not?â
âBecause,â Mrs Pargeter replied patiently, âneither of us has done anything wrong, have we?â
âNo. No, thatâs true.â
âSo . . . was it useful?â asked Sergeant Hughes eagerly when his superior was back in the surveillance car.
âOh, yes.â The Inspector slowly stroked his chin. âOh, yes. It was very useful indeed.â
âIn what way?â
âIâm afraid I canât be too specific on that point. Suffice it to say that there are certain moments, certain encounters in oneâs life which one instantly recognizes to be of enormous significance . . .â
â. . . if oneâs a good copper . . .?â Sergeant Hughes suggested rather sourly.
âIf one is a good copper, yes. And Iâve a feeling that that woman I have just met will prove to be extremely significant.â
âIn the case that weâre working on?â
âWell, I think I can confidently state . . .â But the dreamy look in the Inspectorâs eye was replaced by his more customary caution. âMaybe itâs better I donât answer that question for the time being.â The Sergeantâs inward groan of annoyance was very nearly audible. âNo, Hughes, you just take my word for it â a good copper can recognize when someone is going to be a significant factor in . . . er, any kind of operation.â
âYes,â responded Sergeant Hughes, once again resigned to the role of dumb sidekick. âBy the way, sir, what was the ladyâs name?â
A shadow crossed the Inspectorâs craggy face. âDo you know, I forgot to ask.â
Chapter Five
The following morning Garyâs limousine eased so effortlessly along the Bayswater Road that his passengers were unaware of the constant stopping and starting necessitated by the heavy traffic. As he drove, the chauffeur gave his view of the Chastaigne Varleigh job. âSeems to me, Mrs Pargeter, that weâre going to rather a lot of unnecessary trouble. After Mrs Chastaigne snuffs it, all you need is for someone to call the police and all the paintingsâll get back to their rightful owners anyway.â
Mrs Pargeter nodded. âI know, Gary. Thatâs what her son Ibbyâs proposing to do. But Veronica Chastaigne doesnât want her husbandâs memory besmirched after sheâs gone.â
âOh, right, got you.â He finessed the limousine down Kensington Church Street. âSo getting them back before she dies becomes like . . .â
âLike a point of honour, yes.â
âDonât worry.â Truffler Mason gave a lugubrious grin. âWeâll soon get it sorted, Mrs P. Palings Price got the best fine art knowledge in the business.â He gestured to a narrow shopfront. âThis is it, Gary.â
The trendily minimalist graphics over the door read: âDENZIL PRICE INTERIORSâ. The display window was boxed in with severe grey screens. In the centre of the space, illuminated by a hidden pinpoint spotlight, stood one grey steel chair whose sharp-angled design offered all the comfort of a kebab skewer.
Gary had parked on the double yellow lines with the limousineâs back door exactly opposite the shopâs door, and he leapt out to usher Mrs Pargeter across the pavement.
She looked up at the name of the shop and murmured, âIf it says âDenzilâ, whyâs he called âPalingsâ Price?â
âWell, obvious,â said Truffler. ââCause he used to be a fence.â
âAh.â
The interior of the shop was as starkly minimalist as the window might have led one to expect. The grey theme was continued on the walls, floor and ceiling. The only items of furniture the room boasted were three more of the steel chairs and an angular table, clearly by the same designer. All of them showed the priority of artistic originality over