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.
CHAPTER 21
'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 as 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
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.
CHAPTER 21
'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 as 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
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