The Picasso Scam

by Stuart Pawson

  ‘Tell me the worst,’ I said. ‘What are we called?’

  On a previous occasion Tony had organised an operation in my absence. It involved an architect who was making illegal payments to the head of the council planning department. We caught him handing over a large sum of money in a supermarket car park. Tony’s imagination had developed some sort of blockage, and he had called it Operation Freemason. I was the Grand Wizard. It had a few of the top brass looking over their shoulders, and the judge reaching for his bismuth tablets. It also delayed Tony’s promotion by a couple of years. Since then we had compiled a list of names from nursery rhymes and children’s stories, which we chose from at random.

  ‘Operation Glass Slipper,’ he told me. ‘You’re Rumpelstiltskin.’

  We nearly blew it. No cyclists wearing balaclavas and carrying violin cases were on the streets on Monday morning. We had units outside the restaurant and the post office, in various states of disguise and concealment. Sparky and I were in his car, liaising between the two. We did a cruise round the block and that’s when we saw them. Three youths were parked up in an XR2 just round the corner from the post office. I checked the number. It had been stolen in Halifax on Saturday night. Rumpelstiltskin alerted all Glass Slipper units.

  At three minutes to nine two of the youths left the car and walked round the corner towards the post office.

  ‘These kids know what they are doing,’ said Sparky. ‘They’re not your average toe-rags.’

  I had been thinking the same thing. We told the others to move in. Sparky and I got out and walked towards the back of the XR2 as if in the middle of an animated conversation. He was waving his arms about and telling me about a row, real or imaginary, with his wife. The XR2’s engine was running and I saw the driver clock us in his mirror. I joined Sparky in a few gestures. The kid at the wheel probably thought we were a couple of deaf Italians as we windmilled towards him. When we got to the rear of the car we separated and went down each side of it. As Sparky reached the driver’s door he wrenched it open and yanked the youth on to the pavement. He was standing with his hands on the roof before he could say: ‘I want my brief.’

  Sparky poked a finger in the back of his head and drawled: ‘One move, Blue-eyes, and I’ll cure your acne for ever.’

  * * *

  Crime has no closed season, no bank holidays, no days off. We are busy round the clock. My job is to manage the troops, make sure the paperwork gets done properly and liaise in every direction at once. Meantime I like to get out on the streets as much as possible, which usually means in my own time. We all have our pet priorities, and mine, next to putting crooks behind bars, is looking after, developing and encouraging the lowly constables in my charge.

  The PC, whether in uniform or plain clothes, is the backbone of the Force. He is in the front line for all the danger, all the abuse. He or she. Call me old-fashioned, but somehow it seems even worse for the women. I had been on the point of quitting when my first promotion came through. Some good arrests had come my way, but my overriding feeling was of being scared. I never actually wet myself, but I was grateful for the dark trousers. The thought of going out every day or night for the rest of my life not knowing if I would come back in one piece did not appeal to me.

  One Saturday afternoon I was parked near the municipal football pitches when I saw a commotion on one of them. I’d turned out for a local side a couple of times, but couldn’t keep my place because of the shifts I was required to work. I got out of the car, and when they saw me some of the spectators came running over. Would I radio for an ambulance, someone was in a bad way? I didn’t radio; I dashed over to see what the trouble was. A player was laid on the ground. He’d stopped breathing and his face was turning blue. When I tried to clear his airway I found he’d swallowed his tongue. I fished it out of his throat with my fingers and tipped him on his side, but he still wasn’t breathing. I put him on his back again and forced a couple of breaths into him. That did the trick. He was conscious when the ambulance arrived.

  The following Saturday should have been my day off, but I was asked to work again. I wasn’t happy about it, and grumbled loudly to anybody who would listen. At about two thirty I received a message to go to the Poste Chase Hotel. There’d been a fracas in the restaurant – would I investigate and see if anybody wanted to make a complaint? It was all a bit odd. For a start, the Poste Chase wasn’t even on our patch. When I walked into the restaurant a big cheer went up. A young man came up to me and introduced himself as the footballer whose life I’d helped to save the week before. This was his wedding reception and I was to be guest of honour; they’d fixed it all with my super. I sat at the top table, next to the groom’s parents. Everybody said nice things about me in their speeches, and my photo, with the happy couple, made the front page of the Evening News.

  After that I decided to give it another try. I was young and skinny and not very streetwise. But I learnt quickly and I toughened up and found that I could handle myself in a roughhouse. I started to enjoy more and more of the job. Nowadays there is more danger than ever facing the PC. I send them out and breathe a sigh of relief when they all come back, and generally fuss over them like a stupid old hen. I get one of the sergeants to do all the dirty work, like handing out bollockings. The constables appreciate it, and the unintentional result is that the police force is infiltrated at all ranks by officers who came through the Charlie Priest training school. Christ, I sound like Jean Brodie.

  I didn’t give Truscott a very high priority. Every day I am handed a print-out of outstanding crimes, against which I write high and low values of importance. Truscott didn’t even appear on the print-out; I just pencilled him on the end. Fraud Squad have a so-called expert to deal with art frauds and we sent him copies of the file. He made nationwide enquiries but didn’t come up with anything. The underworld had no knowledge of any big deals in the offing. He did tell me that there was a ready market among the mega-wealthy for great works. The ultimate in one-upmanship for a certain type of billionaire would be to have the Mona Lisa hanging behind the toilet door. I’d have preferred a neverending toilet roll.

  Truscott had told me that he would be in contact in one month. It was with relief, not concern, that I saw the month marker in my diary pass by with no word from him. I neither liked nor trusted him, and I wasn’t convinced that he was on the level. We had checked with Traffic, and the transport of the paintings had passed off reasonably well. Our boys had taken over on the Yorkshire/Lancashire border and seen them right to the art gallery in Leeds. The only hiccup had occurred when the security van carrying the paintings had broken down. After a delay of nearly two hours the convoy restarted with the security van being towed to its destination by a breakdown truck. Everyone was adamant that the van holding the pictures stayed sealed throughout, and was only opened at the end of its journey. The bonnet had been lifted, briefly, to ascertain the trouble, and then the tow vehicle sent for. It had been quite a convoy, and the cargo had been safer than a nun’s virtue on Christmas Eve. If I had been worrying about Truscott, I stopped when two months passed without a word.

  It was towards the end of the fourth month that I received the letter from his solicitor saying that they were holding a bequest he had made me in his will. He was dead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  McNaughtie, McNaughtie and Niece (Solicitors), of Edinburgh, begged to inform me that subsequent to reading the will after the untimely death of their client, they were holding a parcel for me which had been in their safety depository for some time. Would I please be kind enough to contact them with a view to arranging its collection?

  I rang them immediately but they weren’t open yet. The Presbyterian work ethic didn’t extend to starting before nine of the a.m. I took the letter to the office, skipped morning parade and sent Tony Willis up to the Super’s prayer meeting.

  I got straight on the blower. It was cheaper to use the firm’s phone, and it could be police business. A soft Edinburgh brogue answered i
mmediately, but I didn’t catch a word she said.

  ‘Could I speak to one of the partners, please?’

  ‘Yes, they’re all here, which one would you be liking?’

  ‘Er, Mr McNaughtie, please.’ Except that I pronounced it McNorty.

  ‘It’s pronounced Nochty, McNochty,’ she told me, ‘and both Mr McNaughties passed on many years ago. Miss McNaughtie is in, would you care to speak with her?’

  The niece? ‘Oh, sorry. Yes, Miss McNaughtie will be fine, thank you.’

  Sparky had pricked up his ears in disbelief when I had asked for Mr McNorty, and now his shoulders were bobbing up and down as he hid his face behind a sheaf of court papers.

  ‘Pillock,’ I hissed at him with my hand over the mouthpiece.

  After I’d introduced myself, Miss McNaughtie started to tell me about my bequest, but I cut her short and asked her how Truscott had died. The poor sod had burnt to death when his cottage caught fire. The verdict had been accidental death, possibly brought about by falling asleep in a highly inflammable armchair whilst smoking. She couldn’t tell me anything further, so I asked her what he’d left me.

  ‘It’s probably a painting. Mr Truscott was a very eminent artist, you know. It is well wrapped up and has been in our depository for several weeks, along with one or two others. Mr Truscott specialised in copying old masters, but his paintings are very valuable in their own right. Would you like us to arrange delivery by Housecarl, or will you come to collect it?’

  Housecarl were the biggest security company in the country. It crossed my mind that they had probably managed the transport of the Art Aid paintings, something we hadn’t looked into. Maybe we should start looking again.

  ‘Yes, I’d be grateful if you could send it to me,’ I told her, ‘but first of all could you possibly open it up and tell me what it is?’

  This prospect delighted Miss McNaughtie, and she promised to ring me back as soon as the wrappings were off. She kept her word.

  ‘It’s a copy of a Picasso. I didn’t think I liked Picasso, but this one is charming.’

  ‘Is it a portrait of a lady?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Facing left, hair piled on top of her head, lots of blue and yellow, holding a magnolia blossom?’

  ‘That’s it, Mr Priest. You obviously know the painting.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen the original. She’s called Isobelle Maillol. Rumour has it that she was Picasso’s mistress. Can you see if the painting is damaged in any way, probably very slightly?’

  She was quiet for a couple of minutes, then she came back to the phone and told me: ‘Yes, but it is very slight. There’s a scratch, only about an inch long, near the top left-hand corner. It’s hardly noticeable.’

  ‘Thank you. Well spotted. Mr Truscott told me that it had been damaged. Is it possible for you to tell me who he left the rest of his estate to?’

  ‘It’s public knowledge, Mr Priest. Everything went to his two ex-wives. Not that it amounts to much. As far as we have been able to ascertain, his estate is somewhat smaller than we had expected.’

  ‘How small?’

  ‘Oh, about fifteen thousand pounds, plus a few paintings.’

  I’d have put him easily into the half-millionaire bracket. Miss McNaughtie gave me the address of the burnt-out cottage and I confirmed my address with her. Before I put the instrument down I told her it had been a pleasure talking to her, but it hadn’t. As I trudged up the stairs to Gilbert Wood’s office I wondered if this elderly Edinburgh spinster was gazing upon that beautiful three-eyed lady in a new light in the knowledge that she had been Picasso’s mistress. I was also wondering what the hell to do next.

  The black economy was booming. How we envy those TV detectives who work on one crime at a time; swanning about with their able assistant until the culprit is firmly behind bars before moving on to the next juicy piece of villainy. It would have been nice to have been able to follow my whim and investigate Truscott’s lifestyle, but we had a business to run.

  There had been another ram-raid in Heckley over the weekend: a Lada estate had been driven through the shutters of Bink’s Hi-Fi and Video, and four youths had made off in a stolen Sierra with eight thousand pounds’ worth of goodies. It was the tenth similar raid we’d had in as many weeks. In addition, a gang of pickpockets and bag-snatchers was operating in the New Mall, with apparent impunity from the law. The Super was catching flack from the Chamber of Commerce, the Retailers’ Association and the Watch Committee. I was catching flack, with interest, from the Super.

  Truscott wouldn’t go away, though. We didn’t have a crime or a complainant; but dead men don’t complain, they just stink, and I could feel it in my nostrils. Eventually I tracked down the officer who had investigated the fire at Truscott’s cottage.

  ‘Aye, we’re happy that it was an accident,’ he told me when I got him to the phone, ‘and the Procurator Fiscal agrees. There was nothing left of the body, just a pile of ashes. He used the place as an artist’s studio, so there was lots of paint and spirit and stuff lying around. Went up like a bonfire.’

  ‘How was he identified?’

  ‘Personal effects. Signet ring, wristwatch. Decent watch, a Rolex. It’d stopped, though. His ex-wife was the only next of kin we could trace. She recognised them.’

  Vanessa? ‘Did you meet the ex-wife?’

  ‘No, one of my constables dealt with it.’ I told the sergeant why I was so interested, and about Truscott’s claim that his life was in danger. ‘Just out of interest, Sergeant,’ I chose my words carefully, ‘you wouldn’t happen to know of any missing persons locally, would you?’

  He realised what I was getting at. ‘Are you implying that the body wasn’t this Truscott fellow?’ A note of aggression had crept into his voice.

  ‘It’s a remote possibility.’

  He was silent for a long while. I’d have thought we’d been cut off except that I could hear him breathing. Then he said: ‘Aye, old Jamie.’

  ‘Old Jamie, who’s he?’

  ‘He’s a vagrant, wanders from village to village. He vanishes into Edinburgh when the weather turns, then comes back in the spring, sure as the swallows.’

  ‘But he’s disappeared?’

  ‘Aye. A few people have commented that he hasn’t been seen around. We’ve been half expecting to find him lying in a burn somewhere.’

  I could feel the poor sergeant growing agitated. One accidental death and one missing person to deal with, and some Sassenach was accusing him of getting them the wrong way round.

  ‘Accidental death,’ he told me with an air of finality, ‘that’s what the Procurator Fiscal said it was. If you think any different you’d best take it up with him.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I agreed, trying to get him back on my side. ‘But I would be interested if old Jamie turns up.’ He promised to let me know. As an afterthought I said: ‘Oh, by the way, who is the Procurator Fiscal these days?’

  He gave me a name that sounded like a chord on the bagpipes. I asked him to spell it. We rang off on reasonable terms, but I couldn’t help thinking that they were looking for Auld Jamie in the wrong sort of burn. I’m Gilbert Wood’s greatest fan. He actually volunteered to ring the Procurator Fiscal. I was causing him a lot of hassle that he could do without, but deep down he was beguiled by the thought of cracking a multi-million-pound art scam. Especially one that nobody knew had happened.

  ‘OK, Charlie, OK! I’ll bloody well ring him, if only to get you off my back.’ He was pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage, except he looked more like a panda. The mood, though, was definitely tigerish. ‘But not just yet. Where do we stand with the ram-raiders? The only people who aren’t on to me are the bloody glass merchants and the suppliers of eight-by-four sheets of plywood. What are your boys coming up with?’

  ‘You’re going to give yourself a coronary,’ I stated. ‘You’ve forgotten how to enjoy yourself. Sit down, calm down, and I’ll tell you all about it.’

/>   Gilbert sat down. Two young constables were trying to penetrate the gangs on the estates where we thought the ram-raiders came from. It was a risky situation and we were all uneasy about it. They appeared to revel in the job, though.

  ‘Martin Makinson seems to be coming up with the goods,’ I told him. ‘He’s well in with a receiver and is bulk-buying off him. We sell the goods back to the insurance companies. They pay upfront.’

  ‘Bulk-buying! Is he creating the demand that they’re trying to fill? This could work wonders for the economy.’

  ‘No, that was just a figure of speech. He just buys enough to keep his credibility high. He’s worked himself into a good bargaining position; now he’s talking about dealing directly with Mr Big. There is a Mr Big. These people are organised.’

  ‘How safe is he? What have you told him?’

  ‘Maz has been given strict …’

  ‘Who’s Maz?’ Gilbert interrupted.

  ‘Martin,’ I answered. ‘He calls himself Maz now, it goes with his new haircut. And the tattoos. And the nose-ring. He really takes his work seriously. I’ve given him strict instructions that if he gets the faintest inkling of being rumbled he’s to cut and run. I’ve also warned him that he might be dealing with dumbos at present, but the next tier will be a different league, they’ll have brains. Just a name, that’s all I’ve told him to get.’

  Gilbert was calm now. He shook his head slowly. ‘Rather him than me,’ he said, then asked: ‘Do you worry about them, Charlie?’