The Picasso Scam (22 page)

I watched her swing hesitantly away. You’ll be all right, I thought. Then I drifted off into the best untroubled sleep I’d had for months, with Douglas watching over me from the bedside locker.

They’d removed a few feet of my intestine and a piece of liver, but it wasn’t a problem. The doctor told me that I still had twenty-odd feet of gut left, and the liver is the only major organ we have that can regenerate itself. I was in nearly new condition and my warranty was still valid.

‘Just go easy on the alcohol,’ he told me, on the morning I was discharged, ‘and lay off the fried food.’

‘No problem, Doc. What about my sex life? Will that have been affected?’

‘No, of course not,’ he replied in his most reassuring manner.

‘Pity,’ I said. ‘I was hoping it would have been.’

The waiter asked if we preferred our coffee and liqueurs where we were, or would we rather make ourselves comfortable in the lounge.

‘In the lounge?’ suggested Gilbert.

Annabelle and Molly nodded their acquiescence, so we all moved through and resettled ourselves in the easy chairs round a low table.

‘You know,’ said Molly to Annabelle, ‘this is the first time Gilbert has ever told me about a case. Usually I have to be content with what I can glean from the papers.’ She turned to her husband: ‘Go on then, finish it off: what happened to this Cakebread man?’

The waiter appeared with the coffees. He placed them on the table and told me that my tea would be along in a moment, in the tone of voice he normally
reserved for customers who’d asked for the ketchup.

When he’d gone Gilbert said: ‘Well, the local police put out an APW – that’s an all-ports warning – for Cakebread, but, frankly, they were a bit slow. He made it all the way to Blackpool airport, where his plane was. He’d flown it the day before and left instructions for it to be refuelled and serviced for use the following weekend. It hadn’t been done though. He made an unauthorised take-off and headed south. The tower alerted us and the RAF and various tracking stations, and he was shadowed all the way. When it was obvious that he was making for foreign parts the RAF asked the Americans for assistance. Apparently our planes are too fast and the helicopters haven’t the range. The Yanks had an IO stooging around somewhere …’

‘What, an old BSA motorbike?’ I interrupted. ‘My father had one of those when I was a kid.’

‘No, dumbo, it’s an aeroplane. Weird thing with two big jet engines on the back. Apparently they can fly quite slowly if necessary. So this A10 tagged on to Cakebread’s tail and followed him. Somewhere off the Channel Isles he ran out of fuel and ditched in the sea. It was dark by then. A fishing boat recovered his body next morning.’

We sat in silence for a few moments. Death, even the death of an enemy, always deserves a few private thoughts. I poured a cup of tea and sweetened it with half a sachet of sugar.

‘Why did he shoot … Truscott, was it?’ asked Molly.

Gilbert didn’t volunteer a reply, so I did. ‘We can’t be sure,’ I said. ‘To begin with, Truscott was bearing down on him brandishing a gun. It may have flashed through his mind that the game was up and Truscott could turn Queen’s evidence. Alternatively, he may have realised that Rudi had given the game away, and shot him in anger. Another possibility is that he’d intended to kill him all along, once he had no further use for him. We’ll never know the truth.’

I looked at Annabelle and we exchanged smiles. She was wearing a navy-blue pinstriped suit with red blouse and accessories and looked incredibly beautiful. Her skirt was shorter than I would have expected, displaying a pair of elegant knees that gave me a pain in my operation. I wasn’t complaining; I just wanted to sit there for ever, basking on the edge of her limelight.

‘That’s it,’ announced Gilbert. ‘No more shop talk. Have you seen the price of cauliflowers lately, Annabelle? That’s what we ought to be doing: growing cauliflowers.’

She laughed at him. ‘Could I just ask one more question?’ she said.

‘You, Annabelle, can ask as many questions as you like.’

I was going to have to watch Gilbert; he was as bewitched as I was.

‘This Truscott man. Why did he approach Charles in the first place? What was he thinking of?’

‘Good question,’ replied Gilbert. ‘I’ll let my trusty lieutenant answer that one.’

I lowered my cup. ‘Vanity,’ I said. ‘Truscott had a very desirable lifestyle. He’d stopped lecturing and lived by his paintings – his copies of other artists’ works. He’d sell to dealers, at an inflated price, without making any claims or telling any lies. They’d show the pictures to gullible gallery owners, again being somewhat frugal with the truth. There’s nobody easier to cheat than a greedy person who thinks he’s pulling a fast one. The painting would find itself on somebody’s wall, credited to one of the masters. Truscott wasn’t satisfied with that, though. He wanted recognition for himself, and it was gnawing at his heart that he didn’t get any. There’s a popular belief that artists are only famous after death. When Cakebread came to him with this scheme he saw it as a way of making a million or two, then vanishing, presumed dead, after leaking the information that the Art Aid paintings were really his work. He wanted the best of both worlds. I was the stooge he chose to make the leak.’

‘I see. Or I think I do. And the real paintings were traded for drugs in North Africa?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Were any drugs recovered?’

‘Yes, quite a haul. Mrs Cakebread spilt the beans to save her own skin.’

We said goodbye to Molly and Gilbert in the car park and I drove Annabelle back towards the Old Vicarage.
On the way she asked me about the Picasso. ‘Will they be able to tell which is the real one?’

‘No problem; they’ll just X-ray them both.’

‘Won’t the canvas be different on the modern one?’ she said.

‘Not necessarily. There are thousands of cheap Victorian paintings about. Just about every house sale has a few. Truscott would buy them all, just for the canvas and the frames.’

‘You’re very knowledgeable about art.’

‘Not really, and I did attend art college. Maybe it wasn’t a complete waste of time after all.’

I let the car freewheel to a halt outside her gate. My hand was hovering on the ignition key, wondering whether to stop the engine, when she said: ‘Do you mind if I don’t ask you in, Charles? It is rather late and …’

‘No, of course not,’ I lied, comforting myself with the thought that bishops’ widows have to keep up some sort of appearance.

‘Thank you for inviting me out, I’ve really enjoyed myself. And I’m so pleased that you’re recovered.’

‘Thank you for coming. And … well … thanks for enquiring about me. That’s what helped me through the long days.’ And the endless nights. She pulled the handle to open the door.

‘Annabelle …’ I said, ‘shall I try for those tickets for the next concert?’

‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she replied, and leant over and
kissed me on the cheek. Then she turned and got out, as my fingers trailed down the sleeve of her jacket.

On my first day back I arrived in the office bright and early, but everybody else was already there. They’d bought me a box of After Eight chocolates, a bottle of Albanian sherry and a rather nice bunch of carnations. They all said they were glad to have me back and one or two asked to see my scars.

‘Sorry, private viewings only,’ was my stock reply. I opened the box of chocolates and passed them to Maggie.

Nigel had moved on and was now a uniformed sergeant in Halifax. Tony Willis had been promoted to full inspector, and would be leaving now that I was back. I’d be sorry to lose him. There was a new face, though, hovering on the edge of the group.

‘Who’s the dishy blonde?’ I whispered to Sparky.

‘Helen Chatterton,’ he replied. ‘Just joined us this morning.’

‘That’s right, I remember her. She started at the same time as Nigel Newley. He said she had …’ She certainly didn’t look as if she had halitosis that could raise the dead.

‘Said she had what?’

‘Oh, nothing. I suppose I’d better have a word with her.’

Sparky introduced us. She was polite, with an air of efficiency that hid any nervousness she might be feeling. I gave her the latest printout of unsolved mysteries and
told her that I’d see her after the morning meeting. People were starting to drift away. Somebody thrust the chocolate box into my hands; it was empty.

‘Just a minute, please,’ I shouted. Everybody turned to face me. I stood on a chair for greater effect. ‘Before you all go I’d just like to say two words …’ I held the After Eight box above my head and turned it over. The empty brown wrappers tumbled around my head and settled on my shoulders. ‘Greedy sods!’ I yelled.

Upstairs it was more of the same, for about a minute, then we got down to business. I was brought up to date with happenings in the division and told where to give priorities. The rustlers were still at their dirty deeds, but more so.

‘It’s not just someone knocking off the odd lamb for the deepfreeze,’ Gilbert told me. ‘It’s on a commercial scale now. The hill farmers are already going through a bad time; this could break some of them. Put it higher up the list, will you, Charlie?’

When I went down to the office again Sergeant Jenks was waiting with Helen. He said: ‘It’s good to have you back, Mr Priest. I made a list of all the people who rang to see how you were. Thought that perhaps you might like to thank them. Mind you, most of ’em are villains. That lady – Mrs Wilberforce – she rang every day at first, when it was touch and go.’

‘OK, I’ll ring her, er, them. Thanks for the list.’ He left and I turned to Helen. ‘Right, Helen. It’s your first
day with us and my first day back. What have you decided we should concentrate on?’

She pursed her lips and tilted her head in a thoughtful manner. ‘We could always go see Mrs Wilberforce,’ she suggested.

‘Er, no, that can wait. I was thinking more along the lines of … you know, crime.’

I was close to her now, as we pored over the printout. I took a long, deep inhalation. The ganglia along my nasal passages went on to red alert. Helen pointed at various offences, mainly burglaries, and spoke intelligently about them.

I took another slow breath. Airborne molecules reacted with receptors and sent impulses spinning to my brain. I could smell … summer breezes wafting across the meadows of Provence; the forest at Kielder after a rain shower; all the spices of Araby. Pheromones bombarded my senses, triggering reactions in other parts of my body. That bastard Newley had been winding me up.

‘Yes,’ I croaked, struggling to adhere to the company’s guidelines, ‘that’s all good stuff. However, we’ve been instructed to give more priority to the sheep-stealing. It’s getting out of hand. So far, we’ve concentrated on the sharp end of the crime: kept observations, looked for tyre tracks, that sort of thing. Maybe we ought to be investigating the disposal end of it.’

‘Talk to the butchers, see if they’ve been offered cheap lamb chops,’ she suggested.

‘That’s the idea. I’ll show you where most of the offences were committed, to give you an inkling of what we’re up against; introduce you to the farmers; then you can do the leg work. OK?’

‘That’s fine by me, sir.’

‘Rule number one – and we don’t have many – cut out the sir.’ I pulled my jacket back on, curled the corner of my lip and said: ‘OK, Frank. Let’s go.’

Helen looked at me, nonplussed. ‘Pardon?’ she said.

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Steve McQueen,’ I explained, ‘He said that, in
Bullitt
.’

She thought about it. ‘No he didn’t. In the film he was called Frank – Frank Bullitt. He didn’t say it to himself; his partner said it to him.’

‘You’re right.’ I stabbed at her with a forefinger. ‘OK – you can be Steve McQueen, I’ll be the little Mexican. Let’s go!’

 If you enjoyed
The Picasso Scam
, read on to find
out about the other books in the
Charlie Priest series …

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