Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour by Simon Brett Read Free Book Online

splendid Berkeley Square frontage identified the offices of ‘HRH Travel’. Mrs Pargeter billowed elegantly through the front door and was greeted by a perfectly uniformed girl, whose gold name-badge revealed that she was called ‘Lauren’, and who had risen from her Reception desk as if forewarned of the new arrival.
    â€˜Mrs Pargeter, isn’t it?’ she enunciated beautifully, making a statement rather than a question, and proffering an immaculately manicured hand.
    Mrs Pargeter shook the hand and readily acknowledged her identity. ‘You’ve got a good memory, Lauren. Been a while since I’ve been in here.’
    â€˜HRH is very keen that we should always remember our clients’ names. Particularly our most important clients.’ Mrs Pargeter knew this was only professional flannel, but still found it comforting. ‘HRH is expecting you,’ the girl continued, as she pressed a button on her desk and announced, ‘Sharon, Mrs Pargeter is here.’
    In a matter of moments Sharon appeared. Like Lauren, she was fastidiously well-groomed and dressed in the same expensively cut charcoal-grey uniform with a small ‘HRH’ logo worked in gold thread on the breast pocket. ‘Mrs Pargeter, how very good to see you again,’ Sharon elocuted enthusiastically. ‘If you’d like to follow me to the lift, HRH is really looking forward to seeing you.’
    On the first floor Mrs Pargeter was escorted along the aisle of a high-tech open-plan office. On either side more immaculate girls in charcoal-grey uniforms sat at computers or talked on telephones. As she passed, Mrs Pargeter heard fragments of their conversations.
    â€˜. . . that our representative will meet you at the Lagos Hilton with all the documentation in your new name. Just look out for the HRH logo . . .’
    â€˜. . . but at Athens airport make sure you put the bag with the gun in through the
right-hand
x-ray machine. That will be malfunctioning at the time . . .’
    â€˜. . . to let you know that your tickets will arrive by courier this afternoon, along with tourist guidebooks, a plan of the bank interior and exterior, and a map showing the route the bullion van will be taking . . .’
    â€˜. . . you’ll have no problem fitting the body into the windsurfer carrying-case. It could have been designed for the purpose . . .’
    â€˜. . . Good heavens, no! The Passport Control officers will already have
been
bribed. It’s all part of the HRH service . . .’
    Mrs Pargeter was, as ever, reassured by the efficiency and attention to detail that characterized HRH Travel.
    The company’s founder stood in the doorway of his office to greet her. Tall, distinguished, olive-skinned, with almost operatic white hair and moustache, Hamish Ramon Henriques was dressed in another of his punctiliously cut tweed three-piece suits. That, coupled with the regimental tie, gave off an aura of old money, reliability and a world in which no guarantees were required other than the handshake of a gentleman.
    The handshake of a gentleman that he gave to Mrs Pargeter was warm and enthusiastic. He beamed, his black eyes sparkled, as he welcomed her in his old-school tones. ‘Such a pleasure, Mrs Pargeter. Been far too long. Such an unqualified delight to see you. Such a pleasure.’
    They sat in his office over the tray with silver coffee pot and bone china cups that had been brought in by a charcoal-grey-suited girl called Karen, and Mrs Pargeter politely asked Hamish Ramon Henriques about the progress of his business.
    â€˜Can’t complain, can’t complain,’ he replied. ‘Everything absolutely tickety-boo, in fact. And improving all the time, I’m glad to say. Most businesses are becoming global these days. As a result, everyone’s travelling more – which can only be good news for an organization like