Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh (5 page)

There was no name between 'HADLEIGH' and 'HARRIS'.

So far as the Brotherton Hall computer was concerned, Jenny Hargreaves had never existed.

Mrs Pargeter was about to press 'R' to bring on to the screen a blank registration form – or maybe a registration from with Jenny Hargreaves' details hastily keyed in – when she heard the click of Ankle-Deep Arkwright's office door opening behind her and the sound of angry voices.

She abandoned the computer and moved to occupy a low armchair behind a pot of tall ferns, with an agility surprising for a woman in her late sixties.

She heard Ank's voice first, aggrieved and whining; it was the voice of a man who knew he was losing the argument.

'That's unfair! We had a deal!'

The voice that answered was equally sure that its owner was winning the argument. It was a voice over which no shadow of doubt had ever dared to cast itself.

'There are so many ways in which you've failed to fulfil your side of the deal that it's hardly worth discussing, Mr Arkwright!'

It was the voice to whose televised and videoed commands millions of housewives punished their bodies daily: the voice of Sue Fisher.

'But, Sue –'

'
Ms Fisher
to you.'

'All right then,
Ms Fisher
, you definitely agreed that the Brotherton Hall logo would be featured on your video.'

'That was when you definitely agreed to continue to assist in marketing
Mind Over Fatty Matter
products –'

'I'm not arguing about that. We're quite happy to –'

'Which agreement
includes
,' Sue Fisher continued inexorably, 'trying out such new products as my marketing department chooses to send to you.'

'Well, that's where there is a problem. Nothing against the idea in principle . . . as you know, I've been happy to go along with it in the past. It's just that . . . at the moment there are special circumstances. I think we should lay off the testing for a few –'

'It is not
testing
, Mr Arkwright, it is
trying out
!'

'Maybe, but I'm –'

'Anyway, if you've suddenly gone off testing, perhaps you've also gone off the idea of our marketing your homepack Brotherton Hall Dead Sea Mud treatment?'

'No, no, obviously I'm still very keen on that.' Ank's voice was now plaintively conciliatory. 'And the moment you want to try out one of our Dead Sea Mud Baths, Ms Fisher, you have only to –'

'Shut up, Mr Arkwright!'

From Mrs Pargeter's fern-screen perspective Sue Fisher's next words sounded louder. She was evidently making a dramatic exit from the office.

'The video we shot here is being edited next week. Starting Monday. If I don't hear from you before then, agreeing to my terms
exactly as I have spelled them out
, I guarantee that I will cut out every shot of the Brotherton Hall logo, every exterior of the house, in fact every clue that might possibly identify your tin-pot premises as the location where the shooting took place! Have you got that, Mr Arkwright?'

This last line came from further off, as Sue Fisher's tall and splendidly tuned body stalked off up the stairs, confident as ever of its owner's unassailable tightness.

Ankle-Deep Arkwright took out his frustration on the computer. 'Bloody girl's left the registration list up,' he murmured savagely, before stabbing at a key and stumping back into his office.

Mrs Pargeter had found the exchange very interesting. For a start, it. set a few hares of potential motivation running through her head.

But, perhaps more importantly, it also told her the High Priestess of
Mind Over Fatty Matter
was still at Brotherton Hall. And had presumably been there the previous evening.

Sue Fisher wouldn't have been present at the Nine O'Clock Weigh-in of the guests for whom she felt such obvious contempt.

Which meant that, like Mrs Pargeter, she too might have witnessed the removal of a corpse from Brotherton Hall.

Assuming, of course, that she didn't have any other involvement in Jenny Hargreaves' death.

CHAPTER 10

The red light on the telephone was blinking when Mrs Pargeter got back to her room. She rang through to the switchboard and received the message that a Mr Mason had called.

'Truffler,' she said, as soon as she got through.

'Ah, Mrs Pargeter,' he responded in mournful delight. 'Thank you for getting back so promptly.'

'So . . . have you managed to find some information on Jenny Hargreaves?'

'Just a few starting points,' he replied modestly. 'Nineteen years old. Only child. Brought up in Portsmouth – parents pretty hard-up. Jenny did well at the local comprehensive – one of the few to make it from there through to university. In her second year at Cambridge, studying French and Spanish. Doing very well, good grades and that, until end of last term when she suddenly left a week early. This term's only just started, but there's been no sign of her.'

Not surprising if she's dead, thought Mrs Pargeter. 'As always, Truffler, your "starting points" are better than most investigators' final reports. Found out anything about her parents?'

'Of course.' He was a little aggrieved that she'd felt the need to ask the question. 'Nice couple. Both retired, must've been quite old when Jenny was born. Living on the state pension – no spare cash for anything.'

'So Jenny'd be on a full grant at Cambridge?'

'Guess so. Not, from all accounts,' he added lugubriously, 'that that goes far these days.'

'No. Boyfriends – anything in that line?'

'Apparently, yes. Tom O'Brien – same year at Cambridge, also doing French and Spanish, though at a different college. Came from a comprehensive too. From all accounts it's a good relationship, love's young dream – though apparently she didn't even tell him where she was going off to at the end of last term.'

'But why didn't someone raise the alarm about her then? Surely when a nineteen-year-old girl just vanishes off the face of the earth someone's going to –'

'Ah, but she didn't just vanish off the face of the earth. Kept ringing her parents through the holidays, every week, telling them she was OK.'

'Did she say where she was or what she was up to?'

'Doing a holiday job, she said. Implied it was market research, interviewing people, that kind of stuff. Didn't say where, though.'

'And the boyfriend – Tom – she didn't call him?'

'Seems not. Jenny only contacted her parents.'

'And Tom didn't check things out with them?'

'Once. Otherwise no. Seems there wasn't that much warmth between Tom O'Brien and the elder Hargreaves.'

'They didn't approve of him?'

'Gather not. From all accounts he's a bit political for their taste.'

'What kind of political? Anarchist bomb-throwing or just youthful idealism?'

'Youthful idealism. Saving the planet, exposing the corporate destroyers of our natural heritage, you know the kind of number. Left-wing with it, though, and it seems that's the bit the Hargreves couldn't cope with. They're deep-dyed Conservative – you know, as blue as only the respectable and impoverished working class can be.'

'Ah. Have you actually talked to Tom O'Brien, Truffler?'

'No. Most of this stuff I got secondhand. 'Cause that's the funny thing, see . . . Tom hasn't turned up for the beginning of this term either.'

'Oh.' A chilling thought came into Mrs Pargeter's mind. 'I hope nothing's happened to him . . .'

'No reason why it should have done.'

In any other voice the words would have brought reassurance. As spoken by Truffler Mason they had the reverse effect.

'No. No, one death's quite enough, isn't it?' Mrs Pargeter was silent for a moment. 'Must be dreadful for the poor girl's parents. I mean, to lose an only child at that age – well, at any age, but particularly when she's just setting out on her adult life . . . dreadful. How did they take the news, Truffler?'

'So far as I can discover, Mrs Pargeter, they don't know about it yet.'

'What?' she asked in surprise.

'I mean, it was less than twenty-four hours after the girl's death that I was checking out the parents . . . hospital might not have had time to track them down yet . . .'

'No, perhaps not,' Mrs Pargeter mused.

'If they still don't know when I'm next in touch . . . do you reckon I should tell them?'

'No. No, Truffler. Give it a bit more time.'

Mrs Pargeter decided that she needed a bit more time, too. When the booking had been made, she and Kim had agreed, in spite of Ankle-Deep Arkwright's assurances that they could stay as long as they wanted to, that three days would be about right. Which meant they were due to leave in the early evening of the following day, the Wednesday.

But those arrangements had been made before Mrs Pargeter had anything at Brotherton Hall to investigate. Now a rather longer stay was in order. Leaving on the Saturday would be about right.

Kim Thurrock, tracked down once again to the gym where she was doing doughty things with dumb-bells, required the minimum of persuasion. She was so revelling in what she regarded as the pampering of her body (though 'punishment' was the word Mrs Pargeter would have used), that the idea of continuing it was infinitely appealing. And no, the girls were no problem, they loved being looked after by her Mum. So did the poodles.

Also, of course, the longer Kim stayed at Brotherton Hall, the less time she would have before Thicko's release for backsliding from her regime – and the less traitorous pounds would have an opportunity to infiltrate themselves back on to her body.

Ankle-Deep Arkwright was less enthusiastic about the extension to their stay when Mrs Pargeter mooted it. The generosity of his initial welcome changed to much whingeing about the availability of rooms and abject reminders that there was a recession on.

She answered the first objection by checking future bookings at Reception, and the second by insisting that she was happy to pay for the extra days.

Ankle-Deep Arkwright, realizing that further opposition would raise more suspicions than it might quell, agreed miserably.

'What's the matter, Ank?' Mrs Pargeter asked gently. 'There's something upsetting you, isn't there?'

She could see he was torn. Ranked on one side stood his loyalty to the widow of the late Mr Pargeter, and the alluring relief of talking to someone about his problems.

On the other side stood fear. Though fear of what or of whom Mrs Pargeter could not begin to guess.

The fear won.

'All right, Mrs P, go ahead, book the extra days. I can't stop you. But I must tell you that I'm just about to get very busy, so I may not be able to give you quite the personal attention I have up till now.'

The message to Mrs Pargeter was clear. You're on your own. Keep your nose out of my business.

CHAPTER 11

Before the interview finished, Mrs Pargeter asked Ankle-Deep Arkwright whether their disagreement would mean the end of her "Special Treatment" status, and he fell over himself to assure her that she was still welcome to all of the facilities of the 'Allergy Room'. Again, half of him seemed desperate to get rid of her, while the other half still wanted to provide all the cosseting due to the widow of the late Mr Pargeter.

She got the feeling he was not blocking her progress from any personal animus, but because of pressure from a person or persons unknown. Since Mrs Pargeter had always favoured pulling bushes up by the roots rather than beating about them, she again asked directly what his problem was or who was making his life difficult, but she got nothing back. Ankle-Deep Arkwright clammed up and brought their interview to an abrupt conclusion.

There was not a lot more she could do that day on the investigation front. She was waiting for more information from Truffler Mason, and her enquiries at Brotherton Hall could not progress further until Lindy Galton returned to work the following day.

But Mrs Pargeter was not the sort to let this enforced idleness prey on her spirits. She resigned herself philosophically to a day of indulgence. Her exercise programme incorporated an hour in the jacuzzi and another sweet nostalgia-inducing massage session with the ex-baker. And she continued to warm the cockles of Gaston's heart by the relish with which she despatched his
Truite aux Amandes Style Paysan
complemented by a
Sorbet de Cassis
at lunchtime, and his
Carre d'Agneau Imperiale
followed by
Tira-mi-su
at dinner.

With the former meal she drank a young Vouvray; with the latter a mature Rioja Gran Reserva as thick and rich as arterial blood.

There were worse ways of spending a day.

Tracking down Lindy Galton the following morning proved harder than it should have been. The girl on Reception confirmed that Lindy was back at work, but then became evasively ignorant of precisely which duties she had been allocated. Whether this ignorance was genuine or commanded by Ankle-Deep Arkwright was impossible to know.

Kim Thurrock proved more helpful. So immersed had she become in the life style of Brotherton Hall that she seemed to know everything that went on there. Kim, whom Mrs Pargeter found on her back in the gym pushing up impossible-looking weights with her feet, said she thought she'd seen Lindy going through to the Dead Sea Mud Bath area.

So Mrs Pargeter went down to the Brotherton Hall basement, but was denied entrance by an officious teenager with the obligatory perfect body. 'Only guests who've actually booked baths are allowed through,' she announced in less than perfect vowels.

There was nothing else for it. Mrs Pargeter returned to Reception and booked herself a Dead Sea Mud Bath for ten o'clock.

Beneath Brotherton Hall was a considerable network of cellars. Part of this had been developed into a well-appointed basement area, which had been through many incarnations since the building's consecration to the religion of health.

Following the passing fads of fitness regimes, it had housed Steam Baths, Ice Baths, Traditional Turkish Baths, Hose Baths, Needle-Sharp Showers, and Electro-Tingle Pools. (These last were introduced for a treatment whereby very mild electric currents were passed through a guest's bathwater. The facility never proved popular and after a couple of rather nasty electrocutions had been replaced by Stagnant Water Tubs, another failure.)

The basement's current incarnation was certainly its messiest and, Mrs Pargeter surmised, wrinkling her nose as she entered the bath area, probably its most malodorous. Maybe the Dead Sea did smell like that, but she couldn't remove from her mind the image of Stan the Stapler and his shovel. A fetid flavour of pondwater hung in the air.

The Dead Sea Mud Bath treatment was, like many such regimes, based on a book. In common with all such fitness books, the argument of
New Life From Dead Sea Mud
could be expressed in one sentence – in this case 'Dead Sea Mud is good for you.'

But, also in common with all such fitness books, this simple thought was backed up by all kinds of pseudo-scientific research and lots of charts and graphs. Dead Sea Mud, it was asserted, contained unrivalled concentrations of natural chemicals. Filtered and purified through the varied strata of clay, marl, soft chalk, sand, and gypsum, were abundant deposits of sulphide, potassium, magnesium, bromine, chlorine, and sodium chloride. The fact that the Dead Sea was, at four hundred metres below sea level, the lowest terrestrial area of water, meant that it was closer to the health-giving radiances and healing magnetism of the Earth's core. The mud's anti-corruptive powers had been proved historically because the Dead Sea was reputed to have engulfed the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. Its mystical significance could be judged from the fact that it was fed by the sacred River Jordan, as well as streams running through the wadis of al-Uzaymi, Zarqa'Ma'in, al-Mawjib, and al-Hasa.

And, needless to say, the book contained some stuff about ley lines.

All of this material had been assembled by a publisher secure in the knowledge that
New Life from Dead Sea Mud
was not the kind of book that anyone would actually read.

Its tiny thesis, supported by some really arty photographs and a couple of meaningless graphs of mineral analysis or weight/body-fat ratios, would be just the right size to fill a colour supplement serialization, which would recoup most of the production costs.

Then the book itself (published in the run-up to Christmas) would be bought by faddists, friends of faddists, husbands trying gently to hint that their wives were letting their appearance go a bit, and women determined to change their lives completely after the breakdown of relationships.

There were sufficient such purchasers about to ensure reasonable sales figures, or even, with a bit of serendipitous publicity – like, say, a chat-show host showing what a good sport he was by getting into a Dead Sea Mud Bath – an entry into the bestsellers lists.

The fact that none of the purchasers or recipients of the book would read more than a couple of pages did not give the publishers a moment's unease. They felt absolutely confident that they had produced a product with enough confusing words in it to make people think they were learning something. And, more importantly, a product that would sell.

At the end of the process the public consciousness would have assimilated the dubious thesis of the book's title, that 'Dead Sea Mud is good for you.'

And it would stay in the public consciousness until the next fitness fad came along.

The one detail never mentioned anywhere in the book was that any fish foolish enough to stray into the waters of the Dead Sea dies instantly.