Mrs Pargeter's Package Read Free Page A

Pargeter only half-listened. The retsina was as welcome as ever, and in the soft, warm breeze that flowed off the sea, lulled by the recorded strumming of bouzoukis, she started to relax. It had been a tiring day, and the prospect of a lethargic fortnight in the sun became very appealing. There was always, Mrs Pargeter found, something seductive about being in a new place. So many exciting details to find out when you start from total ignorance. Yes, she was going to enjoy herself in Agios Nikitas. Very relaxing, she thought, to be in a place where I know no one, and no one knows me.
    Which was why she was so surprised to hear a voice saying, 'Ah, good evening. Mrs Pargeter, isn't it . . . ?'
    CHAPTER 4
    The man she looked up to see was a creature of contradictions. The voice that addressed her had been thick Cockney, but its owner looked typically Greek. Heavy Mediterranean features seemed at odds with the thinness of his body, and this incongruity was accentuated by the flapping tourist uniform of brightly-coloured shorts and T-shirt. Sticklike legs ended in sports socks and improbable silver-grey trainers. He looked like a Greek trying to pass himself off as an English holidaymaker.
    Responding to the blankness in her eyes, the man immediately identified himself. 'Larry Lambeth. I used to work with your late husband.'
    That explained everything. The late Mr Pargeter's business interests had been wide and had involved acquaintanceship with people from a variety of backgrounds. Since he was a great believer in the separation of his domestic and professional lives, there were many of his contacts whom Mrs Pargeter had never met and she had become accustomed – particularly since her husband's death – to encounters of this kind with people she had never seen before.
    'Do join us, please, Mr Lambeth. Can I get you a drink?'
    'Allow me.' He called across to a waiter in fluent Greek, then sat down.
    After introducing Joyce, Mrs Pargeter asked the question that was uppermost in her mind. 'I'm delighted to meet you, but how on earth did you know I was going to be here?'
    'Oh, there aren't many secrets in a place like this. Everyone knows everyone, all related, you know. No, I'm sure I would have found out pretty quickly, anyway, but in fact I was tipped off.'
    'Tipped off?'
    'Well, that is to say I was informed by a friend back in England that you was planning a trip over here.'
    'Oh?'
    'Truffler Mason.'
    'Ah.' No further explanation was required. Truffler Mason was one of the inestimably useful contacts featured in an address book which the late Mr Pargeter had bequeathed to his wife. The skills which had earned Truffler his nickname were now being directed into the legitimate work of the Mason de Vere Detective Agency, and he had proved invaluable to Mrs Pargeter in a murder investigation the previous year. Larry Lambeth could not have provided better credentials.
    The waiter brought fresh drinks. Mrs Pargeter was still only half-way down her initial half-litre bottle of retsina, and placed the full one beside it. Joyce, who had drained her first ouzo, fell on the second with disturbing enthusiasm. Larry Lambeth had ordered a glass of Greek brandy. This would have been against the advice of the late Mr Pargeter, who, having sampled it when they were on Crete, had expressed the opinion that, though Greek brandy might well be an excellent rust-removing agent, it had no place in the human digestive system. Larry Lambeth, however, sipped at his drink with apparent fervour, before continuing his explanation.
    'No, fact is, Truffler rang me last week, Mrs P. Tipped me off, like, said you was on your way, asked me to look after you, you know, see if there was anything you needed, generally help you out. And of course I said yes. I mean, it would have been a pleasure to help, anyway. I'd have done it without asking, but Mr P. – your husband, that is – he specifically asked me to keep an eye out for you, you know, if there ever was