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Greene’s was so rarefied that its guests were never allowed to think about things as mundane as money (which is just as well, considering how much their stay there is costing them).
    The irony that this temple to gracious living should be run by a gentleman known in a former existence as ‘Hedgeclipper’ Clinton was never lost on Mrs Pargeter. He was another name from the address book of the late Mr Pargeter, and had worked for her husband in rather less elegant surroundings than Greene’s Hotel. The precise nature of the services he had provided was unclear, though a clue to his methods of persuasion and enforcement could be found – by those who were interested in such matters – in his nickname. Mrs Pargeter herself was not interested. During her long and happy marriage to the late Mr Pargeter, she had quickly learnt that there were many subjects related to her husband’s business affairs in which there was no point in her taking any interest at all.
    Mrs Pargeter was now a semi-permanent resident of Greene’s Hotel. She had tried other forms of accommodation, but found them wanting. She was in theory having a dream house built in which to pass her ‘declining years’, but the builder, who delighted in the nickname of ‘Concrete’ Jacket, had proved – through no fault of his own – frequently absent from the project. As a result, progress on the construction was slow, and in the interim Mrs Pargeter contented herself with the surroundings of a luxury hotel.
    The shadow of desire cast across her brain that evening as she entered the hotel with Truffler Mason was for champagne. As ever, her whim was anticipated by the barman Leon (not, in this instance, a particularly difficult feat of mind-reading – Mrs Pargeter almost always felt like champagne in the early evening). Immediately the bottle was open and on ice. Two crystal glasses stood in readiness on her favourite table in the room which looked more like the library of a country house than anything so common as a bar.
    Demonstrating the sense of priorities which she had maintained throughout her life, Mrs Pargeter saw the two glasses filled by Leon, Truffler toasted, and substantial swallows taken, before she moved back to business. ‘Palings seemed pretty certain that some of the paintings were from galleries abroad. Does that raise any problems, Truffler?’
    â€˜Shouldn’t do.’
    â€˜Oh. You mean you know how to smuggle fine art out of the country?’
    He gave an arch grin. ‘No, I don’t know how to do it myself. But I know a man who does.’
    Mrs Pargeter smiled and took another tingling swallow of champagne. It was wonderful, she reflected, how things interconnected. Her late husband’s network had been
so
well-organized. Whatever expertise was required, someone in the system would always know of the right person to call on. And they always obliged so readily. Though she regretted no longer having the husband himself, she did have the next best thing. Not a day went by without her feeling the care and love with which the late Mr Pargeter continued to look after her from beyond the grave.
    â€˜Actually,’ Truffler’s voice broke into her reverie, ‘you know the man I’m talking about.’
    â€˜Do I? Who is it?’
    The detective grinned. ‘HRH.’
    â€˜Oh, goodie,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Now he’s someone I’d really like to see again.’

Chapter Seven
    The flat in which Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson spent as little time as possible was only one step up from a bedsitter, and demonstrated as many little personal touches as the average policeman’s office. Indeed, the flat’s sitting room was virtually identical to the office where the Inspector worked at the station. It had the same cream walls and 1950s metal window frames. The curtains were institutional green and, on the rare occasions they were pulled