Simon Brett - Mrs. Pargeter's pound of flesh

But no one would have believed that the steel-clawed termagant of the Sundays was the same woman who sat, docile in the Allergy Room’ of Brotherton Hall, floating in a haze of Beaume-de-Venise-tinted nostalgia.

‘Oh, when I think how much he did for me… He really taught me everything I know about the press. And he was so gentle, such a wonderful teacher. No, if anyone ever asked for the definition of a good man, they’d have to look no further than your husband.’

Mrs Pargeter indulged in a moment of moist-eyed agreement.

‘And he was such an innovator,’ Ellie enthused on. ‘I think he was probably the first person fully to realize the importance of public relations in his particular line of business. And he did it with such subtlety. I mean there have been imitators — of course, every mould-breaking pioneer’s going to have imitators — but none of them had the finesse of your husband. The manipulation of the press by someone like… say, Robert Maxwell, just looks crude by comparison. No, the late Mr Pargeter was the guv’nor.’

His widow, still moist-eyed, nodded.

‘And I was just so lucky to be the beneficiary of all that wisdom. He took me from nothing and he gave me everything. He showed me how to get the stories that mattered, the kind of exposure that counted. I mean, the things he managed to get in the gossip columns… some of the stuff was just breathtaking.’

Another sentimental nod from Mrs Pargeter.

‘I think his triumph was the Princess of Wales. Oh, a real coup that was. I mean, to get William Hickey to print a story about a certain young man being seen dancing at Annabel’s with “herself’ — at the very time when the young man in question was… what shall we say… very differently occupied in Milton Keynes… Oh, and knowing that the Palace is never going to issue a denial or anything like that. That was just the best, the most public alibi I’ve ever come across. Brilliant.’

‘But you were the one who actually fed the story to William Hickey, weren’t you?’ said Mrs Pargeter, modestly spreading her late husband’s glory.

‘Yes. But the concept was his. Magic. Wonderful. No, by my definition, that was sheer genius.’

‘Well, thank you very much.’

There was a silence, a moment of respect for the late Mr Pargeter’s departed genius.

Ellie Fenchurch broke it. ‘Anyway, Mrs Pargeter, what can I do for you? You name it — anything. You have only to say and it’s done.’

‘Well…’ Mrs Pargeter took another sip of the Beaume de Venise as she gathered her thoughts. ‘There is a celebrity whom I need to have investigated…’

Ellie’s eyes sparkled. ‘Great. You’ve got the right person for any of that kind of stuff.’

‘Yes. That’s what I thought. The fact is, I need to find out some fairly private things about this celebrity…’

‘Keep talking. This is meat and drink to me.’

‘Things this celebrity will probably be unwilling to divulge.. ’

‘You’re talking to the person who made a certain Cabinet Minister admit to his nappy-wearing habit, Mrs Pargeter.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course I am. Well, I just wondered… whether you’d be willing to help me in my investigation…?’

‘The answer’s been yes from the moment I first met your husband. Who is it I’m after?’ the journalist asked eagerly.

‘Sue Fisher.’

‘Oh yes. Yes…’

And a new light came into Ellie Fenchurch’s eye. It was the light that comes into a fox’s eye in the moment between grabbing a chicken’s neck and breaking it.

‘Stan Bristow…’ said Mrs Pargeter as the limousine sped towards the south coast on the Friday morning.

‘Who?’ asked Gary.

‘Stan the Stapler.’

‘Oh, him — right.’

‘Did you come across him much when he was working with my husband?’

‘Sure. He was always around in the early days. Mr Fixit he was — done the lot. Not the brightest — couldn’t talk, you probably know that — but a useful type to have on your side.’

‘Yes. There’s something odd about him, though…’

‘How’s that then? You come across him again, have you, Mrs Pargeter?’

‘He’s working at Brotherton Hall.’

‘Oh. Good old Ank. There’s loyalty. Keeping it in the family, eh?’

‘Hm.’

‘What do you mean about him being odd, though, Mrs Pargeter?’

‘Well, I’ve come across a good few of my late husband’s associates over the years — some I’ve specifically contacted, some I’ve just met by chance — and they’ve all had one thing in common. As soon as they’ve discovered who I am, they all say how delighted they are to see me and how much they owe to my husband’s kindness to them.’

‘That’s no surprise, Mrs Pargeter. I mean he was a prince among men, your husband, no question about it.’

‘No…’ She resolutely pushed nostalgia from her mind. ‘Stan the Stapler’s the exception, though. He must know who I am — can’t not know who I am, but he hasn’t given any sign of recognizing me. I know he can’t talk, but… Well, I’d swear that he’s deliberately avoided me. Can you think of any reason why he might have done that?’

‘Well…’ The chauffeur straightened his peaked cap. ‘Maybe he’s just shy or…’

‘There’s more to it, isn’t there?’ There was an uncomfortable silence followed by throat clearing from the front seat. ‘You said Stan was always around “in the early days”, Gary…’

‘Yes.’

‘Meaning that he wasn’t around so much towards the end?’

‘No. No, Thicko Thurrock took over a lot of his duties after.. ’

Gary wasn’t finding this easy. Again his words trickled away.

‘After what?’

‘Well…’

‘After Streatham, was it?’ asked Mrs Pargeter with a flash of intuition.

Awkwardly the chauffeur admitted that she was right. After Streatham Stan the Stapler had not been so much in evidence in the late Mr Pargeter’s business empire.

‘But did anyone ever point a finger at him? Did anyone have any proof that he’d been involved in… in what went wrong?’

‘No, no. No proof. Just a few suspicions was round at the time. Not that your husband’d have any of it. After he come out — I mean, when he was back in circulation — your husband wouldn’t have anyone say a word against Stan, said he still stood by all his staff, would be happy to work with Stan again any time. You know, Mrs Pargeter.. ’ He paused, assembling his words with the maximum delicacy. ‘If there was any criticism I might ever make of your late husband — and it’s only a tiny one, if it is a criticism at all — it’s that he was sometimes too trusting.’

The late Mr Pargeter’s widow nodded in rueful agreement.

‘I mean,’ Gary went on, ‘in many ways he was too generous-spirited

…’

‘That’s true.’

‘Too ready to think the best of people… an innocent, really, in a wicked world…’

Mrs Pargeter wiped a little moisture from the corner of her eye as she nodded again. ‘So what you’re saying, Gary, is that Stan the Stapler was involved with Julian Embridge?’

The immaculately tailored shoulders in front of her shrugged. ‘Can’t go as far as saying that. All I can say is it seems odd. Up until Streatham, Stan the Stapler done everything for your old man. After Streatham, even though Mr Pargeter offered him lots of jobs, Stan was somehow always unavailable. Well…’ Another shrug. ‘You have to draw your own conclusions, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Pargeter, drawing hers.

The limousine drew up outside the Mind Over Fatty Matter headquarters. Sue Fisher had planted the centre of her empire in the area where she had grown up, the bungaloid sprawl between Newhaven and Beachy Head (offering, in the phrase with which Ellie Fenchurch would begin her Sue Fisher interview, two opposing solutions to weight worries — on the one hand, a ferry to the gastronomic delights of France and, on the other, suicide).