Mrs. Pargeter's Plot Read Free

it?’
    â€˜Wouldn’t say that.’ Truffler’s normally mournful tone took on a note of deeper pessimism. ‘Business still very shaky, I’m afraid. No, I got Bronwen back, because . . . well, she’d got problems – you know, divorce and . . .’
    â€˜This must be the longest divorce in history. I mean, last time she was working for you, you said she was in the middle of a very sticky divorce.’
    â€˜Yes. This is another divorce.’
    â€˜Oh. You mean she went off and remarried?’
    â€˜Mm. And now she’s redivorcing.’
    For the second time that afternoon Mrs Pargeter was reminded of Dr Johnson’s words about the triumph of hope over experience. ‘She must be a glutton for punishment.’
    â€˜If that’s what Bronwen is, what does it make the men who keep marrying her?’ asked Truffler gloomily. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you, Mrs Pargeter? Anything, anything at all.’
    â€˜I’m not interrupting, am I? Should you be concentrating on your reading? Is it something important?’
    â€˜No, it’s only the Lag Mag.’
    Her violet-blue eyes peered at him curiously for an explanation.
    â€˜â€œLag Mag” – that’s what it gets nicknamed. Really called
Inside Out
.’
    â€˜And it’s a kind of specialist magazine, is it?’
    â€˜You could say that.’ He let out a mournful chuckle. ‘Yes, it’s for specialists who might be interested in . . . people’s movements.’
    â€˜People’s movements?’ she echoed, perplexed. ‘You’re not talking about aerobics, are you?’
    â€˜No, no. I’m talking about who’s going in, who’s coming out . . .’
    From her expression, this was clearly insufficient information, so Truffler Mason elaborated. ‘. . . who’s being transferred . . . you know, from High Security to Category B . . . Cat. C to an Open Prison . . . who’s got time off for good behaviour . . . all that kind of stuff.’
    Mrs Pargeter’s mouth hardened into a line of prim disapproval. ‘Prisoners, you mean? I didn’t think you had anything to do with that kind of person now, Truffler.’
    â€˜I don’t, I don’t. Not professionally. I don’t work with them. But I still need this kind of information. I do a lot of Missing Persons work, you know.’
    â€˜Are you telling me that you’re one of the so-called “specialists” for whom this magazine is intended?’ Her tone had not lost its tartness.
    â€˜In a way, yes.’
    â€˜So are most of these “specialists” private detectives?’
    â€˜No, most of them are . . . I don’t know . . . girlfriends who want a bit of warning to get the new lover out before the old man comes back . . . villains who’ve got scores to settle . . . poor bastards who’ve got scores to be settled against them . . . geezers who know where the stash is buried . . . grasses who aren’t sure whether their change of identity has worked . . . that kind of stuff.’
    â€˜I don’t see that you fit into any of those categories, Truffler.’
    He looked aggrieved, as hangdog as a Labrador wrongly accused of eating the Sunday joint. ‘But I need to know that kind of info, Mrs P. Listen, someone hires me to work out who’s nicked their jewellery what the police’ve had no luck finding . . . OK, I check out the MO, and know that there’s only three villains in the country works that way . . . I check through
here . . .
’ He tapped the magazine on his desk for emphasis. Puffs of dust rose like a Red Indian signal telling that the US Cavalry was nearing the ravine where they’d be ripe for ambush. ‘. . . and I find out that two of the geezers who fit the frame were, on the night of the