Mrs. Pargeter's Plot (23 page)

At Mrs Pargeter's plot, it was as if nothing had changed. True, Willie Cass's body was no longer lying at the bottom of the embryo wine cellar, nor was there any vestige left on the site of the police investigations. All their tapes and canvas screens, cars and caravans, had gone. The foundations of the house once again marked out their bald relief map, rendered rather desolate by the thin rain that fell unremittingly.

But the weather couldn't dampen Mrs Pargeter's spirits. Now she was back standing on her plot, all the excitement of what was going to happen there once again caught hold of her. Her high heels picked their way almost skittishly through the mud and caked cement dust.

She turned triumphantly to Concrete Jacket, whose gumboots moved along more sedately behind her. ‘It's going to be great, isn't it?'

‘Certainly is, Mrs P.'

‘And everything all right over at your place?'

‘You bet.'

‘Tammy got her home back just like she wants it?'

‘Even better.' He grinned. ‘Thing is, all that destruction they done was kind of a blessing in disguise. Give me the opportunity to do the place over, even better. Whole new lot of features I've put in.'

With great control, Mrs Pargeter managed to stop herself from wincing at the thought of what new decorative extravagances Concrete might have perpetrated.

‘Glad to hear it. So . . .' she continued, tactfully casual, ‘. . . with those three villains inside and you cleared of everything, freed without a stain on your character, and your own house all sorted out to Tammy's satisfaction . . . there's nothing to stop you getting on here now, is there, Concrete?'

He grinned magnanimously. ‘Not a thing, Mrs Pargeter. Have you settled into the house by Christmas, no problem.'

They were now once again standing by what would in time be the wine cellar. It was loosely boarded over, as it had been on their previous visit. Mrs Pargeter looked down and grinned wryly. ‘Hope we haven't got any more nasty surprises in there, Concrete.'

‘Don't you worry about a thing,' he said jovially, and moved forward to push the boards aside. His jaw dropped. ‘What the . . .'

They both looked down in amazement. Leaning against the side of the brick-lined well were two paintings. Their age and subject matter suggested they were Old Masters; indeed, the dark browns of the smaller had about them the definite look of a Rembrandt.

Attached to the frame of the larger painting was a sheet of paper. It was headed, Mrs Pargeter observed with a sinking feeling, by a smiley face.

I SAY,
I SAY,
I SAY,
the legend read,
WHY DID THEY HANG THAT PICTURE?

I DON'T KNOW, WHY DID THEY HANG THAT PICTURE?

BECAUSE THEY COULDN'T FIND THE ARTIST.

Underneath this a note had been scribbled: ‘Don't worry, Concrete. I won't let you down again. This time I've remembered to ring the police.'

‘Oh no,' Mrs Pargeter moaned. ‘I don't believe . . .'

But her words trailed away in an awful moment of
déjà vu
– or perhaps
déjà entendu
. There was a sound of approaching sirens. Mrs Pargeter and Concrete Jacket turned, and the
déjà entendu
was supplemented by
déjà vu
. They looked down the hill to where two police cars were screeching to a halt beside Gary's Rolls-Royce and the Range Rover.

Mrs Pargeter saw the prospects for her house's completion fade once again away into the distance.

‘Oh,
Fossilface
!' she groaned in exasperation.