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  Her mood was more sombre as she sat in her bedroom and thought about Lindy Galton’s murder.

  Because there was no other word she would use to describe it. Dr Potter’s ready acceptance of the ‘accident’ explanation had been dictated by concern for the Brotherton Hall business empire — or possibly even darker motives.

  But it had not been an accident. Lindy Galton was far too familiar with the workings of the Dead Sea Mud Baths to make the mistake of over-filling one.

  Anyway, in spite of what Dr Potter had said about the girl taking advantage of the facilities for her own benefit, Mrs Pargeter knew that Lindy Galton would never voluntarily have gone into the bath, because of her allergic reaction to the mud it contained.

  Which meant that someone must have pushed her in. Or, more probably, hit her over the head first and then pushed her in.

  What sickened Mrs Pargeter about the murder was the thought that she could have been responsible for it. Obviously not responsible for killing Lindy Galton, but for the fact that she had been killed.

  Mrs Pargeter had asked for information about Jenny Hargreaves and Lindy had fixed to meet her by the Dead Sea Mud Baths that evening. It was horribly possible that the girl had been murdered to prevent that meeting from taking place.

  Their fixing of the tryst could easily have been overheard. Mrs Pargeter concentrated, trying to visualize the morning’s scene.

  Stan the Stapler had certainly been present, on his ladder, clearing the obstruction in the mud tank.

  And there had been three other people, one in the bath, one drying under the sunlamp, and the third scrubbing off in the shower. They were all potential witnesses, but in each case, so complete had been their covering of mud, Mrs Pargeter could not even specify the suspect’s gender.

  The telephone’s ringing broke in on her gloomy thoughts.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Pargeter, it’s Truffler.’

  ‘Have you checked the hospitals?’

  He dismally confirmed that he had.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And — nothing, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What — you mean Jenny Hargreaves’ body wasn’t taken to any of them?’

  ‘No. And, if I may anticipate your next question, no body of a young girl who had died of anorexia has been taken to any of them for the past two years.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Pargeter, as new thoughts started to swirl in her head. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Is there anything else I can do?’ he asked. ‘Any further investigation?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied slowly. ‘Could you get back on to the hospitals — tomorrow morning it’d better be — and find out if any of them has taken delivery of another girl’s body?’

  ‘Another anorexia victim?’

  ‘No. This one died of asphyxiation. And her name was Lindy Galton.’

  ‘Right you are. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve got anything.’

  Mrs Pargeter sat in her room for a long time that night, lost in thought. But it wasn’t the kind of thought she enjoyed being lost in.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Truffler got back to her early the following morning, the Thursday. Lindy Galton — or rather the mortal and muddy remains of Lindy Galton — had been taken to one of the local hospitals the night before, and there — surprise, surprise — she had been certified ‘Dead on Arrival’.

  As yet, Truffler had not been able to find out what level of investigation would be conducted into the ‘accident’ at Brotherton Hall, though Mrs Pargeter was not anticipating anything very rigorous. She felt certain there would be a cover-up — which, considering the circumstances of Lindy Galton’s demise, was perhaps an unfortunate expression.

  So the two deaths had been treated differently. Though Mrs Pargeter had no doubt that both were suspicious, Lindy Galton’s had gone through the official channels, while the body of Jenny Hargreaves had apparently disappeared off the face of the earth.

  Assuming that it was the body of Jenny Hargreaves. Particularly since she had met Tom O’Brien, Mrs Pargeter couldn’t repress her hope that the girl who had starved to death had been someone else. She only had Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s assurance on the identity of the corpse, and he had certainly not been telling the complete truth.

  She knew from her own checking of the computer that ‘Jenny Hargreaves” registration document had been invalid and, although death had removed the opportunity of confirming her suspicions, Mrs Pargeter felt convinced that Lindy Galton had falsified the record on Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s orders.

  But, if Ank’s aim was simply to obscure the identity of the first dead girl, why had he used the name and address of a real person? The fabrication of a name would have left no leads to be followed.

  It was becoming increasingly urgent for Mrs Pargeter to have a straight talk to Ankle-Deep Arkwright.

  He wasn’t in his office. The girl on Reception said that Mr Arkwright would be away for a few days. No, she was afraid she couldn’t say where. But his absence would have no effect on Mrs Pargeter’s status at Brotherton Hall. Mr Arkwright had been very insistent before he left that Mrs Pargeter’s ‘Special Treatment’ should continue and that all the facilities of the ‘Allergy Room’ should be at her disposal for the remaining days of her stay.

  It reeked to Mrs Pargeter of guilty conscience. Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s message was effectively saying, ‘I’m going to be away until after you’ve left Brotherton Hall, so you won’t be able to ask me any awkward questions; but, to show there are no hard feelings between us, I’m making it possible for you to enjoy the rest of your time here.’

  Just as she was about to leave Reception, Mrs Pargeter had another thought and asked the girl where she might find Stan the oddjob man (she didn’t know how official his nickname ‘Stan the Stapler’ was). But there again she drew a blank. ‘Mr Bristow’ had a few days’ leave owing to him and would not be back until after the weekend.

  Maybe it was all coincidence, but Mrs Pargeter couldn’t help sensing a conspiracy to block her investigation. Lindy Galton was dead and the other people she wanted to talk to were suddenly unavailable. She supposed she could try to get more information out of Dr Potter, but wasn’t optimistic of success. He had been less than forthcoming in the Dead Sea Mud Bath unit the previous evening.

  What distressed her most about the situation was the involvement of Ank. How deeply he was in she didn’t know, but she reckoned this time it was well above the ankles.

  And that hurt. She had had dealings with a great many of the late Mr Pargeter’s associates since his death, and had found in every one of them unswerving loyalty and willingness to provide any services she might require. The thought of Ankle-Deep Arkwright being deliberately obstructive to her was an unattractive one.

  Still, she concluded with weary philosophy, it wouldn’t be the first time. The late Mr Pargeter had given his complete trust to Julian Embridge — and look what happened in Streatham.

  ‘Well, Ank always had an eye for the main chance,’ Truffler conceded cautiously. ‘Was prepared to do some nifty footwork to get out of one set-up into another that looked more profitable, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Mrs Pargeter’s hand played restlessly with the cord of the telephone. ‘It’s just the change in his behaviour was so sudden. He was all over me until I told him about having seen the body, then he clammed up. Which must mean he had something to do with the girl’s death, mustn’t it?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Could just mean that he knew a corpse was bad for business and wanted it hushed up.’

  ‘Yes. Oh, it’s so frustrating.’ Mrs Pargeter looked out of her window to the front drive of Brotherton Hall, where she had seen the ambulance only a few nights before. ‘If only I could talk to someone else who saw Jenny Hargreaves’ body… I even have moments when I start wondering if I imagined it.’

  ‘Mrs Pargeter…’ Reproach made Truffler’s voice sound even more funereal. ‘This doesn’t sound like the Mrs Pargeter I know
and love. I’ve never before heard you not being sure about things.’

  ‘No, you’re absolutely right. Not my normal style at all. I must snap out of it.’ She did, and her tone changed instantly. ‘Truffler, I want you to find out where Ank’s gone. Can you do that?’

  ‘Mrs Pargeter-’

  She stopped the tone of reproach from intensifying. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t have asked. Right, if you could find out where Ank is now, and if he’s been anywhere else in the last twenty-four hours…? And could you do the same for Stan the Stapler? I need to talk to him too.’

  ‘No problem, Mrs Pargeter. Anything else?’

  ‘Erm… Dr Potter. Yes, I’d be glad of any background you can get on Dr Potter.’

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘And I suppose the other question we ought to be asking is — if Jenny Hargreaves’ body wasn’t taken to a hospital…’

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Where was it taken?’

  Mrs Pargeter’s uncharacteristic lapse of confidence was quickly behind her. Suddenly she felt more positive. And she realized that there was one very simple piece of investigation she could do straight away.

  The girl at Reception made no demur about giving her the Dead Sea Mud Bath booking sheets.

  ‘Just want to see if I can fit another one in before I go. Felt so terrific after the last one I had,’ Mrs Pargeter lied breezily. ‘There aren’t any problems with the baths at the moment, are there?’

  The girl looked blank. ‘No. Why should there be?’

  ‘I thought I heard one of the staff saying there’d been a mess-up last night with a bath getting clogged up or something…?’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it.’ So the news of Lindy Galton’s death had, so far at least, been kept from the rest of the Brotherton Hall staff. ‘No, they would have told me if there’d been any problem.’

  The telephone’s ringing conveniently diverted the receptionist’s attention. Mrs Pargeter stopped looking at the current booking sheet and flipped back to the day before. She wanted to identify the three mud-camouflaged guests who, along with Stan the Stapler, might have overheard her arranging to meet Lindy Galton.

  Her own bath had been booked for ten o’clock. Other guests were booked in, two at nine and one at nine-thirty.

  The first two names, presumably belonging to the person who had been drying off under the sunlamp and the one in the shower, were unfamiliar.

  But the third, the name of the mud-covered figure in Cubicle One, did mean something to Mrs Pargeter.

  It was ‘Sue Fisher’.

  Chapter Twenty

  That day was the first time that Mrs Pargeter had entertained in the ‘Allergy Room’, but Gaston had been delighted when she mooted the idea. The prospect of having a larger audience for his underused gastronomic skills made him really push the boat out.

  They started with Pate de Lievre aux Pruneaux, followed by an unfussy but perfect Lobster Thermidor, and rounded the meal off with Millefeuille de Poire. Two bottles of Pouilly-Fuisse eased along the main courses, and a rather fine Beaume de Venise animated the dessert.

  Mrs Pargeter’s guest, professionally blase from lavish daily entertaining by public relations companies desperate for her attentions, was impressed.

  Ellie Fenchurch had changed considerably from the time that the late Mr Pargeter had plucked her from a journalism course at a provincial polytechnic. Then she had been a gangly teenager, all sharp angles and awkward questions. Now her sharp angles were accentuated by breathtakingly expensive designer clothes, and for asking awkward questions she was paid a six-figure salary by one of the national Sunday newspapers.

  Her weekly full-page interview was a monument to bitchiness. Her victims were flayed and exposed in all their rawness to the reading public. Their achievements were diminished, their private lives vilified, their mannerisms ridiculed, and their most deeply held beliefs presented as affectations. No one had come through unscathed from the blowtorch of Ellie Fenchurch’s interview technique.

  And an unending stream of international celebrities queued up to experience the humiliation.

  ‘No problem,’ she had said when Mrs Pargeter had rung up and suggested meeting. ‘I’m meant to be interviewing Warren Beatty over lunch, but I’m sure he’ll be over here again in the next decade or so — don’t you worry about it.’

  ‘Oh, but surely-?’ Mrs Pargeter had remonstrated. ‘I mean, it doesn’t have to be today it-’

  ‘Of course it has to be today,’ Ellie snapped back. ‘When I think of how much your late husband did for me…’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure… I’ll see at least you get a decent lunch out of it.’

  ‘Mrs Pargeter, I’d help you for a Quarterpounder and Small Fries,’ said the woman who made it a point of honour always to send the wine back at the Connaught.

  Ellie Fenchurch knew Brotherton Hall well. She’d never availed herself of the health spa’s services, but she could quote precisely which treatments various major celebrities had undergone there — along with their weight loss or gain to the last fraction of an ounce.

  In the same way she could enumerate the cosmetic operations of the famous — who’d had a hair transplant, who’d had a nose-job, who’d had liposuction, who’d had silicone implants, even (and this name surprised Mrs Pargeter) who’d had a penisaugmentation implant.

  Ellie’s list of celebrity addictions, adulteries and sexual perversions was equally comprehensive.

  It was for gleeful revelations such as these that every Sunday thousands of readers tossed aside the agglomeration of sections and supplements which surrounded it to home in first on her column.

  But no one would have believed that the steel-clawed termagant of the Sundays was the same woman who sat, docile in the Allergy Room’ of Brotherton Hall, floating in a haze of Beaume-de-Venise-tinted nostalgia.

  ‘Oh, when I think how much he did for me… He really taught me everything I know about the press. And he was so gentle, such a wonderful teacher. No, if anyone ever asked for the definition of a good man, they’d have to look no further than your husband.’

  Mrs Pargeter indulged in a moment of moist-eyed agreement.

  ‘And he was such an innovator,’ Ellie enthused on. ‘I think he was probably the first person fully to realize the importance of public relations in his particular line of business. And he did it with such subtlety. I mean there have been imitators — of course, every mould-breaking pioneer’s going to have imitators — but none of them had the finesse of your husband. The manipulation of the press by someone like… say, Robert Maxwell, just looks crude by comparison. No, the late Mr Pargeter was the guv’nor.’

  His widow, still moist-eyed, nodded.

  ‘And I was just so lucky to be the beneficiary of all that wisdom. He took me from nothing and he gave me everything. He showed me how to get the stories that mattered, the kind of exposure that counted. I mean, the things he managed to get in the gossip columns… some of the stuff was just breathtaking.’

  Another sentimental nod from Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘I think his triumph was the Princess of Wales. Oh, a real coup that was. I mean, to get William Hickey to print a story about a certain young man being seen dancing at Annabel’s with “herself’ — at the very time when the young man in question was… what shall we say… very differently occupied in Milton Keynes… Oh, and knowing that the Palace is never going to issue a denial or anything like that. That was just the best, the most public alibi I’ve ever come across. Brilliant.’

  ‘But you were the one who actually fed the story to William Hickey, weren’t you?’ said Mrs Pargeter, modestly spreading her late husband’s glory.

  ‘Yes. But the concept was his. Magic. Wonderful. No, by my definition, that was sheer genius.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much.’

  There was a silence, a moment of respect for the late Mr Pargeter’s departed genius.

  Ellie Fenchurch broke it. ‘Anyway, Mrs Pargeter, what can I do fo
r you? You name it — anything. You have only to say and it’s done.’

  ‘Well…’ Mrs Pargeter took another sip of the Beaume de Venise as she gathered her thoughts. ‘There is a celebrity whom I need to have investigated…’

  Ellie’s eyes sparkled. ‘Great. You’ve got the right person for any of that kind of stuff.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I thought. The fact is, I need to find out some fairly private things about this celebrity…’

  ‘Keep talking. This is meat and drink to me.’

  ‘Things this celebrity will probably be unwilling to divulge.. ’

  ‘You’re talking to the person who made a certain Cabinet Minister admit to his nappy-wearing habit, Mrs Pargeter.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course I am. Well, I just wondered… whether you’d be willing to help me in my investigation…?’

  ‘The answer’s been yes from the moment I first met your husband. Who is it I’m after?’ the journalist asked eagerly.

  ‘Sue Fisher.’

  ‘Oh yes. Yes…’

  And a new light came into Ellie Fenchurch’s eye. It was the light that comes into a fox’s eye in the moment between grabbing a chicken’s neck and breaking it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Stan Bristow…’ said Mrs Pargeter as the limousine sped towards the south coast on the Friday morning.

  ‘Who?’ asked Gary.

  ‘Stan the Stapler.’

  ‘Oh, him — right.’

  ‘Did you come across him much when he was working with my husband?’

  ‘Sure. He was always around in the early days. Mr Fixit he was — done the lot. Not the brightest — couldn’t talk, you probably know that — but a useful type to have on your side.’

  ‘Yes. There’s something odd about him, though…’

  ‘How’s that then? You come across him again, have you, Mrs Pargeter?’

  ‘He’s working at Brotherton Hall.’

  ‘Oh. Good old Ank. There’s loyalty. Keeping it in the family, eh?’