The Picasso Scam (2 page)

‘Cakebread, sir,’ interrupted Nigel.

‘Tell them about the phone box. Don’t expect much back, it’s just background information. It may help them – they’re having near gang warfare between the taxi companies.’

Nigel turned to go back to his desk, then changed his mind. ‘Mr Priest, er, do you think I ought to do anything about the chocolate rolls? Maybe buy a new box?’

I hated being called sir and Mr Priest. It made me feel old. Worse, it made me feel my age. We were expected to stick to the formalities, though, when we were in the station. I rocked back in my chair and put one foot on the desk. If I’d been a hat man I would have pushed it to the back of my head with a forefinger. I smiled at him and told him he had been set up.

‘The woman is Riley’s sister,’ I said. ‘She’s the manageress of the confectionery shop on the corner. The chocolate rolls weren’t lost. I have every confidence that she put the money for them in the till. Sometime this morning Sergeant Jenks will request an audience with you and give you a bollocking. Tell him to get stuffed, but politely, of course.’

When Nigel was summoned to Sergeant Jenks’s office he was met by a tableau reminiscent of curtain rise on the second act of one of Agatha Christie’s lesser works. Jenks was standing with a small carton
containing four chocolate rolls held in front of him. Riley was standing to attention with his nose up at a ridiculous angle.

‘Come in, Newley,’ said Jenks. ‘Riley was just telling me about this lost property. Now then, Riley, what ‘append to the other two chocolate rolls?’

Riley stood stock-still and silent.

‘I demand an answer, Constable Riley!’ shouted Jenks.

‘Constable Newley ate them both,’ he blurted out.

‘Is that so?’ hissed Jenks, turning to Nigel.

It was cruel, it was vicious. Lifetime enmities could be created by this well-rehearsed scenario, but he would meet a lot worse on the streets.

‘Yessir!’ said Nigel, without hesitation. ‘I ate them both.’ He couldn’t resist adding, ‘They were excellent.’

Jenks tried valiantly to rescue the situation. ‘Then what do you suggest we do when somebody comes in to claim them?’

‘Two possible approaches occur to me, sir. We can either nip out and buy a new packet, or alternatively deny all knowledge and tell them to piss off.’

Jenks paused for a second as the feeling of defeat registered, then said: ‘In that case we may as well eat the rest. Have a chocolate roll.’

Meanwhile Helen Chatterton was having her initiation ceremony in the town mortuary, where she had been taken on the pretext of an identification. When a white-sheeted corpse sat up she collapsed in a
gibbering heap. Halitosis that can move the dead is not to be sniffed at.

Eventually Nigel returned to the office and filled me in on the Cakebread saga. Cakebread was now a pillar of Oldfield society, after a shaky start involving a GBH and extortion charge. Now heavily into property and road haulage. Seen at all the posh charity dos. Married to an ex-beauty queen. His pride and joy, though, was his taxi firm, ABC Taxis. He had started out with them – they were his ticket to legitimacy. In return, I told Nigel that as long as he was with me he was a detective. He didn’t take orders from uniformed constables, no matter how senior, unless I okayed it. He was as green as a seasick tree frog, but he’d learn if the sadists didn’t get to him first. He seemed grateful for the clarification.

Just before lunchtime I received a call from the DI at Oldfield. ‘We decided to lean on Mr Cakebread a little,’ he told me, ‘let him know we have long memories. He took great pleasure in telling us his exact whereabouts on Friday evening. He and his lady wife were slumming it on your side of the continental divide, at a charity bash in the Heckley Dining Club, as the personal guests of Chief Constable Ernest Hilditch and his delightful wife, Nora.’

‘Bloody Nora!’ I said.

‘Shit!’ said Nigel when I told him. After a while he asked: ‘Why does a successful businessman like him prat about making stupid phone calls in the middle of the night? There’s no sense to it.’

‘He’s a crook,’ I answered, ‘a bovver boy who never grew up. He has a criminal mind. Can’t get it out of his system. Hassan’s are an irritation and he wants rid of them. We’ll get him one day, as sure as God made little, nasty French apples.’

‘What do we do with it?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. Just put it in a box at the back of your mind, marked For Future Reference. That’s where I’m putting it.’

And that’s where it stayed for the next three years.

The Cortina is long gone but unlamented, replaced by one of General Motors’ later models. Not one that Nigel would regard as flash, though. Financially I was on an even keel, but if I’d been able to turn the clock back to the days when I was broke, I would have done. My mother had died, and I had inherited the family house. I guess she had missed Dad more than I realised, and I hadn’t spent as much time with her as I ought. More guilt to put on the not inconsiderable pile that was there already. Having two policemen in her life caused her more worry than I knew. Before I was married, when I came home in the middle of the night after a long stint on duty, I would hear the bed creak as she relaxed and finally dropped off to sleep.

My modest semi had been sold and I was now master
of the house I had grown up in. No mortgage to pay, so I could afford a reasonable car. I’d spent a small fortune on restoring the Jaguar that my father had bought to keep him busy during his retirement. He had died before he could finish it. It had always been his ambition to own a Jag. I like to think that just seeing it in his garage and working on it and sitting in the leather seats was the realisation of that ambition, even though he never did get to drive it. That was going to be my pleasure, in the near future, when the wheels came back from the specialist who was rebuilding them. It was a relief, though, to be out of the woods money-wise. A police officer with financial problems is open to suspicion. And temptation.

Meanwhile, I had just taken the workaday car into the garage for its first annual service. It was a pleasant spring Monday morning. I had worked most of the weekend and the sun was shining. I left the car at nine a.m., as arranged, and started the leisurely stroll to the police station about a mile away. Sod ’em, I thought – if anybody wanted me they would just have to wait.

Through the town centre I studied the faces on the businessmen and office girls hurrying to their posts. I studied the legs on the office girls, too. I occasionally cast an appraising glance at the fronts of their blouses. It was that time of year when they were beginning to discard their coats. The experience made me feel slightly faint. The old worry came back – that I was turning into a dirty old man. Fortunately I had discussed it with
Gilbert Wood and he said it was perfectly natural – he had always felt this way. I confessed that I had, too. It just seemed worse these days. Walking across town made a pleasant start to the week, even if it did upset my emotional equilibrium. Don’t think I could stand it every day, though.

Going up the hill out of the centre I remembered I needed some postage stamps. The post office was in a parade of shops on the other side of the road. A wide grass verge graced the front of it, and three youths were riding round in circles on mountain bikes. There was something aimless, unnatural, about their restless motion. Why didn’t they stop and talk, or ride with some purpose? What were they doing up at this ungodly hour? Any self-respecting layabout should still be in bed after watching snuff videos until five o’ clock.

There was just one other customer in the shop: a small Chinese man. He kept me waiting quite a long time. The postmaster was counting a pile of money the Chinaman had brought in, ticking off the amounts against the entries in his paying-in book. There were neat bundles of fivers, tenners and twenties, plus bags of coins. We were talking about thousands rather than hundreds. When he left I followed him to the door and noted which car he got into. A shiny new BMW. He drove off and the youths on the bikes meandered off in the same direction. I went back to the counter and showed the postmaster my ID card.

‘How often does he come in with money like that?’ I asked him.

‘Every morning, but on Mondays he has all the weekend’s takings.’

‘I think we ought to have a word with him, he’s asking for trouble.’ I bought my stamps and thanked him.

When I walked into the office Dave ‘Sparky’ Sparkington was sitting at the typewriter desk. He was studying a well-thumbed dictionary.

‘Ask me,’ I challenged him.

‘Morning, boss. How many gs in exaggerate?

‘Er, six. Any messages?’

‘Thank you. On your pad.’

‘You’re welcome.’

There were three names on the pad. One was a DI in another force. I knew what that was about. The other two were Wilf Trumble and Rudi Truscott.

‘What does old Wilf want?’ I asked. He was a retired PC who had been a contemporary of my father’s. I had known him all my life, and for a long time, when I was a kid, had called him ‘Uncle’.

‘Grumpy old sod wouldn’t say,’ answered Sparky. ‘Said it was for your ears only.’

‘And Truscott?’

‘Wouldn’t say, either. Or leave a number. Didn’t want anybody else, so I told him you’d be in about ten. He said he’d ring then. Do you know him?’

‘Yes, I know him.’ I certainly did know him.

I made us both some tea. No point in diverting your DC off police work just to make the tea. Besides, he made it too strong. I rang old Wilf. I had a faint hope about what it might be.

‘Hello, Charlie,’ he said. ‘What time are you supposed to start these days?’

‘We’ve got it sussed, Wilf. Mondays I start about ten, other days I come late. What can I do for you?’

‘A lady friend of ours is worried about the security of her home. She’s a friend of Betty’s from church. I said I would arrange for someone to pop up and give her some advice, if you know what I mean.’

‘No problem, Wilf. I’ll pass it on to the crime prevention officer.’

‘Anybody can ring the crime prevention officer,’ he replied testily. ‘I told her that I would put one of my best men on to it.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Charlie, this is one that I think you should, er, handle yourself.’

I could almost feel and see the nudge-nudge,
wink-wink
. ‘Well, thank you for that information, Officer Trumble,’ I said in a loud voice. ‘I’ll attend to it personally, as soon as possible.’

‘The address is the Old Vicarage, on the Top Road. Near St Bidulph’s. It’s Mrs Wilberforce, she’s a widow. Don’t dash off, Betty wants a word.’

‘Hello, Charlie. How are you keeping?’ she asked.

I had to put my hand over the mouthpiece for a
moment. Sparky was comparing his tea unfavourably with sheep’s urine. ‘Oh, you know, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one. Listen, Betty, are you up to your old tricks again?’

It was Betty’s vocation in life to see every single man, and me in particular, happily married. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she laughed, then added: ‘I’ve just made a casserole and there looks to be rather a lot. I don’t suppose you are eating properly, so would you like to come for your tea?’

That was the hope I’d been holding.

I checked out the BMW number with the police national computer. It belonged to a man with a very
Chinese-sounding
name who lived in Heckley.

‘If that can wait half an hour I’ve got somewhere for us to go,’ I said to Sparky.

‘What about that call at ten?’ he asked. It was nearly ten now.

‘I don’t want to talk to him. If we go now we’ll miss him.’

In the car I told Sparky about the youths on the bikes. I felt certain they were watching the Chinaman. We went to the address for the BMW. It was a Chinese restaurant and takeaway, more or less what I had expected.

‘He takes his money to the post office every day. But on a Monday morning he has all Saturday’s and Sunday’s takings to check in. A nice little haul for someone.’

‘Are you going to alert him?’ asked Sparky.

I thought for a few seconds.

‘No,’ I decided, ‘let’s stick our necks out.’

‘What about his neck?’

‘His neck is already stuck out.’

When we arrived back at the station Detective Sergeant Tony Willis was in. ‘Bloke called Truscott been after you, Charlie. Said it was personal. He sounded frantic. I told him to ring back at two.’

‘Well, if he rings again tell him I’m not in, even if I am. I don’t want to talk to him.’

‘It sounded important to him that he spoke to you,’ he said.

‘It’s important to me that I don’t,’ I snapped.

I was angry and it showed. The two of them were quiet for a while, then Sparky chipped in: ‘You sound upset, boss. It’s not like you to give someone the runaround.’

He was right. I give the impression of being
easygoing
, but I set standards. I hadn’t a clue what the man could want, I only knew that he had come close to ruining my life. I was with friends, so I said quietly: ‘When my wife left me she went off with someone called Rudi Truscott. He was a lecturer at the art college. I assume it’s the same one. I don’t know what he wants and I don’t want to know.’

It had been eight years, and I’d thought the hurt had gone, but it hadn’t. It just lurked in the undergrowth,
waiting for something to come along and disturb it. I tried to make light of it. ‘He probably wants me to get him off a parking rap,’ I said.

It was later that afternoon when he caught me. Tony answered the phone. ‘I’ll put him on,’ he said, and passed me the handset. He looked uncomfortable that he had refused to lie for me. Not a bad quality in a policeman, I suppose.

‘Hello, Rudolph, what do you want?’ He hated being called Rudolph. He liked to be Rudi to everyone, just as I liked to be Charlie, good old Charlie, everybody’s friend.

‘Charlie, thank God I’ve caught you, I’ve got to see you.’ He really did sound frantic.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘I think someone wants to kill me.’

‘In that case, I’m on their side.’

‘When can I see you, Charlie?’

‘I work long hours. But you know that, don’t you?’

He ignored the jibe. ‘I don’t want to come to Heckley. Can you meet me halfway? Say you will, please, Charlie, I don’t know who else to turn to.’

I’ve always been a sucker for a sob story. But maybe I just wanted to see him squirm. He certainly sounded scared. ‘Where are you?’ I asked.

‘Scotland.’

‘Scotland! You want me to come halfway to Scotland?’

‘Do you know the museum at Beamish?’

I’d heard of it, but never been.

‘There’s a pub near the entrance called The Shepherd and Shepherdess. Will you meet me there?’

‘OK, I suppose so,’ I told him.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘No chance, make it Wednesday, for lunch. Your treat.’ He expressed his eternal gratitude and rang off.

‘Bad news?’ enquired Tony.

‘No, just the opposite,’ I said, faking a grin. ‘He reckons someone’s trying to kill him.’ I jumped to my feet. ‘I’m off to fetch my car. Then I’ve got places to go and deeds to do. Make sure somebody watches the Chinaman in the morning.’

‘Do you want a lift?’

‘No thanks, I’ll walk.’

As I strode through the yard a patrol car was just leaving, driven by WPC Kim Limbert. The chance of a ride with Kim was more than I could resist, so I waved her down. Kim came to Britain from Guyana as a very small child. Her parents believed she was gifted and wanted to give her the chance to realise her potential. She didn’t disappoint them, doing well at school and going on to pick up a degree in law. Then she ruined it by joining the Force, but now she was on the promotion ladder. She was also six feet tall, and could have graced the catwalk of any fashion house she chose, had that been her inclination. I asked her to take me to the garage, then said: ‘Looking forward to leaving us, Kim?’

‘No, not really, sir. I’ve enjoyed being at Heckley, it’s a good crew. But I’m in the job for promotion, so I’ll have to move around.’

Sir. There it was again. It was even more hurtful when a beautiful young woman used it. Why couldn’t she call me Charlie, or … Snufflebum? I said: ‘You’ll be OK. There’s some mean hombres in the city, but you’ll deal with them.’

‘No doubt my fellow officers will look after me.’

I smiled wistfully. ‘It’s your fellow officers I’m talking about. You know where your Uncle Charlie is if you have any problems. Just drop me off on the corner.’

The car was ready for collection so I found myself way ahead of schedule. Ah, well, a faint heart never fondled a fair maiden. Besides, if I called on Mrs Wilberforce it would give me something to tell Wilf and Betty over dinner. I pointed the bonnet up the hill towards the Top Road and the ancient buttresses of St Bidulph’s.

Mrs Wilberforce was in the garden. She was going on for my age and almost as tall as me. Her hair was fair and a line of curls fell across her forehead, like you see on Roman statues. The word Junoesque seemed appropriate. I could imagine her in her youth, leading the Cheltenham Ladies’ College hockey team on to the field, and being chaired off shoulder-high after scoring the winning goal in the final chukka. She might have been dressed to talk to the WI at the Albert Hall if it hadn’t been for the gardening gloves. I showed her my card the way I’d seen Philip Marlow do it.

‘Inspector Priest,’ I told her. ‘I believe you’d like some advice about the security of your home?’

‘Annabelle Wilberforce.’ She pulled off a glove and held out her hand, looking straight into my face and smiling. Her nose wrinkled when she smiled. I was suddenly struck by an osmosis problem: my throat felt dry but my knees had turned to water.

‘I didn’t expect an inspector to call …’ She paused and laughed.

I picked up the drift. ‘There’s the makings of a play in there somewhere,’ I said. I went on: ‘Wilf Trumble asked me to come, and when Wilf says jump, we jump.’

‘Did you work with Wilf?’ she asked.

‘We overlapped careers for a while, but he’s always been a friend of the family.’

‘He and Betty worship at St Bidulph’s. They are a lovely couple.’

I asked her to take me round the exterior of the house. It was a fine building and had been extensively modernised. I bet the current vicar would have preferred it to the tacky little box they’d put him in.

‘Do you do all the gardening yourself, Mrs Wilberforce?’ I asked.

‘Please, call me Annabelle,’ she said. ‘An old gentleman from up the road does most of it. He says I undo all his work.’