Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour by Simon Brett Page B

way to a flicker of hope. Everything wasn’t all over. There was still one lead to follow up, one door imperceptibly ajar, which, if pushed with sufficient delicacy, might open up the route to a totally new area of success.
    The change of mood was prompted by the sight of a woman emerging from the hospital’s front gates. Broad-beamed and impressive in her bright silk print dress, she stepped daintily towards the convenient limousine which had just slid to the kerb.
    Inspector Wilkinson stepped out of his car and in two or three large strides had moved across to intercept her. ‘Excuse me, madam . . .’
    He caught the full beam of the violet-blue eyes, which showed their customary expression of puzzled innocence. ‘Yes, can I help you?’
    â€˜You may recall we met the other day, when I was making enquiries about this limousine.’
    â€˜Yes, of course I remember.’
    â€˜And it struck me that on that occasion I didn’t introduce myself . . .’
    â€˜No.’ She sounded a little mystified by this information.
    â€˜. . . though you did recognize – correctly – that I am a member of the Police Force.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Well, I felt I should tell you that I am Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson.’
    â€˜Ah. Well, thank you. A pleasure to meet you.’
    Their eyes were locked. The Inspector seemed to be making a mental note of every detail of her appearance. As his scrutiny continued, Mrs Pargeter began to feel a little uneasy. Why was he so interested in her? Surely he couldn’t know anything about the job she had agreed to undertake for Veronica Chastaigne?
    She let out a little cough to break the impasse. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way, Inspector Wilkinson.’
    He stood aside. ‘Of course.’ She turned away towards the limousine, but his voice stopped her. ‘You didn’t tell me your name.’
    â€˜No, I didn’t.’ She faced him once again, with complete composure. ‘My name is Mrs Pargeter.’
    â€˜Oh,’ he said, surprised. It was a name that had very significant reverberations for Inspector Wilkinson.
    â€˜Mrs Melita Pargeter. Should you wish to contact me, I am currently residing at Greene’s Hotel in Mayfair.’
    â€˜Right. And should you wish to contact me, here is my card. The mobile number is the best one to catch me on.’ He handed the card across, and stood back. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Pargeter. You’ve been most helpful.’
    His tone of voice gave her permission to continue her journey into Gary’s limousine.
    But, as she did so, Mrs Pargeter could feel the eyes of Inspector Wilkinson boring into her back. It gave her a slightly unpleasant
frisson.
Although her conscience was entirely clear, and she knew she had never transgressed the law in even the tiniest particular, there was still something uncomfortable about this level of interest from the Metropolitan Police.

Chapter Seventeen
    She had intended to communicate her worries about the Inspector to Truffler Mason the minute he arrived at the hotel, but first she had to go through a litany of self-recrimination. Mrs Pargeter was sitting at her usual table in the bar, drinking champagne with Hedgeclipper Clinton, when Truffler shambled in, literally wringing his hands in anguish.
    â€˜I feel such a fool, such a bloody idiot, Mrs P,’ he moaned, before he’d even sat down, and certainly before he’d touched his drink. ‘Simple thing like shifting those pictures from Chastaigne Varleigh and I go and screw it up, let some villains ace in ahead of us and nick the lot.’
    â€˜You’re sure they were villains?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, who was not showing the same reticence as her guest with the champagne. ‘Sure they weren’t police?’
    â€˜If they’d been on the side of the law, Mrs Chastaigne’d certainly have heard something by now.