Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh (15 page)

Mr Littlejohn's house in Harley Street was as unlike a consulting-room as it was possible to be. Anything that might have carried overtones of clinic or hospital had been studiously avoided. The ground-floor rooms were full of dark antique furniture. The windows, discreetly protected by diamond-pattered grilles, were framed by musty bottle-green velvet curtains, which took more of the light than they should have done. On the walls hung Venetian vistas in the style of Canaletto and still lives featuring gracefully dead birds. On mahogany shelves leather-bound books slouched against each other behind dusty glass.

The whole impression was just slightly tatty, but it was the tattiness of impeccable taste. These are the rooms, everything seemed to say, in which an upper-class English gentleman actually
lives
. And people coming into these rooms were made to feel, not like clients or patients, but like guests.

The image was reinforced by the lady who greeted Kim and Mrs Pargeter. She was a solid English Rose with blond hair swept back behind a velvet band. She wore a navy blue cashmere jumper and a skirt which, without actually being a kilt, gave the impression of a kilt. Navy tights and flat navy shoes with a discreet garnish of brass completed the ensemble. When she went out of doors, she would undoubtedly have sported a Barbour.

To have called her a 'receptionist' or 'secretary' would have demeaned her. She came across as a family friend of Mr Little john, possibly a remote relation, second cousin or something of the sort.

She greeted the new arrivals politely, in a voice which showed she had gone to the same kind of schools as Chloe, Candida, and Chris. 'And you must be Mrs Pargeter.'

'Yes. I came along to give Kim moral support.'

'How very thoughtful. No, I was expecting you actually, because I've just had a call from a Mr Mason, asking if you'd arrived yet.'

'Oh, did he want me to call him?'

'No, he said he was in transit, but he'd call through here again in half an hour or so.'

'I hope that's not a nuisance.'

'No problem at all, Mrs Pargeter. Would you care for a seat?' An elegant but comfortingly dented sofa was indicated. 'And maybe I could get you both a cup of coffee? Mr Littlejohn will be ready to see you in just a moment, Mrs Thurrock.'

They accepted the offer of coffee, and the 'family friend' went off to make the arrangements. Kim looked round rather nervously. 'Bit posh, innit?'

'You'll be fine. Don't worry.'

'Probably means Mr Littlejohn's pretty expensive.'

'I think cosmetic surgery is generally pretty expensive.'

Mrs Pargeter's hopes that this consideration might put her friend off the idea were quickly dashed, as Kim went on, 'Still, Thicko and me've got a bit put away for something really important, so it won't be a problem.'

'But I thought you were down to your last penny. If you'd got some cash, why on earth didn't you spend it to make the last few years a bit more comfortable?'

'Well, er . . .' Kim grinned nervously. 'Thing is, we have got the cash, yes, but we can't really get at it till Thicko comes out. He, like, has to go and get it.'

'You mean it's on deposit?'

'In manner of speaking, yeah.'

'Where is it?'

'Epping Forest.'

'Ah, I see,' said Mrs Pargeter, understanding completely.

There were some leather magazine folders lying on the table in front of them. Kim picked one up and fingered it nervously. 'Wonder that this is?'

'Probably "Before" and "After" photographs. And pictures of the range of tits and bums available.'

Kim giggled and opened the folder. But Mrs Pargeter had been completely wrong. It contained a copy of
Country Life
. Mr Littlejohn was far too discreet to let his waiting-room give the impression that he was running any kind of commercial business.

The 'family friend' returned with bone china cups of coffee on a tray, complete with silver cream jug and sugared biscuits on a bone china plate.

'Actually, Mrs Thurrock, Mr Littlejohn is free now. If you'd like to bring your coffee through . . . I'm sure you won't mind waiting, Mrs Pargeter . . .'

'Course not.' Mrs Pargeter picked up a biscuit.

Kim looked flustered. 'Oh, I feel shy going in on my own.' She looked hopefully at her friend.

'I think you'll be better off without me. If I was there, I might actually express an opinion about what you're proposing to do to yourself.'

'Oh, I hadn't thought of that.'

'I think you should be on your own,' said the 'family friend', a Head Girl firmly directing a junior non-swimmer into the pool. 'It is
your
body that's being discussed, after all.'

'Yes, yes, of course.'

With one more look back for reassurance, Kim, the coffee cup rattling in her hand, followed her guide out of the room.

Leaving Mrs Pargeter to that favourite pastime of
Country Life
readers, flicking through the mansions for sale in the front and fantasizing about buying one of them.

The only difference was that, in Mrs Pargeter's case, had she chosen to do so, she could have afforded to make her fantasy reality.

Nearly three-quarters of an hour elapsed before the 'family friend' led Kim Thurrock back, and Mrs Pargeter could see the suppressed excitement in Kim's face. She looked forward to taking her out for a nice leisurely lunch and hearing all about it.

But that indulgence was deferred by the 'family friend' saying, 'Mrs Pargeter, Mr Littlejohn wonders whether it would be possible for him to have a word with you . . . ?'

A blink of surprise and then, 'Well, yes, of course. But I must tell you that, having reached my age, if there's anything wrong with my body . . . well, I've learnt to live with it.'

'No, it's not about that.'

I see, thought Mrs Pargeter. It's to find out how serious Kim really is about this plastic surgery business. Or, a cynical thought intruded, Mr Littlejohn wants to know whether I reckon she can pay for it.

The consulting-room into which Mrs Pargeter was ushered maintained the upper-class domestic ambience of the outer rooms. It was all so shabbily elegant that the mere idea of discussing business in such surrounding would have been bad form.

Mr Littlejohn matched his decor perfectly. Whether or not he had used his own skills or those of a fellow practitioner to arrange a little Do-It-Yourself was hard to know, but he did look wonderfully
soigne
. His pin-striped suit, though of exquisite cut, was comfortably crumpled, and the collar of his Turnbull and Asser shirt above regimental tie endearingly frayed. Wings of white in his black hair framed a tanned face from which twinkled two blue eyes, ready to encourage confidences about unsightly physical protuberances (and ready no doubt to ask with unblinking charm for the huge sums the removal of those protuberances would necessitate).

'Hello, Mrs Pargeter, so good to see you. I do hope you don't mind my asking you in.'

The voice, too, had the easy assurance of frayed tweed and three centuries of inbred, unquestioning authority.

'No. No problem at all. You want to talk about Kim.'

'Well, not only about Mrs Thurrock. In fact, Mrs Pargeter –' He was interrupted by the trill of one of the telephones on his desk. 'I'm so sorry. If you'll excuse me . . . ?'

He picked up the receiver. 'Littlejohn. What? Oh, yes. Yes, she is.' With an ironical look, he proffered the phone. 'You're very much in demand, it seems, Mrs Pargeter. A Mr Mason on the line for you.'

She took the receiver. 'Thank you. Hello?'

Truffler's voice was urgently doomladen. 'Mrs Pargeter, I wanted to reach you before you got to Mr Littlejohn's place. I tried Gary's earphone.'

'No, we came in a cab. I thought it would be easier.'

'Well, listen. I've got something new. I've found a connection between Ankle-Deep Arkwright and the geezer you're going to see.'

'What do you mean?'

'This Littlejohn. He and Ank go back a long way. Back to Streatham.'

The word struck its customary ugly reverberation in Mrs Pargeter's mind. 'What?'

'Yes, back to all that Julian Embridge business. Now listen, Mrs Pargeter, just be careful because –'

The line went dead. Mrs Pargeter looked up into the blue eyes of the plastic surgeon.

She could no longer see anything benign in their twinkle.

CHAPTER 31

'I got cut off,' said Mrs Pargeter.

Mr Littlejohn smiled archly. 'How appropriate.'

'What do you mean?'

'At a plastic surgeon's. How appropriate that you should be
cut off
.'

'Oh.'

'It was a small joke.'

Very small, thought Mrs Pargeter. And if a joke's function is to defuse an uncomfortable situation, this one had signally failed in its mission. It would have taken more than a feeble joke delivered in impeccable Old Etonian to make Mrs Pargeter feel relaxed at that particular moment.

'Probably Cecilia cut you off inadvertently,' he continued.

The thought that the 'family friend'
would
be called Cecilia passed briefly through Mrs Pargeter's mind, before she moved on to more pressing concerns. 'Why did you ask me to come in here?' she demanded. 'Is it about Kim?'

'No, Mrs Pargeter, it is not, as it happens. I will have no problem dealing with Mrs Thurrock, as I have dealt with many other women of her age who simply want to turn the clock back a little.'

Mrs Pargeter couldn't help asking whether he thought encouraging such aspirations was a strictly ethical practice.

The plastic surgeon shrugged easily. 'I've never lost any sleep over it. I don't make any promises to my clients that I can't fulfil. I tell them what services I can offer, and it's up to them whether they choose to avail themselves of those services or not. They're not under any pressure.'

'Nonsense. They're under pressure from every magazine they open, every model they see in a television commercial . . .'

'Certainly. But they're not under any pressure from me. It's their choice.'

'And is it a choice many of them regret?'

'I can confidently answer that in the negative, Mrs Pargeter. I have a sheaf of letters from former clients, all saying how grateful they are to me for the improvements I have made to their bodies, and how much better and more confident they feel since their operations. They express a high level of satisfaction.'

'Well, they would, wouldn't they? After they've spent all that money, they're not going to admit it was a stupid idea, are they?'

He bowed his head in gracious acceptance. 'That is certainly a point of view, Mrs Pargeter.'

She knew this discussion of medical ethics was simply playing for time, putting off the moment when Mr Littlejohn revealed what he really wanted from her, so she briskly shifted the subject. 'Well, you know you're never going to enlist me as a client . . .'

'I am well aware of that, certainly. You are one of those rare women I have met who – as I believe a French proverb puts it – "fits her skin".'

'I've certainly never felt uncomfortable in it.

'I'm sure you haven't.'

But this square dance of pleasantries had to come to an end. 'What do you want, Mr Littlejohn?' she asked bluntly.

Accepting the change of direction, the surgeon packed away his polite smile and assumed a darker expression. 'Mrs Pargeter, the fact is that, although we have never met before, we have many mutual acquaintances.'

'Oh?'

'In particular, we both knew your husband very well.'

'Ah.'

'The late Mr Pargeter was extremely generous to me when I started in my chosen profession. At the time I qualified, I was unfortunately involved in . . . well, let us say a business relationship which made my practising in the traditional way rather difficult . . .'

'What did you do?' she asked with characteristic directness.

He coloured. 'I don't think the specific details are relevant to our current conversation. Suffice it to say that I ended up as a fully qualified plastic surgeon to whom nobody would give a conventional job.'

'And my husband helped you out?'

'Precisely. He was good enough to supply me with premises, with the necessary surgical equipment and – most important of all – with a steady supply of clients who required my services.'

'So you're "Jack the Knife" '

'Yes, Mrs Pargeter, yes. "Little John" equals "Jack". I suppose there is a kind of neatness about it. I was given the soubriquet when I started working for your late husband, and it kind of stuck. Very happy years they were,' he said nostalgically. 'I got on very well with Mr Pargeter and he introduced me to a remarkable number of clients. Many of them spent a considerable time with me before taking new directions in their careers . . .'

'New directions like South America, the Costa Del Sol, that kind of place . . . ?'

'Your perception is very acute, Mrs Pargeter. Those destinations were particularly popular . . . though many of my clients returned, after an interval, to this country and have had very successful careers here. In fact, one gentleman who at the time I worked on him would, if he'd been spotted, have had to return to prison to complete a twelve-year sentence for aggravated assault, was only a couple of weeks ago elected a Tory MP at a by-election. And . . .'

He was prepared to extend his catalogue of successes, but the look in Mrs Pargeter's eye discouraged him. She was waiting for the 'but' which would tell what had caused a souring of the surgeon's relationship with her late husband.

'But . . .' he began, as anticipated, 'I regret to say that the harmonious state of affairs between myself and the late Mr Pargeter was not destined to continue.' For the first time in the conversation, he looked awkward, his urbanity weakened by indecision. 'I, er . . . the fact is, Mrs Pargeter, your husband was involved in a business venture in Streatham . . .'

'Oh yes?' she said softly, chilled as ever by the mention of the word.

'We are all guilty of backing wrong horses from time to time, of joining the wrong side and, I'm afraid, in your husband's view, that was what I did after Streatham.'

Mrs Pargeter was not enjoying the direction of the conversation, but said nothing.

'You may have heard of a business associate of your husband called Julian Embridge . . . ?'

'I've heard of him.'

'The fact is that Julian Embridge was a very plausible – not to say charismatic – young man.'

'He certainly could be.'

'I was not myself involved in the action at Streatham. My services, by their very nature, tended to be required after the more active part of such a venture was concluded. And when Julian Embridge came to me after Streatham and asked if I would help him, I had no hesitation in saying yes.'

Mrs Pargeter's only response to this bald statement of betrayal was a noncommittal 'Oh.'

'At Julian's request, I totally altered his appearance. I transformed him, as the cliche goes, "so that his own mother wouldn't recognize him". And, by doing so, I fear that I incurred your husband's enduring enmity.'

'I would think that was quite likely.'

'Yes. Yes.' Jack the Knife steepled his fingers together and pressed them against his lips.

'So Julian Embridge is probably still around somewhere, totally unrecognizable to his former acquaintances?' Mrs Pargeter suggested.

'Quite possibly.'

'And would you be able to recognize him if you bumped into him?'

'Probably not. I would if I got close enough – I'd recognize my stitchwork – but at a casual glance, assuming he's dyed his hair and all that kind of stuff . . . no, I probably wouldn't know him. Though of course I'd recognize his shape.'

'Oh?'

'That's the most difficult thing to change. I can fiddle around with people's features. I can tighten their buttocks, I can even remove the odd rib to emphasize their waist, but it is very difficult to make a chubby person into a thin person. Julian Embridge, you may recall, was extremely chubby.'

'Yes.'

'That would be hard to change.'

'He could presumably diet.'

'Oh yes, but he couldn't change his basic body type . . . whether he was an endomorph or an ectomorph – you are familiar with these expressions . . . ?'

Mrs Pargeter, a lifelong and contented endomorph, nodded.

'So Julian could have starved himself ever since the surgery, but he would still remain an endomorph – just a thinner endomorph. If someone could ever develop a medication that would change body type . . . well, he'd clean up. The slimming industry would hail him as the new Messiah.'

'Hm. So, Jack, have you seen much of Julian Embridge since Streatham?'

The surgeon shook his head. 'Nothing, since I completed the surgery on him.'

Mrs Pargeter wasn't sure where their interview was leading, though the suspicions she had on the subject were not encouraging, but she didn't see any reason to cease investigation. She was in the presence of someone who knew about her husband's betrayal; she would jolly well get all the information she could from him.

'There was another man involved in the Streatham business . . . dumb bloke called Stan the Stapler . . .'

Jack the Knife nodded, acknowledging the name.

'Do you know if he was on Julian Embridge's side?'

'I'm not sure, but the evidence did rather point in that direction.'

'Hm,' said Mrs Pargeter grimly. Then, deciding that the evil hour could be put off no longer, she looked straight into Jack the Knife's blue eyes and demanded, 'All right, why did you really call me in here?'

He paused before replying and when the words came, they struggled out with difficulty. 'The fact is . . . that I have a feeling of unfinished business . . . between myself and your late husband . . . or now, in his absence, between myself and you. The fact is . . . no one believed me at the time, and I doubt if anyone will believe me now . . . but what I did for Julian Embridge was the result of a ghastly misunderstanding.'

'Oh?'

'When he came to me, I didn't know anything about what'd happened at Streatham. He told me he needed the plastic surgery – under the tight security conditions that I was used to – and he implied that it was to be done with your husband's blessing. Indeed, he even said that your husband was going to pay for my services. That was not an uncommon state of affairs – your husband was a very generous man, Mrs Pargeter – and so I took Julian at his word, and did as he requested.

'It was only after I had completed the surgery – one of the best pieces of work I've ever done, though I say it myself, that I heard the truth. And by then, I'm afraid, your husband was firmly of the impression – and I can't blame him, all the evidence pointed in that direction – that I was one of Julian Embridge's accomplices.

'Worse than that, all of your husband's associates thought I was a traitor and, since he himself was, er, off the scene for a few years, my life was rather under threat. I therefore disappeared for a while, had some cosmetic work done by a friend in Venezuela, and reappeared in England five years ago to pursue the career in which you now find me.

'By that time, of course, your husband was dead, and so I never got the opportunity to clear my name with him. Mrs Pargeter . . .' There were tears in Jack the Knife's eyes as he appealed to her. 'I'm going to carry that guilt with me to the end of my days. I loved your husband – everyone who worked for him loved the man – and all I want to say is: If there's ever anything I can do for you, anything at all, please remember – you have only to say the word.'

'Oh. Oh.' Mrs Pargeter beamed. 'Well, that's very sweet of you, Jack.'

'Thank you,' he sobbed in relief. 'But I mean it. I'll only really feel whole when I've done something for you that repays the debt I feel to your husband.'

'So let me get this right – what makes you feel bad is the fact that my husband never knew you were innocent and never forgave you for the mistake that you inadvertently made with Julian Embridge?'

'That's it, Mrs Pargeter. That's exactly it.'

'And would it help if I was to say that
I
forgive you on my husband's behalf?'

Jack the Knife seized her hands in his and mumbled, tremulous with gratitude, 'Oh, Mrs Pargeter, you've no idea how much that would help!'