Pargeter died. Maybe she was just out of practice.
Truffler seemed unaware of her lapse, anyway, so it didn't matter. 'No, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not in the office, neither. Company photographs, company reports, lots of that stuff, but not one of them shows a photograph of Chris Dover. Almost like he had a phobia about being photographed. Odd, that, isn't it?'
'Yes,' said Mrs Pargeter thoughtfully. 'Very odd.'
CHAPTER 20
As she put the phone down, Mrs Pargeter saw Maria lingering in the doorway that led to the hotel kitchen. How long the girl had been there, or how much of the telephone conversation she had overheard, was impossible to guess.
But she gave Mrs Pargeter a large, totally unsinister smile and said, 'There was a message for you about an hour ago. From someone who wondered if you could meet her at Spiro's at ten o'clock this evening.'
'Did she give a name?'
'Yes. Strange name. It sounded like . . . Conchita Dover?'
'Ah,' said Mrs Pargeter.
* * *
At first she didn't think the girl was there. Though Mrs Pargeter hadn't seen Conchita since she was a child and so didn't know exactly what to expect, there was no one under Spiro's striped awning who looked as if she had just arrived on the island, summoned by news of a dreadful tragedy. There were the usual loud groups of English, louder groups of Germans and a few Greeks, the last no doubt holidaying relatives of the management. They had all had a few rounds of drinks, their food orders were starting to arrive and everyone was very relaxed.
Mrs Pargeter looked round again and realised there was only one person it could be. A dark-haired girl, who at first glance she had taken for a local, was sitting alone at a table, chatting to Yianni. Of course, there are certain very distinctive types right through the Mediterranean, Mrs Pargeter reminded herself. It was the Spanish blood of her father's relatives, filtered through Uruguay, that made Conchita Dover look so at home in Agios Nikitas.
On closer examination, the girl did look a bit too soignee to be a local. The way her thick black hair had been cut indicated an urban sophistication, which was echoed in the expensively casual flow of her designer pyjama suit.
Mrs Pargeter approached her. 'It is Conchita, isn't it?'
Yianni fired off one of his devastating smiles and left them to get on with the business of introduction.
'I'm terribly sorry about what happened to Joyce, Conchita. "Sorry" sounds a wretchedly inadequate word in the circumstances, but you really do have my sympathy.'
'Thank you.' There was a hardness in the girl's black eyes. 'I wonder if she got what she really wanted.'
'I'm sorry?'
'Mother had been threatening suicide for years.'
'What, since your father died, you mean?'
'No, long before that. Practically since I can remember. She always was a dreadful emotional manipulator. Suicide threats used to be her ultimate weapon.'
'Oh?' This was a new insight into Joyce Dover. Once again Mrs Pargeter was reminded how little she had really known her friend.
'Mind you, she'd cried wolf so often, I'd long ago ceased to listen. Overdid it this time, though, didn't she? Called her own bluff good and proper.'
'Well . . .'
'Anyway,' said Conchita, picking up her ouzo glass and taking a savage sip, 'I'm not going to let it get to me. Mummy tried to control me all the time she was alive and, if she thinks she can continue the process from beyond the grave, she can forget the idea!'
Only the rigidity of her jaw betrayed the effort with which Conchita was holding in her emotions.
'I think using suicide as an emotional lever is utterly pathetic,' she went on. 'I very much doubt whether Mummy really meant it to succeed. Probably just intended another "cry for help", but cocked it up. Presumably the idea, as ever, was just to make me feel guilty. Well, if that was the intention, it isn't going to succeed!'
Mrs Pargeter hadn't been prepared for this outburst of recrimination and adjusted
Truffler seemed unaware of her lapse, anyway, so it didn't matter. 'No, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not in the office, neither. Company photographs, company reports, lots of that stuff, but not one of them shows a photograph of Chris Dover. Almost like he had a phobia about being photographed. Odd, that, isn't it?'
'Yes,' said Mrs Pargeter thoughtfully. 'Very odd.'
CHAPTER 20
As she put the phone down, Mrs Pargeter saw Maria lingering in the doorway that led to the hotel kitchen. How long the girl had been there, or how much of the telephone conversation she had overheard, was impossible to guess.
But she gave Mrs Pargeter a large, totally unsinister smile and said, 'There was a message for you about an hour ago. From someone who wondered if you could meet her at Spiro's at ten o'clock this evening.'
'Did she give a name?'
'Yes. Strange name. It sounded like . . . Conchita Dover?'
'Ah,' said Mrs Pargeter.
* * *
At first she didn't think the girl was there. Though Mrs Pargeter hadn't seen Conchita since she was a child and so didn't know exactly what to expect, there was no one under Spiro's striped awning who looked as if she had just arrived on the island, summoned by news of a dreadful tragedy. There were the usual loud groups of English, louder groups of Germans and a few Greeks, the last no doubt holidaying relatives of the management. They had all had a few rounds of drinks, their food orders were starting to arrive and everyone was very relaxed.
Mrs Pargeter looked round again and realised there was only one person it could be. A dark-haired girl, who at first glance she had taken for a local, was sitting alone at a table, chatting to Yianni. Of course, there are certain very distinctive types right through the Mediterranean, Mrs Pargeter reminded herself. It was the Spanish blood of her father's relatives, filtered through Uruguay, that made Conchita Dover look so at home in Agios Nikitas.
On closer examination, the girl did look a bit too soignee to be a local. The way her thick black hair had been cut indicated an urban sophistication, which was echoed in the expensively casual flow of her designer pyjama suit.
Mrs Pargeter approached her. 'It is Conchita, isn't it?'
Yianni fired off one of his devastating smiles and left them to get on with the business of introduction.
'I'm terribly sorry about what happened to Joyce, Conchita. "Sorry" sounds a wretchedly inadequate word in the circumstances, but you really do have my sympathy.'
'Thank you.' There was a hardness in the girl's black eyes. 'I wonder if she got what she really wanted.'
'I'm sorry?'
'Mother had been threatening suicide for years.'
'What, since your father died, you mean?'
'No, long before that. Practically since I can remember. She always was a dreadful emotional manipulator. Suicide threats used to be her ultimate weapon.'
'Oh?' This was a new insight into Joyce Dover. Once again Mrs Pargeter was reminded how little she had really known her friend.
'Mind you, she'd cried wolf so often, I'd long ago ceased to listen. Overdid it this time, though, didn't she? Called her own bluff good and proper.'
'Well . . .'
'Anyway,' said Conchita, picking up her ouzo glass and taking a savage sip, 'I'm not going to let it get to me. Mummy tried to control me all the time she was alive and, if she thinks she can continue the process from beyond the grave, she can forget the idea!'
Only the rigidity of her jaw betrayed the effort with which Conchita was holding in her emotions.
'I think using suicide as an emotional lever is utterly pathetic,' she went on. 'I very much doubt whether Mummy really meant it to succeed. Probably just intended another "cry for help", but cocked it up. Presumably the idea, as ever, was just to make me feel guilty. Well, if that was the intention, it isn't going to succeed!'
Mrs Pargeter hadn't been prepared for this outburst of recrimination and adjusted
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