Mrs. Pargeter's Plot by Simon Brett Page B

was lucky to escape in one piece.’
    â€˜So what kind of humorous “restitooshun” do you reckon he’s going to make you for that?’
    Gary shook his shoulders, as if suddenly cold. ‘I shudder to think.’
    â€˜Come on,’ Mrs Pargeter urged comfortingly. ‘No point in worrying about things till they happen, is there?’
    â€˜Where Fossilface O’Donahue’s concerned,’ said a doom-laden Keyhole Crabbe, ‘I’m rather afraid there is.’
    â€˜It’ll be fine,’ Mrs Pargeter said blithely. She looked at her watch. ‘Should be in London in a couple of hours. Don’t envisage any problems that end, do you, Keyhole?’
    â€˜Nah,’ he replied. Done Wandsworth lots of times, haven’t I? This time of night screws’ll be asleep, anyway. Think everyone’s banged up, don’t they?’ And, his worries about Fossilface O’Donahue temporarily allayed, Keyhole Crabbe chuckled fruitily.
    In a cell in Wandsworth Prison, Concrete Jacket lay wakeful and troubled on his bunk. Beneath him his cell-mate snored deeply.
    There was a scraping noise at the cell door. Concrete tensed. As the sound continued, he eased himself off down to the floor, and picked up an enamel jug from the table. He raised it to defend himself as the door opened.
    The outline of a man appeared in the doorway. Concrete Jacket moved forward aggressively and hissed, “Ere, what the hell do you think you’re—’
    â€˜Concrete, it’s me – Keyhole.’
    The jug was halted in mid-descent towards the intruder’s head. ‘Keyhole Crabbe?’
    â€˜Right.’
    Concrete Jacket looked bewildered in the half-light as Keyhole gently closed the door behind him. ‘What you doing here then? Got transferred down from Bedford, have you?’
    â€˜Nah,’ Keyhole replied easily. ‘Just needed to see you.’
    A suspicious light came into Concrete’s eye. ‘’Ere, this isn’t an escape, is it?’
    His visitor was appalled by the suggestion. ‘Good heavens, no. Very risky business, escape.’
    â€˜Too right,’ the builder agreed. ‘Makes you a marked man, that does.’
    Keyhole nodded. ‘Oh yeah. Wouldn’t catch me doing it. Serve your time like a good boy, no fuss, get your remission for good behaviour – that’s my philosophy.’
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜It’s all right to nip out for kids’ birthdays, wedding anniversaries, that kind of number – otherwise, you just got to knuckle down and do your bird.’
    â€˜Right.’ Concrete Jacket nodded his endorsement of these Victorian values. He gestured to a chair and the two prisoners sat down. ‘So what is it then, Keyhole? Great to see you, by the way.’
    â€˜You too, my son.’ Keyhole gestured to the sleeping cell-mate, the rhythm of whose snores had not changed at all. ‘All right to talk with, er . . .?’
    â€˜Oh yeah,’ Concrete replied. ‘That one’d sleep through the Third World War.’
    Keyhole Crabbe nodded with satisfaction and drew a half-bottle of whisky out of his coat pocket. His friend’s eyes lit up. Two enamel mugs were quickly found and charged. They were clinked and gratefully sampled.
    â€˜Now,’ said Keyhole Crabbe, ‘it’s about this Willie Cass business, Concrete . . .’

Chapter Thirteen
    The first streaks of dawn were lightening the sky as Gary’s limousine drew up outside the main gates of Bedford Prison. The back door opened and Keyhole Crabbe emerged.
    â€˜Sure you’ll be OK?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
    â€˜No problem,’ the prisoner replied with a grin. ‘Dozy lot in here.’
    â€˜I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.’
    Keyhole grimaced wryly. ‘Just sorry I couldn’t get you more. Afraid Concrete really clammed up on me.’
    â€˜Well, I’m