Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour (5 page)

‘Actually,' Truffler's voice broke into her reverie, ‘you know the man I'm talking about.'

‘Do I? Who is it?'

The detective grinned. ‘HRH.'

‘Oh, goodie,' said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Now he's someone I'd really like to see again.'

The flat in which Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson spent as little time as possible was only one step up from a bedsitter, and demonstrated as many little personal touches as the average policeman's office. Indeed, the flat's sitting room was virtually identical to the office where the Inspector worked at the station. It had the same cream walls and 1950s metal window frames. The curtains were institutional green and, on the rare occasions they were pulled across, gave an uneven striped effect from years of bunched bleaching by the sun. Furniture was minimal and functional – chairs with scuffed light wood arms and prolapsed seats in green mock leather, a table whose Formica top was scarred and pitted with old cigarette burns. Though the kitchen was rarely used for cooking, just as a depository for the foil and polystyrene boxes of takeaways, it still contrived to be extremely grimy. When he walked in there the Inspector's soles made a slight sucking sound against the sticky linoleum.

And the atmosphere of the flat was heavy with the smell of long-dead cigarettes.

Still, Craig Wilkinson had years before ceased to be aware of his surroundings, and it was a long time since anyone else had been there to notice them. Nowadays he had the same attitude to sex as he did to promotion. Since all attempts were doomed to failure, it was hardly worth filling in the metaphorical application forms. What was the point of going through the elaborate – and expensive – rigmarole of chatting up, buying drinks for, buying meals for, and luring back home, someone with whom it was never going to work out from the start? Wilkinson found that, as he progressed through his fifties, his libido had shrunk till it was like some residual nub of an organ left behind by the evolutionary process, a vermiform appendix whose function wasn't quite clear. The Inspector did sometimes still have romantic thoughts, but he very rarely had erotic ones.

The predominant thoughts he had when he was in the flat tended to be gloomy ones, which was why he spent the minimum amount of time possible there. Sitting alone, puffing on another cigarette, he would become obsessed by old fiascos and frustrations, by the failures in both his private and professional lives. Because, in spite of what he had hinted at to Sergeant Hughes, Inspector Wilkinson had never really ‘made his mark' in the Police Force. Nor, it has to be said, had he ‘made his mark' significantly at an emotional level. The attitude of his former wife to him was one of undiluted contempt and, so far as he could tell, none of his other women remembered him as anything other than a mildly distasteful detour from the main ongoing journey of their lives.

But, in spite of all this, Craig Wilkinson was not a pessimist. Gloomy and grumpy he might be, but it never occurred to him for a moment that his aspirations were at an end, that he was destined never to ‘make his mark'. Oh no, in his heart of hearts, he knew it would still happen. He'd left it late perhaps, but he, Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson, was still going to be remembered as a remarkable detective.

He had long since recognized that his basic problem was one of identity. The worlds of television cop shows, which he watched avidly, and crime fiction, which he read avidly, were full of truly individual policemen, quirky, gifted, eccentric, bolshie, hard-drinking, unlikely, but, above all, memorable. There were even one or two such men and women – though obviously many less – in the world of the real Police Force. And Inspector Wilkinson longed passionately to join their number.

The trouble was that police work remained an incredibly painstaking and repetitive business. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, as boring as hell. And this quality was one which the Inspector's character, in spite of any wishes he might have for himself, reflected all too accurately.

At times he'd tried to make himself more interesting by grafting characteristics on to his personality. There had been experiments with alcohol. Booze, after all, was the natural accompaniment to the long lonely sessions of self-recrimination in his flat. He should be one of those cops who was never without a bottle at the bedside, a hip flask in the raincoat pocket. Every morning he should wake up with a brain-crushing hangover, but still somehow manage the day's work. He should get into fights and smash up furniture in bars. It would be entirely appropriate – indeed the perfect solution to his lack of identity – for Craig Wilkinson to be a cop with a drink problem.

The trouble was, he didn't like the taste of alcohol that much. He wasn't teetotal, but found that after a couple of drinks he'd had enough and didn't want any more. What he really enjoyed was sitting down with a nice cup of tea, a cigarette, and a packet of chocolate bourbon biscuits.

He also disliked the way alcohol affected his stomach. Even more, he disliked the way it affected his judgement. Craig Wilkinson hated to feel that he was losing control at any level.

So, whatever his route to becoming a memorable cop was, it wouldn't be as a boozer.

Still, there are other ways, he thought to himself the evening after he'd met the woman in the limousine, other ways I can ‘make my mark'. I'm not finished yet, by any manner of means.

He sat in his institutional green armchair, lighted cigarette in hand, with a pot of tea and an open packet of chocolate bourbon biscuits, and for once his mind wasn't flooded with gloom. The old thoughts of past failures were there, sure enough, but they didn't swamp him. Now he had a glimmer of hope. Now there was something he could achieve, something so magnificent that it would pay off all debts, eclipse all memories of the operations that had not worked out for him.

Yes, even of the big one, the one whose recollection never failed to bring him a new pang of disappointment. He had been so close then, so very close. As usual, he had taken the ‘softly, softly catchee monkey' approach. He had started with a tip-off from an informer, an anonymous voice at the end of a telephone line who called himself ‘Posey Narker'. That initial contact had been expensive, but worth every penny.

And from that first detail Wilkinson had built up a huge database of information. He had resisted the temptation to rush, to pick up minor villains as soon as he had enough evidence to convict them. He had waited, patiently watching link join to link, seeing where the operations of one villain overlapped with those of another, until he had almost mapped out the complete network.

And he had watched, with mounting excitement, the direction in which these lines of connection pointed. He had seen how they were all converging, all coming together till they met in one man, the spider at the centre of the huge complex web.

And Wilkinson had identified that man, built up a dossier of evidence against him. He'd been within an ace of catching the man, of putting him under arrest and sending out wider and wider ripples of lesser arrests until the whole organization would have been under lock and key.

Would have been. Would have been . . . if something hadn't gone wrong.

But something had gone wrong. And it had left Inspector Wilkinson seething with frustration for the rest of his life.

Until now. Now he had a glimmer of a hope of a possibility of staging something that would settle the old scores for good. Once this was sorted, no one would ever forget the name of Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson.

He poured himself some more tea, puffed on his cigarette, and picked up a fresh chocolate bourbon biscuit. Once this was sorted, he reflected, everything he did would become trendsetting. The role model for all future detectives would be of a tough, hardbitten tea-drinker who liked chocolate bourbon biscuits.

As he thought this heart-warming thought, Craig Wilkinson mouthed silently, confidently to himself, the name of his old adversary. ‘Oh yes, I think I'm about to erase all memories of the failure I had in nailing you down . . . Mr Pargeter.'

The Indian summer was continuing. It was a glowing, golden September morning. An unobtrusive brass plate on the portico of the splendid Berkeley Square frontage identified the offices of ‘HRH Travel'. Mrs Pargeter billowed elegantly through the front door and was greeted by a perfectly uniformed girl, whose gold name-badge revealed that she was called ‘Lauren', and who had risen from her Reception desk as if forewarned of the new arrival.

‘Mrs Pargeter, isn't it?' she enunciated beautifully, making a statement rather than a question, and proffering an immaculately manicured hand.

Mrs Pargeter shook the hand and readily acknowledged her identity. ‘You've got a good memory, Lauren. Been a while since I've been in here.'

‘HRH is very keen that we should always remember our clients' names. Particularly our most important clients.' Mrs Pargeter knew this was only professional flannel, but still found it comforting. ‘HRH is expecting you,' the girl continued, as she pressed a button on her desk and announced, ‘Sharon, Mrs Pargeter is here.'

In a matter of moments Sharon appeared. Like Lauren, she was fastidiously well-groomed and dressed in the same expensively cut charcoal-grey uniform with a small ‘HRH' logo worked in gold thread on the breast pocket. ‘Mrs Pargeter, how very good to see you again,' Sharon elocuted enthusiastically. ‘If you'd like to follow me to the lift, HRH is really looking forward to seeing you.'

On the first floor Mrs Pargeter was escorted along the aisle of a high-tech open-plan office. On either side more immaculate girls in charcoal-grey uniforms sat at computers or talked on telephones. As she passed, Mrs Pargeter heard fragments of their conversations.

‘. . . that our representative will meet you at the Lagos Hilton with all the documentation in your new name. Just look out for the HRH logo . . .'

‘. . . but at Athens airport make sure you put the bag with the gun in through the
right-hand
x-ray machine. That will be malfunctioning at the time . . .'

‘. . . to let you know that your tickets will arrive by courier this afternoon, along with tourist guidebooks, a plan of the bank interior and exterior, and a map showing the route the bullion van will be taking . . .'

‘. . . you'll have no problem fitting the body into the windsurfer carrying-case. It could have been designed for the purpose . . .'

‘. . . Good heavens, no! The Passport Control officers will already have
been
bribed. It's all part of the HRH service . . .'

Mrs Pargeter was, as ever, reassured by the efficiency and attention to detail that characterized HRH Travel.

The company's founder stood in the doorway of his office to greet her. Tall, distinguished, olive-skinned, with almost operatic white hair and moustache, Hamish Ramon Henriques was dressed in another of his punctiliously cut tweed three-piece suits. That, coupled with the regimental tie, gave off an aura of old money, reliability and a world in which no guarantees were required other than the handshake of a gentleman.

The handshake of a gentleman that he gave to Mrs Pargeter was warm and enthusiastic. He beamed, his black eyes sparkled, as he welcomed her in his old-school tones. ‘Such a pleasure, Mrs Pargeter. Been far too long. Such an unqualified delight to see you. Such a pleasure.'

They sat in his office over the tray with silver coffee pot and bone china cups that had been brought in by a charcoal-grey-suited girl called Karen, and Mrs Pargeter politely asked Hamish Ramon Henriques about the progress of his business.

‘Can't complain, can't complain,' he replied. ‘Everything absolutely tickety-boo, in fact. And improving all the time, I'm glad to say. Most businesses are becoming global these days. As a result, everyone's travelling more – which can only be good news for an organization like mine.'

‘And is it the same sort of destinations it's always been?'

‘Well, those continue to be popular – Costa del Sol, South America . . . Changes a bit according to which countries make extradition treaties, of course, but it's steady business. Also doing a lot of work now with what used to be called the Eastern Bloc. That's opening up a lot. Then Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, you know . . . Even starting to do quite a bit in China.' Hamish Ramon Henriques smiled a complacent smile. ‘One of the unfailing rules of economics, you know – wherever capitalism goes, criminals will quickly follow. And if there's one thing criminals are always going to need, it's transport.'

An unfocused mistiness had come into Mrs Pargeter's eyes. The look frequently appeared there when ‘criminals' were mentioned; it was almost as if she had an allergy to the word. ‘Well,' she said vaguely, ‘I wouldn't know about that.'

HRH seemed to realize he had transgressed some invisible barrier between them. ‘No, of course not,' he agreed hastily. ‘And no reason why you ever should.' Moving the conversation on to safer ground, he asked, ‘Anyway, what can I do for you this bright and beautiful morning, Mrs Pargeter?'

‘Well,' she began tentatively, ‘I hope it's not too much trouble . . .'

‘Contradiction in terms! Positive oxymoron – the idea that anything I might undertake for you could be too much trouble. I and my entire staff are at your disposal for whatever you should require. Oh, Mrs Pargeter, when I think back to how much your husband did for me in the early days of my career—'

‘Yes, yes.' It wasn't that she didn't appreciate this litany of thanks to the late Mr Pargeter; it was just that she had heard it so many times before. ‘What I need, HRH, is help in the transportation of some paintings.'

‘And would these be paintings whose . . .' he paused, selecting his words with punctilious discretion ‘whose provenance might be such that their transportation should not be . . . too public . . .?'