Hanover Square number?
He obliged and their conversation concluded amicably with assurances on his part that, if she ever needed some 'really ace wheels', he had the biggest selection south of the Thames and could do her a deal that'd be grounds for having him certified.
Mrs Pargeter rang the number he had given her and was answered by a girl with vowels of pure Waterford Crystal. 'Ridleigh's. Good morning. Can I help you?'
'I'd like to speak to Mr Wilson, please.'
'One moment. I believe he may be in conference with a client who's just arrived from the Middle East. I'll see if he's free.'
A tasteful burst of Vivaldi played down the line and then another voice, even more cut-glass than the first, said, 'Hello. Mr Wilson's office.'
'Oh, I wondered if I could speak to him, please.'
'I'm not sure that he's free. Who is it calling?'
Mrs Pargeter recognised the formula. Mr Wilson was sitting right next door to the secretary, but he would only be free if it was a caller he wished to speak to. An Arab prince seeking a fleet of little runabouts for his wives, perhaps . . . ?
'My name is Mrs Pargeter.'
'Mrs Pargeter?'
'Yes. Mrs Melita Pargeter.'
There was a silence from the other end of the phone while this information was covertly relayed. Then, instantly, another extension was picked up and a voice marinated in Eton and the Guards effused, 'Mrs Pargeter!'
'Hello, Rewind.'
'Oh, erm . . .' There was an elaborate cough from the other end. 'I'd rather you didn't actually use that name, if you don't mind.'
'Sorry, love.' She could see his point. It had been a bit tactless. A man who'd earned his nickname from the skill with which he wound back milometers would hardly want it shouted around the West End office where he sold Bentleys to Bahrain.
'Don't mention it. Perfectly natural. Instinctive reaction.' Rewind Wilson boomed. 'Oh, it's such a pleasure to hear you, Mrs Pargeter. You know, I keep thinking about your husband and the things we got up to.'
'So do I,' she admitted, indulging in a little moment of melancholy.
'He was the best. Absolutely the best. No one to touch him in the field.'
'It's nice of you to say so.'
'True, dear lady. Absolutely true. Wouldn't say it if it weren't. Anyway, to what do I owe the great pleasure of your call after all these years?' But before she could reply, he went on, 'Your late husband, incidentally, did ask me to give you any help that you might ever require. I would have done, anyway, out of loyalty – I only mention it so's you know how much he cared for you.'
That was the one thing Mrs Pargeter had never doubted. 'Thank you, Re – Mr Wilson,' she hastily corrected herself. 'In fact, there was a small favour I was going to ask you.'
'Anything, dear lady, anything.'
'Do you still have all your contacts in the motoring world . . . I mean, even though you've gone str – um, changed your line of business?'
'I think you'll find my contacts are as good as anyone's in the trade.'
'And you still have, um . . . access to the computers?'
'You name it, Mrs Pargeter, I'll track it down.'
'Well, I am actually trying to find a specific vehicle.'
'This would not be for purchase, dear lady, would it?'
'No, I'm trying to trace someone. I thought finding them through their car might be a good approach. And I remembered that there was an occasion when you gave my late husband some assistance in a somewhat similar situation . . .'
'Shall we just mention the words "Welwyn Garden City" . . . ?' asked Rewind Wilson, with a conspiratorial wink in his voice.
'Exactly.'
'Right. No problem. Fill me in on all the information you have, and I give you my word that I'll track the vehicle in question down for you.'
'Thank you. Well, the car's a Fiat Uno. Only a year old. And the owner's name's Cotton. Might be in the wife's name, Theresa, or the husband's, which is Rodney.'
'Fine. Do you have their address?'
'The last recorded address I have for them is ...' And she gave her own.
'Splendid.
He obliged and their conversation concluded amicably with assurances on his part that, if she ever needed some 'really ace wheels', he had the biggest selection south of the Thames and could do her a deal that'd be grounds for having him certified.
Mrs Pargeter rang the number he had given her and was answered by a girl with vowels of pure Waterford Crystal. 'Ridleigh's. Good morning. Can I help you?'
'I'd like to speak to Mr Wilson, please.'
'One moment. I believe he may be in conference with a client who's just arrived from the Middle East. I'll see if he's free.'
A tasteful burst of Vivaldi played down the line and then another voice, even more cut-glass than the first, said, 'Hello. Mr Wilson's office.'
'Oh, I wondered if I could speak to him, please.'
'I'm not sure that he's free. Who is it calling?'
Mrs Pargeter recognised the formula. Mr Wilson was sitting right next door to the secretary, but he would only be free if it was a caller he wished to speak to. An Arab prince seeking a fleet of little runabouts for his wives, perhaps . . . ?
'My name is Mrs Pargeter.'
'Mrs Pargeter?'
'Yes. Mrs Melita Pargeter.'
There was a silence from the other end of the phone while this information was covertly relayed. Then, instantly, another extension was picked up and a voice marinated in Eton and the Guards effused, 'Mrs Pargeter!'
'Hello, Rewind.'
'Oh, erm . . .' There was an elaborate cough from the other end. 'I'd rather you didn't actually use that name, if you don't mind.'
'Sorry, love.' She could see his point. It had been a bit tactless. A man who'd earned his nickname from the skill with which he wound back milometers would hardly want it shouted around the West End office where he sold Bentleys to Bahrain.
'Don't mention it. Perfectly natural. Instinctive reaction.' Rewind Wilson boomed. 'Oh, it's such a pleasure to hear you, Mrs Pargeter. You know, I keep thinking about your husband and the things we got up to.'
'So do I,' she admitted, indulging in a little moment of melancholy.
'He was the best. Absolutely the best. No one to touch him in the field.'
'It's nice of you to say so.'
'True, dear lady. Absolutely true. Wouldn't say it if it weren't. Anyway, to what do I owe the great pleasure of your call after all these years?' But before she could reply, he went on, 'Your late husband, incidentally, did ask me to give you any help that you might ever require. I would have done, anyway, out of loyalty – I only mention it so's you know how much he cared for you.'
That was the one thing Mrs Pargeter had never doubted. 'Thank you, Re – Mr Wilson,' she hastily corrected herself. 'In fact, there was a small favour I was going to ask you.'
'Anything, dear lady, anything.'
'Do you still have all your contacts in the motoring world . . . I mean, even though you've gone str – um, changed your line of business?'
'I think you'll find my contacts are as good as anyone's in the trade.'
'And you still have, um . . . access to the computers?'
'You name it, Mrs Pargeter, I'll track it down.'
'Well, I am actually trying to find a specific vehicle.'
'This would not be for purchase, dear lady, would it?'
'No, I'm trying to trace someone. I thought finding them through their car might be a good approach. And I remembered that there was an occasion when you gave my late husband some assistance in a somewhat similar situation . . .'
'Shall we just mention the words "Welwyn Garden City" . . . ?' asked Rewind Wilson, with a conspiratorial wink in his voice.
'Exactly.'
'Right. No problem. Fill me in on all the information you have, and I give you my word that I'll track the vehicle in question down for you.'
'Thank you. Well, the car's a Fiat Uno. Only a year old. And the owner's name's Cotton. Might be in the wife's name, Theresa, or the husband's, which is Rodney.'
'Fine. Do you have their address?'
'The last recorded address I have for them is ...' And she gave her own.
'Splendid.
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