Read Online Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh by Simon Brett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Simon Brett
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suddenly darted sideways. Hope and yearning glowed in his face.
Mrs Pargeter followed his gaze through the cafe's steamed-up window to the street outside. Three girls passed by, tantalizingly slowly. Their strutting movements and the shortness of their skirts identified them as practitioners of the art for which King's Cross has become famous.
The hope had gone from Tom O'Brien's face as he looked back. Odd, was Mrs Pargeter's initial thought; why should a boy as good-looking as Tom waste his time gazing at prostitutes? Then light dawned.
'Going back to Jenny . . .' she began delicately. 'I want to know more about her.'
The interrogation was interrupted by the arrival of her steaming mound of All-Day Breakfast, swimming in enough fat to light the average Anglo-Saxon mead-hall for a decade. Mrs Pargeter looked at the plate with relish, sliced off a triangle of fried bread, which she loaded with tomato and beans and ate, before repeating, 'Yes, I want to know more about Jenny . . .'
Tom O'Brien looked truculent and suspicious. 'Why?'
'Because we're both trying to find her. If we pool our information, the chances of succeeding'll be that much better.'
He thought about this for a moment, before deciding in favour of co-operation. 'OK. What do you want to know?'
'You haven't seen her since the last week of term?'
'No.'
'But you didn't have a row about anything just before she left?'
'Certainly not. We were very close.'
'No arguments at all?'
'No. Not what you'd call arguments.'
'What would you call them then?' asked Truffler bluntly. Mrs Pargeter took the opportunity of his interposition to load up and despatch another triangle of fried bread.
'Well . . .' Tom considered Truffler's question. 'Well, I suppose you'd call them disagreements. Disagreements about priorities.'
Mrs Pargeter continued her softer approach. 'What kind of priorities?'
'Money, mostly. How we should spend any money we'd got. Not that we had any, of course.'
'In what way did you disagree about that?'
'Well, I thought we should devote anything we had to the cause . . .'
'The environment?'
He nodded, but Mrs Pargeter had to prompt him to continue. 'And what did Jenny want to spend the money on?'
'She was . . . sort of . . .' He swallowed before the shamefaced confession. 'Deep down Jenny's a very conventional person, and I suppose, because she's grown up with her parents always being hard-up and that, she's a great believer in . . .' He could hardly bring himself to shape the alien word. ' Saving .'
'Ah. What did she want to save for?'
'Oh . . .' He looked embarrassed. 'Sort of . . . you know . . . traditional things . . .'
'Like . . . getting married?' Mrs Pargeter suggested lightly.
His blush told her that she had scored a direct hit. 'Nothing wrong with that,' she said.
'Maybe not, but . . .' His words petered out. Mrs Pargeter could sympathize with his problem. To have a girlfriend of such mundane ambitions must have been a serious threat to the street credibility of a self-appointed anarchist like Tom O'Brien.
Time to move the enquiry on. Reluctantly deferring another mouthful of her All-Day Breakfast, Mrs Pargeter asked, 'And since that last week of term you haven't seen Jenny or heard from her?'
'Not directly, no.'
'What do you mean?'
'I did ring her parents once. Her old man managed to stay civil long enough to tell me she'd phoned them a couple of days before. But since then . . .'
'In fact,' said Truffler Mason, who could be surprisingly sensitive at times, 'I happen to know she's kept in touch with her parents right through. They last heard from her just before the university term started.'
Tom O'Brien seemed relieved by the news. Mrs Pargeter felt terrible about the other news that the young man might shortly have to hear.
'She didn't give any indication of where she was?' he asked eagerly.
'No. They got the impression she was doing some kind of holiday job, but they didn't know what or where.'
'That would be in
Mrs Pargeter followed his gaze through the cafe's steamed-up window to the street outside. Three girls passed by, tantalizingly slowly. Their strutting movements and the shortness of their skirts identified them as practitioners of the art for which King's Cross has become famous.
The hope had gone from Tom O'Brien's face as he looked back. Odd, was Mrs Pargeter's initial thought; why should a boy as good-looking as Tom waste his time gazing at prostitutes? Then light dawned.
'Going back to Jenny . . .' she began delicately. 'I want to know more about her.'
The interrogation was interrupted by the arrival of her steaming mound of All-Day Breakfast, swimming in enough fat to light the average Anglo-Saxon mead-hall for a decade. Mrs Pargeter looked at the plate with relish, sliced off a triangle of fried bread, which she loaded with tomato and beans and ate, before repeating, 'Yes, I want to know more about Jenny . . .'
Tom O'Brien looked truculent and suspicious. 'Why?'
'Because we're both trying to find her. If we pool our information, the chances of succeeding'll be that much better.'
He thought about this for a moment, before deciding in favour of co-operation. 'OK. What do you want to know?'
'You haven't seen her since the last week of term?'
'No.'
'But you didn't have a row about anything just before she left?'
'Certainly not. We were very close.'
'No arguments at all?'
'No. Not what you'd call arguments.'
'What would you call them then?' asked Truffler bluntly. Mrs Pargeter took the opportunity of his interposition to load up and despatch another triangle of fried bread.
'Well . . .' Tom considered Truffler's question. 'Well, I suppose you'd call them disagreements. Disagreements about priorities.'
Mrs Pargeter continued her softer approach. 'What kind of priorities?'
'Money, mostly. How we should spend any money we'd got. Not that we had any, of course.'
'In what way did you disagree about that?'
'Well, I thought we should devote anything we had to the cause . . .'
'The environment?'
He nodded, but Mrs Pargeter had to prompt him to continue. 'And what did Jenny want to spend the money on?'
'She was . . . sort of . . .' He swallowed before the shamefaced confession. 'Deep down Jenny's a very conventional person, and I suppose, because she's grown up with her parents always being hard-up and that, she's a great believer in . . .' He could hardly bring himself to shape the alien word. ' Saving .'
'Ah. What did she want to save for?'
'Oh . . .' He looked embarrassed. 'Sort of . . . you know . . . traditional things . . .'
'Like . . . getting married?' Mrs Pargeter suggested lightly.
His blush told her that she had scored a direct hit. 'Nothing wrong with that,' she said.
'Maybe not, but . . .' His words petered out. Mrs Pargeter could sympathize with his problem. To have a girlfriend of such mundane ambitions must have been a serious threat to the street credibility of a self-appointed anarchist like Tom O'Brien.
Time to move the enquiry on. Reluctantly deferring another mouthful of her All-Day Breakfast, Mrs Pargeter asked, 'And since that last week of term you haven't seen Jenny or heard from her?'
'Not directly, no.'
'What do you mean?'
'I did ring her parents once. Her old man managed to stay civil long enough to tell me she'd phoned them a couple of days before. But since then . . .'
'In fact,' said Truffler Mason, who could be surprisingly sensitive at times, 'I happen to know she's kept in touch with her parents right through. They last heard from her just before the university term started.'
Tom O'Brien seemed relieved by the news. Mrs Pargeter felt terrible about the other news that the young man might shortly have to hear.
'She didn't give any indication of where she was?' he asked eagerly.
'No. They got the impression she was doing some kind of holiday job, but they didn't know what or where.'
'That would be in
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