Mrs. Pargeter's Plot by Simon Brett

Crabbe.’
    â€˜Oh?’ Even if it had not been so recently mentioned by Fossilface O’Donahue, the name would still have been very familiar. Keyhole Crabbe had been a significant cog in the late Mr Pargeter’s smoothly functioning business machine. And had indeed since that time used his specialized skills to help Mrs Pargeter investigate a murder on a housing estate called Smithy’s Loam.
    â€˜Yes,’ Thiffler went on. ‘Those two worked together a lot over the years. They was as thick as . . . as thick as . . . as thick as two close mates can be,’ he concluded discreetly.
    â€˜Really?’
    The detective nodded. ‘Those two go back a long, long way. If anyone could make old Concrete talk, it’d be Keyhole.’
    A light of excitement glowed in Mrs Pargeter’s violet-blue eyes. ‘Well then, why don’t we—’
    â€˜One small problem, though.’
    â€˜What?’
    Truffler spread his hands wide in a gesture of defeat. ‘Keyhole’s inside – doing a twelve-year stretch.’
    Mrs Pargeter sat back in disappointment and frustration.
    â€˜Mind you,’ said Truffler Mason, a twinkle lightening his lugubrious eye, ‘that’d present less of a problem to Keyhole than it would to most people . . .’

Chapter Twelve
    In a cell in Bedford Prison the inmate on the top bunk stirred, alerted by a metallic scraping sound he heard from the direction of the door. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked blearily, peering through the half-light.
    â€˜Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. ‘Sonly me,’ a voice replied from the gloom.
    â€˜You going out then?’
    â€˜Just nipping down the kitchen for a cuppa.’
    â€˜Oh, right.’ Reassured, the inmate on the top bunk snuggled back under his covers. ‘See you in the morning,’ he mumbled into a yawn.
    The practised hands of the man at the door eased a flexible metal probe along the narrow crack. He let out a little sigh as he felt it engage with the bolt. Gently he pressured it back till a soft click told him that the door was unlocked.
    He slipped through on to the dimly lit corridor. Stowing the probe in his pocket, he took out a compact ring of picklocks, instinctively found the relevant one and locked the cell door behind him.
    Then Keyhole Crabbe moved silently along the corridor to tackle his next obstacle, the door from his cell block into the main body of the prison.
    Three minutes later he slipped out of the front gates of Bedford Prison, listening for the bolt to spring shut behind him. By now he had a prison officer’s overcoat covering his prison uniform. Keyhole Crabbe moved out of the floodlit area and slid unobtrusively into the shadows that edged the prison walls.
    Walking – almost weaving – towards him along the pavement was a man in dinner suit and black tie. The prisoner recognized the prison governor, returning from a Police Federation Masonic shindig in London.
    â€˜Evening, Governor,’ said Keyhole Crabbe, with a jaunty half-salute to his temple.
    â€˜Evening,’ the prison governor replied, and walked on. Then he stopped for a moment, fuddled and bemused. He felt sure he recognized that face from somewhere.
    But by the time he turned round for a second look, the figure of Keyhole Crabbe had disappeared round a corner. The prison governor shook his head, shrugged, and continued on his way.
    Gary’s limousine was parked, as per arrangement, in a side street adjacent to the prison. ‘Any problems?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, as Keyhole Crabbe joined her in the back and Gary eased the car into gear.
    â€˜No, doddle,’ Keyhole replied. ‘I do it fairly regular, you know. Old lady gets lonely sleeping alone in that big bed.’
    â€˜How’s she keeping?’
    â€˜Oh, great.’
    â€˜And the kids?’
    â€˜Terrific. Would you believe there’s another one on the