

  It was a constant source of surprise to Mrs Pargeter that businesses on the wrong side of the law conduct themselves so very much like legitimate ones. She knew this to be a naive reaction. After all, successful entrepreneurs on the two sides of the legal divide behave with astonishing similarity, and indeed there are many who spend their careers continually crossing over and back again. There was little to choose, in Mrs Pargeter’s
view, between the morality of the corporate raider and that of the armed raider.

  And yet, in spite of this knowledge, she was still surprised by the discreet brass plate reading ‘HRH Travel’ on the splendid Berkeley Square portico.

  The smiling, immaculately-groomed girl on Reception wore a charcoal grey uniform with a discreet ‘HRH’ logo in gold thread on the breast pocket. A gold badge on the other side gave her name, ‘Lauren’.

  “Good morning. Can I help you?”

  “Yes. My name is Mrs Pargeter…”

  “Of course. HRH said we might be expecting you.”

  “Oh.”

  The girl deftly pressed a button on her console. “Sharon. Mrs Pargeter is here. Could you come and collect her? Thanks. If you’d just like to take a seat…?”

  Mrs Pargeter sat on the grey leather sofa and thumbed through the brochures on the low table. Except for their emphasis on Spanish and South American destinations, they were interchangeable with the literature that would have been found in any other travel agent.

  “If you’d like to come this way…”

  Sharon proved to be another smiling, immaculately-groomed girl in the same charcoal grey HRH uniform as Lauren. She led the visitor to a lift, then through a long, neat office where more smiling, immaculately-groomed girls in uniforms sat over computers and telephones. Mrs Pargeter caught snatches of their beautifully-enunciated conversations as she passed.

  “… so could I just check this? The party will consist of yourself, two heavies and a getaway driver? Yes. What? Oh, we’ll certainly reserve accommodation for a hostage as well if you think that’s a possibility…”

  “… yes, all the jacuzzis in the Imperial Hotel are bulletproof…”

  “… so you’ll arrive in Caracas on Tuesday at eleven a.m. The plastic surgeon is booked for ten o’clock the following morning. No, don’t worry, he’s got a copy of the new passport photograph, so he’ll ensure that’s what you look like…”

  “… in that part of the world there’s usually no problem about getting ammunition from Room Service…”

  Mrs Pargeter felt reassured. It was really comforting to know that one was dealing with an organisation of such efficiency.

  Hamish Ramon Henriques had his office door and his arms wide open to greet her. The sunlight through the window behind him brought a sparkle to the white fringes of his Quixotic hair and moustache.

  “Mrs Pargeter, what a pleasure! I trust your morning’s meeting was satisfactory.”

  “Yes, I managed to get quite a lot of information, thank you.”

  “Excellent, excellent. And what can I do for you now?”

  “Well, I don’t think I’m going to get anything else, so I really would like to be back in Corfu as soon as possible. If that’s not too much trouble…” she added modestly.

  “Nothing is too much trouble for our favoured clients. And when the client is none other than the widow of the late Mr Pargeter…” A very Latin gesture encompassed the degree of honour and pleasure that it would be to help her out.

  “Oh, thank you so much.”

  “Right, let’s get it organised straight away.”

  He swept into the outer office with Mrs Pargeter in his wake and stopped behind the chair of the first smiling, immaculately-groomed girl in uniform.

  “Karen, could you find me today’s flights for Corfu? All airlines.”

  “Of course, HRH.”

  Buttons were punched and lines of schedules appeared on the computer screen.

  “Three o’clock Olympic looks good,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques. “Check first class availability.”

  Karen punched more buttons, looked at the screen, and grimaced. “Fully booked, I’m afraid.”

  “I’d be all right in economy.” said Mrs Pargeter humbly. She might have been going against the late Mr Pargeter’s principles, but knew she could cope with slumming it for three hours.

  “Nonsense,” said Hamish Ramon Henriques firmly.

  “Economy’s full too, anyway, HRH.”

  “All right, Karen. Hack into Olympic’s computer.”

  “Yes, HRH.” Her fingers fluttered knowledgeably over the keyboard.

  “You’ve got today’s password?”

  “Of course, HRH.”

  Hamish Ramon Henriques smiled at Mrs Pargeter. “Won’t take a moment.”

  She was tempted to ask for an explanation of what was going on, but a lifetime spent with the late Mr Pargeter had taught her to distinguish the appropriate occasions for enquiry and ignorance. This was undoubtedly a moment for ignorance.

  “Here’s the first class passenger list, HRH.”

  “Right.” He scanned the screen. “Got to be someone on their own… Preferably foreign… More difficult to complain effectively if there’s a language barrier… This one looks good – Mr Stratos Papadopoulos. Yes, do him, Karen.”

  “Very good, HRH.” She moved the cursor to the end of the passenger’s name and obliterated it.

  “If I could just trouble you for your passport, Mrs Pargeter…?”

  She handed it over and Karen filled in the details of ‘Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright’ on the passenger list. Then she pressed a few further controls.

  “That just overrides all the other data,” Hamish Ramon Henriques explained, “and alters the information on the computers in Athens and Corfu.”

  “But,” she couldn’t help asking, “will it really work?”

  Hamish Ramon Henriques looked hurt by her lack of confidence. “Of course, Mrs Pargeter. I pride myself on the efficiency of HRH Travel. We are doing this kind of stuff all the time, you know.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course you are. I’m so sorry.”

  ♦

  He took her to an excellent lunch at the Connaught, where they met up with Truffler Mason, who had little new to report but was very entertaining in his habitually lugubrious way. He told them about a bigamy case he’d investigated, in which the husband was maintaining eleven wives in flats in different parts of London. “When he got put away,” Truffler concluded, “London Transport nearly went out of business.”

  The same limousine was waiting for them outside the Connaught. Mrs Pargeter’s bill at the Savoy had been settled, her belongings packed and collected. Truffler said fond farewells, passed on his regards to Larry Lambeth, assured Mrs Pargeter that if he got any more information on Chris Dover she’d know it immediately and said he was on the end of a phone any time – day or night – that she might need him.

  Hamish Ramon Henriques insisted on accompanying her to Heathrow.

  Inside the limousine Mrs Pargeter commented on the fact that they had a different chauffeur for this trip. A spasm of anger crossed Hamish Ramon Henriques’ face. “The other one is no longer working for me,” he hissed.

  He really hadn’t liked that crack about ‘Crooks’ Tours’, had he?

  At Heathrow the limousine was once again parked in the Strictly-No-Parking area and the chauffeur instructed to wait while Hamish Ramon Henriques escorted his charge into the terminal.

  At the Olympic desk a large olive-skinned man was arguing noisily with one of the staff. Hamish Ramon Henriques engaged the attention of another official, who handed over Mrs Pargeter’s ticket without demur.

  “But this is ridiculous!” the large man was saying in heavily-accented English. “I know full well I made the booking! Four weeks ago! It was a first class seat, confirmed by my travel agent! The name is Papadopoulos! I am an important man, you know! How you have the nerve to tell me…”

  Mrs Pargeter moved meekly away from the desk. Well-trained as she had been by the late Mr Pargeter, she recognised yet another of those occasions when she didn’t need to know all the details of what was going on.

  Hamish Ramon Henriques bade her a devoted farewell, and Mrs Joan Frimley Wainwright passed unmolested through to Departures and into the first class lounge.

  ∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧

  Thirty

  Mrs Pargeter lay back
in Mr Papadopoulos’s first class seat, sipping her complimentary champagne, and thought about Joyce’s death.

  The connections between Chris Dover and Agios Nikitas were certainly building up. A week before, Mrs Pargeter believed her friend to have selected Corfu randomly as a holiday destination, but now it was clear that Joyce had been obeying very specific instructions. If Mrs Pargeter’s interpretation of the portion of the letter remembered by Mr Fisher-Metcalf was correct, then Chris Dover’s directions had pointed not just to Corfu, but to Agios Nikitas itself.

  Why? Why?

  If only she could see that letter… Mrs Pargeter felt confident that Joyce had taken it with her to Corfu, and equally confident that it had been removed from the dead woman’s belongings by her murderer.

  She took out Mr Fisher-Metcalf’s copy of what he had seen revealed by the sodium carbonate and studied it.

  “ – KITAS. If you want to find out, the explanation for everything will be found behind the old man’s p – ”

  She focused on the interrupted final word for a while, but was prompted to no obvious solution. There were so many words that began with ‘P’… Her thoughts kept turning mischievously – and unhelpfully – obscene. No, she wasn’t getting anywhere on that.

  She tried to process the new information she had about Georgio and Ginnie. It was the most direct connection that had yet been established between Chris Dover and Agios Nikitas. Georgio had gone to London to look into the dead man’s business affairs and, in the course of his investigation, he had presumably met and attracted Ginnie – attracted her sufficiently to make her leave England and set up home with him in Agios Nikitas.

  It made more sense that her employment as a tourist rep started while she was out on Corfu. Though just possible that she had taken the job in order to go and join Georgio, it was more likely that she had been recruited out there once she had mastered the language. There was little evidence that Georgio did much in the way of work, so no doubt whatever she earned was welcome.