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

before?’
    â€˜I have been involved in many comparable operations, yes. There is a very simple standard procedure to follow.’ He gave a thoughtful twirl to his moustache. ‘It does, however, involve the cooperation of one other person . . .’
    â€˜Who’s that?’
    â€˜Have you heard of someone called “VVO”?’
    Mrs Pargeter shook her head and observed, ‘Lot of initials in this business, aren’t there, HRH?’

Chapter Nine
    The unmarked car was parked at the same beauty spot overlooking Chastaigne Varleigh. So far the only arrival and departure noted down on Sergeant Hughes’s clipboard was that of the milkman.
    As well as smoke, the car was full of the sound of Wagner. Trying another initiative in his continuing search for individual identity as a detective, Inspector Wilkinson had invested in the complete
Ring
cycle on cassette. Deciding not to prejudice the experience by reading the notes or synopsis, he had started at the beginning with
Rheingold
. It has to be said he didn’t find it very accessible. Of course he wasn’t aware that he was listening to the dwarf Alberich’s encounter with the river maidens, Woglinde, Wellgunde and Flosshilde, but it probably wouldn’t have made much difference if he had been. Craig Wilkinson was not very musical.
    Sergeant Hughes was, but his tastes ran more to grunge and funk than Wagner.
    They survived over an hour of the
Ring
cycle without either of them making any comment. Then the Inspector reached forward and switched off the cassette player. ‘I think I kind of get the feeling of that,’ he lied. ‘But better not listen to too much at one go. Give myself a bit of time to assimilate what I’ve already heard. Wouldn’t you agree?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said the Sergeant, investing the monosyllable with more enthusiasm than usual.
    There was a long silence. Down at Chastaigne Varleigh nothing was happening. Maybe somewhere in the world something was happening, but it seemed to Sergeant Hughes a very long time since anything had happened to him. He was beginning to feel as if his entire life had been spent in that car with Inspector Wilkinson.
    â€˜I think the moment has come, Hughes,’ said the Inspector, breaking the silence, ‘when I should tell you something.’
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜Something related to the case on which we are working.’
    Not before bloody time, thought Sergeant Hughes. But he didn’t say it. Though his exasperation had been mounting with every minute they spent together, he still recognized that certain professional courtesies had to be observed. He waited, allowing Wilkinson to make his revelations at his own pace.
    Being Wilkinson, that pace was a pretty slow one. ‘For some years now, Hughes,’ the Inspector began, ‘I have been trying to make connections between a series of crimes. They’re all art thefts. I have been going through the files in considerable detail, checking similarities of method, finding other parallels and comparisons. I’ve read through extensive witness statements, and conducted follow-up interviews. I have collated masses of data, and am very close to identifying the common thread which links all the individual crimes.’
    He was silent. Sergeant Hughes waited an appropriate length of time, but since nothing else was apparently forthcoming, asked, ‘And is this common thread a person?’
    â€˜It is, yes.’
    â€˜A criminal mastermind?’
    The Inspector winced. ‘I don’t like the use of that expression. It engenders defeatism. A mastermind is, by definition, someone of superior intellect, but no criminal has an intellect which is
that
superior. There is no criminal so clever that he cannot be caught out by the painstaking, methodical police work of a good copper.’
    Sergeant Hughes was not convinced of this assertion – at least in relation to Inspector